One moment, Anon was scrolling through endless threads on his laptop, the glow of the screen the only light in his cluttered room. The next, the world tilted, colors bled together, and a blinding flash swallowed everything.

When the light faded, he was lying on soft grass under a sky too blue, too perfect. His body felt wrong—smaller, lighter, limbs too short. Panic surged as he scrambled to his hooves—no, not hands, hooves—and looked down at a lime-green coat, slender legs, and a flowing black mane that fell into his eyes. A filly. He was a filly. A small, confused pony staring at her own reflection in a nearby stream: wide teal eyes, black tail swishing nervously, and on her flank, a crisp black question mark.

“What… the hell?” The voice that came out was high, soft, unmistakably a little girl’s. Anon’s mind reeled. This wasn’t a dream. This was Equestria. The trees, the colors, the distant shape of a crystal castle on a hill—it was all real.

He—she—tried to stand, wobbling like a newborn foal. Every step felt alien, tail flicking for balance she didn’t understand yet. The question mark cutie mark burned with irony. A mark for somepony who didn’t even know what she was anymore.

A rustle in the bushes made her freeze. Out stepped a lavender alicorn, wings half-spread in surprise, horn glowing faintly with readiness. Twilight Sparkle’s eyes widened behind her neat bangs.

“Oh my goodness! Are you okay?” Twilight hurried forward, voice full of concern. “You’re all alone out here. Where are your parents?”

Anon’s throat tightened. Parents? Family? Home? Everything human was gone. She was just… here. A lost filly with no past anypony would believe.

“I… don’t have any,” she managed, voice cracking. “I don’t know how I got here. I just… woke up like this.”

Twilight’s expression softened into something painfully gentle. She lowered her head to the filly’s level, careful not to loom. “That must be terrifying. I’ve read about dimensional displacement theories, but I’ve never seen a case in person. You poor thing.”

Anon tried to laugh, but it came out shaky. “Yeah, well… surprise.”

Twilight studied her for a long moment, noting the blank panic in those teal eyes, the way the filly kept glancing at her own cutie mark like it might vanish if she stared too hard.

“You shouldn’t be alone,” Twilight said firmly. “Not like this. Nopony should.”

Anon opened her mouth to protest—she was an adult human, damn it, she could figure this out—but the words died. Because right now, she was small and scared and had literally nowhere to go. Pride felt very far away.

Twilight extended a wing, gently brushing the filly’s shoulder. “My name is Twilight Sparkle. I live in the Castle of Friendship, just over the hill. There’s plenty of room, and Spike makes the best hot chocolate in Ponyville. You could stay with us… at least until we figure out what happened and where you belong.”

Anon swallowed. The offer was so earnest, so kind, it hurt. In her old life, no one had ever looked at her like she was worth protecting.

“I… don’t even have a name here,” she admitted quietly. “Back where I came from, everypony—everyone—just called me Anon.”

Twilight tilted her head. “Anon… that could work as a nickname. But every pony deserves a real name.” She smiled softly. “How about Emerald Question? Or just Emerald for short? Your coat is such a lovely green, and that cutie mark… it feels like you’re searching for answers. Like you’re full of questions waiting to be asked.”

Anon—Emerald?—looked down at the question mark on her flank again. It didn’t feel earned, not yet. But maybe it could be.

“Okay,” she whispered. “Emerald… I guess.”

Twilight’s smile widened, warm and bright as sunlight. “Welcome to Ponyville, Emerald. Let’s get you home.”

She lowered her wing, inviting the filly to walk beside her. Emerald hesitated only a second before stepping close, the soft feathers brushing her back like a promise. The castle sparkled in the distance, and for the first time since arriving, the question mark on her flank didn’t feel like a joke.

It felt like a beginning.

Years later, ponies would talk about Princess Twilight’s adopted daughter—the curious green filly with the question mark cutie mark who asked endless questions, read every book in the castle twice, and grew up to help countless lost souls find their way. But that first day, Emerald took her first real steps into a new life under Twilight Sparkle’s gentle wing, terrified, overwhelmed, and—for the first time in a long time—not alone.

===

A few months after Emerald’s arrival, Twilight declared it was time for school.

“You’ve been cooped up in the castle too long,” Twilight said one bright morning, levitating a brand-new saddlebag embroidered with tiny books and stars. “Ponyville School for Colts and Fillies is perfect. You’ll learn Equestrian history, basic magic theory, and—most importantly—make friends your age.”

Emerald stared at the bag like it might bite her. Friends. Right. In her old life, “friends” were avatars on a screen who argued about waifus and politics until the thread 404’d. She had survived by keeping everypony—everyone—at arm’s length with sarcasm and barbed one-liners. It had worked then. It could work here.

“Sure,” she muttered. “Can’t wait to learn how friendship is magic from a purple schoolteacher who looks like cotton candy exploded on her.”

Twilight’s ears flicked, but she only smiled patiently. “Cheerilee is wonderful. Just… give it a chance, okay?”

The schoolhouse was exactly as Emerald remembered from the show: red walls, bell tower, playground full of foals chasing each other in blissful, brain-rotting innocence. Cheerilee greeted them at the door with a warm smile and a clipboard.

“Welcome, Emerald! We’re so happy to have a new student—especially Princess Twilight’s own daughter.” The class turned to stare. Emerald felt thirty pairs of eyes sizing up the green filly with the strange cutie mark.

Cheerilee pointed to an empty desk near the front. “You can sit next to Diamond Tiara and Silver Spoon. They’ll help you get settled.”

Emerald trudged to her seat. Diamond Tiara, pink coat gleaming under a shiny tiara, gave her a calculating once-over. Silver Spoon adjusted her glasses and smirked.

“Nice cutie mark,” Diamond Tiara whispered. “A question mark? What’s your special talent—being confused?”

The class tittered. Emerald’s ears burned. The old reflex kicked in.

“Better than a tiara,” she shot back, voice low and sharp. “At least mine doesn’t scream ‘Daddy buys my personality.’”

Diamond Tiara’s mouth dropped open. Silver Spoon gasped. A few foals nearby went “Ooooh.”

Cheerilee cleared her throat. “Let’s focus on today’s lesson, class. Equestrian geography.”

Emerald slouched in her seat, already tasting the fallout.

Recess was worse.

The Cutie Mark Crusaders bounded over the moment the bell rang—Apple Bloom, Sweetie Belle, and Scootaloo, all wide eyes and boundless energy.

“Hi!” Apple Bloom said brightly. “You’re the new filly Twilight adopted, right? Ah’m Apple Bloom! This is Sweetie Belle and Scootaloo. We help ponies figure out their cutie marks! Yours is super mysterious—what do ya think it means?”

Emerald squinted at them. The earnestness was painful.

“It means I ask questions nopony wants answered,” she said flatly. “Like why three fillies with no cutie marks are obsessed with getting them. Ever think maybe you’re fine without one?”

Sweetie Belle’s ears drooped. Scootaloo bristled. “We’re the Cutie Mark Crusaders! It’s what we do!”

“Yeah, I can see that,” Emerald replied, tone dripping. “Real original. Bet you’ve tried everything short of selling your souls to Discord.”

Apple Bloom took a step back. “We’re just tryin’ to be friendly…”

“Friendly is overrated,” Emerald muttered, turning away. “Go crusade somewhere else.”

The trio exchanged hurt glances and wandered off, whispering.

Diamond Tiara and Silver Spoon watched from the swings, smirking. “Looks like the new filly doesn’t want friends,” Diamond Tiara called loudly. “Guess some ponies are just too special.”

Emerald’s jaw clenched. She spent the rest of recess alone under a tree, tail flicking irritably, pretending to read a textbook while everypony else played.

By the end of the first week, the pattern was set. Any foal who approached got the same treatment: a cold stare, a cutting remark, a wall of sarcasm ten feet high. The nicer they were, the sharper her tongue became—like lashing out was the only language she still knew fluently.

Cheerilee pulled Twilight aside after school one Friday.

“She’s very bright,” the teacher said carefully, “but… she’s pushing everypony away. The other foals are starting to avoid her. I’ve never seen a filly work so hard to be left alone.”

Twilight’s wings sagged. “I was afraid of this. She’s been through so much—arriving here with no memory of her past, no family. I think she’s scared to let anypony close.”

That evening in the castle, Twilight found Emerald in the library, nose buried in an advanced spellbook far beyond filly level.

“How was school today?” Twilight asked gently.

Emerald didn’t look up. “Great. Learned that foals here are exactly as annoying as I expected.”

Twilight sat beside her. “Emerald… friends aren’t the enemy. They’re how we get stronger.”

Emerald snorted. “I’ve been fine without them so far.”

“Have you?” Twilight’s voice was soft, not accusing. “Because from where I’m sitting, you look lonelier than the day I found you in the grass.”

Emerald’s ears flattened. She slammed the book shut harder than necessary.

“I don’t know how to do this,” she admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “Every time somepony tries to be nice, something in me just… bites. Like if I let them in, everything will fall apart again.”

Twilight draped a wing over her small shoulders. “Then we’ll learn together. One tiny step at a time. You don’t have to be perfect at friendship on day one.”

Emerald leaned into the warmth despite herself. The question mark on her flank seemed to pulse faintly, still waiting for answers she wasn’t ready to find.

Outside the window, the playground lights of Ponyville twinkled, full of laughter she hadn’t joined. For the first time, the sound hurt more than it annoyed.

===

The first few weeks blurred into a haze of denial.

Emerald avoided mirrors. The castle had too many—polished crystal walls that caught reflections at every turn. Whenever she glimpsed the small green filly staring back, tail swishing without permission, she’d whip her head away so fast her mane stung her eyes.

Mornings were the worst. Waking up on a cloud-soft bed that smelled faintly of lavender (Twilight’s doing), feeling the wrong weight distribution, the absence of familiar parts, the presence of others. She’d lie there rigid, counting heartbeats until the panic ebbed enough to move.

Bathing was a battle.

The castle’s bathroom was enormous, all marble and enchanted warm water that poured from a golden faucet shaped like a swan. Twilight had left fluffy towels and a bottle of mane conditioner scented like fresh rain.

Emerald stood in the steam, staring at the water. She’d managed to avoid full baths for days—quick sponge wipes when nopony was looking—but the itch under her coat had become unbearable.

She stepped in.

The water lapped at her barrel, her flanks, places that felt alien and intrusive. Her tail floated behind her like a traitor. She scrubbed harder than necessary, as if she could wash the softness away and reveal something angular and human underneath.

A sob caught in her throat. She bit it back. Crying was for fillies.

But she was a filly.

The thought hit like a punch. She sank lower until only her muzzle was above water, black mane plastered to her neck.

Later, wrapped in a towel that swallowed her whole, she sat on the bathroom floor and stared at her hooves. Delicate, rounded, useless for gripping controllers or typing manifestos. She flexed them experimentally. They clicked softly against the tile.

Everything was curved now. Shoulders narrower, hips wider, face rounder. Even her voice—higher, lighter—betrayed her every time she spoke.

Twilight knocked gently. “Emerald? You’ve been in there a while. Everything okay?”

Emerald’s ears pinned back. “Fine,” she croaked.

The door opened a crack. Twilight’s violet eyes peered in, concerned but careful not to intrude. “Dinner’s ready. Spike made hay fries.”

Emerald didn’t move.

Twilight stepped inside and sat beside her, folding her wings. Silence stretched, comfortable in the way only Twilight could make it.

“You hate it,” Twilight said quietly. Not a question.

Emerald’s jaw tightened. “I didn’t ask for this body. I didn’t ask for any of this.”

“I know.” Twilight’s voice was soft. “I can’t imagine what it’s like—to wake up in a form that doesn’t feel like yours. To lose everything familiar in one flash.”

Emerald laughed bitterly. “You think? One minute I’m… me. The next I’m a little girl horse with a question mark on my butt.”

Twilight didn’t flinch at the venom. “Your old body—it was male, wasn’t it?”

Emerald froze. She hadn’t said it outright. Not once.

“Yeah,” she whispered. “It was.”

Twilight nodded slowly. “That’s a profound loss. And this change… it’s not just species. It’s everything about how you saw yourself.”

Emerald’s eyes burned. She looked away.

“I don’t know how to be this,” she admitted, voice cracking. “Every time I move, it’s wrong. Every time somepony calls me ‘she’ or ‘filly,’ it’s like they’re talking about someone else. I catch myself in reflections and want to smash them.”

Twilight reached out, hesitating until Emerald didn’t pull away, then rested a hoof on her shoulder. “You’re allowed to grieve. You’re allowed to hate it. Nopony gets to tell you how long that should take.”

Emerald swallowed hard. “What if I never stop hating it?”

“Then we’ll find ways to make the days bearable anyway,” Twilight said simply. “Small things. A mane style you choose. Clothes if you want them—some ponies wear barding or dresses. Spells to deepen your voice a little, if that helps. Whatever you need to feel more like you.”

Emerald glanced at her. “You’d do that? Even the voice thing?”

“Of course. You’re my daughter.” Twilight’s smile was small but fierce. “And I love every part of you—even the parts that are angry and scared and don’t fit yet.”

Emerald leaned sideways until her head rested against Twilight’s side. The alicorn’s coat was warm, heartbeat steady under the fur.

“I don’t feel like a daughter,” she mumbled.

“That’s okay,” Twilight whispered. “You don’t have to feel anything you’re not ready for. Just… let me be here while you figure it out.”

They sat like that until the water cooled and Spike called them to dinner again.

That night, Emerald stood in front of her bedroom mirror for the first time without immediately looking away.

The filly in the glass was small, green, uncertain. Black mane fell in uneven strands—she’d hacked at it with magic when it got too long and girly. The question mark cutie mark stared back, unreadable.

She lifted a hoof and touched the reflection.

Still wrong.

But maybe… not entirely a stranger.

Not yet.

===

One evening, after another rough day at school—Diamond Tiara’s latest jab still ringing in her ears—Emerald trudged into the castle kitchen looking for something to distract her. The smell of gem-dusted cookies filled the air, and there was Spike, perched on a stool at the counter, carefully piping frosting onto a tray of treats.

He glanced up and grinned. “Hey, Emer! Perfect timing. Taste-tester needed.”

Emerald hesitated in the doorway. Spike had always been… easy to be around. No lectures, no expectant smiles like Twilight’s (well-meaning but heavy). Just a baby dragon who treated her like a normal pony from day one.

She hopped onto the stool beside him. “What kind are they?”

“Emerald chip,” he said proudly, sliding one over. “Get it? Chocolate chips with crushed emeralds for that extra crunch. Figured they matched your coat.”

She stared at the cookie, then at him. Something in her chest loosened.

Spike noticed the silence. He set down the piping bag. “Rough day again?”

Emerald shrugged, biting into the cookie to avoid answering. It was good—sweet, crunchy, the gems sparkling on her tongue like tiny fireworks.

Spike didn’t push. He just kept decorating, humming an off-key tune. After a minute he said, “Y’know, when I was little—well, littler—I used to get picked on all the time. ‘Where’s your hoard, dragon?’ ‘Why do you live with ponies?’ ‘Aren’t you supposed to be big and scary?’”

Emerald glanced at him. “You? You’re like… the friendliest dragon ever.”

“Yeah, now,” he said with a chuckle. “Took a while. I spent a lot of nights hiding in the old Golden Oak Library, pretending I didn’t care. Twilight tried to help, but sometimes you just want somepony who gets being the odd one out without making it a big lesson.”

He nudged another cookie toward her. “I’m not gonna tell you how to feel about the school stuff, or the body stuff, or any of it. But if you ever wanna vent without getting a friendship report in return, I’m your dragon. No judgment. I’ve got comic books, late-night snacks, and a fire breath that makes the best s’mores in Equestria.”

Emerald felt her eyes sting. She looked down at her hooves. “I don’t… I don’t even know how to talk about it sometimes. Everything feels wrong, and I snap at everypony, and then I feel worse.”

Spike nodded like that made perfect sense. “Sounds exhausting. You don’t have to fix it all at once. Some days just surviving is enough.”

He hopped down, rummaged in a cupboard, and came back with a small, wrapped package. “Here. Early Hearth’s Warming gift. Don’t tell Twilight—I’m supposed to wait.”

Emerald unwrapped it carefully. Inside was a soft, dark-green hoodie, sized for a filly, with a little embroidered question mark on the chest pocket.

“I noticed you keep tugging your mane over your face,” Spike said quietly. “Figured something cozy might help on the bad days. Hood’s big enough to hide in if you need to. No frills, no bows. Just… practical.”

Emerald stared at the hoodie, throat tight. She slipped it on right there in the kitchen. It fit perfectly, soft and warm, the hood deep enough to shadow her eyes when she pulled it up.

“Thanks,” she whispered.

Spike bumped her shoulder gently with his fist. “Anytime, Emer. You’re stuck with me now. Castle rules.”

She leaned against him, just a little. His scales were cool and smooth, heartbeat quick like a bird’s.

For the first time in months, the castle didn’t feel quite so big and echoing. Spike went back to piping frosting, and Emerald stayed to help, licking gem dust off her hooves and listening to him ramble about the latest Power Ponies issue.

It wasn’t a solution. But it was a corner of the kitchen that felt safe, and a small dragon who didn’t need her to be anything other than exactly what she was—question mark and all.

===

The kitchen was quiet except for the soft clink of Spike rinsing a mixing bowl. Emerald sat on her usual stool, hoodie pulled up, picking at the last emerald-chip cookie. She’d been watching him all evening—how he’d polished off a hoofful of rubies like popcorn, then gone straight back to baking without touching anything else.

She finally spoke. “You should probably eat more protein.”

Spike paused mid-scrub, glancing over his shoulder. “Huh?”

“Protein,” she repeated, flat but not unkind. “Meat, eggs, fish. Something that isn’t just rocks.”

Spike snorted, drying his claws on a towel. “Gems are dragon super-food, Emer. Packed with magic, minerals, everything we need. I’ve been living on them my whole life and I’m fine.”

“You’re also the size of a pony teenager when you’re supposed to be… bigger.” She gestured vaguely with a hoof. “I’m pretty sure dragons aren’t meant to run on a diet of pure gems. It’s like if I only ate hay and expected to grow wings.”

Spike set the bowl down, turning to face her fully. He looked more curious than offended. “You’ve been thinking about this?”

Emerald shrugged, ears flicking back. “I read some of Twilight’s books on dragon biology. The ones from the Dragon Lands say adults eat gems, yeah, but hatchlings and growing dragons need more variety—fish, eggs, sometimes small game. Keeps the fire breath strong and the scales thick.” She hesitated, then added quieter, “I saw Fluttershy feeding a family of weasels raw fish earlier. They went nuts for it. If weasels can have it, why not you?”

Spike rubbed the back of his neck, glancing at the empty gem bowl. “I mean… I’ve eaten pony food forever. Hay fries, daisy sandwiches, cupcakes. Never really missed meat. Ponies don’t eat it, so I just… didn’t.”

Emerald looked at him for a long moment. “You don’t have to be exactly like the ponies around you, Spike. You’re a dragon. Maybe you’re supposed to eat like one sometimes.”

The words hung there, heavier than she’d meant them to be. Spike’s eyes softened—he caught the echo, the unspoken parallel.

He exhaled slowly. “You know… when I was really little, I tried a fish once. Twilight freaked out, thought I’d get sick or something. I didn’t, but she looked so worried I never asked again.”

Emerald’s ears drooped. “That’s… dumb. She should’ve let you figure it out.”

“Yeah, well. She was trying to keep me safe.” Spike smiled faintly. “But maybe you’re right. Maybe I could try some eggs at least. Scrambled, with gem shavings on top. Best of both worlds.”

Emerald gave a small, crooked grin—the closest she’d come to a real smile in weeks. “I could help you cook them. I’m getting decent at cracking eggs without magic explosions.”

Spike laughed. “Deal. But if I start breathing bigger fire and accidentally torch the curtains, you’re explaining it to Twilight.”

“Fine,” she said, hopping off the stool. “But if you grow another foot overnight, I get bragging rights.”

Spike bumped her shoulder gently as they moved to the icebox. “Thanks, Emer. For… noticing.”

She didn’t reply right away, just levitated a carton of eggs onto the counter with careful magic. But her tail swished once—content, almost happy.

Small steps. For both of them.

===

The icebox door swung shut with a soft thud. Emerald levitated the egg carton to the counter, ears twitching as she scanned the shelves for anything that could turn plain eggs into something worth eating. Salt, pepper, a wedge of sharp cheddar Spike sometimes snuck into his sandwiches, fresh chives from the castle garden—good enough.

Spike watched her with open curiosity, leaning against the counter. “You look like you’ve done this before.”

“Humans eat eggs all the time,” she muttered, cracking the first one against the bowl’s rim with a precision that surprised even her. The yolk plopped in whole, golden and perfect. “Breakfast, lunch, dinner. Scrambled, fried, poached. We’re omnivores—meat, plants, whatever keeps you going.” She cracked three more, one-hoofed now that her magic was steadying. “Dragons are too, right? Figured you’d like them rich. Butter, cheese, a little bite from the chives.”

Spike’s stomach rumbled audibly. “Sounds better than gem salad already.”

Emerald heated the pan with a quick burst of green magic—careful, controlled, the way Twilight had drilled into her. Butter sizzled, filling the kitchen with that familiar, comforting smell she hadn’t realized she missed. She whisked the eggs briskly, adding a pinch of salt, a grind of pepper, then poured them in. The scrape of the spatula against iron felt almost natural.

Spike hovered closer. “Smells incredible.”

“Yeah, well… humans know food.” She folded in grated cheese at the last second, letting it melt into soft yellow ribbons, then scattered chopped chives on top. Two plates—hers smaller, because why not test it herself. She slid most onto Spike’s plate, a generous mound steaming gently.

Spike took a cautious bite, eyes widening. “Whoa. This is… really good.” He devoured half the pile in three enthusiastic forkfuls. “Creamy but not slimy, cheesy but not heavy. You’re a genius, Emer.”

Emerald poked at her own portion. The smell alone tugged at memories—Sunday mornings, greasy diners, the way protein used to feel like armor in her old body. She took a small bite.

It was good. Really good. The richness coated her tongue, the chives cut through the fat, and for a moment her pony stomach didn’t protest at all.

She paused mid-chew. Ponies back on Earth weren’t carnivores—horses grazed, period—but humans were, and the stories she’d read online insisted Equestrian ponies were opportunistic. Eggs in every bakery recipe, fish in rivers that pegasi sometimes snatched mid-flight, old legends about griffon trade including smoked salmon. Hay bacon existed here, for Celestia’s sake.

Still, the thought of Twilight walking in right now—seeing her adopted daughter eating eggs like it was normal—made Emerald’s ears flatten. Twilight was gentle, understanding, but she’d raised Spike on gem-heavy pony food for years. The alicorn would probably launch into a worried lecture about dietary balance, or worse, that sad-eyed concern about “adjusting to your new body.”

Emerald swallowed. “Don’t tell Twilight,” she said quietly.

Spike paused, fork halfway to his mouth. “About the eggs?”

“About any of it. The protein thing. Me trying them.” She gestured at her plate with the spatula. “She’d flip. Think I’m rejecting being a pony or something. Or worry I’m forcing myself to eat like a human when I don’t have to.”

Spike considered, then nodded slowly. “Our secret. For now, anyway. Until we figure out if it sits okay.” He scraped the last bite from his plate, looking satisfied in a way Emerald hadn’t seen before—scales a little brighter, eyes sharper. “Thanks, Emer. Seriously.”

She gave a small shrug, but her tail flicked once in pleasure. “Yeah, well. Can’t have my only friend staying runt-sized forever.”

Spike laughed, bumping her shoulder. “Keep cooking like this and I’ll be towering over you in no time.”

Emerald rolled her eyes, but didn’t pull away. The kitchen felt warmer, the eggs settling comfortably inside her. A tiny rebellion, maybe. Or just dinner.

Either way, it tasted like progress.

===

Weeks passed in a rhythm of secret breakfasts and late-night kitchen raids.

Spike was the first to notice the changes. One morning he reached for a high shelf without his step-stool and realized his claws closed around the jar easily. Another day his tail knocked over a stack of Twilight’s scrolls because it had grown longer overnight. By the end of the month he’d shot up nearly a head taller, scales gleaming deeper purple, spines sharper along his back.

“Check this out,” he whispered one evening, flexing an arm that now had visible muscle under the scales. He exhaled a controlled plume of green flame that licked the ceiling without scorching it—stronger, hotter. “Your protein plan is working overtime.”

Emerald, perched on her stool in the hoodie he’d given her, smirked faintly. “Told you. Gems are dessert. Bacon’s the main course.”

The bacon had started as an experiment. She’d found a small stash in the back of the icebox—thick-cut, smoked, traded from a griffon merchant who visited the market once a month. Ponies didn’t eat it openly, but it existed for the occasional carnivorous guest. Emerald had crisped a few strips in the pan, folded them into Spike’s omelet with cheese and chives, and watched his eyes roll back in bliss.

“Celestia on a cracker,” he’d mumbled through a full mouth. “Why did we wait this long?”

Emerald had waited until he wasn’t looking, then snatched a small corner piece. The salt and smoke exploded on her tongue—rich, greasy, perfect. Her pony stomach handled it fine in tiny doses. A nibble here, a half-strip there. Never enough to risk upset, but enough to quiet a craving she hadn’t named until it was satisfied.

She told herself it was just helping Spike. Mostly true.

The growth spurts became impossible to hide. Twilight noticed first, of course.

“Spike, have you… grown?” she asked one morning at breakfast, head tilted as he loomed a little higher over the table.

“Uh, growth spurt?” he offered, shrugging with a grin. “Dragon thing. Happens.”

Twilight’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully, but she let it go with a proud smile and a note to measure him weekly for her dragon development journal. Emerald kept her face neutral, levitating pancakes with exaggerated focus.

Adjustment came in inches.

Emerald’s mane no longer felt like an enemy; she let it grow out a little, trimming it herself into something shaggy and manageable. The hoodie stayed, but she added a simple scarf on colder days. Walking felt less like puppeteering a stranger’s body and more like… walking. She still flinched at “she” and “filly” sometimes, but the sting dulled.

Then came the research binge.

It started innocently enough. Twilight’s library had everything—biology, anatomy, reproductive cycles of every Equestrian species. Emerald told herself she just wanted to understand pony digestion better (in case the bacon bites went wrong). But curiosity is a slippery slope.

She found the section on equines late one night, curled in a reading nook with a stack of tomes glowing under a dim light spell.

Ponies, it turned out, were seasonal. Mares experienced estrus—heat cycles—typically in spring and early summer. Heightened pheromones, restlessness, heightened sensitivity, the whole embarrassing package. Not as intense as some animals, tempered by sapience and society, but real. Undeniable.

Emerald slammed the book shut so hard the sound echoed.

She sat frozen, heart hammering. The castle was silent around her, moonlight striping the floor. Her tail lashed once, hard enough to thump the cushion.

Of course they did. Of course her new body came with this built-in humiliation clock. One more way it could betray her when she least expected it.

She shoved the books back onto the shelf with shaky magic and fled to her room, burrowing under blankets that suddenly felt too warm.

The next morning she was quieter than usual in the kitchen. Spike noticed immediately.

“You okay, Emer?” he asked, cracking eggs one-handed now that his claws were longer. “You look like you read something that bit you.”

She hesitated, then shook her head. “Just… pony biology stuff. It’s weird.”

Spike nodded, not pushing. He slid a small plate toward her—plain scrambled eggs this time, no bacon. Safe. “Bodies are weird no matter what species. Dragon ones too. One day you’re small enough to ride on Twilight’s back, next you’re knocking stuff over with wings you barely have yet.”

Emerald picked at the eggs. “Yeah. But some weird is… worse.”

He gave her a long look, then nudged the bacon pan closer anyway. One crispy strip, cut small. “One bite at a time, right? Whatever it is.”

She took the piece. The salt helped ground her.

Spring was still months away. She had time. And for now, she had a growing dragon who didn’t ask questions she wasn’t ready to answer, and a kitchen that smelled like breakfast and secrets.

It wasn’t acceptance. Not yet.

But it was enough to get through another day.

===

The castle was silent, the kind of deep midnight hush that made every small sound feel amplified. Twilight had gone to bed hours ago, Spike’s snores echoing faintly from his room down the hall. Emerald lay on her back in the dark, staring at the crystal ceiling that reflected faint starlight from the window.

The urge had been building for days—weeks, maybe. A low, persistent hum under her skin that she’d ignored, shoved down, pretended was just another pony instinct she could outreason. Back home, it had been simple: a quick session with her hand, release, done. Stress relief. Habit. Normal.

Here, there was nothing to grip. No familiar anatomy to work with. Just this small, curved body that still felt borrowed.

She rolled onto her side, tail flicking restlessly. The blankets were too warm. Her hind legs shifted without permission, pressing together, then apart. The friction sent a spark up her spine—unexpected, sharper than she remembered urges being.

Emerald froze.

It wasn’t the same. Of course it wasn’t. But the need was still there, translated into something new and confusing.

She exhaled slowly, ears pinning back. No one would know. The door was locked with a simple spell Twilight had taught her for privacy. She was alone.

Tentatively, she let a hoof trail down her barrel, over the soft green coat of her belly. The touch was light, experimental. Foreign. Her breath hitched when she reached the place where everything felt different—warmer, more sensitive than she expected.

Not like before. Not the focused, mechanical pleasure she’d known. This was broader, diffuse, building in waves that made her hips twitch involuntarily. She pressed harder, circling with the flat of her hoof, then shifted to lie on her stomach, grinding slowly against the mattress.

A soft whine escaped before she could stop it. She bit the pillow to muffle it.

It felt… good. Frustratingly good. Different nerve endings, different rhythm, but the climb was unmistakable. Her tail flagged, legs tensing. The question mark on her flank seemed to burn with irony—this was one question she hadn’t wanted answered.

Release came suddenly, a rolling shudder that left her gasping into the fabric, muscles clenching in ways that felt both right and deeply wrong.

Afterward, she lay trembling, sweat dampening her coat. The ceiling blurred.

It worked. Her body responded, traitorously efficient.

But it wasn’t her body. Not really.

She curled into a tight ball, tail wrapped around herself like a shield. The afterglow faded fast, leaving a hollow ache behind her eyes.

Tomorrow she’d pretend it never happened. Shower longer, read more books, help Spike with breakfast.

But the knowledge settled in her chest like a stone: the urges wouldn’t stop. The body would keep demanding. And she’d have to keep experimenting, alone in the dark, learning a language she never asked to speak.

For now, she pulled the blankets higher and tried to sleep, the question mark on her flank still waiting.

===

The nights blurred together.

At first it was occasional—only when the pressure built too high, when the day’s frustrations piled up like unread books on her nightstand. A quick, guilty release under the covers, followed by a long stare at the ceiling and the inevitable wave of complicated feelings.

But habits form fast when there’s nothing else to quiet the noise in your head.

Emerald’s adult mind—sharp, cynical, still carrying memories of late-night browsing and the casual normalcy of human puberty and beyond—framed it simply: bodies have needs. Ponies, humans, whatever. Hormones don’t care about species or identity crises. It’s biology. It’s stress relief. It’s normal.

She told herself that every time her hoof wandered.

The routine settled in. After Twilight’s good-night wing-hug, after Spike’s snores started down the hall, she’d lock the door with the little click of magic she’d perfected. Lights dimmed to almost nothing. Blankets pushed down just enough.

She learned the map of this body quickly, the way any curious mind would. What pressure worked best, what angles sent sparks up her spine, how grinding against a pillow muffled sound and added friction. The climaxes were different—longer waves instead of sharp peaks, leaving her trembling and damp and strangely calm afterward.

And yes, it helped.

Not fixed—nothing fixed the deeper ache of looking in the mirror and seeing a filly stare back—but dulled it. In those moments of building pleasure, the body felt less like an intruder and more like… hers. Responsive. Capable of something good, something she controlled. Ownership, even if temporary.

The dysphoria didn’t vanish. Some nights, after the glow faded, she’d curl tight and hate how easily this form betrayed her old self. Other nights she’d drift off with a bone-deep relaxation she hadn’t felt since arriving.

Attraction, though—that stayed murky.

She tried thinking about old fantasies: human women from grainy videos, sharp angles and familiar curves. But the mental images slid away, distant and unreal, like trying to remember a dream after waking. Pony bodies were softer, rounder, tails and muzzles and wide eyes. Stallions in the market—broad shoulders, deep voices—stirred nothing but vague curiosity. Mares were prettier, maybe, but the thought of wanting one felt clinical, detached.

Mostly, her mind stayed blank during the act. Just sensation. No faces, no scenarios beyond the immediate. Safe that way.

She kept it secret, of course. Twilight would worry herself into a research frenzy—books on adolescent pony development, gentle talks about “natural changes.” Spike would probably blush purple and change the subject forever.

So Emerald kept her door locked, her sounds muffled, her routine private.

It was just another part of life in this world. One more question mark she was answering on her own terms, one quiet night at a time.

===

The castle had started feeling smaller.

Spike noticed it in little ways at first—having to duck under doorframes he used to walk through easily, his tail sweeping scrolls off low tables without meaning to. Then came the day he stood next to Twilight in the library and realized his head crest brushed her horn. He was as tall as her now, maybe a touch taller, shoulders broader, wings half-unfurled more often than not as his body caught up to the growth his new diet had triggered.

The physical changes were one thing. The other stuff… that was harder.

It started with dreams. Vivid ones. Ponies he knew—Rarity most often, but sometimes others—mixed with confusing sensations that left him waking up hot under his scales, heart pounding, a sticky mess he had to clean up before anypony noticed. Then the daytime urges: random hardness that came out of nowhere, making him shift awkwardly on his basket bed or hide behind a stack of comics when Twilight was around.

He lasted three days before he cracked.

It was late, kitchen dim except for the moonlight through the window. Emerald was there as usual, hoodie pulled up, levitating a small pan of bacon strips for tomorrow’s omelet stash. Spike slipped in quietly, but his bigger frame made the door creak anyway.

She glanced over. “You’re up late, big guy.”

Spike rubbed the back of his neck, scales clicking softly. “Yeah. Uh… can we talk? Like, really talk?”

Emerald set the pan down, ears perking. She’d seen that look on his face before—on her own reflection, months ago. “Shoot.”

He paced a tight circle, tail lashing. “I’m… freaking out a little. My body’s doing stuff. Weird stuff. I wake up and I’m… hard. Or I think about Rarity and it just happens. And it feels good but also terrifying because what if somepony notices? Twilight would lose it. She still thinks I’m her little assistant who likes gem cupcakes and comic books.”

Emerald’s expression softened. She hopped onto the counter so they were eye-level despite his new height. “Spike. Breathe. It’s normal.”

He stopped pacing. “Normal? I’m a dragon. Ponies don’t… I mean, Twilight’s gonna think I’m turning into some greedy adult dragon or something.”

Emerald snorted quietly. “Trust me, I know exactly what you’re going through. Back when I was… me, before all this—” she gestured at her small green body “—I was a guy. Human guy. Went through the exact same thing when I hit puberty. Random boners at the worst times, dreams that left you embarrassed to face anyone in the morning, the whole deal. It’s not greedy. It’s not bad. It’s just your body waking up.”

Spike’s eyes widened. “You… you were a dude?”

“Yeah.” Her voice was steady, matter-of-fact. “And I know how scary it is when it feels like your body’s running the show. But it settles. The urges don’t go away, but you learn how to handle them.”

He leaned against the counter, looking relieved and still anxious. “How? I mean… what do I do when it happens?”

Emerald hesitated, then shrugged. “Same thing every teenage boy figures out eventually. Take care of it yourself. Quietly. Privately. It’s not gross or wrong—it’s just biology. Helps the pressure, clears your head. Cold showers work in a pinch, but…” She gave him a small, knowing smirk. “They’re overrated.”

Spike’s cheeks flushed darker purple. “I tried that once. Felt… really good. Then I felt guilty after.”

“That’s the hormones talking,” she said gently. “Guilt fades. And listen—no one’s gonna know unless you tell them. Twilight doesn’t need to. She’s your mom-sister-whatever, but this is your business.”

He exhaled slowly, tension easing from his shoulders. “Thanks, Emer. I was scared you’d think it was weird too.”

“Weirder than me being a former human dude in a filly’s body?” She bumped his arm with her hoof. “We’re both weird. Comes with the territory.”

Spike managed a laugh. “Fair.” He glanced at the bacon pan. “Any chance tomorrow’s omelet has extra protein? Growing dragon and all.”

Emerald rolled her eyes, but her smile was real. “Greedy already. Fine. Extra bacon. But you’re washing the pan.”

He grinned, sharper teeth glinting in the moonlight. “Deal.”

As he headed back to his room—moving with a little more confidence—Emerald watched him go. The castle didn’t feel quite so small anymore.

Not for either of them.

===

A few weeks after their late-night talk, Spike slipped into the kitchen again, this time moving with a deliberate quiet that his larger body made difficult. The door clicked shut behind him, and he leaned against it, wings half-furled tight against his back.

Emerald was already there, hoodie up, nibbling on a stolen strip of bacon while a fresh batch sizzled in the pan. She raised an eyebrow. “You look like you swallowed a thundercloud.”

Spike rubbed his longer claws together, the sharp tips clicking. “It’s… the thing we talked about last time. It’s getting worse.”

She turned the heat down on the stove, giving him her full attention. “The urges?”

“That, yeah. But also… these.” He held up his hands. The claws had grown curved and thick, gleaming like polished amethyst—beautiful, but clearly not made for delicate work. “I can’t… y’know. Do it properly anymore. They’re too sharp. I tried being careful, but I almost scratched myself bad the other night. So I stopped altogether. Thought maybe if I just ignored it, it’d go away.”

Emerald’s ears flicked. “And?”

He exhaled a thin plume of frustrated smoke. “It didn’t. It’s like… constant now. I can’t focus. Everything sets it off. I’m snappy with Twilight, hiding in my room half the day. I feel like I’m gonna explode.”

She nodded slowly, understanding more than she wanted to admit. Her own urges hadn’t let up either—different mechanics, same relentless biology.

Spike looked at her, eyes pleading in a way that made her chest tighten. “You get it, right? You were a guy. You know how bad it can get when you can’t… take the edge off.”

Emerald hopped off the stool, pacing a small circle on the tile. Her mind raced.

Helping him. Actually helping.

Back in her old life, bro-code stuff like that was rare, but not unheard of—drunk college stories, desperate moments, always with the loud disclaimer of “no homo.” But here? She was a filly. Small, soft, female on the outside. Did that make it straight? Gay? Something else entirely?

She wasn’t attracted to him—not like that. Spike was family, friend, the one creature who saw her without the layers of pretense. And he was suffering in a way she remembered all too well: body changing, needs sharpening, no safe way to handle it alone.

If she helped, it wouldn’t be about desire. It’d be about taking care of a friend. Bro helping bro, even if one bro was currently stuck in a girl’s body.

“Not gay,” she muttered to herself, testing the words. Then louder: “It’s not gay. Or… whatever. Bodies are bodies. We’re both dealing with crap nopony—nobody—else would understand.”

Spike’s frills perked slightly. “You mean…?”

She met his eyes, steady despite the heat in her cheeks. “I could help. Carefully. No weird stuff, no expectations. Just… getting you through it so you don’t lose your mind.”

He swallowed, wings twitching. “You’d really do that? I don’t want to make things awkward between us.”

“Already awkward,” she said with a short laugh. “We’ve been sneaking bacon and talking about boners for months. This is just the next level of weird.”

Spike managed a shaky grin. “Yeah. Okay. If you’re sure.”

She wasn’t sure—not entirely. But she was sure she didn’t want him hurting.

“Tomorrow night,” she said. “After Twilight’s asleep. My room—bigger bed, locked door. Bring a towel or something.”

He nodded, relief evident in the way his shoulders dropped. “Thanks, Emer. You’re… the best.”

She turned back to the bacon to hide her own nerves, tail flicking once. “Yeah, well. Bros help bros. Even when one’s a filly.”

The kitchen smelled of smoke and salt, and for once the silence between them felt less heavy—shared, understood, a little less lonely.

===

The night arrived with a tense quiet.

Emerald’s room was dimly lit by a single crystal lamp, turned low enough to cast long shadows across the plush rugs and stacked books. She’d pushed the blankets to the foot of the bed, leaving just a soft sheet. The door locked with a soft click of her magic the moment Spike slipped inside, towel draped over one arm, wings folded tight against his broader back.

He paused just inside the threshold, eyes flicking to her, then away. “Hey.”

“Hey,” she echoed, voice steady despite the flutter in her chest. She was curled on the bed in her hoodie, hood down for once, black mane tousled. “Sit. Before you knock over the lamp with your tail again.”

Spike huffed a small laugh, tension easing a fraction. He perched on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping under his new weight. The towel landed in his lap like a shield.

Silence stretched, not uncomfortable but thick. Emerald shifted closer, small green form dwarfed beside him.

“So,” she said, “ground rules. This is just helping. No weird feelings after, no telling anypony. If it gets too much, say stop. Okay?”

He nodded quickly. “Okay. Yeah. Thanks again, Emer. I… I tried everything else.”

“I know.” She remembered those weeks of frustration in her old body all too well. “Lie back a bit. Relax.”

Spike leaned against the headboard, legs stretched out, towel still in place. His scales gleamed faintly in the low light, chest rising faster than usual. Emerald moved to kneel between his legs—careful, clinical at first. Her hoof hovered, then gently tugged the towel aside.

He was already half-hard, draconic anatomy different but unmistakable: ridged, tapered, a deep violet fading to pink at the tip, slick with natural lubrication. Bigger than she’d expected with his growth spurt, but not intimidating. Just… Spike.

Emerald swallowed, pushing down the swirl of thoughts—is this weird, is this straight, does it matter?—and focused. Bro helping bro.

She started slow, pressing the flat of her hoof along the underside, stroking upward with gentle pressure. Spike’s breath hitched, claws digging into the sheets as his hips twitched.

“Like that?” she asked quietly.

“Y-yeah,” he rasped. “Better than… anything I tried.”

Encouraged, she added her other hoof, wrapping as best she could around the girth—hooves weren’t hands, but the smooth frog pressed just right. Up and down, steady rhythm, twisting lightly at the head where he seemed most sensitive. Her magic flickered to life, a soft teal glow enveloping the length for smoother strokes, warm and precise like a gentle grip.

Spike’s head fell back, eyes squeezing shut. A low rumble built in his chest—not quite a growl, more like a purr. His tail thumped once against the bedframe. “Emer… that’s… perfect.”

She kept the pace even, watching his reactions: the way his wings unfurled slightly, the sharper breaths when she focused lower, the bead of fluid at the tip that her magic spread for easier glide. It wasn’t turning her on—not really, not like her solo sessions—but there was satisfaction in it. Control. Helping. Seeing him relax into it.

Minutes passed in quiet sounds: the soft wet slide of magic-aided strokes, his increasingly ragged breathing, the occasional click of claws on crystal when he gripped too hard.

He warned her with a strained “Close—” and she sped up just enough, aiming him toward the towel she’d levitated into place.

Spike came with a muffled groan, body arching, hot spurts striping the fabric in thick ropes. His wings flared wide, knocking a pillow to the floor. The release seemed to go on longer than human ones she remembered—dragon biology, maybe—until he finally sagged, panting.

Emerald eased off gently, dispelling her magic and folding the towel over the mess. Spike’s eyes opened, hazy and grateful.

“That was…” He laughed breathlessly. “I can think again. Like a fog lifted.”

She gave a small smirk, wiping her hooves on a spare cloth. “Told you. Bodies are dumb until you handle them.”

He sat up slowly, pulling her into a careful one-armed hug—mindful of his size now. “You’re the best friend I’ve ever had, Emer. Seriously.”

She leaned into it, ear against his warm scales. “Yeah, well. Same. Just… don’t make it a habit unless the claws stay murder-y.”

He chuckled. “Deal.”

They cleaned up in companionable silence—towel vanished to the laundry hamper via magic, window cracked for fresh air. When Spike left for his room, moving lighter despite his bulk, Emerald flopped back on the bed.

Not gay. Not straight. Just… necessary.

And in the quiet aftermath, the castle felt a little less like a cage.

===

Morning light filtered through the castle’s tall windows, painting the kitchen in soft golds and violets. The smell of sizzling bacon and scrambling eggs filled the air—Emerald’s doing, as usual. She stood at the stove, hoodie sleeves pushed up, flipping the contents of the pan with quick, precise magic. Spike sat at the table, taller than ever, wings folded awkwardly like he hadn’t quite figured out their new span yet. He was pretending to read a Power Ponies comic, but his eyes hadn’t moved from the same panel in five minutes.

Twilight hadn’t come down yet—still buried in some overnight research scroll, probably. The silence between the two of them was thick enough to chew.

Spike cleared his throat. “Smells good.”

“Yeah,” Emerald muttered, not turning around. “Extra bacon, like you asked.”

Another long pause. The bacon popped in the pan.

Spike shifted in his seat. “About last night—”

“Don’t,” Emerald cut in quickly, ears flicking back. She levitated plates onto the table harder than necessary. “We said no weirdness after.”

“I’m not—” He exhaled a thin curl of smoke. “I’m not being weird. Just… thanks. Again.”

She finally faced him, sliding a heaping plate in front of him—omelet folded around crispy bacon strips and melted cheese—then hopped onto her own chair with a smaller portion. Their eyes met for a second before both looked away.

The tension hung there, heavy and unspoken: the memory of her magic on his scales, his release, the quiet cleanup after. Not bad tension, exactly. Just… new.

Emerald poked at her eggs, then snorted suddenly.

Spike glanced up. “What?”

“She’d lose it,” Emerald said, voice low but edged with dark amusement. “Twilight. If she ever found out? Like, cataclysmically flip out. We’re talking full alicorn meltdown. Emergency friendship council meeting. Scrolls flying everywhere. ‘How could this happen under my own roof?!’”

Spike’s frills flattened. “Yeah. She’d probably think I corrupted you or something.”

“Or that I corrupted you.” Emerald smirked, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Princess of Friendship discovering her adopted daughter and her number-one assistant are… handling dragon puberty in the most hands-on way possible. She’d teleport to Celestia for advice. Maybe ban bacon just to punish us.”

Spike winced, but a reluctant chuckle escaped. “She still measures my height every week like I’m gonna stop growing if she stares hard enough. If she knew the protein wasn’t the only thing helping…”

Emerald barked a short laugh. “She’d write a whole thesis. ‘The Effects of Interspecies Adolescent Stress Relief on Household Harmony.’ Complete with diagrams.”

The image broke the dam. Spike laughed too—real, relieved, the sound rumbling deeper in his chest than it used to. Emerald’s shoulders loosened, tail swishing once under the table.

They ate in better silence after that, passing the salt without asking, trading small glances that said we’re okay without needing words.

Twilight’s hooves echoed in the hall minutes later, voice calling cheerfully about a breakthrough on dimensional magic theory. Spike and Emerald exchanged one last look—shared secret, shared understanding—and shoveled the evidence of bacon deeper into their omelets.

Just another breakfast in the Castle of Friendship.

Nopony had to know how weird friendship could really get.

===

The sessions settled into a pattern none of them had planned.

It started weekly—late nights when the castle was deepest in sleep, Spike tapping softly at Emerald’s door with that same embarrassed hunch to his wings. She’d let him in without comment, lock the door, dim the lights. The routine was quiet, efficient: towel ready, her magic careful and precise, his release quick and shuddering. Afterward they’d sit side by side on the bed, not touching, just breathing until the air felt normal again.

Spike always apologized on his way out.

“Sorry for… needing this again.”

Emerald would shrug, hoodie pulled up, expression unreadable. “It’s fine.”

He expected judgment—some flicker of annoyance, exhaustion, anything. But it never came. She didn’t tease, didn’t sigh, didn’t act like it cost her anything. Just accepted it the same way she accepted his extra bacon portions or his rants about the latest comic issue.

After a few weeks, weekly wasn’t enough. The urges sharpened with his body—stronger, more insistent. Three days became the new rhythm. Then sooner if a dream hit hard or a brush of scales against sheets set him off.

One night, after the third session in a week, Spike lingered at the door, claws scraping nervously against the frame.

“I’m sorry,” he said, voice rough. “This is too much. I’m taking advantage—”

“You’re not,” Emerald cut in, sitting cross-legged on the bed, mane tousled from the pillow. “I’d tell you if it was. It’s just… helping. Like cooking eggs when you couldn’t reach the shelf anymore.”

He stared at her, frills drooping. “But it’s not like cooking eggs.”

She gave a small, crooked grin. “No. But it’s still just bodies being bodies. You’d do the same for me if I needed it.”

Spike didn’t answer right away. He wouldn’t—couldn’t—imagine touching her like that. The thought felt wrong in a different way. But her calm acceptance lodged in his chest like a warm ember.

The routine deepened.

They got better at it—her magic more confident, learning the spots that made his breath catch fastest, the pressure that drew it out longest. Sometimes they talked through it, low voices about nothing: school drama, Twilight’s latest organizational frenzy, whether dragons could eat spicy gem peppers without heartburn. Other times it was silent, just the soft glow of teal magic and his muffled groans.

And something shifted in Spike he couldn’t name at first.

The dreams about Rarity stopped.

He’d always carried that torch—white coat, sapphire mane, dramatic sighs. But now when he woke hard and aching, it wasn’t her face behind his eyes. It was the memory of Emerald’s focused expression, the gentle hum of her magic, the way she never made him feel like a burden.

He told himself it was gratitude. Relief. She was his best friend—the only one who saw all of him, growing claws and messy urges and all—without flinching.

But late at night, after she’d wrung pleasure from him with steady patience, he’d lie in his basket (too small now, legs dangling off the edge) and stare at the ceiling.

Do friends do this?

He knew the answer in the pony world: no. Friends shared secrets, adventures, laughs. Not… this.

Family? Twilight would combust at the thought. Big Mac and Apple Bloom didn’t—Celestia, no.

Yet it felt right with Emerald. Safe. Necessary. The pleasure was sharper than anything he’d managed alone, but it was more than that—the closeness, the trust, the way she looked at him afterward like nothing had changed.

He was glad—fiercely glad—to have her. Closer than anyone else in his life.

But the question gnawed at him in quiet moments: was this still just friendship?

And why did the thought of stopping—of going back to fumbling alone with sharp claws—feel unbearable?

Spike rolled onto his side, wings tucking tight, and listened to the distant tick of the castle clock.

He didn’t have answers. Just the steady certainty that tomorrow, or the day after, he’d knock on her door again.

And she’d let him in.

===

One late night, deeper into their routine than either had expected, the session started like any other.

Emerald’s room was bathed in the faint glow of a single candle—safer than the lamp, less likely to spill light under the door. Spike lay back on the bed, towel discarded early because they’d gotten careless with trust. Emerald knelt beside him, teal magic already wrapped around his length in slow, practiced strokes. Her hoodie was off for once, folded neatly on the chair; the air felt cooler against her coat, sharper.

Spike’s breathing had just started to deepen when hooves echoed in the hall—soft, but unmistakable. Twilight’s pace, the deliberate clip-clop of somepony who’d forgotten a scroll and was coming back for it.

Both froze.

The doorknob rattled—locked, thank Celestia—but Twilight’s voice came through, sleepy and concerned. “Emerald? Spike? I thought I heard… something. Everything okay?”

Emerald’s magic winked out instantly. Spike yanked a blanket over himself with a panicked swipe of his tail, heart hammering so loud he was sure Twilight could hear it through the crystal walls. Emerald pressed a hoof to her muzzle, eyes wide.

“We’re fine!” she called, voice only cracking a little. “Just… talking comics. Spike’s telling me about the new Power Ponies arc.”

A pause. Too long.

“Okay,” Twilight said finally, sounding unconvinced but tired. “Good night, then. Love you both.”

The hooves receded. The castle fell silent again.

They waited a full minute, barely breathing.

Then Spike exhaled shakily. “That was—”

“Too close,” Emerald finished, but her voice wasn’t scared. It was breathless. Her cheeks were flushed under her green coat, tail flicking hard against the sheets.

Spike noticed first. He sat up slowly, blanket still clutched, and looked at her—really looked. Her pupils were blown wide, chest rising faster than the situation alone warranted. And lower… she was shifting her hind legs together, subtle but unmistakable.

“You’re…” he started, then stopped, frills flushing deep purple.

Emerald swallowed. “Yeah.” The admission came out small, surprised. “I don’t know why, but… that scare? It lit something up. Like… the risk made everything sharper.”

Spike’s claws flexed against the blanket. He felt it too—the adrenaline hadn’t faded into fear. It had twisted into heat, pooling low and urgent. His body, half-relaxed from before, was suddenly aching again.

“Me too,” he admitted, voice rough. “I thought my heart was gonna explode, but… not just from panic.”

They stared at each other in the candlelight, the air between them charged in a way it hadn’t been before.

Emerald moved first—slow, deliberate. She didn’t ask permission; she just reached out with a hoof, pressing the soft frog against him where her magic had left off. The touch was warmer, less precise, but new. Spike hissed softly, hips twitching up into it.

She experimented carefully: one hoof stroking, the other cupping lower, feeling the weight and heat of him. Then magic again—teasing sparks at the tip while her hoof kept the rhythm. Alternating. Learning what made his wings flare, what drew those low draconic rumbles from his chest.

Spike didn’t last long—not with the leftover adrenaline, not with the thrill still singing in his veins. When he came, it was harder than usual, claws shredding the edge of the sheet, breath coming in smoke-tinged gasps.

Emerald watched, transfixed, her own arousal a steady thrum she didn’t touch yet. The danger had woken something in her she hadn’t expected: exhilaration, yes, but also power. Control in the secrecy. The idea that they were doing this right under Twilight’s nose—literally steps away—and getting away with it.

Spike slumped back, eyes half-lidded, then reached out and tugged her closer until she was curled against his side. His wing draped over her like a blanket.

“That was…” he murmured.

“Yeah,” she whispered against his scales. “The close call made it better. Way better.”

He nodded slowly. “I’ve never felt anything like it.”

They didn’t name it—not yet. But the next sessions carried that new edge: quieter voices, faster breaths at every creak of the castle, Emerald’s touches bolder—hoof and magic in tandem, teasing, drawing it out. The risk became part of the thrill, sharp and addictive.

And neither of them wanted it to stop.

===

Spring arrived like a thief.

It started subtly: a warmth under her coat that no blanket could explain, a restlessness that kept her pacing her room at night. Emerald chalked it up to the changing seasons, to stress, to anything but the chapter she’d read months ago and tried to forget.

By the third day, denial cracked.

She woke drenched in sweat, hind legs clenched tight, a deep, throbbing ache between them that made her whine into the pillow. Her teats were swollen, sensitive even to the brush of sheets. Every shift of her tail sent sparks up her spine, and the air smelled too sweet, too full of her own scent.

She tried everything.

Hooves first—frantic circles that brought her to the edge but never over, the peak slipping away like smoke. Magic next: focused vibrations, teasing pulses she’d perfected in quieter months. Nothing. The heat demanded more—deeper, rougher, something her small body couldn’t give itself.

By evening she was shaking, curled on the bathroom floor after a cold shower that did nothing but make her shiver harder. Tears pricked her eyes—not from sadness, but raw frustration. The question mark on her flank felt like mockery.

She needed help.

Spike’s room was just down the hall. He’d understand. He’d helped her before, in smaller ways—late-night talks, shared secrets, his quiet presence when the dysphoria hit hardest. And lately… lately his touches had been the only thing that quieted her own urges.

Emerald padded to his door on unsteady legs, tail flagged high without permission. She knocked softly—three quick taps, their signal.

Spike opened almost immediately, eyes widening at the sight of her: mane damp and tangled, coat glistening, pupils blown. The scent hit him a second later—thick, sweet, unmistakably mare in season.

“Emer?” His voice cracked, deeper than it used to be. “You’re…”

“In heat,” she finished, ears flat. “Yeah. I can’t… nothing works. It’s driving me crazy.” She shifted her weight, thighs rubbing together with a soft, wet sound that made them both flush. “I need help. Please.”

Spike stepped aside without hesitation, closing the door and locking it with a claw. The room was dim, his basket bed too small for his frame now—he’d taken to sleeping on a pile of blankets in the corner. He guided her there gently, wing brushing her back.

“You sure?” he asked, even as his own arousal stirred, obvious against his scales. “I don’t want to—”

“I’m sure,” she cut in, voice trembling. “Just… touch me. Anything.”

He laid her down carefully, settling beside her. His claws—still too sharp for delicate work—stayed folded away. Instead he used the broad pad of his palm, warm and smooth, pressing between her hind legs with tentative gentleness.

Emerald gasped at the first contact, hips bucking up into his touch. He explored slowly: stroking along her swollen lips, circling the winking clit that peeked out with every throb of need. When he slipped a single broad finger inside—just the tip—her walls clenched greedily around it, slick and burning hot.

“Yes—” she hissed, legs spreading wider. “More.”

Spike added pressure, curling his finger carefully, thumb rubbing firm circles outside. The heat responded instantly, building in waves that finally—finally—crested. Emerald came with a strangled cry, body arching, magic flaring teal sparks across the room as pleasure crashed through her.

But it wasn’t enough. Heat never was, not in one go.

She rolled toward him, panting, and reached for his already-hard length with shaking magic. “Your turn,” she whispered. “Need you too.”

They moved together after that—urgent, messy, perfectly in sync. Her magic wrapped around him while his palm worked between her legs, trading rhythms until the air smelled of smoke and musk and release. Each time Twilight’s hooves echoed somewhere distant in the castle, they froze, hearts racing—then moved faster, the risk sharpening everything to a knife’s edge.

Hours later, exhausted and tangled in blankets, Emerald lay with her head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat slow.

“It’ll come back,” she murmured. “Tomorrow. Maybe worse.”

Spike’s wing draped over her protectively. “Then I’ll be here.”

She nodded against his scales, the ache quiet for now.

Friends didn’t do this.

But they weren’t just friends anymore.

And neither of them wanted to stop.

===

The morning after the worst of the heat had finally ebbed—leaving Emerald sore, exhausted, and strangely clear-headed—the three of them sat around the kitchen table like any other day.

Twilight was buried in a stack of scrolls, levitating a quill as she annotated some theorem on interdimensional ethics, occasionally sipping tea. Spike shoveled gem-flecked pancakes into his mouth with the enthusiasm of a dragon who’d burned a lot of calories lately. Emerald picked at her hay bacon—openly now, since Twilight had stopped questioning the “protein experiments”—her hoodie pulled high, mane still a little wild from the night before.

The silence was comfortable. Too comfortable.

Emerald glanced at Spike across the table. He met her eyes, frills twitching in that way that meant he was remembering too. A small, conspiratorial smirk tugged at her muzzle.

She leaned forward, voice low enough that Twilight shouldn’t catch it over the scratch of her quill. “Y’know… if friendship is magic, then what the hell is this?” She flicked an ear toward him, tail swishing under the table. “Pretty sure we’re running a dark ritual of corruption and evil at this point.”

Spike choked on a pancake, smoke puffing from his nostrils as he tried not to laugh. He coughed, thumping his chest. “Oh yeah,” he whispered back, eyes dancing. “Straight-up forbidden tome stuff. ‘The Necronomarecon: How to Summon Forbidden Pleasures in Three Easy Sessions.’ Complete with glowing runes and everything.”

Emerald snorted, covering it with a sip of juice. “Chapter seven: ‘When Your Adopted Mom Is Literally Down the Hall.’ Advanced difficulty.”

“Bonus points if you finish before the Princess of Friendship notices the weird smells,” Spike added, voice cracking with suppressed laughter.

They both lost it then—quiet, wheezing giggles, heads ducked, shoulders shaking. Spike’s wing brushed hers under the table by accident, and neither moved away.

Twilight’s quill stopped mid-air.

She lowered the scroll slowly, eyes narrowing over the rim of her teacup. The kitchen suddenly felt a few degrees cooler.

“Something funny?” she asked, tone light but edged with that particular alicorn curiosity that could unravel secrets like yarn.

Spike froze mid-chew. Emerald’s ears pinned back.

“Uh—just a comic thing,” Spike said quickly, mouth full. “Power Ponies. Humdrum gets… corrupted by evil magic. Real dark ritual stuff.”

Emerald nodded too fast. “Yeah. Super evil. Tentacles and everything.”

Twilight blinked. Once. Twice.

“I see,” she said slowly, setting her cup down with deliberate care. Her gaze flicked between them: Spike’s sudden inability to look her in the eye, Emerald’s tail flicking nervously against the chair leg, the way they were sitting just a little closer than usual.

The quill levitated again, but her notes were forgotten.

“I’ve been meaning to update my observations on dragon maturation,” she said conversationally. “And Emerald, you’ve been… spending a lot of time in your room lately. Everything okay?”

Emerald swallowed. “Fine. Just… reading.”

“Lots of reading,” Spike added, too enthusiastically.

Twilight’s smile was small, sharp, and entirely too knowing for comfort.

“Of course,” she said. “Well. If either of you ever wants to talk about… anything… my door is always open.”

She went back to her scroll.

But the quill didn’t move.

And under the table, Emerald’s hoof found Spike’s claw for a brief, panicked squeeze.

The dark ritual, it seemed, might be running out of time.

===

Twilight’s suspicions didn’t vanish—they sharpened.

It started small: an extra glance over breakfast, a casual question about “any new spells you two have been practicing?” that made Spike choke on his gems. Then came the “routine checks” around the castle—Twilight reorganizing shelves near their rooms, humming innocently while her ears swiveled for any odd sound.

The weird smells comment from their joke had stuck with her. She couldn’t let it go.

One afternoon, while Spike was out helping Rarity with a gem order and Emerald was “studying” in the library, Twilight slipped into Spike’s room.

The space was tidier than usual—blankets folded, comics stacked, floor swept. Twilight’s horn glowed faintly as she scanned for magical residues or hidden scrolls. Nothing.

She inhaled deeply.

Citrus. Strong, bright citrus—like fresh orange peel and lemon zest. Definitely not the usual smoky draconic musk or old comic-book paper smell.

Twilight frowned. Spike hated citrus gems; they gave him heartburn. And Emerald wasn’t the type to spritz perfume.

But there was nothing else: no strange stains, no hidden towels, no evidence of “dark rituals.” Just a faint, pleasant scent lingering in the air.

She left shaking her head. Probably just a new cleaning spell. Or Spike experimenting with air fresheners. Dragons did go through phases.

Emerald and Spike had been careful.

After the close call, they’d doubled down: towels vanished immediately into the laundry, windows cracked for ventilation, a quick cleaning charm to erase traces. And the citrus? A simple scent-masking potion Emerald had brewed—practical, untraceable.

The routine continued.

They shifted sessions to Emerald’s room mostly—bigger bed, better locks. Spike knocked softer, came less often but more intensely, the thrill of secrecy honing everything to a finer edge.

Emerald buried herself in spellbooks, hunting for subtlety. She found it in an advanced ward from one of Twilight’s old security tomes: a one-way silence bubble. Noise inside vanished to the outside world—perfect for muffling gasps and rumbles—but sounds from the hall filtered in clearly. No more freezing at every creak; they’d hear Twilight coming with time to spare.

She tested it one evening, casting the shimmering teal dome over her room while Spike watched, impressed.

“Genius,” he whispered as the spell settled. “Now we don’t have to whisper like we’re plotting a heist.”

Emerald smirked. “We kind of are.”

That night, the spell hummed softly around them.

Spike lay back on her bed, wings spread, breathing already ragged from her teasing magic. Emerald knelt between his legs, alternating hoof and spell as usual—slow builds, sharp edges, the way he liked now that she knew every ridge and sensitive spot.

The risk was lower, but the thrill lingered. They could hear the distant clop of Twilight’s hooves in the library below, the scratch of her quill. Safe, but not too safe.

Spike’s claws gripped the sheets, hips bucking as he neared the edge. “Emer—gonna—”

She saw the problem before it hit: the mess. Towels were fine, but laundry piles drew eyes. Cleanup spells worked, but traces lingered. Practicality kicked in—cold, former-human logic.

Emerald leaned down without hesitation, wrapping her muzzle around the tapered head just as he peaked.

Spike’s eyes flew wide, a strangled groan lost in the silence bubble. Hot, thick pulses filled her mouth—salty, smoky, draconic. She swallowed steadily, containing every spurt, throat working until he shuddered empty.

When she pulled back, licking her lips clean, Spike stared at her like she’d rewritten the laws of magic.

“You… what… why?” he panted, frills flushed deep violet.

“Less mess,” she said simply, voice husky. “Practical. And… tasted fine.”

He dragged her up into a fierce hug, wings curling around them both. “You’re incredible.”

She buried her face against his neck, heart racing. It hadn’t been sexual for her—not exactly. Just efficient. Helpful.

But the intimacy of it settled warm in her chest all the same.

Outside the bubble, the castle slept on, oblivious.

Inside, their secret burned brighter than ever.

===

The sessions evolved again—quietly, inevitably.

It started with a whisper one night, under the hum of Emerald’s silence bubble. Spike lay back, wings spread, breathing already heavy from her teasing magic. But instead of reaching for him with hoof or spell, he hesitated, frills flushed deep purple.

“Emer,” he murmured, voice rougher than usual with his growth. “Could you… use your mouth again? Like last time?”

She paused, teal magic flickering out. The request hung in the air—direct, vulnerable. Not just for cleanup. For the sensation.

Emerald tilted her head, black mane falling into her eyes. Part of her—the pragmatic, former-human part—saw the logic: warmer, wetter, more precise than magic alone. Another part felt the shift: this wasn’t just helping anymore. It was wanting.

She met his gaze, steady. “You’re requesting blowjobs now, huh?”

Spike’s ears flattened, smoke curling from his nostrils. “I mean—if it’s okay. It felt… really good. But only if you want—”

“I’ll do it,” she said, cutting off his ramble. She shifted lower, settling between his legs with practiced ease. “But you owe me. Big time.”

He blinked, then nodded fast, relief and heat mixing in his eyes. “Anything. Yeah.”

Emerald didn’t reply with words. She leaned in, muzzle brushing the tapered length first—warm breath teasing—before taking him in slowly. The taste hit her immediately: smoky salt, faint gem-mineral tang, uniquely Spike. Her tongue flicked along the underside, tracing ridges that made his hips jerk.

Spike groaned low, claws digging into the sheets. “Stars—Emer—”

She worked him with focus: lips sealed tight, bobbing steady, one hoof cupping the base while her tongue swirled the head on every upstroke. No magic this time—just mouth and hoof, wet and warm and deliberate. She took him deeper than before, throat relaxing from practice, until his tip bumped the back and he shuddered hard.

The sounds he made—deep rumbles, gasped whispers of her name—sent a thrill through her she didn’t examine too closely. This was for him. Mostly.

When he came, it was with a muffled roar lost in the bubble: thick pulses coating her tongue, flooding her mouth. She swallowed instinctively—practical, always practical—milking him through it until he sagged boneless.

Emerald pulled back with a soft pop, licking her lips clean. Spike stared at her, dazed and grateful.

“That was…” He dragged her up into his arms, wing curling around her small frame. “You’re amazing.”

She nestled against his chest, ear to his heartbeat. “Remember,” she said quietly, “you owe me.”

Spike’s claw stroked her mane gently. “I know. Whatever you need. Whenever.”

The words settled warm between them—a promise, a debt, the next inevitable step.

Outside the bubble, the castle slept.

Inside, their secret deepened, one favor at a time.

===

Summer afternoons in Ponyville had become their escape.

With Twilight buried in seasonal friendship reports and castle reorganization projects, Spike and Emerald slipped out more often—no excuses needed, just a casual “going for a walk” that turned into hours wandering the market, the park, or the quiet paths around Sweet Apple Acres. Spike’s larger frame drew stares now—whispers of “Is that Twilight’s dragon? He’s huge!”—but Emerald stuck close, hoodie up against curious eyes, her small green form tucked under his wing when the crowds got thick.

It felt normal. Almost.

One warm day, they were sprawled on a hill overlooking the schoolyard playground, sharing a bag of gem-dusted hay fries Spike had bought from a vendor. Below, foals laughed and chased each other, the bell long rung for summer break. Emerald’s tail swished lazily as she watched, half-dozing against Spike’s side.

Then she spotted them: three fillies bounding across the grass, capes fluttering dramatically. Apple Bloom, Sweetie Belle, Scootaloo—the Cutie Mark Crusaders. But something was different.

Emerald sat up straighter, squinting.

“No way.”

Spike followed her gaze. “What?”

She pointed with a hoof. The trio had stopped to talk to a blank-flank colt, gesturing excitedly at their own flanks. And there they were: matching cutie marks. A purple shield with a pink heart and blue lightning bolt inside, overlaid with smaller symbols—an apple, a musical note, a scooter wheel.

Emerald’s ears flattened. “They got them. For… helping ponies get cutie marks.”

Spike tilted his head. “Yeah, I heard about that. Big celebration and everything. Twilight was thrilled—wrote a whole letter to Celestia about the magic of self-discovery through friendship or whatever.”

Emerald snorted, flopping back onto the grass with a dramatic sigh. “It’s sad. Like… tragically sad.”

Spike glanced at her, amused. “Sad? They’re happy. Bouncing around like they won the Equestrian Games.”

“That’s the problem.” She stared at the sky, voice dry. “I expected better. Scootaloo? Come on, that filly lives on her scooter. Does tricks that should’ve snapped her neck ten times over. She should’ve gotten one for extreme scootering or stunt flying or something cool.”

Spike chuckled. “Yeah, she’s basically a chicken on wheels.”

“Apple Bloom—whole family’s got apple-themed marks. She’s good with tools, building, potions. An apple cutie mark would’ve fit right in. Maybe with a hammer or something.”

“And Sweetie Belle,” Spike added, catching on. “Girl can sing. Like, actually good. Not just squeaky filly cute—real talent.”

Emerald nodded. “Exactly. But no. They get a meta mark for… earning cutie marks. It’s like the universe looked at their whole crusade and went, ‘Your destiny is crusading.’ That’s not a talent. That’s a participation trophy.”

Spike rolled onto his side, propping his head on a claw to look at her. “Kinda ironic for you, huh? Miss Question Mark complaining about somepony else’s mark being vague.”

She shot him a sideways glare, but there was no heat in it. “Mine’s honest. I don’t know what I’m doing here. They thought they were searching for individual special talents and ended up with a group badge for the search itself. It’s like… the journey was the destination, but the destination sucks.”

Spike’s wing draped over her shoulders, pulling her closer. “Maybe it fits them. They’re happier together than apart.”

Emerald huffed, but leaned into him anyway. “Yeah, yeah. Friendship is magic, group harmony, blah blah. Still feels like a cop-out.”

Below, the Crusaders high-hooved the colt, who beamed at whatever advice they’d given. Their laughter carried up the hill on the breeze.

Spike’s claw traced idle circles on her back. “Your mark’ll figure itself out eventually. And hey—if it ends up being something weird like ‘professional sarcasm,’ I’ll be first in line to celebrate.”

She smirked, bumping his side with her shoulder. “Shut up. But… thanks.”

They stayed there until the sun dipped lower, fries forgotten, watching Ponyville wind down for the evening. The secret between them hummed quietly—no words needed, just the warmth of his wing and the steady rhythm of his breathing.

Whatever their marks ended up meaning, this—right here—felt like enough for now.

===

The summer sun hung low over Ponyville, turning the sky into a watercolor of oranges and pinks. Spike and Emerald had wandered farther than usual, ending up on the outskirts near Carousel Boutique. They sat on a low stone wall, legs (and tail) dangling, sharing a bag of sapphire-dusted popcorn Spike had “borrowed” from the castle pantry.

Rarity’s boutique was visible in the distance—windows glowing warmly, mannequins posed dramatically in the display. A sign read “Closed for Inspiration Retreat,” but Spike knew she was inside, probably sketching furiously or reorganizing her fabric swatches for the tenth time.

He stared at the building longer than he meant to.

Emerald noticed, of course. She always noticed.

“Still got a thing for the drama queen?” she asked, tone light but edged with that familiar dry sarcasm.

Spike blinked, then huffed a small laugh—smoke curling lazily from his nostrils. “Nah. Not anymore.”

He said it easily, like stating the weather. And it surprised him how true it felt.

A few months ago, just seeing the boutique would’ve sent his heart racing—fantasies of Rarity’s smile, her elegant voice saying his name with that perfect lilt, maybe even noticing him as more than her helpful little dragon. He’d spent years chasing that high: hauling gems, running errands, polishing displays, all for a “Thank you, Spikey-Wikey” and a flutter of lashes.

Now? Nothing. A faint fondness, like remembering an old comic arc you’d outgrown.

Emerald popped a piece of popcorn into her mouth, chewing thoughtfully. “Good. Because she was never gonna give you what you wanted.”

Spike glanced at her. “What do you mean?”

She shrugged, eyes on the boutique. “Think about it. All those years—you find her gems, carry her stuff, do free labor basically. She calls you cute names, bats her eyes, lets you hang around. But did she ever once sit you down and say, ‘Spike, I know you have feelings for me. Here’s how I feel’?”

He opened his mouth to protest—then closed it.

Emerald continued, blunt as ever. “She indulged you. Kept you close because it was convenient. Free gem-finder, errand dragon, ego boost from a lovesick kid. Took advantage of your affection without ever addressing it. Classic one-sided crush maintenance.”

Spike’s frills drooped slightly. The words stung—but not because they were cruel. Because they were obvious, once said out loud.

He thought back: every time he’d confessed (or tried to), Rarity had deflected with charm and tasks. “Oh Spikey, you’re such a dear—could you fetch those rubies from the quarry?” Never a real answer. Never a door fully opened or closed.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “You’re right.”

Emerald bumped his shoulder with hers. “Doesn’t make you stupid. You were a kid with a crush. She’s an adult mare who should’ve been kinder about it.”

Spike leaned back on his claws, staring at the fading sky. “Funny thing is… I don’t even feel mad. Just… done.”

His urges were taken care of now—regularly, intensely, by the one pony (filly, whatever) who saw him clearly. No games. No unrequited pining. Just honesty, touch, trust. Emerald didn’t make him work for scraps of attention. She gave freely, asked for what she needed in return, and never left him guessing.

The obsession with Rarity had faded like an old dream, replaced by something warmer, closer, real.

He glanced at Emerald—hoodie half-down, black mane catching the sunset, question mark cutie mark peeking out on her flank.

“Thanks,” he said softly. “For saying it straight. For… everything.”

She smirked, but her ears flicked in that shy way he’d learned to recognize. “Don’t get sappy on me, big guy. Just telling it like it is.”

Spike’s wing settled over her shoulders, pulling her closer. She didn’t pull away.

In the distance, the boutique lights dimmed as Rarity called it a night.

Spike didn’t feel a thing.

And that felt better than any fantasy ever had.

===

One lazy afternoon, after another long wander through Ponyville that ended with them sprawled in one of the castle’s many unused balconies—overlooking the town like kings on a crystal throne—Emerald finally snapped.

She flopped onto her back across the hard, gleaming floor, hooves in the air, staring up at the vaulted ceiling that disappeared into shadows far above.

“This place is ridiculous,” she grumbled, voice echoing slightly in the empty space. “Absolutely bucking unnecessary.”

Spike, leaning against the balcony rail with his wings half-spread to catch the breeze, glanced down at her with a raised brow ridge. “The castle? You’ve been living here almost a year, Emer. Just noticing?”

“I’ve been noticing,” she said, rolling onto her stomach and propping her chin on her hooves. “I’ve been politely ignoring. But come on. It’s massive. Like, ‘evil overlord with too much ego’ massive. And who lives here? Four of us. You, me, Twilight, and that owl who hoots at 3 a.m. like he’s judging our life choices.”

Spike snorted, smoke curling from his nostrils. “Owlowiscious is a vital member of the household. He sorts the mail.”

“He sorts the mail into piles Twilight reorganizes the next day.” Emerald waved a hoof dismissively. “Point is, we rattle around in this thing like pebbles in a jewelry box. Half the hallways are empty except for dust and echoes. The other half? Storage. Random crates of ‘artifacts from the Tree of Harmony’ or ‘backup friendship journals’ or whatever Twilight’s hoarding this week.”

Spike pushed off the rail and settled beside her, the crystal floor cool against his scales. His tail curled idly near hers. “Rarity and the others tried, remember? They came in with curtains and throw pillows and those weird abstract paintings Pinkie found. Made the main rooms feel… less like a museum.”

“Temporary fix,” Emerald muttered. “Cute rugs and lamps don’t change the fact that ninety percent of this place is unused. And everything’s crystal. Cold, hard, impossible-to-cuddle-on crystal. The chairs? Might as well sit on ice blocks. The tables? You set a hot teacup down and it slides right off. I swear the throne room chairs were designed by somepony who hated comfort.”

Spike chuckled, bumping her shoulder gently with his larger one. “Twilight loves it. Says it’s a symbol—friendship literally crystallized, branches of the Tree connecting everypony, yadda yadda.”

“Yeah, well, symbols don’t keep you warm at night.” Emerald’s tail flicked irritably. “Or stop the echoes when you’re trying to sleep. Or make it feel like a home instead of a… monument.”

She went quiet for a moment, staring out over Ponyville’s cozy rooftops far below—wood and thatch and warm lights starting to flicker on as evening crept in.

Spike watched her, expression softening. “You miss having a smaller place, huh? Something that felt… yours.”

Emerald shrugged, ears flicking back. “Back home—old home—my room was tiny. Cluttered, yeah, but it was mine. Walls close enough to feel safe. This?” She gestured at the sprawling balcony, the endless corridors beyond the archway. “It’s beautiful. But it’s lonely.”

Spike’s wing settled over her back, warm and heavy in the cooling air. “We’ve got our corners, though. Kitchen’s cozy. Your room’s got blankets and books piled everywhere. My spot’s… well, less basket, more blanket nest now.”

She leaned into him slightly. “Our corners. Yeah. That’s something.”

They sat in silence as the first stars appeared, the castle’s crystal facets catching the last light like a giant, indifferent chandelier.

Emerald sighed. “One day Twilight’s gonna realize she built a palace for six ponies and a dragon, and only half of us actually live here full-time.”

Spike grinned. “When that day comes, we’ll claim a whole wing for ourselves. Turn an empty hall into the ultimate comic library. Or a kitchen annex just for bacon experiments.”

Emerald smirked despite herself. “Now you’re talking.”

The castle loomed around them—vast, echoing, impersonal.

But under Spike’s wing, the balcony felt a little smaller.

A little warmer.

===

The sessions multiplied like stars in a clear night sky—quiet, inevitable, brighter each time.

What started as occasional relief became near-nightly. Spike’s growth hadn’t slowed; neither had his needs. A brush of scales against sheets, a stray thought of Emerald’s focused eyes, and he’d be at her door, wings tucked tight, voice low. “If you’re up for it…”

She always was.

Blowjobs turned into the default—faster, cleaner, intensely satisfying for him. Emerald found a rhythm she liked: starting slow with teasing licks along the ridges, then taking him deeper, muzzle stretching around the warm, tapered length. It filled her mouth perfectly—not overwhelming, just present. Warm. Alive. Pulsing against her tongue in a way that sent forbidden little thrills down her spine.

She hadn’t expected to like it.

The first few times were pragmatic: contain the mess, help a friend. But repetition bred familiarity, and familiarity bred… something else. The weight on her tongue, the smoky taste, the way his claws trembled in the sheets when she hollowed her cheeks just right. The low draconic rumbles that vibrated through him into her. It felt intimate in a way her solo experiments never had—active, connected, secretly powerful.

The cum didn’t bother her either. Salty-smoky, thicker than she’d imagined, with that faint mineral tang from his gem diet. She swallowed without thinking now, throat working smoothly, the warmth settling in her belly like a shared secret.

Spike noticed the shift in her. The way she lingered sometimes, humming softly around him, eyes half-lidded. He never pushed—always grateful, always careful—but the gratitude turned reciprocal.

One night, after she’d drawn a shuddering release from him with slow, deliberate bobs of her head, Spike tugged her up gently, wing curling around her small frame.

“My turn,” he murmured against her ear, voice husky. “You don’t have to wait for heat.”

Emerald hesitated—old reflexes, old uncertainties—but the ache between her hind legs was already there, low and persistent. Not the frantic burn of estrus, just everyday need sharpened by their routine.

She nodded.

Spike’s touches were careful at first: broad palm stroking along her belly, claws retracted, then lower—parting slick folds with the smooth pad of a finger, circling her clit with surprising gentleness for his size. When he slipped inside, slow and thick, her walls clenched greedily, hips rocking up to meet him.

It became habit.

Nights blurred: her mouth on him, his fingers (or tongue, when he got bold) on her. Trading pleasures under the silence bubble, bodies tangled in blankets that smelled of smoke and citrus masking potion. Sometimes they’d finish each other simultaneously—her magic stroking him while he curled a finger just right inside her—muffled gasps syncing in the dim light.

Emerald caught herself thinking about it during the day: the stretch of her lips around his warmth, the way he throbbed against her tongue right before release, the satisfied rumble in his chest when she swallowed him down. Forbidden, yes—like everything else about their secret. But good. Really good.

Spike felt it too. The way she’d linger after, resting her head on his thigh, mane tousled, lips swollen. The soft, contented sighs she tried to hide.

They didn’t name it yet.

But the routine had become something neither wanted to break.

And in the quiet aftermath, tangled together under crystal starlight filtering through the window, the castle didn’t feel quite so empty anymore.

===

The nights had blurred into a rhythm of warmth and want, but they’d always finished separately—her first, or him, trading turns with careful attention. Close, yes. Connected. But never quite together.

Until one humid summer night, when the air in Emerald’s room felt too thick, the silence bubble humming stronger than usual to drown out a distant thunderstorm.

Spike slipped in late, wings slick from a quick flight through the rain. Emerald was already on the bed, hoodie discarded, coat damp with anticipation she didn’t bother hiding anymore. The citrus masking potion lingered faintly, mixed now with their shared scents.

No words at first. Just the pull—him settling back against the pillows, her climbing over him, small hooves on his chest. She started as usual: muzzle lowering to take him in, slow and deep, tongue tracing every ridge until he rumbled low in his chest.

But Spike’s claws—retracted, gentle—guided her hips forward. “Want you here,” he whispered, voice rough. “Both at once.”

Emerald paused, lips stretched around his tip, heart kicking hard. The idea had flickered between them before—jokes, half-offers—but never acted on. Size made things tricky; full penetration wasn’t an option, not yet, maybe not ever. But this…

She shifted, turning carefully until she straddled his chest facing his length, hind legs spread over his muzzle. His warm breath ghosted over her slick folds first, making her shiver. Then his tongue—broad, textured, careful—lapped a slow stripe from clit to entrance.

Emerald moaned around him, the vibration drawing a hiss from Spike. She took him deeper in response, bobbing faster, one hoof bracing on his thigh while her magic teased the base.

Spike’s tongue delved inside her, curling just right, the draconic flexibility hitting spots her hooves never could. His claws gripped her flanks gently, holding her steady as she rocked back against his mouth. The dual sensations built fast: the thick heat filling her muzzle, pulsing against her tongue; the wet, relentless pleasure between her legs, building in rolling waves.

She felt him tense first—thighs flexing, tail thumping the mattress. He groaned into her, the vibration shooting straight through her core. Emerald hollowed her cheeks, sucking harder, magic tightening in rhythmic pulses.

Spike’s tongue thrust deeper, thumb-pad circling her clit in firm strokes. The storm outside cracked thunder, muffled by the bubble, but inside everything narrowed to heat and wet sounds and ragged breaths.

They crested together.

Emerald came first by a heartbeat—walls clenching around his tongue, a sharp cry muffled around his length as pleasure crashed through her in shuddering waves. The spasm of her body, the desperate rock of her hips against his muzzle, pushed Spike over: thick pulses flooding her mouth, hot and smoky, more than she could swallow at once. Some spilled down her chin as she milked him through it, throat working greedily.

They rode it out locked together—her grinding down on his tongue, him bucking shallowly into her mouth—until the aftershocks faded and Emerald collapsed forward, cheek resting on his thigh, panting.

Spike eased her down gently, turning her until she lay curled against his chest, his wings folding around them both. Rain pattered against the crystal window.

“That was…” he started, voice hoarse.

“Yeah,” she whispered, licking the last trace from her lips. Her body felt liquid, boneless. “First time together.”

He pressed his muzzle to her mane, breathing her in. “Best time.”

Emerald’s tail twined with his, the question mark on her flank pressed warm against his scales.

Outside the bubble, the storm raged on.

Inside, they stayed tangled long after the thunder stopped—closer than ever, the line between helping and wanting finally, completely blurred.

===

The rain had stopped hours ago, leaving the castle windows streaked and the air cool. Emerald’s room was dim, the silence bubble still faintly shimmering from earlier. They lay tangled in the blankets—Spike on his back, wings half-spread, Emerald curled against his side with her head on his chest, listening to the slow thump of his heart.

The afterglow had faded into quiet, but neither had moved to clean up or part ways. It was one of those nights where the line they’d been dancing on felt too obvious to ignore anymore.

Emerald broke the silence first, voice soft but steady.

“We gotta name this, Spike.”

He tensed slightly under her, claw pausing mid-stroke in her mane. “Name it?”

“Yeah.” She lifted her head, teal eyes meeting his in the low light. “What are we? Friends with benefits? That’s the human term—close friends who… do this stuff. No romance, just helping each other out.”

Spike’s frills flushed. “I mean… yeah? But also more than that. We live together. Talk about everything. You’re the only one who—”

“Family with benefits?” she cut in, then immediately winced. “Oh Celestia, that sounds so wrong. Like, forbidden-scrolls-in-the-restricted-section wrong. Twilight would actually explode.”

Spike barked a laugh, smoke puffing from his nostrils. “Don’t say that. I can already picture the friendship emergency summit. ‘How to address inappropriate draconic-equine bonding in the household.’”

Emerald snorted, but her expression sobered. She traced a small circle on his scales with her hoof. “I’m serious, though. I don’t have a better word. We’re not just friends anymore. Not after… all this.” She gestured vaguely at the rumpled bed. “But I don’t want to stop. I like it. The closeness. The way it feels… right. With you.”

Spike’s claw cupped her cheek gently, thumb-pad brushing her mane. “I don’t want to stop either. Not even a little. You’re… everything, Emer. Best friend, confidant, the one who gets me. And this—” his voice dropped, “—it’s the best part. Feels like we fit.”

She leaned into his touch, tail twining with his. “So… friends with benefits, but the deep kind? The ‘I’d burn the world down for you’ kind?”

He grinned, sharp but soft. “Minus the burning. Twilight would notice.”

Emerald laughed quietly, the sound muffled against his chest as she settled back down. “Fine. We’ll call it… ours. No labels that make it weird. Just us.”

Spike’s wing draped over her fully, pulling her closer. “Just us. I like that.”

The castle creaked faintly around them—vast and empty halls beyond the door.

But in here, under the bubble and the blankets, their world felt exactly the right size.

And neither was letting go.

=

Autumn had settled over Ponyville, leaves turning gold and red, the air crisp enough for scarves and warm drinks. Emerald had started noticing the changes in herself a few weeks ago—small at first, then undeniable.

She was taller. Not dramatically, not yet Twilight’s height, but enough that her old hoodie hung differently, sleeves shorter on her forelegs, hem riding higher on her barrel. Her body had leaned out too: the soft roundness of fillyhood giving way to longer legs, a sleeker frame, subtle curves that made her pause in front of mirrors more often. Her mane, once a wild black mop, had grown longer and thicker, falling in straighter strands she’d taken to tying back with a simple band.

School had resumed after summer break, and the changes weren’t just hers. The classroom felt smaller somehow. Diamond Tiara had shot up, her tiara now perched on a more elegant neck. Silver Spoon’s glasses sat on a sharper muzzle. The Cutie Mark Crusaders—still crusading, though with their marks now—had filled out in different ways: Apple Bloom sturdier, Scootaloo wirier and taller on her hooves, Sweetie Belle carrying a graceful poise that matched her voice. Even the colts had changed—awkward growth spurts, deeper voices cracking mid-sentence.

Emerald didn’t hate it. The dysphoria still flickered sometimes, but the body felt less foreign now. Stronger. More capable. Hers, in a way it hadn’t before.

Spike noticed first, of course.

They were in one of their favorite unused balconies again, late afternoon sun slanting through the crystal walls. Emerald lounged on a pile of cushions they’d dragged up permanently, sketching absentmindedly in a notebook—spell diagrams mixed with doodles of question marks. Spike sprawled beside her, wings stretched, munching on a hoofful of topaz chips.

He paused mid-bite, eyes narrowing as he looked her over.

“You’re getting tall,” he said suddenly, voice warm with amusement.

Emerald glanced up, ears flicking. “What?”

“Tall. Lean. Like… you’re turning into a proper mare.” He gestured with a claw, tracing the air along her side. “Legs for days now. And your coat’s glossier. Mane too. You’re gonna be towering over me soon if I don’t watch my protein.”

She rolled her eyes, but heat crept into her cheeks. “Shut up. I’m barely taller than last month. And you’re still a head above me, mister growth-spurt dragon.”

Spike grinned, sharper teeth glinting. “Yeah, but you’re catching up. It looks good on you, Emer. Really good.”

He reached out, claw brushing her longer mane gently, then trailing down her neck to her shoulder. The touch lingered—familiar, possessive in the softest way.

Emerald leaned into it despite herself, tail swishing. “The whole class grew. It’s weird seeing everypony change. Diamond Tiara’s basically a supermodel now. Scootaloo looks like she could outrun Rainbow Dash.”

“But you,” Spike said quietly, wing draping over her back, “you’re turning heads without trying. Not that you ever tried.”

She huffed a laugh, bumping his side. “Flattery from the dragon who’s built like a boulder these days.”

He pulled her closer, muzzle nuzzling her mane. “Not flattery. Just noticing. You’re… beautiful, Emer. Always were, but now it’s like the outside’s catching up to how you’ve always felt inside. Strong. Sharp.”

Emerald’s heart did something complicated. She buried her face against his warm scales, voice muffled. “Sap.”

“Only for you.”

The sun dipped lower, painting them both in amber light. The castle’s vast emptiness stretched around them, but in their corner—cushions, snacks, tangled tails—it didn’t matter.

She was growing. Changing.

And with Spike’s wing around her, it didn’t feel scary at all.

===

The castle was deep in its midnight hush, the silence bubble glowing softly around Emerald’s room like a secret kept. They were tangled as usual—sweat-damp coats and scales, hearts slowing after another mutual peak. Spike’s wing lay heavy over her back, his chest rising and falling under her cheek. The air smelled of citrus potion, smoke, and them.

Emerald had been quiet all evening. Not the comfortable quiet they usually shared, but the kind that carried weight.

She lifted her head, black mane falling across one eye. “Spike.”

He hummed, claw tracing idle circles along her spine. “Yeah?”

“We’ve been… thinking about it for a while.” Her voice was steady, but her tail flicked once—nervous. “The next step. Full penetration.”

Spike’s claw stilled. His frills flushed deep violet, but he didn’t look away. “Yeah. We have.”

“I wasn’t ready before,” she said. “Neither were you. Size thing, mental thing, all of it. But… I’ve been reading.” She gestured vaguely toward the stack of books hidden under her bed—old tomes on interspecies biology, reproductive magic, and rare hybrid cases she’d snuck from the restricted section while Twilight was at a princess summit. All done in the dead of night, pages scanned with a dimmed horn light, heart pounding at every creak of the castle.

Spike propped himself up on an elbow, careful not to shift her too much. “And?”

“Hybrids are possible,” she said bluntly. “Rare as hell—dragons and ponies barely overlap in fertility windows, and even then it’s like one in a thousand. Mules are more common than draconic-equine kids. But it can happen.” She paused, ears flicking. “Didn’t want surprises.”

He nodded slowly, processing. “So… protection?”

“There’s a contraceptive charm. Old unicorn spell—blocks conception completely for a lunar cycle, reapplicable. No side effects, no taste, no fuss. I practiced it on a daisy first—worked fine.” She gave a small, crooked grin. “Also found a compatibility enchantment. Adjusts… fit. Makes it safe. Stretch without strain, size accommodation. Reversible. I’ve got it memorized.”

Spike’s eyes widened slightly, then softened with something warm and awed. “You did all that? Without Twilight noticing?”

“She’d have a friendship thesis meltdown if she knew what section I was in.” Emerald’s grin faded into something more vulnerable. “I needed to know it could be safe. For both of us.”

Spike reached up, cupping her cheek with a gentle claw. “You’re incredible, Emer.”

She leaned into the touch, then met his gaze directly. “So… do you want to do it?”

The question hung between them—simple, enormous.

Spike’s throat bobbed. “Yeah,” he whispered. “If you do. More than anything.”

They moved slowly, deliberately. Emerald cast the spells first: the contraceptive charm a soft teal glow that settled over her barrel and faded, then the compatibility enchantment—a warmer pulse that tingled through both of them as it linked their bodies magically, easing proportions, relaxing muscles, ensuring nothing would hurt.

Spike rolled her gently onto her back, wings spreading for balance as he settled over her—careful, always careful with his size. Emerald’s hind legs parted, guiding him with a hoof and a flicker of magic. The tip pressed against her entrance—warm, slick, tapered—and she exhaled shakily.

“Slow,” she murmured.

He nodded, pushing in inch by inch. The spell worked perfectly: stretch without pain, fullness without overwhelm. Emerald’s breath hitched as he filled her—deeper than fingers or tongue, a steady, living heat that made her walls flutter around him. Spike groaned low, forehead resting against hers, claws gripping the sheets to keep from thrusting too soon.

When he was fully seated—bodies flush, tails twined—they stayed still, breathing together.

“You okay?” he whispered, voice trembling.

“Yeah,” she breathed, legs wrapping around his hips. “Really good. Move.”

He did—slow rolls of his hips at first, finding a rhythm that dragged along every sensitive spot inside her. Emerald’s magic flared instinctively, stroking where they joined, adding sparks that made him shudder. The pace built gradually: deeper thrusts, her hips rising to meet him, muffled moans lost in the bubble.

It was different from everything before—closer, rawer, a completion they hadn’t known they were missing. Emerald’s climax hit first, walls clenching hard around him, pulling a ragged groan from Spike as he followed seconds later—hot pulses deep inside, the spell containing everything safely.

They stayed locked together afterward, Spike careful not to crush her as he rolled them sideways, wing draping over her like a blanket. Emerald nuzzled his neck, heart pounding against his scales.

“That was…” he started.

“Yeah,” she whispered, smiling against his chest. “Worth the research.”

Spike’s claw stroked her mane, gentle and reverent. “Love you, Emer.”

The words slipped out soft, natural.

She pressed closer, tail tightening around his. “Love you too.”

Outside the bubble, the castle slept on—vast, echoing, oblivious.

Inside, their world had shifted again.

And it felt exactly right.

===

The castle was wrapped in the deep quiet of a winter night, snow muffling the world outside the crystal windows. Inside Emerald’s room, the silence bubble glowed faintly, holding their heat and sounds close. They were sprawled across the bed, limbs tangled, coats and scales still slick from earlier. The contraceptive charm hummed softly in the background, reapplied without ceremony—routine now, like breathing.

Spike lay on his back, one wing draped lazily over Emerald’s smaller frame. She was half-draped over his chest, tracing idle patterns on his scales with a hoof, mane spilling across his shoulder in a dark cascade.

He shifted slightly, claws flexing. Then, with a mischievous glint in his eyes, one large hand slid down her back, over the curve of her flank, and cupped her ass firmly—claws retracted, grip playful but possessive. He gave a gentle squeeze, kneading the soft green coat and muscle beneath.

Emerald jolted with a surprised squeak, ears flicking back as heat rushed to her cheeks. “Hey!” she protested, but there was no real annoyance—her tail swished hard against his thigh, betraying her. “Personal space, dragon boy.”

Spike’s grin was all sharp teeth and warmth, smoke curling lazily from his nostrils. “Personal space? After what we just did?” He squeezed again, rolling the flesh under his palm, thumb tracing the base of her tail. “This is mine now. Fair game.”

She huffed a laugh, nipping lightly at his neck scales in retaliation. “Greedy. You’ve got the whole bed and half the castle, and you’re claiming my ass?”

“Priorities,” he rumbled, voice low and teasing. His grip loosened into a slow massage, claws tracing circles that made her hind legs twitch involuntarily. “Besides… it’s a really nice ass. All that growing you’ve been doing? Paying off.”

Emerald’s flush deepened, but she pressed back into his touch despite herself—arching just enough to encourage him. “Flattery and groping. Smooth, Spike.”

He pulled her closer, wing tightening around her. “Only for you, Emer.”

The playfulness lingered, turning into lazy exploration—his hands roaming, her hooves retaliating with tickles along his sides. Laughter mixed with softer sounds, the snow falling silently outside.

In their bubble, the vast castle felt small again.

Just them. Just this.

===

The castle was silent, save for the soft patter of winter rain against the crystal windows. Emerald lay curled on her side in the dim glow of a single candle, blankets pulled up to her chin, staring at nothing in particular. Spike had slipped back to his room an hour ago—careful footsteps, a lingering wing-hug at the door, the silence bubble dispelled only after he’d gone.

Her body still hummed faintly, a pleasant ache between her hind legs that reminded her, inescapably, of what they’d done. Again. But tonight her mind wandered further back, to the first time.

She hadn’t planned to think about it like this—clinical, almost detached—but the thoughts came anyway.

Back in her old life, as a human male, virginity had been this quiet, nagging thing. Not a big deal on the surface—she’d shrugged it off with memes and sarcasm, told herself it didn’t matter. Dates that never happened, opportunities dodged because anxiety or apathy won out. Years of scrolling, fantasizing, but never crossing that line. Still intact. Still waiting for… something. Someone.

Then the flash of light, the wrong body, the question mark on her flank. Virginity reset, in a way. Or complicated beyond recognition.

And the one to take it—both ways, mare and former man—was Spike.

Emerald’s ears flicked back, a small huff escaping her muzzle. It wasn’t how she’d imagined it, back when she’d imagined anything at all. No awkward human fumbling in a dorm room or apartment. No candles and nervous laughter with someone who didn’t really know her.

Instead: careful spells cast in secret, Spike’s warm weight above her, his claws gripping the sheets to keep from overwhelming her. The slow stretch, the fullness that made her gasp and arch, the way he’d paused every few seconds to check her eyes, whispering “Okay?” until she nodded frantically. The building heat, the shared climax that left them both trembling.

It hadn’t hurt—not with the compatibility charm. Just pressure, then pleasure so deep it rewrote something inside her. And afterward, his wing around her, muzzle buried in her mane, murmuring love like it was the simplest truth in the world.

She shifted under the blankets, tail curling tight. In her old body, she’d never trusted anyone enough. Never felt safe enough. Here, in this alien form she’d hated at first, she’d given it freely—to a dragon who’d started as her only friend and became… everything.

A small, wry smile tugged at her lips. Virginity lost twice over, in worlds apart. And neither felt like a loss.

It felt like a beginning.

Emerald closed her eyes, the ache fading into warmth.

She wouldn’t trade it. Not for anything.

===

The fire in Emerald’s room crackled low, casting flickering shadows across the crystal walls. They were tangled in the usual post-session haze—blankets kicked to the foot of the bed, Spike’s wing draped lazily over her taller, leaner frame. Emerald lay on her stomach, chin propped on folded hooves, black mane spilling over one eye as she watched him with a mischievous glint.

Spike was half-dozing, claws tracing idle patterns along her back, when she spoke up—voice low, teasing, laced with that dry sarcasm he’d grown to love.

“Y’know,” she drawled, tail flicking against his thigh, “I used to be an adult man. Full-grown human guy. And somehow—somehow—you’re the one who took my virginity. Twice.”

Spike’s eyes snapped open, frills flushing deep purple. His claw froze mid-stroke. “Emer—”

She rolled onto her side to face him fully, smirk widening. “Think about it. Back in my old life? Never happened. Kept it locked up like a rare achievement. Then poof—green filly in Equestria, question mark on my butt, and who swoops in to pop that cherry? My favorite dragon. In both lives. You’ve got a perfect record, Spike. One hundred percent success rate on deflowering me across dimensions.”

Spike groaned, covering his face with a claw, smoke puffing from between his fingers. “You’re evil. Pure evil.”

“Evil?” She poked his chest with a hoof, grin turning wicked. “Nah. Just factual. You seduced a former dude and turned him into a very satisfied mare. That’s some next-level game, big guy. Rarity never stood a chance.”

He peeked through his claws, ears flattened but eyes dancing with reluctant amusement. “You’re never gonna let this go, are you?”

“Nope.” Emerald leaned in, nuzzling his neck scales before nipping lightly at his frill. “It’s too good. My big, tough dragon—stealing virginities like a boss. In two bodies. Bet that’s not in any dragon lore book.”

Spike finally dropped his claw, pulling her closer with a wing-hug that pinned her against his warm chest. “Fine. Laugh it up. But for the record?” His voice dropped, rumbling against her ear. “Wouldn’t change a thing. Both times… best thing that ever happened to me.”

Emerald’s teasing smirk softened into something warmer. She pressed a kiss to his jaw. “Sap. But yeah… me neither.”

The fire popped softly, the castle vast and quiet around them.

Their secret just got a little funnier—and a lot sweeter.

===

Spike’s entire body went rigid the moment the words left her mouth.

His claw froze mid-stroke in her mane, the gentle rhythm he’d been tracing along her back halting like a record scratch. Heat flooded his scales—starting at his frills, which snapped wide open before clamping flat against his head in a deep, mortified violet. Smoke puffed from his nostrils in erratic bursts, thicker than usual, curling up toward the crystal ceiling like he was trying to hide behind it.

“Emer—” he started, voice cracking higher than he wanted, the rumble in his chest turning into a squeak at the end.

She didn’t stop. She kept going, that wicked smirk growing as she poked the sore spot with surgical precision. Every word—“deflowering me across dimensions,” “perfect record”—hit like a playful jab straight to his ego and his heart.

Spike groaned, long and dramatic, dragging a claw down his face hard enough to make his scales click. “You’re evil,” he muttered into his palm, ears pinned flat, tail thumping once against the mattress in pure embarrassment. “Pure evil. Why would you say that out loud?”

His mind raced behind the claw covering his eyes. It wasn’t that she was wrong—it was that she was so right, and saying it like that made it real in a way he hadn’t let himself think about. He’d taken her first time. In this body. And technically, in the life she’d had before, he was still the only one who ever… Celestia, when she put it like that it sounded—

He felt his frills burn hotter. A dragon’s blush was impossible to hide; the purple deepened to near-black at the tips. His wings twitched, half-unfurling then snapping back tight against his back like he wanted to wrap himself in them and disappear.

Emerald’s hoof poked his chest again, and he peeked through his claws, catching the glint in her teal eyes. She was enjoying this way too much.

“I’m never gonna live this down,” he mumbled, voice muffled behind his hand. “You’re gonna bring this up every time I get cocky, aren’t you? ‘Remember when you—’”

“Every time,” she confirmed cheerfully.

Spike dropped his claw with a defeated huff, smoke still leaking from his snout in embarrassed curls. But when he looked at her—really looked—sprawled against him, mane tousled, that teasing grin softening into something fond, the mortification ebbed into something warmer.

He pulled her closer instead of hiding, wing curling around her possessively, hiding both their faces in the shadow of his membrane.

“Fine,” he muttered against her ear, voice low and rough with lingering flush. “Laugh it up. But you liked it. Both times.”

The admission was half-defensive, half-smug, and it earned him the satisfied flick of her tail against his thigh.

He was still embarrassed—frills still dark, smoke still curling—but with her pressed against his chest, laughing softly into his scales, it didn’t feel so bad.

It felt like theirs.

===

One crisp winter morning in the castle kitchen, the smell of gem-dusted pancakes and fresh hay bacon filled the air. Twilight was at the table, horn glowing as she levitated a stack of scrolls and a teacup, muttering about a new theorem on interdimensional stability. Spike stood at the stove, flipping pancakes with practiced ease—his larger frame making the task look almost comically oversized. Emerald lounged nearby, taller now, her leaner build giving her a graceful poise even when slouched against the counter in her favorite hoodie.

She’d been quiet, watching them with a small, secretive smirk. Then, without warning, she pushed off the counter and stood up—fully up—on her hind legs.

Her forehooves tucked loosely against her chest, tail swishing for subtle balance, she walked across the kitchen like it was nothing. Smooth, confident strides: heel-to-toe on her hind hooves, hips swaying naturally, mane bouncing with each step. She grabbed a juice glass from a high shelf—easy reach now with her growth—and poured herself a drink, all while staying perfectly upright.

Twilight’s quill froze mid-air, ink blotting the scroll. Her eyes widened behind her mane. “Emerald! You’re… walking bipedal. Perfectly. How are you balancing like that?”

Spike turned from the stove, spatula in claw, and nearly dropped it. His frills perked, a grin spreading slow and knowing. “Whoa. Show-off.”

Emerald took a casual sip of juice, still on two legs, then sauntered back across the room—hips, tail, everything moving fluidly, no wobble, no strain. She even did a little spin on one hoof for flair before dropping back to all fours with a soft thud, glass levitated to the table.

“It’s natural,” she said, shrugging like it was no big deal. Her voice carried that dry edge, but her teal eyes sparkled with amusement. “Where I came from… everypony—everyone—walked like this. All the time. Pony bodies are way more flexible than you’d think. Joints, spine, tail for counterbalance—it just clicks.”

Twilight’s wings flared slightly in excitement, scrolls forgotten. “That’s incredible! Ponies can stand bipedally for tasks—Applejack bucks apples that way, Rarity poses for dramatic effect—but sustained walking? With that kind of grace and no visible effort? I’ve never seen it so… effortless. Is it muscle memory from your original world? Or anatomical adaptation?”

Emerald smirked, hopping onto a chair—still sitting upright like a human might, forehooves on the table. “Bit of both. Practiced a lot when I first got here. Figured if I could do it before, I could do it now. Turns out pony hips and legs are built tough—surprisingly good at it once you get the hang.”

Spike plated the pancakes, sliding one stack to Twilight and a gem-heavy one to Emerald, his grin turning softer as he caught her eye. He knew the full truth—the human habits lingering in her muscle memory, the way she sometimes forgot and reached for things with “hands” that weren’t there anymore. Seeing her do this so naturally, taller and more confident in her body… it hit him warm in the chest.

“You look good doing it,” he said casually, bumping her shoulder with his wing as he sat. “Like you own the room.”

Twilight was already scribbling notes, muttering about “potential for advanced mobility studies” and “comparative anatomy across dimensions.” But she paused to smile proudly. “I’m just glad you’re comfortable enough to show off something from your old life. It’s part of you—and it’s amazing.”

Emerald’s ears flicked, a faint flush under her green coat. She levitated a forkful of pancake, still sitting bipedally in her chair. “Yeah, well… don’t expect me to do it all the time. Four legs are easier for running from chores.”

Spike snorted. Twilight laughed.

The kitchen felt warmer, the vast castle a little less empty.

And Emerald, for once, didn’t mind showing a piece of who she’d been.

===

That evening, after dinner had been cleared away and the castle settled into its quiet routine, Twilight couldn’t let it go.

Emerald had barely settled into the library’s oversized cushions—hoodie zipped up, a comic book levitated in her teal glow—when Twilight burst in, wings half-flared, a stack of scrolls and tomes orbiting her like excited satellites.

“Okay!” Twilight announced, eyes bright behind her mane. “We’re doing this properly. Scientific method! Observations, hypotheses, data collection!”

Spike, lounging nearby with his own comic, exchanged a glance with Emerald—half-amused, half-resigned. “Here we go.”

Emerald sighed, lowering her book. “It’s just walking, Twilight. Not a new spell matrix.”

“It’s unprecedented sustained bipedalism in an equine subject with no visible strain!” Twilight countered, already unrolling a scroll across the map table. “Ponies can rear up—Pinkie Pie does it for parties, minotaurs walk that way natively—but graceful, prolonged locomotion? With perfect balance and no fatigue indicators? This could rewrite sections of Equestrian anatomy texts!”

She levitated a quill, inkpot, and a glowing measuring tape. “First: baseline demonstration. Emerald, if you wouldn’t mind… stand and walk a circuit of the room. Slowly, please—note gait, posture, tail usage.”

Emerald rolled her eyes but complied, pushing up onto her hind legs with fluid ease. She strolled a slow lap around the table—hooves tucked, hips swaying naturally, tail flicking for micro-adjustments she didn’t even think about. It felt as natural as breathing; muscle memory from a lifetime on two legs translated perfectly into this flexible pony frame.

Twilight’s quill flew across the scroll. “Fascinating… lumbar curve maintained without lordosis strain… center of gravity shifted forward but compensated by tail counterbalance… no visible tension in fetlocks or hocks…”

Spike watched from his perch, wings half-spread to hide his grin. He’d seen her do this in private—casual reaches for high shelves, playful struts to tease him—but seeing Twilight geek out over it was peak entertainment.

Twilight’s horn glowed brighter, casting a soft scanning spell—a lattice of violet light that danced over Emerald’s body as she walked. “Muscle activation patterns… quadriceps and gluteals dominant, but hamstrings and calves sharing load evenly. Core engagement minimal—almost like the spine is self-stabilizing. And the hip joints! Ponies have ball-and-socket flexibility evolved for quadrupedal galloping, but this… this is exploiting rotational range I’ve only seen theorized in pegasus aerobatics.”

Emerald paused mid-stride, raising an eyebrow. “You’re scanning my butt now?”

“Scientific observation!” Twilight said without missing a beat, quill scribbling furiously. “Hypothesis one: residual neurological mapping from your human form. Your brain still ‘expects’ bipedal locomotion, overriding standard equine instincts. Hypothesis two: adaptive physiology—your body rewired itself post-transformation to accommodate prior motor skills.”

She levitated a thick tome—Comparative Anatomy Across Realms, Volume III—and flipped it open mid-air. “Cross-referencing with known cases… minotaurs show similar balance due to upright evolution, but they lack tails. Griffons can perch bipedally briefly, but tire quickly. You’re exhibiting sustained efficiency comparable to… to a human!”

Emerald dropped back to all fours, tail swishing. “Told you. Old habits die hard.”

Twilight’s eyes sparkled with that manic research gleam. “This could have applications! Physical therapy for injured ponies, advanced mobility training for pegasi guards, even ergonomic furniture design! Spike, take notes!”

Spike saluted lazily with a claw. “Already on it, boss. ‘Subject walks like a boss. Scientist loses mind.’”

Twilight ignored the sarcasm, pacing now. “We’ll need longitudinal data—endurance tests, energy expenditure via magic calorimetry, perhaps comparative scans with a standard unicorn subject attempting the same gait…”

Emerald groaned dramatically, flopping onto the cushions. “I’m not a lab rat, Twilight.”

“You’re a groundbreaking case study!” Twilight beamed, levitating a fresh scroll titled Potential Implications of Transdimensional Motor Retention. “And my daughter. Which means I get to be proud and scientifically curious at the same time.”

Spike caught Emerald’s eye again, his grin softening into something warm. She smirked back, ears flicking.

The castle’s vast library echoed with Twilight’s excited muttering long into the night—quills scratching, books thumping open, theories piling up like snow outside.

And Emerald, for once, didn’t mind being the center of the experiment.

It felt a little like coming home.

===

Weeks after the initial “bipedalism incident,” Twilight’s research frenzy had finally borne fruit.

The library looked like a storm had hit it: scrolls piled in teetering stacks, anatomical charts pinned to every wall, a makeshift gait-analysis track marked on the floor with glowing tape. Twilight stood in the center, wings flared triumphantly, levitating a thick bound report titled Transdimensional Motor Adaptation and Its Implications for Equine Locomotion.

Emerald and Spike sat on the cushions—Emerald cross-legged (bipedally, of course, just to tease), Spike sprawled with his tail curled around her hooves. They’d been summoned for the “big reveal.”

Twilight cleared her throat dramatically. “After extensive testing—thank you both for your patience, and to the volunteers from town—”

“Pinkie lasted three steps before face-planting into a cupcake tray,” Spike muttered.

“—and careful magical scans, I can confirm: anypony can learn sustained bipedal locomotion!”

Emerald raised an eyebrow. “Big surprise.”

Twilight beamed, undeterred. “It’s true! The equine skeleton and musculature are remarkably adaptable. The hip joints allow the necessary rotation, the spine can maintain lordosis with proper core engagement, and the tail provides excellent counterbalance. With practice, any healthy pony could achieve it.”

Spike leaned forward. “So… everypony could walk like Emer?”

“In theory, yes!” Twilight flipped a chart with her magic, showing side-by-side diagrams of quadrupedal and bipedal gaits. “However… it requires serious practice. Weeks to months of dedicated training—muscle retraining, balance drills, mental conditioning to override quadrupedal instincts. Most volunteers gave up after a few days. Fatigue sets in quickly without conditioning, and the risk of strain is high if done improperly.”

Emerald smirked. “Told you it wasn’t easy.”

Twilight nodded, scrolling through notes. “Exactly. And the practical applications? Limited. Reaching high shelves without magic or a stool—useful for earth ponies, perhaps. Certain artisanal tasks, like detailed crafting where forehooves are needed as ‘hands.’ Pinkie suggested party tricks. But in pony society? We have magic, wings, tools, and community. Quadrupedalism is simply more efficient for daily life—running, climbing, carrying loads. Bipedalism offers no significant advantage here.”

Spike chuckled. “So… cool party trick, but not revolutionizing Equestria?”

Twilight sighed, wings drooping slightly. “Precisely. It’s a fascinating demonstration of physiological plasticity—and a testament to Emerald’s unique background—but not a practical skill for widespread adoption.”

Emerald dropped back to all fours, stretching lazily. “Kinda figured. Ponies aren’t built for it long-term. I just got a head start from… before.”

Twilight’s expression softened, stepping closer to nuzzle Emerald’s mane. “And that head start is part of what makes you extraordinary. Your human motor patterns bridged the gap effortlessly. It’s not just practice—it’s you.”

Emerald’s ears flicked, a faint flush under her coat. “Sap.”

Spike bumped her shoulder with his wing. “She’s right, though. You make it look easy. And hot.”

Twilight blinked. “Hot?”

“Uh—cool! I meant cool!” Spike’s frills flushed deep purple, smoke puffing. “Super cool science stuff!”

Twilight tilted her head, suspicious for a split second, then shook it off with a laugh. “Well, regardless—I’m publishing a paper. With your permission, Emerald, I’d love to include you as a case study. Anonymized, of course.”

Emerald shrugged, tail swishing against Spike’s side. “Go for it. Just don’t expect a flood of bipedal ponies in Ponyville.”

As Twilight dove back into her notes, muttering about appendices and peer review, Emerald and Spike exchanged a glance—amused, warm, secret.

The castle’s vast halls might stay empty of upright-walking ponies.

But in their little corner, one filly-turned-mare walked however she wanted.

And that was more than enough.

===

The castle was hushed under a blanket of fresh snow, the kind of deep winter night where the crystal walls seemed to glow faintly from moonlight alone. Emerald’s room was warm, the silence bubble active as always, fire crackling low in the hearth. They were curled together on the bed—Spike’s wing draped over her taller frame, her head tucked under his chin, tails lazily twined.

Emerald had been fidgety all evening, a mischievous energy buzzing under her coat. Finally, she rolled onto her back, teal eyes glinting up at him.

“Okay,” she said, voice low and teasing. “I learned a new spell. Wanna see?”

Spike’s frill perked curiously. “The one you’ve been sneaking off to practice? Sure. Hit me.”

Her horn glowed teal, a soft shimmer running down her barrel, concentrating lower. There was a brief pulse of magic—warm, tingling—and then anatomy shifted. Temporary, precise, perfectly formed: a flared equine shaft, green like her coat, fully erect and throbbing faintly with her heartbeat. Below, her marehood remained, dual and seamless. The spell was flawless—advanced transfiguration she’d pieced together from restricted texts and careful experimentation.

Spike’s eyes widened. Then widened further.

Emerald’s grin turned wicked. “Sterile semen, by the way. Built-in contraceptive override. Lasts a couple hours, reversible whenever. Thought it might be… fun. Role reversal, y’know? See how you like being on the receiving end for once.”

Spike’s frills snapped flat against his head, scales flushing deep violet from snout to tail tip. He scrambled back a few inches, wings half-flaring in alarm. “Whoa—whoa—no. Nope. Not happening.”

Emerald propped herself up on an elbow, the new addition bobbing slightly with the motion, her smirk growing. “Oh? Why not? You’ve been plenty happy taking me every other night.”

Spike’s claws gripped the sheets, smoke puffing from his nostrils in flustered bursts. “Because I’m straight, Emer! Straight dragon. I like mares. I like you as a mare. That—” he gestured vaguely, eyes darting away “—is a stallion part. On you. Which is… no. Hard pass. I’m not into that.”

Emerald’s laugh was low, delighted, merciless. She shifted closer, tail flicking teasingly against his thigh. “Straight, huh? That’s adorable. Because last I checked, you’ve been balls-deep in a former adult man for months. You know—human guy, flat chest, actual penis of his own once upon a time. You fell in love with that guy, Spike. Fucked that guy—in this body, sure, but still me. The same mind that used to jack off to entirely different things.”

Spike groaned, dragging a claw down his face, frills burning darker. “That’s—that’s different! You’re a mare now. You’re you. Beautiful, soft, all curves and tail and—” He waved a claw helplessly. “This is… this is a dick. On my girlfriend. Who used to be a dude. Which makes it… complicated!”

“Complicated,” she echoed, crawling closer until she was practically in his lap, the temporary shaft brushing his thigh deliberately. “But you didn’t seem to mind the ‘former dude’ part when you were moaning my name last night. Or the night before. Or—”

“Emer!” His voice cracked, half-protest, half-laugh, wings snapping shut around them both like a shield. “Stop weaponizing logic! It’s unfair!”

She nuzzled his burning frill, voice softening but still teasing. “Relax, big guy. I’m not gonna force anything. Just thought it’d be funny to watch you squirm. And Celestia, it is.”

Spike peeked out from behind his wing, eyes narrowed but fond. “You’re evil. Pure concentrated evil in a pretty green package.”

Emerald’s horn glowed again, the spell reversing with a soft pop—the anatomy vanishing as smoothly as it appeared. She settled back against his chest, tail curling around his. “Better?”

He exhaled a long plume of relieved smoke, wing pulling her close. “Much. Don’t get me wrong—I love every weird, transdimensional part of you. But some lines I’m keeping.”

She pressed a kiss to his jaw, smirking against his scales. “Noted. Straight dragon stays straight. For now.”

Spike groaned again, but his claws stroked her mane gently, the flustered heat giving way to warm laughter.

The fire crackled on, the snow fell outside, and their secret stayed safe—teasing, boundaries, and all.

===

The castle library was bathed in the soft glow of late-winter afternoon light, crystal walls refracting pale sunbeams into rainbows across the stacks. Twilight had turned one of the larger reading rooms into a temporary “anatomy and transfiguration lab” ever since the bipedalism paper—charts still pinned up, measuring tapes coiled on tables, a few volunteer ponies’ hoofprints marked on the floor from gait tests.

Emerald had been roped in for “follow-up scans.” Twilight wanted to compare magical residues from Emerald’s natural bipedal gait to standard unicorn levitation-assisted rearing. Innocent enough.

Spike lounged in the corner, pretending to read a comic while keeping an eye on things—mostly on Emerald, who was currently standing bipedally in the center of the room, letting Twilight’s violet scanning spell wash over her.

“Fascinating,” Twilight murmured, horn glowing as data streamed across a hovering scroll. “The core engagement is still minimal. It’s almost like your body treats bipedalism as the default now…”

Emerald smirked, tail swishing for balance. “Told you. Old habits.”

Twilight’s ears perked. “Speaking of habits—have you adapted any other human-inspired spells? Self-transfiguration was common in human fiction, wasn’t it? Shape-shifting, temporary alterations…”

Emerald’s smirk faltered for a fraction of a second. “Uh… some. Nothing big.”

Twilight’s scientific curiosity ignited like a match. “Really? Demonstrate! If it’s safe and reversible, it could open whole new avenues for adaptive magic research. Ponies could temporarily grow wings for flight training, or—”

“Yeah, no,” Emerald cut in quickly, dropping to all fours. “Most of it’s… personal. Not lab-friendly.”

Twilight tilted her head, undeterred. “Personal how? I’m your mother—scientifically and emotionally. You can trust me.”

Spike shifted in his seat, comic lowering. “Maybe drop it, Twi—”

But Twilight’s horn was already glowing brighter, a gentle detection spell sweeping the room for recent magical signatures. She’d used it before to trace Emerald’s practice sessions. This time, it latched onto a faint, lingering teal residue in the air—complex, layered, unmistakably transfigurative.

Twilight’s eyes widened as the spell parsed the structure. “This is… advanced self-targeted polymorphism. Anatomical addition, temporary organogenesis, fertility override… wait.” Her quill froze. The scroll unrolled further, sketching a faint outline that made the intent unmistakable.

The room went deathly quiet.

Twilight’s wings flared, cheeks flushing deep lavender. “Emerald. This is… a temporary phallic transfiguration spell. With… full functionality. And sterility enchantment.”

Emerald’s ears pinned flat. Spike’s comic hit the floor with a thud, smoke puffing from his nostrils in panicked bursts.

Twilight turned slowly, scroll still hovering, expression cycling rapidly: scientific fascination → maternal shock → deep concern. “Why would you… how long have you… is this safe? The mana feedback on genital transfiguration can be intense, and the hormonal simulation—”

“Mom!” Emerald yelped, hood yanking up over her face as if it could hide her. “Boundaries! Personal! Private research!”

Twilight’s mouth opened, closed. The scroll rolled itself up with a snap. “I… I didn’t mean to intrude. The detection spell just… latched. But this is serious magic. If you’re experimenting with gender expression or body adaptation, we should talk about it properly. Safely. With supervision—”

“No supervision!” Emerald’s voice cracked, mortified. “It’s not— I mean, it was just— curiosity! Human stuff! Not a big deal!”

Spike stood up too fast, knocking over a stack of books. “Yeah! Totally normal teen magic stuff! Like… like growing extra horns or something! Harmless!”

Twilight’s gaze flicked between them—Emerald’s burning cheeks, Spike’s sudden inability to stand still, the way they wouldn’t quite meet her eyes. The pieces clicked.

Her wings drooped. The scientific gleam faded into something softer, worried.

“Oh,” she said quietly. “Oh. This isn’t just… theoretical.”

Emerald groaned, flopping face-first onto a cushion pile. Spike looked like he wanted the crystal floor to swallow him whole.

Twilight took a slow breath, levitating the scroll away. “We’re going to talk about this. Not now—not while everypony’s embarrassed. But soon. Safely. With tea. And no judgment.”

She paused at the door, glancing back with a small, gentle smile despite the flush still on her cheeks.

“I love you both. Always. Even when you invent… creatively advanced spells.”

The door clicked shut behind her.

Emerald’s muffled voice rose from the cushions: “I’m moving to the Everfree. Forever.”

Spike collapsed beside her, wing draping over her shaking form. “We’re so busted.”

The library felt ten times bigger—and a thousand times more awkward—than usual.

But underneath the mortification, a tiny part of Emerald felt… lighter.

The secret wasn’t all theirs anymore.

And somehow, that didn’t feel like the end of the world.

===

The castle’s dining hall felt smaller than usual that evening, the vast crystal table set with a simple but warm dinner: roasted vegetables, gem-crusted bread for Spike, and a big pot of hay stew that steamed gently in the center. Twilight had insisted on “family dinner—no scrolls, no lab notes,” though her ears twitched with barely contained questions. Candles flickered in crystal holders, casting soft reflections on the walls.

Spike sat on one side, wings folded tight, pushing food around his plate more than eating. Emerald sat opposite Twilight, hoodie zipped high, tail flicking nervously under the table. The silence stretched until Twilight finally broke it, voice gentle but careful.

“So,” she said, levitating a ladle to serve herself more stew. “About the spell.”

Emerald’s ears pinned back. Spike winced.

Twilight set the ladle down. “I’m not angry. Really. I was… surprised. Concerned about safety. But mostly, I want to understand. If you’re comfortable sharing.”

Emerald stared at her plate for a long moment, fork levitating a carrot absently. Spike reached under the table, giving her hoof a quick, supportive squeeze before pulling back.

“It wasn’t about… anything weird,” Emerald said finally, voice quieter than usual. “Or anyone else. It was just… me.”

She exhaled slowly, meeting Twilight’s eyes. “Back in my old life—human, male—I had a body that felt like mine. Completely. Then I woke up here, small, soft, everything different. I’ve adjusted. A lot. I like who I am now. But sometimes… there’s this ache. Like part of me got left behind in that flash of light.”

Twilight’s expression softened, wings drooping slightly.

“The spell,” Emerald continued, “wasn’t for show. Or for… experimenting on anypony else.” She flicked a quick glance at Spike, who flushed but nodded encouragingly. “It was just to have it back. Even for a little while. That piece of my old self. My dick. Feeling it again, knowing it was there because I chose it. Not permanent—just a visit. A way to say, ‘Hey, I remember you. You’re still part of me.’”

Spike’s claw tightened around his fork, eyes fixed on her with quiet understanding.

Twilight listened without interrupting, violet eyes warm and thoughtful. When Emerald finished, the alicorn reached across the table, resting a gentle hoof on hers.

“Thank you for telling me,” Twilight said softly. “I can’t imagine what it’s like—to lose an entire form, an entire gender expression, overnight. You’ve been so strong, adapting, growing into this life. If reclaiming pieces of your past helps you feel whole… I support that. Safely, of course. And if you ever want to talk about it more—or refine the spell together—I’m here.”

Emerald’s throat tightened. She managed a small, crooked smile. “Yeah. Thanks, Mom.”

Spike cleared his throat, voice a little rough. “For what it’s worth… I get it too. Bodies change. Mine’s been doing it nonstop. Feeling like you’re catching up to yourself? Yeah.”

Twilight smiled at both of them, eyes a little misty. “We’re a family of weird bodies and big changes. And that’s okay.”

The tension eased after that. Conversation drifted to lighter things—Spike’s latest comic haul, Twilight’s upcoming lecture in Canterlot, Emerald’s plans to teach a few classmates the bipedal trick “just to mess with Cheerilee.”

Under the table, Spike’s tail brushed Emerald’s again—steady, reassuring.

The stew cooled, but the dining hall felt warmer than it had in months.

Secrets shared didn’t break them.

They just made the table feel a little less vast.

===

The castle was wrapped in the hush of a late-spring night, the kind where the crystal walls caught moonlight and turned it into soft silver pools on the floor. Emerald’s room was dim, the silence bubble active, the fire burned low to embers. They lay tangled as always—Spike’s larger frame curled protectively around her taller, leaner one, his wing draped over her like a living blanket, her head tucked under his chin.

Emerald had been quiet for a while, tracing absent patterns on his chest scales with a hoof. Spike sensed it—the shift in her breathing, the way her tail had stopped its usual lazy swish against his.

“Hey,” he murmured, claw stroking her mane gently. “What’s going on in that head?”

She exhaled slowly, ears flicking back. “Something I’ve been thinking about. For a while.”

Spike’s claw paused, then resumed—steady, reassuring. “I’m listening.”

Emerald shifted to look up at him, teal eyes soft in the low light. “I’m not… attracted to other ponies. Like, at all.”

He tilted his head, frills perking slightly. “Okay?”

“I mean it,” she said, voice quiet but steady. “I can see they’re beautiful. Rarity’s elegance, Rainbow Dash’s athletic build, Fluttershy’s softness—even stallions like Big Mac or Soarin’. I get why other ponies turn their heads. Objectively, they’re attractive. Hot, even. But me? Nothing. No spark. No urge. It’s like looking at a painting—nice to appreciate, but it doesn’t make me want.”

Spike nodded slowly, processing. His wing tightened around her just a fraction.

“It’s always been like this,” she continued. “Even back in my old life, as a human guy. I wasn’t chasing anyone. Crushes were rare, and when they happened, it was because I knew the person—really knew them. Emotional stuff first. Trust. Connection. The physical only came after, and only if the rest was there.”

She pressed closer, muzzle against his neck scales. “With you… it’s you. Only you. The emotional pull—it’s huge. You’re my best friend, my confidant, the one who sees all the messy parts and stays. That’s what lights me up. The pleasure? The physical stuff? It’s good—really good—because it’s with you. Because I trust you completely. That bridges the gap. Makes it real for me.”

Spike’s chest rumbled softly—not a growl, just a deep, warm sound. His claw cupped her cheek, tilting her face up to meet his eyes.

“Emer,” he said, voice low and earnest, “that doesn’t scare me. If anything… it makes this feel even more like us. I’m not exactly normal dragon material—raised by ponies, crushing on Rarity for years without it going anywhere. But you? You’re the only one who’s ever made me feel… wanted. Seen. For all of me.”

She gave a small, watery laugh. “Sap.”

“Only for you,” he repeated, the familiar line softer this time. His muzzle nuzzled her mane. “I don’t need you to feel the same way about anypony else. I just need you to feel it for me. And you do. That’s everything.”

Emerald’s tail finally swished again, curling around his. “Yeah. I do.”

They stayed like that, breathing together, the vast castle quiet around them.

In the moonlight, their corner felt exactly the right size—built for two misfits who only needed each other.

===

One crisp autumn afternoon, with the leaves turning fiery reds and golds around Ponyville, Emerald and Spike slipped away from the castle again. Twilight was deep in a friendship summit prep meeting via mirror-call with Celestia, leaving them hours of unsupervised freedom.

They wandered past the market, past Fluttershy’s cottage, until the path narrowed and the trees grew denser—the edge of the Everfree Forest looming like a dark wall of twisting branches and unnatural shadows.

Emerald stopped at the treeline, ears perked, teal eyes scanning the gloom with something like nostalgia. Spike paused beside her, wing brushing her shoulder.

“You’ve got that look,” he said, voice low and amused. “Like you’re plotting something.”

She smirked, tail flicking. “I am. We should go in. Hunt.”

Spike’s frills perked. “Hunt? Like… for meat?”

“Yeah.” Emerald took a step forward, hooves crunching on fallen leaves. “For your diet. You’re still growing—bigger every month—and the griffon trader only comes through town once in a blue moon with that smoked stuff. Eggs and bacon scraps aren’t cutting it forever. You need real protein. Fresh.”

Spike glanced back toward Ponyville, then at the forest. “Everfree’s dangerous, Emer. Timberwolves, cockatrices, manticores—”

“Exactly,” she said, voice steady. “It’s wild. Like forests back home. Animals that don’t roll over because of some harmony magic. Clouds that move on their own—no pegasi pushing them around. Weather that happens because it happens. Predators that hunt, prey that runs. Normal.”

Spike tilted his head. “Normal for you. For Equestria? It’s the creepy place everypony avoids.”

Emerald huffed a laugh, bumping his side. “That’s what makes it perfect. Nopony goes in deep enough to hunt. Plenty of game—rabbits, deer, boars, birds. I read about it in one of Twilight’s old exploration journals. They’re not sapient, just animals. And out here, they don’t trust ponies on sight. No Fluttershy Stare making them line up for cuddles. It’s fair.”

She started walking deeper, bipedal now—up on hind legs, moving with that fluid human grace through the underbrush, scanning for tracks. Spike followed, wings half-spread for balance, eyes wide but excited.

“You’re serious,” he said, catching up. “You wanna hunt. For me.”

“For us,” she corrected, dropping to all fours to sniff at a patch of disturbed earth. “I’ve been thinking about it since you hit that last growth spurt. Your fire’s stronger, scales harder, but you’re burning energy like crazy. Gems are magic fuel, but meat’s the muscle builder. Dragons in the wild eat it all the time—fish, game, whatever.”

Spike’s stomach rumbled audibly, smoke curling from his nostrils. “Okay, yeah. I’ve been craving it more. The bacon helps, but… fresh would be amazing.”

Emerald grinned over her shoulder. “Thought so. I’ll track—human tricks, old memories. You’re the firepower if something big gets cranky. We bag something small, clean it, cook it over your flame. No evidence for Twilight to find.”

They moved deeper, the forest closing around them—clouds drifting lazily overhead without pegasus guidance, distant howls echoing naturally. To Emerald, it felt like home: real wilderness, real risk, real reward.

Spike stayed close, wing brushing her back. “You’re kinda hot when you go full hunter mode.”

She snorted, ears flicking. “Save it for after we eat, dragon boy.”

The hunt was on—and for the first time in months, the Everfree didn’t feel unnatural to Emerald.

It felt like freedom.

===

The Everfree Forest swallowed them whole as they pushed deeper—twisted roots snagging at hooves and claws, unnatural shadows shifting even when the wind didn’t blow. The air smelled of damp earth and wild things: no pony harmony taming the undergrowth, just raw nature doing what it wanted. To Emerald, it was comfortingly familiar—like the untamed woods from her old life, where animals lived and died without asking permission.

Spike stuck close, wings half-spread for balance, nostrils flaring at every rustle. “You sure about this?” he whispered, though excitement edged his voice. “Feels like we’re asking for a manticore to crash the party.”

Emerald smirked, walking bipedal through the thicker brush—easier to scan the ground that way. Her saddlebags clinked softly: rope coiled tight, a small snare kit she’d pieced together from castle odds and ends, bait (apple cores and berry mash mixed with a bit of stolen cheese). “Prepared,” she said simply. “Humans hunted like this all the time. Traps beat chasing. Less noise, less risk.”

They tracked for an hour—following faint prints in the mud, broken twigs, the musky scent trails Emerald remembered from old survival books and hazy memories. Raccoons, she figured: nocturnal scavengers, bold but not aggressive. Perfect size for a first hunt.

They found signs near a stream—scratched bark, washed-out paw prints. Emerald set the trap quickly: a simple snare loop hidden under leaves, bait piled in the center, rope anchored to a sturdy root. Spike watched, fascinated and a little nervous.

“Won’t hurt it much,” she assured him. “Quick snap if it works right.”

They waited in the shadows—Spike camouflaged against a tree trunk, Emerald crouched low. It didn’t take long. A fat raccoon waddled into the clearing, masked face twitching, drawn by the bait. It nosed the pile cautiously, then stepped into the loop.

Emerald yanked the rope with magic—tight, precise. The snare cinched around a hind leg, hoisting the animal upside down in a thrashing flurry of fur and hisses.

Spike’s frills flattened. “Whoa. It worked.”

The raccoon struggled, chittering angrily. Spike shifted closer, claws flexing, but his eyes went wide and queasy. “Uh… now what? I could flame it quick, but…”

Emerald didn’t hesitate.

She stepped forward calmly, drawing a small, sharp knife from her bags—one she’d enchanted for edge and cleanliness. One swift motion—throat slit clean, blood draining fast into the leaves below. The struggles slowed, stopped. No suffering. Efficient.

Spike turned away, stomach churning, smoke puffing in uneasy bursts. “Celestia… I’ve eaten gems my whole life. This is… real.”

Emerald’s expression stayed steady—former human pragmatism kicking in hard. “It’s food, Spike. Circle of life. Back home, we didn’t have harmony magic making everything cute and trusting. Animals ate animals. We did too.”

She worked quickly: skinning with practiced slices (memories guiding her hooves better than any spell), gutting and cleaning by the stream, discarding waste far from their site. The pelt she rolled neatly—might make a small blanket or trade later. The meat she portioned, rinsing thoroughly.

Spike watched from a distance, queasiness fading into reluctant awe. “You’re… good at this. Like you’ve done it before.”

“Not in this body,” she said, wiping her hooves on moss. “But the knowledge stuck. Humans were apex for a reason.”

Back at a small clearing, she seasoned the prime cuts with salt and pepper from her bags—simple, but enough. Spike’s fire breath did the rest: controlled bursts over a makeshift spit of green wood, turning the meat golden and sizzling, juices dripping into the flames with mouthwatering pops.

The smell hit them both—rich, gamey, perfect.

Spike took the first bite tentatively, then devoured it with growing enthusiasm. “This… this is incredible. Better than bacon. Way better.”

Emerald nibbled her own small portion—pony stomach handling it fine in moderation—smirking as he tore into the rest. “Told you. Real protein. You’ll hit another growth spurt by winter.”

He licked his claws clean, eyes bright. “We’re doing this again.”

She bumped his side, tail swishing. “Deal. But next time, you do the kill.”

Spike winced, but nodded. “Yeah. Fair.”

The forest rustled around them—wild, indifferent.

For once, it didn’t feel dangerous.

It felt like home.

===

The Everfree’s shadows had lengthened into late afternoon by the time Emerald and Spike finished their meal. The raccoon had been small but rich—Spike polished off most of it with guilty enthusiasm, licking grease from his claws while Emerald cleaned the knife and packed away the pelt. The fire’s embers glowed low, masked by a quick dispersion spell to avoid drawing larger predators.

Spike leaned back against a fallen log, belly full in a way gems alone never managed. “Okay,” he admitted, wings stretched contentedly. “You win. This was worth the creepy forest vibes.”

Emerald smirked, wiping her hooves on moss. “Told you. Next time we’ll go for something bigger—maybe a boar. More meat for your growth spurts.”

She stood bipedally again, scanning the clearing for signs they’d missed—blood traces buried, bones scattered far off for scavengers. Practical, thorough.

A soft rustle in the underbrush made them both freeze.

From the ferns stepped Zecora—striped coat gleaming faintly in the dappled light, gold rings glinting on her neck and ears, saddlebags bulging with herbs. Her blue eyes widened slightly at the sight: a dragon and a green unicorn mare (taller than most fillies now) beside a dying cookfire, the unmistakable scent of roasted meat lingering in the air.

Spike’s frills snapped flat. “Uh—Zecora! Hi! We were just… uh…”

Emerald dropped to all fours instinctively, tail flicking once in surprise but not alarm. She met the zebra’s gaze evenly—human pragmatism keeping her calm.

Zecora tilted her head, nostrils flaring as she took in the scene: the spit remnants, the faint blood traces on Emerald’s knife before it vanished into the bag, Spike’s satisfied but guilty expression.

“A hunt in the wild, with fire and blade so keen,” Zecora said slowly, her rhyming voice calm but curious. “For meat you seek, in the Everfree’s green.”

Spike shifted, smoke puffing nervously. “It’s… for me. Dragon diet thing. Protein. Twilight doesn’t know—we’re keeping it quiet.”

Emerald stepped forward, chin high. “It’s natural out here. Animals hunt animals. No harmony magic making everything tame. We took one raccoon—quick, clean. Nothing wasted.”

Zecora’s expression softened, a knowing smile tugging at her muzzle. She set her bags down, approaching without fear. “In my homeland far, across the sea so wide, zebras know the hunt, with nature as our guide. Not all live on grass alone, when the wild calls clear—balance in the cycle, with respect and without fear.”

Spike blinked. “You’re… not freaked out?”

Zecora chuckled, a warm, rhythmic sound. “A dragon’s fire needs fuel strong and true, and your companion knows the old ways, through and through.” Her gaze settled on Emerald, sharp but kind. “From another world you came, with memories deep and old—of forests untamed, where survival stories are told.”

Emerald’s ears flicked, surprised but not denying it. “Yeah. Something like that.”

Zecora nodded, levitating a small pouch from her bags—dried herbs that smelled of sage and something earthy. “Take this seasoning blend, for your next wild feast. It honors the taken, and calms the belly of the beast.”

Spike accepted it gratefully, frills relaxing. “Thanks, Zecora. Really.”

She turned to leave, pausing at the treeline. “Your secret path is yours to walk alone, but the Everfree watches—take care, and bring no harm home.”

With a final nod, she vanished into the brush as quietly as she’d appeared.

Emerald exhaled, tail swishing. “Well. That could’ve gone worse.”

Spike bumped her shoulder with his wing, grinning. “Think we just got zebra approval for hunting. Ponyville’s gonna lose its mind if that gets out.”

Emerald snorted, packing the herbs away. “Let them. We’ve got dinner plans.”

The forest rustled around them—wild, indifferent, but for once feeling a little less lonely.

They headed back toward the castle as dusk fell, fuller and bolder than before.

===

The trek back from the Everfree was slower, bellies full and the forest’s wild energy lingering like a second skin. Spike walked close to Emerald, wing brushing her side every few steps, the new pouch of Zecora’s herbs tucked safely in her saddlebag. The sun dipped low, painting the path in long shadows as Ponyville’s rooftops came into view.

Spike glanced at her, eyes bright with lingering satisfaction. “That was… intense. Good intense. But you—handling the kill like it was nothing. Skinning it, cleaning it. You’ve got this whole predator vibe going on.”

Emerald smirked, tail swishing. “Told you. Humans were apex. Had to be.”

He tilted his head, curiosity winning over the last of his queasiness. “Apex how? Dragons are pretty high up the chain—fire breath, claws, flight. What made humans top?”

She slowed her pace, dropping to thoughtful all fours as they skirted the forest edge. “Ingenuity. Tools. Stamina. We didn’t have magic or wings or natural weapons like you. But we could outlast anything. Persistence hunting—chase prey for hours, days if needed, until it collapsed from exhaustion. Track over miles. Traps, spears, bows. Brains over brawn.”

Spike’s frills perked. “Sounds brutal. Efficient, though.”

“Brutal got the job done.” Emerald’s voice turned reflective, a hint of old-world pride creeping in. “Staple meats were cows, pigs, chickens. Raised on farms—big operations. Cows for beef and milk, pigs for bacon and ham, chickens for everything. Eggs, meat. None of them sapient. No talking, no thoughts like here. Just animals. Instincts, sure, but not souls or society.”

Spike’s eyes widened. “Cows? Like… the ones in Applejack’s fields? The talking ones that complain about milking schedules?”

Emerald barked a laugh. “Yeah. Exactly like that. If ponies here found out I’ve eaten cow—beef steaks, burgers, roasts—often? They’d lose their minds. Full panic. ‘How could you eat a sentient being?!’ But back home? Cows were livestock. No language, no cutie marks, no barns with voluntary milk production. Just grass, mooing, and eventually dinner.”

Spike shuddered dramatically, but his grin betrayed fascination. “That’s wild. Ponies would faint. Twilight would write a whole thesis on ethical dimensional carnivory.”

“Probably.” Emerald bumped his side. “We didn’t eat horses, though. Never. They were partners—transportation, labor, companions. Rode them across plains, plowed fields with them. Sacred, almost. And dragons? Didn’t exist. No magic creatures relying on ambient harmony. Just animals. Wolves, bears, big cats—real predators, but we outsmarted them all.”

Spike’s tail thumped the ground thoughtfully. “Rarer stuff?”

“Game hunting,” she said, eyes distant with memory. “Rabbits, raccoons—like today. Deer for venison. Extremely rarely, bear—if you were crazy or desperate. Big, dangerous, but the meat lasted forever if you smoked it right.”

He looked at her then—really looked. The way she spoke about it: calm, knowledgeable, unflinching. The quick kill, the clean cuts, the fire-tending. Predatory. Ruthless when needed.

And Celestia help him, it was hot.

She was doing this for him—venturing into the creepy forest, getting blood on her hooves (literally), sharing pieces of a life she’d lost. All to keep him strong, growing, satisfied.

Spike’s wing draped over her back fully, pulling her close as they walked. “You’re kinda terrifying, Emer,” he murmured, voice low and warm. “Full-on apex predator mode. And it’s… really hot. Knowing you’re out here hunting for me? Yeah.”

Emerald’s ears flicked, a flush creeping under her green coat. She leaned into his wing, smirk returning. “Sap. But good to know my serial-killer skills turn you on.”

He laughed, smoke curling affectionately. “Only yours.”

Ponyville’s lights twinkled ahead—cozy, tame, oblivious.

But out here on the edge, with the wild forest behind them and secrets between them, they felt untamed.

And perfectly matched.

===

The castle was silent, the winter moon casting silver light through the crystal windows of Emerald’s room. The silence bubble glowed steady and strong, sealing their world inside. They’d started slow that night—teasing touches, familiar rhythms—but the heat had built fast, urgent, until clothes and restraint were forgotten.

Spike moved over her with deliberate power, wings half-spread for balance, claws careful on the sheets. Emerald’s hind legs were folded back, pressed to her chest in the deep, claiming angle of a mating press—her body open, vulnerable, trusting. The compatibility charm hummed between them, letting him sink deep without strain, filling her completely with every slow thrust.

Emerald’s breath came in ragged gasps, teal eyes locked on his, mane splayed dark against the pillows. “Spike—please—” she whispered, voice breaking. “Take me. Hard. I need you.”

The words snapped the last of his control. He drove into her with rolling, powerful strokes—deep, steady, relentless. The bed creaked beneath them, muffled by the bubble; her moans rose sharp and desperate, magic flaring teal sparks around her horn as pleasure coiled tighter and tighter. Spike’s growls answered, low and possessive, claws gripping her thighs to hold her folded beneath him.

She came first—hard, walls clenching around him in waves that dragged him over the edge with her. He buried himself deep, spilling hot inside her, the charm containing everything safely as they shuddered together.

After, they didn’t separate right away. Spike eased her legs down gently, rolling them so she lay curled against his chest, his wing draped heavy and warm over her smaller frame. Emerald burrowed in immediately—muzzle tucked under his jaw, forelegs wrapped around his neck, tail twined tight with his. She pressed as close as physics allowed, soft contented sounds rumbling in her throat.

Spike’s claw stroked slow circles along her back, feeling the way she melted into him. He’d noticed it before, but never so clearly: after sex, Emerald craved cuddling like air. The sharp, guarded edges she carried during the day softened completely; she became small and needy, seeking his warmth, his heartbeat, the steady weight of his wing. It was the one time she let herself be fully vulnerable—no teasing, no walls.

He pressed a kiss to her mane, voice soft. “You really love this part, huh?”

She hummed, nuzzling closer. “Shut up. Dragon radiator. Perfect for winter.”

But her grip tightened, and he smiled into the dark, holding her until her breathing evened into sleep.

Morning light filtered through the windows, pale and cold. They’d migrated to the kitchen early—Spike making gem-dusted pancakes, Emerald perched on the counter in her hoodie, stealing bites of batter. Twilight was still asleep, giving them the rare quiet.

Emerald licked syrup off her hoof, then looked at him seriously. “We have to tell her. Eventually.”

Spike flipped a pancake, frills perking. “Tell her…?”

“About us.” She gestured between them with a hoof. “The whole thing. Dating. In love. The… rest.” Her ears flicked, a faint flush under her coat. “But not all at once. We start slow. Public dates—holding hooves in town, dinners at Sugarcube Corner, movie nights. Pretend it’s new. Recent. Let Twilight notice the little things and think it’s just starting.”

Spike set the spatula down, turning to face her. “So… lie about the timeline?”

“Not lie,” Emerald corrected, tail swishing. “Just… omit the part where we’ve been fucking like rabbits every night for months. Let her think the dates are the beginning. She’ll be thrilled—‘young love, so sweet!’—and by the time she suspects more, it’ll feel natural. Gradual. Less… explosive.”

Spike’s frills flushed, but he laughed softly, stepping closer to pull her into a loose hug. “You’ve thought about this.”

“Had to,” she muttered against his chest. “Twilight finding out we’ve been together this whole time? She’d combust. Thesis on inappropriate household bonding, emergency summit with Celestia, the works.”

He rested his chin atop her mane. “Public dates, huh? Holding hooves where ponies can see?”

Emerald smirked up at him. “You complaining?”

“Nope.” His wing curled around her. “Kinda looking forward to it. Showing everypony you’re mine.”

She rolled her eyes, but leaned into him all the same. “Sap. But yeah. Mine too.”

The pancakes sizzled forgotten for a moment.

Outside the kitchen, the castle woke slowly.

Inside, their plan took shape—one careful, public step at a time.

===

The plan went into motion slowly, deliberately—like easing into a hot bath one hoof at a time.

It started with small outings. A “casual” walk through the market that turned into hayburgers at the corner diner, the two of them squeezed into a booth meant for ponies half Spike’s size. Emerald sat pressed against his side, her hip flush to his scaled thigh, the contact warm and constant under the table. Spike’s tail curled naturally around her flank, the tip resting possessively across her lap. When she laughed at one of his terrible puns, his wing draped over the back of the booth, folding just enough to shield her from the curious stares of other patrons.

Nopony said anything outright—Spike was Twilight’s dragon, Emerald her adopted daughter—but eyes lingered. Whispers followed. And neither of them minded.

Next came bowling. The Ponyville lanes were loud and brightly lit, pins crashing and foals cheering. Emerald insisted on teaching Spike “proper form,” standing behind him with her forehooves on his hips, guiding his throw. When it was her turn, she walked bipedally down the lane for flair—tail high, hips swaying—then spun back to him with a triumphant grin. Spike’s wing unfurled without thinking, curling around her waist as she returned, pulling her close for a celebratory nuzzle that lasted a beat too long.

At the arcade, it was worse—or better, depending on the perspective. They battled side-by-side on a two-player air-hockey table, Emerald’s leaner frame leaning hard into his side with every block, her hip grinding against his thigh in the heat of competition. When she won the final point, she crowed victory and Spike scooped her up in a wing-hug, tail wrapping fully around her barrel, lifting her off the ground. She laughed into his neck, legs kicking playfully, and he only set her down when the arcade attendant cleared his throat.

Every outing, the same patterns: her hips seeking his warmth, pressing close like it was the most natural thing in the world. His tail and wings forming a living cocoon—protective, claiming, instinctive. In public, they played it as “new”—shy glances, tentative touches that lingered just enough to spark rumors. But the closeness felt practiced, easy. Because it was.

Twilight noticed.

It started small. A casual question over breakfast: “You two have been out a lot lately. Having fun?”

Spike’s frills flushed. Emerald shrugged, levitating her tea. “Yeah. Ponyville’s got stuff to do. Bowling’s fun.”

Twilight’s ears perked, but she only smiled. “Good! It’s healthy to spend time together outside the castle.”

Then came the reports. Ponies talked—Ponyville thrived on it. Pinkie Pie bounced into the castle one afternoon with a tray of cupcakes and a gleeful, “I saw you two at the arcade! You were so cute! Spike’s wing was all whoosh around Emerald like a big dragon blanket!”

Twilight’s quill paused mid-note. “A… blanket?”

Pinkie nodded vigorously. “Totally! And Emerald kept bumping hips with him during air hockey. Like, bump-bump-bump! Super flirty!”

Twilight’s cheeks tinted lavender. “Flirty?”

The next day, Cheerilee mentioned at the school pickup line—casually, of course—that Emerald and Spike had been spotted sharing a milkshake at the diner. Two straws. Twilight’s wing twitch was visible from across the street.

By the end of the week, Twilight was watching. Not suspiciously—never that—but with that sharp, analytical gaze she reserved for new spells or friendship problems. She noticed how Spike’s tail sought Emerald’s when they sat in the library. How Emerald leaned into his side during movie nights in the common room. How they returned from outings with matching contented smiles and windswept manes.

One evening, as Spike and Emerald slipped back into the castle—laughing about a claw-machine prize he’d won her—Twilight looked up from her book in the foyer.

“You two seem… really happy lately,” she said softly, eyes warm but searching.

Emerald’s ears flicked. Spike’s wing brushed her back instinctively.

“Yeah,” Emerald said, meeting Twilight’s gaze with a small smile. “We are.”

Twilight’s smile grew, a mix of pride and dawning realization. “Good. That’s… really good.”

She didn’t push. Not yet.

But the pieces were falling into place.

And for once, neither Spike nor Emerald minded the slow reveal.

It felt like the right way to come home.

===

The outings had become routine—deliberate, public, and just affectionate enough to fuel the Ponyville gossip mill without raising alarms.

A picnic by the lake one sunny afternoon: Emerald sprawled on a blanket, head in Spike’s lap while he fed her daisy petals, his tail coiled loosely around her waist. His wing shaded her from the sun, her hip pressed firmly to his thigh as she laughed at his stories.

Movie night at the new outdoor theater: squeezed together on a shared cushion, Emerald’s flank tucked against his side, Spike’s arm (and wing) draped over her shoulders the entire film. When the romantic climax hit, she turned to nuzzle his neck—soft, lingering—and he rumbled contentedly, claws tracing her mane.

Even simple errands turned into dates: browsing the bookstore, Emerald walking bipedally to reach high shelves while Spike steadied her with a claw on her hip; sharing a massive sundae at Sugarcube Corner, spoons clinking as their tails twined under the table.

Ponies noticed. Smiles followed them. Whispers of “Aren’t they adorable?” and “About time!” floated through town.

Twilight noticed most of all.

She’d been piecing it together for weeks—the lingering touches, the way they returned home flushed and laughing, the sudden abundance of “group outings” that were clearly just the two of them. Her scientific mind cataloged the data: increased proximity, synchronized schedules, elevated mood indicators.

But it crystallized one evening in the castle foyer.

Spike and Emerald slipped in just after dusk, fresh from a bowling rematch. Emerald’s mane was tousled from Spike’s playful wing-ruffles, her hip still brushing his as they walked. Spike’s tail curled around her flank possessively, wing half-draped over her back like a cape. They were mid-laugh—Emerald teasing him about a gutter ball—when they spotted Twilight waiting, a book levitated in her magic, eyes soft and knowing.

“You two,” Twilight said gently, setting the book aside, “have been glowing lately.”

Spike’s frills flushed. Emerald’s ears flicked, but she didn’t pull away from his side.

Twilight stepped closer, wings folding with a warm smile. “I’ve seen the way you look at each other. The touches. The dates. You’re… together. Officially dating.”

Emerald swallowed, tail tightening around Spike’s. “Yeah. We are.”

Spike nodded, claw finding hers under his wing. “It’s… new. But really good.”

Twilight’s eyes misted, pulling them both into a fierce wing-hug that enveloped them in lavender feathers. “Oh, my babies! I’m so happy for you! Young love—first crushes turning into something real. It’s beautiful. We should celebrate! A family dinner, or—”

“Mom,” Emerald groaned, muffled against her coat, but her voice held affection. “It’s not that big a deal.”

“It is!” Twilight beamed, releasing them but keeping hooves on their shoulders. “Spike’s growing into such a wonderful dragon, and Emerald—you’ve come so far, opening up like this. I couldn’t be prouder. Just… take it slow, okay? Communicate. And if you ever need advice—”

“We know,” Spike said quickly, frills darker but smiling. “You’re always here.”

Twilight nuzzled them both once more before floating off toward the kitchen, already muttering about heart-shaped pancakes for breakfast and a possible “relationship milestones” journal (for science, of course).

The door swung shut behind her.

Emerald and Spike stood frozen for a second—then burst into muffled laughter, foreheads pressed together.

“She thinks it’s new,” Emerald whispered, eyes dancing. “First crushes. Young love. Slow.”

Spike’s wing tightened around her, tail thumping happily. “Blissfully unaware we’ve been at it for months.”

Emerald nipped his jaw playfully. “Let her have the sweet version. For now.”

He pulled her closer, rumbling low. “For now.”

Upstairs, in the privacy of their rooms later that night, the celebration was anything but slow.

But Twilight, humming happily in the library below, remained perfectly, wonderfully oblivious—seeing only the budding romance she’d hoped for.

And that was exactly how they wanted it.

===

The castle dining hall glowed warmly under candlelight, the long crystal table set with a spread Twilight had insisted on: roasted vegetable casserole, gem-encrusted rolls for Spike, fresh hay salad, and a towering apple pie for dessert. It was meant to be a “celebratory family dinner” for Spike and Emerald’s “new relationship”—Twilight’s words, complete with heart-shaped napkins she’d enchanted herself.

Twilight sat at the head, beaming like she’d solved a particularly tricky friendship equation. Spike and Emerald sat side-by-side—close enough that his tail curled subtly around her chair leg, her hip brushing his thigh under the table. They’d been careful: public affection dialed to “adorable new couple” levels, nothing to raise red flags.

Conversation had flowed easily at first—Twilight gushing about how “mature” they were being, asking gentle questions about their latest date (the outdoor movie), offering advice on “communication and boundaries.”

Then Emerald, mid-bite of pie, set her fork down with a soft clink.

“You’re being weirdly supportive about this,” she said bluntly, teal eyes fixed on Twilight.

Twilight blinked, wings ruffling slightly. “Supportive? Of course I am! You two are—”

“No, like… really supportive.” Emerald leaned back, tail flicking. “We’re siblings. Technically. You adopted me, raised Spike like your little brother-slash-assistant. Or if Spike’s your brother, that makes him my uncle. Uncle and niece dating? Siblings dating? It’s… hilariously bucked up.”

Spike choked on a gem roll, smoke puffing from his nostrils as he coughed. His frills flushed deep purple, claw reaching under the table to squeeze Emerald’s hoof—half warning, half barely contained laughter.

Twilight’s ears pinned back, cheeks tinting lavender. Her mouth opened, closed. The heart-shaped napkin in her magic drooped slightly.

“I… well…” Twilight stammered, quill instinctively levitating from her nearby scroll pile as if to take notes on her own confusion. “You’re not—biologically, of course not! And Spike’s more like… family, but not blood. It’s different. Inter-species relationships have precedents, and you two grew up together in a non-traditional household dynamic, and—”

Emerald’s smirk widened, dry and sharp. “Exactly. Non-traditional. Bucked up. But you’re sitting here planning our Hearth’s Warming cards like it’s the cutest thing ever.”

Spike finally recovered, voice rough with suppressed laughter. “She’s got a point, Twi. Ponies in town are already whispering about the ‘castle siblings’ thing.”

Twilight’s wings flared fully now, eyes wide. “But—you’re happy! And consenting! And communicating! That’s what matters! Family is about love, not… strict labels. Right?”

Emerald snorted, leaning into Spike’s side—his wing draping over her instinctively. “Oh, we’re happy. Super happy. Just saying—it’s objectively hilarious how chill you are about your ‘kids’ dating.”

Twilight exhaled slowly, the quill scribbling absent notes before she caught herself and banished it. A small, flustered laugh escaped her. “Okay. Yes. It’s… a unique situation. But seeing you two so close, supporting each other… it warms my heart. Even if the family tree looks like a pretzel.”

Spike’s tail thumped the floor, grinning despite the flush. “Pretzel family. I like it.”

Emerald bumped his shoulder, smirk softening into something fond. “Yeah. Works for us.”

Twilight’s smile returned—tentative, but genuine. “Then that’s all that matters. Pass the pie?”

The tension dissolved into laughter, the candles flickering brighter.

Under the table, Spike’s claw found Emerald’s again.

Their secret timeline stayed safe.

And the pretzel family—just kept twisting.

===

The castle kitchen was filled with the comfortable clatter of a lazy weekend breakfast: pancakes sizzling (gem-dusted for Spike, plain with extra syrup for Emerald), fresh coffee brewing for Twilight, and the morning paper levitated in her magic as she scanned the headlines.

Spike and Emerald sat side-by-side as usual—his tail curled loosely around her chair, her hip pressed to his thigh under the table, the contact casual but constant. Twilight hadn’t commented on it in days; she just smiled that proud, slightly misty mom-smile whenever she caught them being “cute.”

Emerald, fork halfway to her mouth, suddenly set it down with a deliberate clink. Her teal eyes glinted with pure mischief as she cleared her throat in an exaggerated, formal tone.

“Dear Princess Celestia,” she began, voice pitched in a perfect imitation of Twilight’s old report style—prim, earnest, and just a touch dramatic. “Today I learned a valuable lesson about friendship and family. My son and daughter have started dating, and I’m supporting their forbidden love until it bears fruit. I will do immense research on dragon-equine babies and will be the catalyst for a new age of science and same-caste inbreeding. Your faithful student, Twilight Sparkle.”

She finished with a flourish, bowing her head like delivering a royal decree.

Spike inhaled a chunk of pancake and immediately started choking, smoke bursting from his nostrils in panicked puffs as he thumped his chest. His frills went full violet, eyes watering with a mix of laughter and pure mortification. “Emer!” he wheezed, claw reaching blindly to swat her shoulder.

Twilight’s coffee cup froze mid-levitation, brown liquid sloshing dangerously close to the rim. Her wings snapped open, papers fluttering to the table as her cheeks flushed a deep, incandescent lavender. The quill that had appeared instinctively from nowhere scribbled one frantic note before she banished it with a squeak.

“Emerald!” Twilight’s voice cracked somewhere between scandalized and strangled laughter. “That is not— I would never— There is no inbreeding! You’re not biologically related! And I’m not researching— I mean, I haven’t— Celestia doesn’t need reports anymore!”

Emerald leaned back in her chair, smirk wide and unrepentant, tail flicking triumphantly. “But you’re so supportive, Mom. Gotta document the pretzel family tree for science. Future generations will thank you.”

Spike finally recovered enough to laugh—deep, rumbling, clutching his side as smoke curled from his grinning muzzle. “She’s got you there, Twi. You did say ‘take it slow’ like we’re teenagers discovering hooves for the first time.”

Twilight buried her face in her hooves, wings mantling over her head like a feathery shield. A muffled groan escaped. “You two are impossible. I’m just trying to be a good parent! Supportive! Modern!”

Emerald reached across the table, patting Twilight’s hoof with mock sympathy. “We know. And it’s adorable. Hilariously bucked up, but adorable.”

Twilight peeked through her feathers, eyes narrowing playfully even as the blush lingered. “You’re grounded.”

“You can’t ground me,” Emerald shot back, grinning. “I’m too tall now.”

Spike’s wing draped over Emerald’s shoulders, pulling her closer as he wheezed another laugh. “Best breakfast ever.”

Twilight lowered her wings with a dramatic sigh, but her smile broke through—fond, flustered, and utterly defeated.

The pancakes cooled forgotten.

But the kitchen felt warmer than ever.

===

The Everfree Forest felt alive in the crisp bite of early winter—bare branches clawing at a steel-gray sky, frost crunching under hooves and claws, the distant howl of something large echoing through the trees. Spike and Emerald moved deeper than before, saddlebags packed heavier: more rope, a sharper knife, Zecora’s herb pouch tucked safely beside salt and pepper shakers Emerald had “borrowed” from the castle pantry.

They’d promised each other bigger game this time. Spike’s latest growth spurt had left him ravenous, scales gleaming thicker but his energy burning hot. “Need more than raccoon scraps,” he’d muttered that morning, wing brushing her side. Emerald had just smirked and led the way.

Tracking took hours—fresh prints in the mud, broken twigs at shoulder height, the musky scent of boar. Emerald walked bipedal through the thicker brush, eyes sharp, memories of old-world hunting guiding her like instinct. Spike stayed low, wings folded tight, nostrils flaring for danger.

They found it in a small clearing: a massive wild boar, tusks curved and yellowed, rooting aggressively at frost-hardened earth. Bigger than Emerald, easily Spike’s weight in muscle and bristle.

“Trap or direct?” Spike whispered, claws flexing.

“Direct,” Emerald said, voice steady. “You’re ready.”

Spike’s fire breath could end it quick, but he’d insisted on learning the kill himself—no more queasy sidelines. Emerald nodded approval, positioning herself to herd if it charged.

The boar spotted them first—snorting, pawing the ground. Spike lunged forward with a roar, wings flaring to make himself huge. The beast charged. Emerald flanked it with a burst of magic—teal sparks startling it sideways—straight into Spike’s path.

One precise slash of claws across the throat. Clean. The boar collapsed with a heavy thud, struggles fading fast.

Spike stood panting, smoke curling thick from his nostrils—frills flushed not with embarrassment this time, but pride. “Did it.”

Emerald stepped close, nuzzling his neck briefly. “Good kill. Quick.”

Field dressing was teamwork: Emerald’s knife work swift and practiced—gutting, draining, portioning the best cuts (shoulder, loin, ribs). Spike hauled the heavy carcass sections with his new strength, fire breath cauterizing where needed to keep things clean. Waste buried deep, pelt rolled for later use.

They built a smokeless fire in a sheltered hollow—Spike’s controlled flames roasting thick slabs on a spit of green wood. Emerald seasoned generously: generous shakes of salt and pepper, then Zecora’s herbs—sage-like earthiness with a sharp, warming kick that bloomed in the steam.

The smell hit like heaven: rich, gamey meat crisping golden, fat sizzling, herbs releasing waves of aroma that masked the wild tang.

Spike tore into the first slice with a groan. “This… this is the best yet. The herbs—perfect.”

Emerald nibbled her smaller portion—pony stomach still preferring moderation—watching him devour half the loin with satisfied rumbles. “Zecora knew her stuff. Balances the gaminess.”

He licked his claws clean, eyes half-lidded in contentment, then pulled her close with a wing—her hip settling against his thigh, tail twining automatically. “You’re incredible out here. Predator mode. For me.”

She leaned into him, smirk soft. “Someone’s gotta keep my dragon fed.”

The forest rustled indifferently around them—wild, untamed.

But in their clearing, with the fire crackling and the feast shared, it felt like the most natural place in the world.

===

The castle was dark and quiet when they slipped back inside, the winter moon high and cold through the crystal windows. The hunt’s high still thrummed in Spike’s veins—rich meat in his belly, blood on his claws long since cleaned, the primal satisfaction of a successful kill and a full feast sharpening every instinct. His wings felt heavier, tail thicker, scales hotter than usual. And Emerald—walking close beside him, her leaner frame brushing his side, scent of forest and herbs clinging to her coat—ignited something deeper.

Predatory. Possessive.

By the time they reached her room, the silence bubble snapped into place with a flick of her horn, sealing them in teal glow. Spike didn’t speak. He crowded her against the door the moment it clicked shut—claws on her hips, muzzle burying in her mane, inhaling deep. A low growl rumbled from his chest, smoke curling hot against her neck.

Emerald’s breath hitched, teal eyes widening then half-lidding as she felt the shift in him. The roughness in his grip, the way his tail coiled tight around her flank like a claim. She didn’t pull away. Didn’t want to.

“Spike…” she whispered, voice husky, already arching into him.

He answered with action—lifting her easily with his larger frame, wings flaring for balance as he carried her to the bed. She landed on her back beneath him, hind legs parting instinctively, tail flagging high. The compatibility charm hummed to life between them without needing words—reapplied weeks ago, always ready.

Spike loomed over her, eyes glowing ember-bright in the dim. Claws pinned her shoulders gently but firmly, muzzle trailing hot down her neck, nipping at the soft green coat. “Need you,” he rumbled, voice rougher than usual, draconic instinct thick in every syllable. “Need to breed you. Fill you.”

Emerald’s walls clenched at the words alone, slick heat answering instantly. She wrapped her forelegs around his neck, pulling him closer. “Then take me,” she breathed, hips rolling up to grind against his already-hard length. “I want it. Rough. All of you.”

He didn’t hold back.

One powerful thrust seated him deep—tapered head breaching her, ridges dragging along sensitive walls as the charm stretched her perfectly around his girth. Emerald cried out, back arching, magic flaring teal sparks that danced across the sheets. Spike groaned low, hips snapping forward in a claiming rhythm—hard, deep strokes that rocked her into the mattress, claws digging into the bedding to keep from bruising her hips.

She loved it—the roughness, the way he dominated without hurting, the primal edge that made her feel utterly his. Her hind legs locked around his waist, pulling him deeper with every thrust, muzzle buried against his neck scales as she gasped and moaned. “Yes—harder—breed me, Spike—”

The words snapped something in him. His pace turned relentless—hips slamming flush, ridges catching her clit on every pull back, filling her completely on every drive forward. One claw slid down to grip her thigh, folding her tighter beneath him in a deep mating press, angle shifting to hit that spot inside that made stars burst behind her eyes.

Emerald’s magic wrapped around them instinctively—stroking where they joined, teasing his base, heightening every sensation. Sweat slicked their coats and scales, the room filling with wet sounds, her cries, his growls. He nuzzled her neck possessively, teeth grazing without breaking skin, smoke pluming hot against her mane.

She came first—hard, walls fluttering and clenching around him in milking waves, a sharp cry muffled against his shoulder as pleasure crashed through her. Spike followed seconds later—thrusts erratic, burying deep with a roar that vibrated through her core. Hot pulses flooded her, thick and claiming, the charm containing everything safely but letting her feel every spurt.

They stayed locked like that—him deep inside, her legs trembling around him—until the aftershocks faded. Spike eased out slowly, rolling them sideways so she curled against his chest, his wing draping heavy and warm over her shaking form.

Emerald burrowed in immediately—muzzle tucked under his jaw, forelegs clinging tight, tail twined with his. She pressed as close as possible, soft contented hums escaping as the roughness gave way to tenderness.

Spike’s claw stroked her mane gently, the predatory edge softening into fierce protectiveness. He nuzzled her ear, voice low and sated. “You okay?”

She nodded against his scales, smiling lazily. “More than. Loved it.”

He rumbled affectionately, holding her closer—knowing how she craved this part most, the cuddling after intensity. “Mine,” he murmured, smoke curling warm around them.

“Yours,” she whispered back, already drifting.

The castle slept on outside their bubble.

Inside, they were perfectly, intimately tangled—primal urges spent, love reaffirmed in every touch.

===

The fire in Emerald’s room had burned low, embers glowing soft orange against the crystal walls. Outside, snow fell in thick, silent flakes, muffling the world beyond the castle. Inside, the silence bubble held their warmth close—sweat cooling on scales and coat, hearts slowing in tandem.

Spike lay on his back, one wing folded beneath him, the other draped heavy over Emerald’s smaller frame. She was curled tight against his side—muzzle tucked under his jaw, forelegs wrapped around his neck, tail twined so thoroughly with his that neither could move without the other feeling it. Her breathing had evened into the deep rhythm of sleep, but she clung to him still, instinctive and needy, the way she always did after he’d taken her hard.

He didn’t sleep yet.

His claw traced slow, reverent circles along her spine, feeling the lean muscle she’d grown into, the soft give of her coat. His mind wandered—quiet, grateful, a little overwhelmed.

Emerald was… everything.

Kind, in the way that mattered most: never flinching from his weird dragon urges, his growth pains, his messy instincts. Understanding—seeing the parts of him no one else ever had, the hunger for meat, the fire, the possessiveness, and meeting them without judgment. Funny—Celestia, that sharp, sarcastic tongue that could cut him down and build him up in the same breath. She’d tease him mercilessly one minute, then turn around and plot entire secret hunts just to keep him strong.

She killed for him. Clean, quick, unflinching—knife steady in her magic, blood on her hooves without hesitation. Learned spells in the dead of night—dangerous, advanced ones—just to make him feel good, to make them fit, to keep everything safe. Plotted and schemed and risked Twilight’s wrath, all for him.

And the way she loved being bred—arching into him, begging for it rough, walls clenching like she was made for him. Then, after, melting into cuddles like touch was air. Needing his wing, his warmth, his heartbeat against her ear. She never hid it, never played coy. Just took what she needed and gave everything back.

Spike’s chest rumbled softly, a low, contented sound he couldn’t hold back. His wing tightened around her, pulling her impossibly closer.

She was too good for him.

A former human, sharp and scarred and brilliant, dropped into a world that didn’t fit—and somehow choosing him. Every day. Every hunt. Every night.

He pressed his muzzle to her mane, breathing her in—forest herbs, snow, and them.

“Love you,” he whispered into the dark, too quiet for even the bubble to carry far.

Emerald shifted in her sleep, nuzzling deeper into his neck, a soft hum answering.

Spike closed his eyes, holding her like she was the only real thing in both their worlds.

Because she was.

===

The Great Dragon Migration came like a thunderclap in Spike’s blood.

It started as a restlessness—wings twitching at odd hours, fire breath flaring hotter than usual, dreams of vast skies filled with roaring silhouettes. Then the reports trickled in: flocks of dragons darkening the horizon far to the west, heading for the ancient volcanic lands. Every dragon in Equestria felt the pull, an instinct older than pony civilization.

Spike felt it hardest.

He paced the castle library one stormy afternoon, tail lashing, claws scraping crystal floors. Twilight noticed first—offering worried lectures about “draconic maturation cycles” and “safe observation from afar.” But Spike’s eyes kept drifting to the windows, toward the distant smoke plumes on the horizon.

Emerald found him there, curled in a too-small basket he hadn’t fit in for years, staring at nothing.

“You’re going,” she said simply, leaning against the doorframe. Not a question.

Spike’s frills drooped. “I… yeah. I have to. It’s like something’s yanking me west. But Twilight’s freaking out, and the other dragons—they’re not like me. Big, rough, no pony manners. I don’t know what I’ll find.”

Emerald pushed off the frame, walking over to settle beside him—hip to his thigh, tail curling around his. “Then I’m coming with you.”

Spike’s head snapped up, eyes wide. “No. Emer, it’s dangerous. Those dragons are huge—some twice my size now. Territorial. Aggressive. You’re a pony. They’ll see you as—”

“As what?” She cut in, smirk sharp and predatory. “A defenseless soft pony? With this smile?” She bared her teeth in a grin that was all former-human apex predator—cold, calculating, promising violence if needed.

Spike swallowed, frills flushing despite the worry. That smile still did things to him.

“I’m not asking,” Emerald continued, voice steady. “I’m going. I’ve been preparing. Fire-immunity wards—layered, tested on your breath until I didn’t even feel a tingle. Lava-resistance charms—good for hours in molten rock if it comes to that. Self-levitating flight spell—refined from pegasus aerodynamics and unicorn vectors. I can keep up. Stay out of reach if needed.”

Spike’s claw found hers, squeezing. “You’ve been planning this.”

“Since the first reports,” she admitted, nuzzling his neck. “Plotting is what I do. For you.”

He exhaled smoke, worry warring with gratitude. “But if something happens—if they see you as prey or a threat—”

“Then they’ll learn fast.” Her eyes glinted. “I’m not the helpless filly I was when I arrived. And besides…” Her voice dropped, teasing now, hoof tracing his chest scales. “If I don’t come, who’s gonna spice up your food out there? Roast whatever giant lizard you bag with Zecora’s herbs? And who’s gonna take care of your… urges? All that migration testosterone, no outlet? You’ll be a mess.”

Spike’s frills darkened fully, a low rumble escaping despite himself. “Emer…”

She leaned in, muzzle brushing his ear. “I’m coming, Spike. We do this together. Like everything else.”

He pulled her close, wing draping over her fully—protective, possessive, relieved. “Together,” he murmured against her mane.

Twilight would fret. Ponyville would gossip.

But the pull west was too strong, and Emerald’s place was at his side—predatory smile, spells, and all.

The migration waited.

And they’d face it as they faced everything: side by side, secrets and strengths shared.

===

The Great Dragon Migration roared across the sky like living thunder—hundreds of dragons, wings beating in chaotic rhythm, scales glinting in every color under the harsh sun. The volcanic lands called them home, a primal pull none could ignore.

Spike flew near the middle of the pack, wings powerful and steady—his body filled out from months of real protein, muscles rippling under gleaming purple scales. He wasn’t the runt anymore. He kept pace easily with the larger teens, chest puffed not from bravado but genuine confidence earned through growth, hunts, and the unwavering presence at his side.

Emerald flew a respectful distance behind—self-levitating spell humming teal around her horn, wings of pure magic shimmering at her sides. Close enough to watch his back, far enough not to crowd the dragon-only space. She’d packed light: saddlebags with herbs, salt, a small knife, and layered wards glowing faintly under her coat. Fireproof. Lava-resistant. Ready.

The journey took days—vast deserts crossed, mountains skirted, rest stops on jagged cliffs where dragons bellowed boasts and wrestled for dominance. Spike held his own. When the red dragon (Garble, the loudmouth leader) challenged newcomers to tail-wrestling, Spike stepped up without hesitation. His thicker tail whipped around, slamming Garble into the dirt with a thud that silenced the circle. Cheers erupted—grudging respect from some, narrowed eyes from others.

“You’re not the little pony-pet I expected,” Garble snarled, dusting off.

Spike’s grin was sharp. “Things change.”

Emerald watched from a nearby outcrop, bipedal and casual, tail swishing. She didn’t interfere. Didn’t need to. Spike handled the belches contest without gagging, smashed rocks with the best of them, and when the group raided a phoenix nest—cracking eggs for “fun”—Spike’s jaw tightened.

But this time, he didn’t wait.

“That’s enough,” he growled, stepping between Garble and the last egg. His voice carried—deeper, steadier. “We’re dragons, not monsters.”

Garble laughed, cracking his knuckles. “What, you gonna cry to your pony princess?”

The others jeered—until their eyes landed on Emerald, who’d drifted closer during the chaos. She hovered just outside the circle, teal eyes cold.

A brown dragon snorted. “What’s this? Spike brought a snack?”

Another lunged—mocking grab toward her. “Soft little pony—bet you squeal pretty.”

Emerald’s horn flared once.

A nearby boulder—twice the dragon’s size—ripped from the ground with a teal glow and slammed into the bully’s face with pinpoint force. Not lethal. Just enough to crack scales, send him sprawling unconscious in a heap.

Silence.

Emerald landed lightly, still bipedal, predatory smile sharp. “Touch me again,” she said calmly, “and the next one goes through your skull.”

Garble’s gang backed off, muttering. Even Garble swallowed his retort.

Spike stood taller, wing half-extended toward her in quiet claim. “She’s with me.”

The rest of the migration shifted after that. No more direct challenges. Grudging space given. Emerald stayed on the fringes—hunting small game at stops, seasoning Spike’s shares with herbs that made the others jealous, tending his urges in hidden caves under silence wards when the migration testosterone hit hardest.

Spike found his place—not as a bully, but as himself. Strong. Confident. With Emerald’s quiet support every wingbeat of the way.

When they finally turned home—Spike carrying a phoenix hatchling he’d saved, Garble’s gang slinking away in disgrace—he flew side by side with her.

Together.

The migration hadn’t changed him.

It had shown who he’d already become.

===

The journey home from the Dragon Lands felt shorter than the flight out—winds at their backs, Spike’s wings strong and steady, Emerald’s magical flight spell humming teal beside him. The phoenix egg, carefully cradled in a nest of fireproof cloth from Emerald’s saddlebags, rested secure against Spike’s chest. He’d saved it from Garble’s gang, and the tiny cracks already glowing faintly promised life inside.

They landed in the castle courtyard at dusk, snow swirling lightly around them. Twilight burst out the doors before they’d even folded wings—wings flaring, eyes wide with worry that melted into relief and pride.

“You’re back! Safe! And—” Her gaze locked on the egg. “Is that… a phoenix egg?”

Spike nodded, carefully passing it over. “Saved it. From some jerks who wanted to smash it for fun.”

Twilight’s horn glowed gently, scanning the shell. “It’s viable. Close to hatching. Oh, Spike… this is incredible. Responsible. Mature.” She pulled him into a fierce hug, then Emerald too. “Both of you. I’m so proud.”

The egg hatched that night—Peewee, a fluffy red chick with fiery wings, chirping indignantly in a nest Twilight hastily prepared. Spike bonded instantly, the little phoenix perching on his head like a crown. But as days passed, Peewee’s flames grew hotter, singeing curtains and scrolls. Wild at heart, needing space no castle could provide.

Twilight arranged it: a careful letter to Celestia, who welcomed the chick to the royal aviaries—vast skies, phoenix kin, proper nurturing. Peewee left with a fond nuzzle to Spike’s snout, a promise of visits.

Spike missed him, but the ache was bearable—with Emerald’s quiet company, her hoof in his claw during the farewell.

Weeks later, deep winter gripped Ponyville. One stormy night, the castle slept under howling winds—except for Emerald’s room.

The silence bubble glowed strong, but enthusiasm had made them careless. Spike had her pinned beneath him—mating press again, her hind legs folded back, his larger frame driving deep with urgent, powerful thrusts. Emerald’s moans rose sharp and unrestrained, magic flaring teal sparks as she clutched his shoulders, begging in broken whispers: “Harder—breed me—yes—”

Spike growled possessively, pace relentless, ridges dragging perfectly inside her, claws gripping the sheets to anchor his force. Sweat slicked them both, the bed rocking, her walls clenching as climax built—

A soft hoot cut through the haze.

They froze mid-thrust.

Owlowiscious perched on the open windowsill—blown ajar by wind despite the storm—head tilted, large eyes wide and inquisitive. Nocturnal. Curious. Staring directly at them: Spike buried deep in Emerald, her legs wrapped around him, both flushed and panting.

Emerald’s ears pinned flat. Spike’s frills went full violet, smoke puffing in mortified bursts.

“Who?” the owl hooted softly, head swiveling.

“Out!” Emerald hissed, magic flaring to slam the window shut and draw curtains.

Owlowiscious flapped away into the storm, unruffled.

Spike collapsed beside her, wing covering his face. “We’re never living this down.”

Emerald buried her face in his chest, laughter shaking her despite the flush. “Owl saw everything. Twilight’s gonna get a full report at breakfast.”

They dissolved into muffled, hysterical laughter—bodies still tangled, the moment ruined but somehow perfect in its absurdity.

The castle secrets grew—one feathered witness at a time.

But in each other’s arms, they didn’t mind.

===

The morning light filtered softly through the castle’s kitchen windows, painting the crystal counters in pale winter gold. Breakfast was a simple affair: gem-flecked oatmeal for Spike, fresh daisies and toast for Twilight and Emerald, a small bowl of seeds and nuts set out for Owlicious. The owl perched innocently on his usual stand by the window, head swiveling slowly as he pecked at his food, large eyes blinking with nocturnal calm.

Twilight hummed cheerfully, levitating her tea and scrolling through a friendship report on her tablet. “Sleep well, everypony? The storm was fierce last night.”

Spike and Emerald sat side-by-side—closer than strictly necessary, his tail curled subtly around her chair leg under the table. They both froze mid-bite at the question, exchanging a quick, wide-eyed glance.

“Uh… yeah,” Spike said, voice a little too high, smoke puffing nervously from his nostrils. “Great. Super restful.”

Emerald nodded vigorously, shoving a daisy into her mouth to avoid speaking. Her ears flicked toward Owlicious, who hooted softly—innocent, oblivious—and tilted his head at a passing cloud outside.

The owl hadn’t said a word. Not that he could—short of Twilight teaching him complex spell-assisted communication, which she hadn’t. But Spike and Emerald couldn’t shake the dread. Every swivel of that feathered head felt like judgment. Every blink, a knowing stare.

Owlicious pecked another seed, then turned his gaze directly on them—unblinking, curious.

Spike’s frills flushed violet. He leaned slightly toward Emerald, whispering under his breath, “He’s looking at us. He knows.”

Emerald’s tail tightened around his, her smirk strained. “He’s an owl. He looks at everything like that. Stop panicking.”

But her own eyes darted back to the bird, suspicion sharp. What if he started acting weird? More head tilts? Flying into Twilight’s room with dramatic hoots? Owls were smart. Too smart.

Twilight glanced up, oblivious. “You two are quiet this morning. Everything okay?”

“Fine!” they said in unison, too fast, too loud.

Owlicious hooted again—soft, neutral—and fluffed his feathers.

Spike choked on a gem shard. Emerald levitated her tea with exaggerated focus, ears pinned flat.

Twilight tilted her head, smiling warmly. “Well, as long as you’re happy.”

Under the table, Spike’s claw found Emerald’s hoof—squeezing in shared, silent dread.

The owl blinked once more.

Breakfast continued.

But the suspicion lingered, heavy as the winter snow outside.

===

The storm outside had quieted to a gentle patter of snow against crystal, but inside Emerald’s room the air still thrummed with lingering heat. The silence bubble held everything close—the scent of smoke and musk, the faint crackle of dying embers, the soft hitch of their slowing breaths.

Spike lay on his back, wings half-spread across the wide bed, chest rising and falling in deep, sated waves. Emerald was curled atop him, her leaner frame draped over his broader one, hind legs loosely straddling his hips. They hadn’t separated after the final climax—too spent, too content, too intimately connected to want the emptiness that would follow.

His dragon cock—thick, ridged, still half-hard from the night’s fervor—remained buried deep inside her mare pussy, the compatibility charm keeping the fit perfect: stretched full without strain, her slick walls cradling every ridge and contour like they were made for each other. Warm pulses of residual pleasure fluttered through her occasionally, making her inner muscles clench gently around him in sleepy aftershocks. Each soft squeeze drew a low, rumbling hum from Spike’s chest, his length twitching in response, filling her again with lazy warmth.

Emerald’s muzzle was tucked under his jaw, lips brushing the sensitive scales of his neck with every breath. Her forelegs draped loosely over his shoulders, hooves tangled in the spines along his back. His claws rested possessively on her hips—one cupping the curve of her ass, the other stroking slow, reverent circles along her flank. His tail coiled fully around hers, anchoring them together, while his wing folded over her like a living blanket—heavy, warm, protective.

She felt utterly claimed, utterly safe. The fullness inside her was more than physical: a constant, intimate reminder of him, of their joining, of the way he’d driven into her with desperate growls and whispered love until she’d shattered around him. Now, in the quiet aftermath, it was comfort—his heat seeping into her core, her slickness keeping him nestled deep, their heartbeats syncing through the thin barrier of scale and coat.

Spike nuzzled her mane, breathing her in—snow, herbs, and the faint sweetness that was uniquely hers. “Stay like this,” he murmured, voice rough with satisfaction and drowsiness. “Don’t move.”

Emerald hummed softly, pressing closer, her walls fluttering again in lazy agreement. “Not going anywhere,” she whispered against his neck, lips brushing scales. “Love feeling you inside me. All night.”

His claw tightened gently on her hip, a possessive squeeze that made her shiver pleasantly. “Good,” he rumbled, smoke curling warm against her ear. “Mine.”

She smiled into his scales, tail tightening around his. The world outside—the castle, the snow, tomorrow—faded. There was only this: full, connected, loved.

Sleep took them slowly, bodies locked in perfect intimacy—Spike’s dragon cock buried deep in her mare pussy, pulsing softly with their shared heartbeat, holding them together until morning.

===

The first hint of dawn crept through the crystal windows, painting the room in soft pinks and golds. Spike stirred first—instinctive, his wing tightening around Emerald’s curled form atop him. The warmth inside her felt… different. Tighter. A low thrum of panic flickered in his chest as awareness sharpened.

The compatibility charm had worn off in the night.

His dragon cock—still buried deep in her mare pussy—had swollen fully with morning arousal and the loss of magical adjustment. The ridges locked them together in a natural knot, thick base flared wide, pressing firmly against her inner walls. Emerald’s slick heat clenched around him involuntarily, holding him fast, the fit intimate and unyielding.

Emerald’s eyes snapped open at his tense shift, teal gaze meeting his wide, ember-bright one. She tried to move—hips lifting experimentally—and gasped at the resistance. Pleasure-pain sparked through her, walls fluttering around the swollen intrusion.

“Oh shit,” she whispered, voice husky with sleep and dawning alarm. “The charm— it’s gone.”

Spike’s claws gripped her hips gently, steadying her. “Don’t force it. You’ll hurt yourself.” His voice rumbled low, strained with worry and the instinctive urge to stay buried deep.

Emerald exhaled shakily, forelegs braced on his chest as she tested another slow shift. The knot tugged deliciously—sensually—against her entrance, ridges dragging along sensitive spots, sending involuntary shivers up her spine. Her breath hitched, a soft moan escaping despite the panic. “It’s… really in there. Can’t just… pull off.”

Spike’s tail tightened around hers, wing folding closer—protective, possessive even now. His length throbbed inside her, responding to her clenches, the intimacy heightened by the lock. “Breathe,” he murmured, claw stroking her flank soothingly. “We’ll go slow.”

She nodded, leaning down to nuzzle his neck—seeking comfort in his warmth. Carefully, she rocked her hips in tiny circles, not pulling away but easing the pressure. Each movement dragged his swollen ridges along her walls, slickness coating them both, pleasure building unbidden amid the fear. Her clit winked against his base, sparks of heat making her gasp softly into his scales.

“Feels… good,” she admitted breathlessly, ears flicking back. “Even like this.”

Spike rumbled agreement, smoke curling warm against her mane. His claws guided her hips gently—helping the slow grind, easing the knot without forcing. “Yeah. Too good.”

Minutes passed in intimate tension—her rocking gradually loosening the swell, each shift sensual and deliberate. Emerald’s moans grew softer, needier, her walls milking him instinctively as arousal slickened the join further. Spike’s breaths came deeper, claws kneading her ass possessively, the lock turning their dismount into prolonged, teasing pleasure.

Finally, with a wet, intimate pop, the knot slipped free—his length sliding out inch by thick inch, ridges dragging one last delicious time along her sensitive passage. Emerald shuddered hard, collapsing forward onto his chest with a whimper as emptiness followed fullness. Residual slickness coated them both, warm and evidence of the night.

They lay panting, tangled—her muzzle buried in his neck, his wing and tail holding her close.

Then the real panic hit.

“The contraceptive—” Emerald whispered, voice trembling. “If the compatibility wore off… maybe it did too.”

Spike’s claws tightened, heart pounding against her ear. “Dragons and ponies… hybrids are rare, right? You said one in a thousand.”

“Really low,” she rationalized quickly, hoof tracing his chest to steady herself—and him. “Fertility windows barely overlap. Magic or not, biology’s against it. We’re probably fine. Definitely fine.”

But the fear lingered—sharp, electric. The idea that his seed might have taken root, that she could be carrying… something of them both.

And beneath the panic, something unexpected stirred.

Emerald felt it first—heat pooling low again, walls clenching on emptiness, arousal spiking at the forbidden risk. Spike sensed it too—his length twitching against her thigh, hardening anew, smoke thickening with draconic want.

“The fear…” he murmured, voice rough. “It’s… turning me on.”

She lifted her head, teal eyes meeting his—flushed, wide, excited. “Me too. Celestia, that’s messed up. But… yeah.”

His claw slid down, cupping her slick mound possessively. “We’re safe,” he growled softly. “But if we weren’t…”

Emerald shuddered, pressing into his touch. “Do it again. Just… knowing the risk was there.”

The morning light strengthened.

And the bed welcomed them back—fear transmuted into fierce, intimate need.

===

The fire in the hearth had burned low, casting flickering amber light across Emerald’s room. Snow tapped softly against the crystal windows, but inside, the air was thick with anticipation. The silence bubble glowed strong, sealing their world in teal warmth.

They’d started slow that night—kisses deep and lingering, claws and hooves exploring familiar paths with deliberate reverence. Spike’s wing draped over her, tail coiling around hers as he pressed her gently into the pillows. Emerald’s breath came faster, teal eyes locked on his, a mischievous glint sharpening into determination.

“No charm tonight,” she whispered against his muzzle, horn dim—no compatibility spell weaving its accommodating magic. “Just us. I want to feel all of you. See if I can take it.”

Spike froze above her, ember eyes widening. His length—already hard and throbbing against her thigh—was draconic in full: thick, ridged, tapered but flared wide at the base, the natural knot swollen with arousal. Without the spell, the difference was stark—daunting.

“Emer,” he rumbled, voice rough with concern and want. “You sure? I don’t want to hurt you.”

She nuzzled his jaw, hind legs parting wider in invitation, slick heat brushing his tip. “I’m sure. We go slow. You stop if I say. But I need to know… need to feel you raw.”

His claw cupped her cheek, thumb tracing her lip—tender, reverent. Then lower, guiding himself to her entrance. The tapered head pressed against her folds, hot and slick from foreplay. Emerald exhaled shakily, hooves on his shoulders, urging him closer.

He pushed—slow, deliberate. The tip breached her easily, her walls parting with a wet, welcoming stretch. Pleasure sparked immediately, her clit winking against his underside as the first ridge slid in. She moaned softly, arching into him.

“Good,” she breathed. “More.”

Spike’s hips rolled forward—inch by careful inch. The ridges dragged along her sensitive passage, each one a new wave of fullness that made her gasp and clench. He was thicker without the spell—stretching her limits, the burn sweet and intense. Her slickness eased the way, coating him as he sank deeper, but the pressure built steadily: walls fluttering, adjusting, embracing the challenge.

Halfway in, she whimpered—pleasure edged with strain. Spike paused instantly, forehead pressed to hers, smoke curling warm between them. “Too much?”

“No,” she panted, legs wrapping his waist, pulling weakly. “Just… big. Feels incredible. Keep going.”

He did—agonizingly slow, eyes never leaving hers. Another ridge popped past her entrance, dragging a sharp cry from her throat as fullness bloomed deeper. Her magic flared instinctively, not to adjust size but to heighten sensation—teal sparks dancing where they joined, making every nerve sing.

Deeper still—until the swollen knot pressed against her entrance, too wide to enter yet. Emerald’s walls clenched hard around what was inside, milking him, her body trembling with the effort and ecstasy of taking him raw. Sweat slicked her coat, mane plastered to her neck.

“Spike—” she gasped, voice breaking. “So full. You’re… everywhere.”

He growled low, possessive, claws kneading her hips gently. “You’re taking me so well. So tight. Love you like this.”

She rocked experimentally—small circles that ground the knot against her clit, ridges shifting inside her. Pleasure crashed through the stretch, turning strain into bliss. Her moans rose, needy, as she adjusted—body yielding, accepting.

With a shared breath, he pressed forward one last time—the knot stretching her wide, burning sweet as it finally slipped in with a wet pop. Emerald cried out, back arching, walls clamping down in overwhelming climax. The fullness was complete—him buried to the hilt, locked deep, every ridge and vein pulsing inside her.

Spike shuddered above her, thrusting shallowly through her spasms, drawing it out until she sagged boneless. He rolled them sideways, staying locked—wing draping over her, tail tightening, holding her close as aftershocks rippled.

Emerald nuzzled his neck, panting softly. “Took it,” she whispered, voice awed and sated. “All of you.”

Spike’s claw stroked her mane, rumbling love against her ear. “Perfect. Mine.”

They stayed tangled—full, connected, intimate beyond words—as snow fell outside.

The spell wasn’t needed anymore.

Not for this.

===

The nights blurred into a rhythm of raw, unfiltered intimacy.

After that first time without the compatibility charm—Emerald taking every thick, ridged inch of Spike’s draconic cock with trembling determination and shattering pleasure—they couldn’t go back. The spell stayed unused, gathering dust in her mind like an old toy. They craved the challenge, the burn, the way her body stretched to its limits around him, yielding only after slow, deliberate effort.

It became frequent—almost nightly. Spike would pin her gently but firmly, wings flared, claws careful on her hips as he pressed in. The tapered head would breach her first, slick from hours of foreplay, her walls parting with a wet, welcoming resistance. Each ridge followed—dragging slow, deliberate friction that made her gasp and clench, the stretch intense and sweet. Deeper, thicker, until the swollen knot pressed against her entrance, demanding entry.

Emerald would beg—voice breaking, hooves clutching his shoulders. “Slow… let me feel it… all of you.” And he would—rocking forward in tiny thrusts, easing the knot past her ring with a burning pop that sent her spiraling into climax, walls fluttering wildly around the sudden fullness.

Over weeks, her body adapted.

Not magically—naturally. Her mare pussy reshaped itself to him, inner walls molding to the exact contours of his ridges, the flare of his knot, the thick curve of his shaft. What started as challenging became perfect: a velvet glove tailored to his cock, gripping every ridge like it was made for it. When he thrust now, there was no strain—only seamless, slick glide, her depths welcoming him home with greedy clenches that milked him from tip to base.

Spike noticed first—growling deeper when he bottomed out, the fit so precise it felt like coming home. “You’re… shaped for me,” he’d rumble, hips snapping harder, knot tying them effortlessly. “Perfect. All mine.”

Emerald felt it too—the way her body remembered him, craved the stretch only he could give. Climaxes came faster, deeper, her walls rippling in waves that pulled him over the edge with her.

But she missed the burn. The challenge. The way it felt like he was claiming her anew each time.

So she researched—late nights in forbidden tomes, experimenting in secret. A restoration charm: subtle, targeted, reversing the adaptation overnight. Returning her pussy to its original tight, untouched state—soft, narrow, natural-looking. No visible change outside, just the delicious resistance inside waiting to be overcome.

The first night she used it, she told him with a wicked grin.

Spike’s eyes darkened instantly, smoke curling thick as he pinned her beneath him. “You sure?”

“Do it,” she breathed, legs spreading wide. “Break me again.”

He did—slow, relentless. The head breached her restored tightness with that familiar burn, ridges forcing her walls to yield inch by agonizing inch. Emerald cried out, back arching, magic flaring teal as pleasure-pain crashed through her. “Yes—stretch me—make me take it—”

Spike growled possessively, claws digging into the sheets, thrusting deeper with careful power. Each ridge popped past her entrance, dragging fire along her nerves until she sobbed with need. The knot pressed—wider, demanding—and she bore down, trembling, until it finally slipped in with a wet, claiming pop.

She came instantly—walls clamping hard around the sudden fullness, milking him in desperate waves. Spike followed with a roar, spilling deep, knot tying them as her body shuddered beneath him.

After, tangled and spent, he held her close—wing draped heavy, tail coiled tight.

“You’re incredible,” he murmured against her mane. “Letting me… reshape you. Every time.”

Emerald nuzzled his neck, sated and smiling. “Love it. Love feeling you break me in. Then doing it again.”

The charm became part of their rhythm—used when she craved the intensity, skipped when she wanted the perfect fit. Her body, their choice.

And every night, no matter the spell, she was his—stretched, filled, claimed.

Perfectly.

===

The fire had burned down to embers, casting a low, ruddy glow over the tangled sheets. Spike lay on his back, chest heaving, wings half-spread and limp with exhaustion. Emerald was sprawled across him, her leaner frame draped possessively, mane a dark, sweaty mess against his scales. She was still trembling with aftershocks, inner walls fluttering around the thick knot that locked them together—no compatibility charm tonight, just the raw, perfect fit her body had learned for him.

She lifted her head, teal eyes glinting with wicked satisfaction, and traced a lazy hoof along the ridge of his chest.

“You know,” she murmured, voice husky and teasing, “you’re a total pony fucker.”

Spike’s frills snapped wide, then flushed deep violet. Smoke puffed from his nostrils in a startled burst. “Emer—”

She didn’t let him finish, nipping his neck scales playfully. “A complete degenerate. Big bad dragon, breaking little ponies open, stretching them until they’re shaped just for your cock. Making them beg for it. Claiming them, knotting them, breeding them like they’re yours to ruin.”

Her walls clenched deliberately around his knot as she spoke, drawing a strangled groan from him. His claws flexed against her hips, gripping tighter.

“You love it,” she went on, smirk sharp and filthy. “Love watching me take every inch, love hearing me fall apart when you force that knot in. Love knowing you’re the only one who gets to wreck me like this.”

Spike’s growl was low, half-embarrassed, half-feral. “You’re evil.”

Emerald leaned up, muzzle brushing his ear, voice dropping to a sultry whisper. “And I’m just as bad. Total degenerate. I crave it—crave you splitting me open, reshaping me, filling me until I can’t think. I love being your ruined little pony. Love knowing I’m the one who begs for it harder every time.”

She ground down slowly, the knot shifting inside her, dragging a shared shudder through them both.

Spike’s wing curled tighter around her, pulling her flush against his chest. His voice came out rough, smoke curling warm against her mane. “Yeah… you are. And I wouldn’t have you any other way.”

Emerald’s smirk softened into something tender, filthy, and utterly theirs. She nuzzled his jaw, tail tightening around his.

“Degenerates together,” she murmured.

He rumbled agreement, claws stroking her back possessively.

“Always.”

===

The weeks slipped by in a haze of deepening winter and deepening need.

At first, it was subtle—a restless toss when one of them rolled away in the night, a soft whine from Emerald when the knot slipped free too soon, Spike’s wing tightening reflexively to pull her back. They laughed it off: “Dragon radiator addiction,” she’d tease. “Pony-shaped body pillow,” he’d rumble back.

But soon, laughter gave way to realization.

One night, after a slower session—gentle thrusts, whispered love, the knot tying them with familiar ease—they tried to separate for “practical reasons.” Laundry. A midnight snack. Simple things. Spike eased out carefully, the wet pop echoing in the quiet room. Emerald shivered at the sudden emptiness, but they kissed goodnight—chaste, affectionate—and parted to opposite sides of the wide bed.

Sleep didn’t come.

Emerald tossed, thighs clenching on nothing, a low ache building in her core. The bed felt too big, too cold. Spike fared worse—wings twitching, tail lashing, his length half-hard and throbbing against the sheets. He growled softly in frustration, smoke curling thick from his nostrils.

An hour passed. Then two.

Finally, Emerald crawled back across the mattress, muzzle nuzzling his neck. “Can’t sleep,” she admitted, voice small and needy.

Spike’s claw found her hip instantly, guiding her atop him. “Me neither.”

She straddled him without preamble—slick heat brushing his tip, sinking down slow and deliberate. The stretch was perfect now, her adapted walls parting eagerly around his ridges until the knot pressed home. One shared roll of hips, and it slipped in with a wet, claiming pop.

Fullness. Completeness.

They both exhaled—long, shuddering sighs of relief. Emerald collapsed forward, muzzle tucked under his jaw, forelegs wrapping his neck. Spike’s wing draped heavy over her back, tail coiling tight around hers, claws stroking soothing circles along her spine.

Sleep came instantly—deep, dreamless, perfect.

It became undeniable after that.

Separate beds? Impossible. Even in the same room, the ache built until one of them gave in—usually Emerald crawling into his basket or Spike slipping into her bed, wordless need guiding them together. The knot was non-negotiable: only when locked deep, his cock buried to the hilt in her pussy, ridges cradled perfectly by her shaped walls, did rest find them.

Mornings were slow disentanglements—lazy rocks of hips easing the knot free, often leading to another round. Nights were deliberate joinings—Emerald riding him reverse or face-to-face, taking him raw until the tie held them fast.

They didn’t fight it.

In the quiet hours, knotted and tangled, Emerald would murmur against his scales: “We’re ruined for normal sleep now.”

Spike’s rumble answered, wing tightening. “Good ruined.”

And in the fullness—the constant, intimate connection—they found peace.

The castle slept on around them.

But their bed was never empty again.

===

The dependency crept up on them like the slow creep of frost across crystal—subtle at first, then impossible to ignore.

For Emerald, it started in the quiet hours after a knot had slipped free. The emptiness hit like a physical ache: her pussy clenching on nothing, walls fluttering in frustrated spasms, a deep, hollow throb that radiated through her core and thighs. Sleep evaded her completely—tossing, whining softly into the pillows, hind legs rubbing together in futile search of relief. The adaptation had made her body crave the specific shape of him: the thick ridges that dragged perfectly along her sensitive spots, the flared knot that locked him deep, stretching her to that exquisite edge of fullness where pleasure and possession blurred.

Without Spike’s cock buried inside her—knot swollen, pulsing hot against her cervix, ridges cradled by her molded walls—she felt incomplete. Wrong. The warmth, the pressure, the constant intimate throb of him twitching in response to her clenches—it was the only thing that quieted the ache. Only then did her body relax, walls rippling in lazy, contented waves around him, lulling her into deep, dreamless sleep. She’d wake still knotted, slick and sated, grinding slow circles in half-sleep just to feel him fill her again.

Spike felt it just as fiercely, but in reverse.

His cock—thick, ridged, perpetually half-hard without her—throbbed with restless need when separated. The knot ached to swell, to tie, to be enveloped in her perfect, tailored heat. Her pussy had become his anchor: the slick, velvet grip that molded exactly to his shape, walls clenching in rhythmic waves that milked him from base to tip. Without it—without sinking deep into her welcoming depths, feeling her stretch and yield then lock around his knot—he couldn’t settle. Fire breath came hotter, erratic; wings twitched; sleep fractured into frustrated growls and smoke.

He needed the tightness—the way her entrance resisted then gave, the flutter of her walls adjusting to each ridge, the final greedy pull when his knot popped in and she clamped down like she’d never let go. Only buried in her, pulsing in sync with her heartbeat, did the primal urge quiet. Only then could he sleep—wing draped heavy, tail coiled possessive, cock sheathed in the one place that felt like home.

They talked about it one snow-deep night, still knotted after a slow, deliberate joining—no rush, just savoring the raw fit.

Emerald nuzzled his neck, voice soft and husky. “I’m addicted to your cock. Can’t sleep without it filling me. Stretching me. Knotting me deep.”

Spike’s rumble vibrated through her core, his length twitching inside her in response. “Same. Your pussy… it’s the only thing that feels right around me. Tight, perfect. Like it was made to take me. Need to be locked in you to breathe easy.”

She clenched deliberately, drawing a groan from him. “We’re ruined,” she whispered, half-laughing, half-awed. “Dependent. Your cock owns my pussy. My pussy owns your cock.”

He pulled her closer, claw stroking her flank possessively. “Good ruined. Don’t want it any other way.”

And in the nights that followed, they didn’t fight it.

They slept connected—Spike’s cock knotted deep in Emerald’s pussy, her walls cradling him perfectly, their bodies locked in intimate, endless embrace.

Dependency wasn’t a problem.

It was them.

===

The castle’s deepest winter night pressed cold against the windows, but inside Emerald’s room the air was thick with warmth—embers glowing low, the silence bubble sealing their secrets. They lay tangled as always: Spike on his back, Emerald straddling his hips in reverse, her back to his chest, his knot still swollen deep inside her pussy. The tie held them fast, her walls rippling lazily around his ridges in sleepy aftershocks.

Emerald shifted slightly—slow, deliberate—grinding down to feel him throb in response. Spike rumbled contentedly, claws stroking her thighs.

Then she reached under the bed, magic flaring teal as she levitated a large crystal jar—sealed tight, glowing faintly with layered preservation spells. It was heavy, filled nearly to the brim with thick, pearlescent white fluid—gallons of it, swirling lazily as she brought it between them.

Spike’s eyes widened, frills flushing deep violet. “Emer… what—”

She turned her head, smirking over her shoulder, tail flicking against his. “My private collection,” she purred, voice husky with pride and mischief. “Every load you’ve pumped into me for months. After we untie, I extract it—careful spell, straight from my womb. Not a drop wasted. Preservation charm keeps it fresh. Warm. Exactly like it felt inside me.”

The jar hovered closer, the cum thick and viscous—literal gallons, creamy white with faint opalescent swirls from his draconic essence. It filled the container in layered waves, evidence of countless nights: deep breedings, knotted climaxes, his seed flooding her until it leaked out—even with the knot.

Spike’s cock twitched hard inside her, the knot swelling tighter at the sight. Smoke curled thick from his nostrils, claws gripping her hips possessively. “You… kept it all?”

“Every time you bred me,” she whispered, grinding down harder, walls clenching around him in deliberate pulses. “Felt you spill so deep—hot, thick, claiming my womb. Couldn’t let it go to waste. Wanted to keep what you gave me. Proof of how you ruin me. How you own me.”

She tilted the jar, letting the contents shift—gallons of his cum, perfectly preserved, the same loads that had stained her womb white night after night.

Spike growled low, hips bucking up instinctively, driving the knot deeper. “Celestia, Emer… that’s— you’re—”

“Degenerate?” she finished, smirk sharpening. “Yeah. But so are you. Look how hard you’re getting again—just seeing what you’ve done to me.”

His claw reached out, brushing the jar reverently—then sliding down to cup where they joined, feeling the slick heat of her stretched around him. “Mine,” he rumbled, voice rough with possession and awe. “All of it. You kept all of me.”

Emerald leaned back against his chest, nuzzling his jaw. “Always. Love being full of you. Love keeping you.”

The jar settled on the nightstand—glowing faintly, a testament to their months of raw, knotted intimacy.

And as sleep finally took them—still tied, still full—the collection watched over them.

Perfectly preserved.

Perfectly theirs.

===

Spike’s reaction to the jar unfolded in layers—shock, awe, a deep, possessive thrill that settled hot in his chest and throbbed straight to his knot, still locked deep inside her.

When Emerald first levitated it into view—gallons of his preserved cum swirling thick and pearlescent in the crystal container—his eyes went wide, frills snapping open in stunned silence. Smoke burst from his nostrils in a thick plume, his claws digging into her hips as his cock twitched hard inside her pussy, the knot swelling tighter in instinctive response.

“All of it… from me,” he rasped, voice rough with disbelief and raw arousal. His gaze locked on the jar—evidence of months of breeding her, night after night, load after load pumped deep into her womb. Proof of how thoroughly he’d claimed her. “You kept every drop. Every time I filled you.”

Emerald’s smirk had been wicked, but her walls clenched around him deliberately—milking—as she nodded. The sight broke something primal in him. He’d growled low, hips bucking up to grind the knot deeper, smoke curling thick as he pulled her closer. “Mine,” he’d rumbled, claw brushing the jar reverently before sliding down to cup where they joined. “You’re full of me. Always.”

From that night on, the jar became part of their ritual—a silent witness on the nightstand, glowing faintly under preservation spells. And the knowledge of it heightened everything.

Every night, they slept knotted—Spike’s thick, ridged cock buried to the hilt in Emerald’s perfectly molded pussy, the swollen knot tying them inseparably. Her body had learned him so well that even in sleep, her walls never stopped working him.

It started subtle: lazy, rhythmic clenches as she drifted off, her pussy rippling in slow waves around his length—milking from base to tip like a velvet fist. The ridges dragged perfectly along her adapted inner contours, sparking faint pleasure even unconscious. Spike’s cock responded instinctively—twitching, throbbing, leaking steady pulses of precum that mixed with her slickness.

As hours passed, the milking deepened. Her walls fluttered in dream-tinged spasms, squeezing tighter around the knot, pulling at him with gentle, relentless suction. Spike’s body answered in sleep—hips shifting minutely, cock pulsing hot as it released slow, thick ropes of cum deep into her womb. Not explosive climaxes, but steady, endless flows—his balls churning overnight, seed flooding her in warm, heavy waves that filled her bit by bit.

Emerald’s belly would soften with the weight by morning—womb swollen full of him, the excess leaking slow around the knot in creamy rivulets. She’d wake with a contented hum, walls still rippling lazily, milking the last drops as consciousness returned.

Spike would stir to the sensation—his cock endlessly drained and refilled in the night, sensitive and sated, knot aching pleasantly from hours of her body’s greedy claim. “You milked me dry again,” he’d rumble, voice husky with sleep and awe, claw stroking her flank as he ground deeper. “Took everything while we slept.”

Then the ritual: slow disentanglement—the knot slipping free with a wet pop, her pussy gaping briefly, slick and creamy with his spend. Emerald’s horn would glow teal, a careful extraction spell drawing every drop from her womb—warm, thick ropes coiling into the jar, adding to the gallons already preserved. Spike watched every time, transfixed—arousal spiking fresh at the sight of his cum pulled from her depths, proof of how thoroughly her pussy owned him overnight.

“Look how much you gave me,” she’d whisper, sealing the jar with a kiss to his muzzle. “All night. Just for me.”

Spike’s reaction never dulled—frills flushing, cock hardening anew, a possessive growl building as he pulled her back down. “Keep it coming,” he’d murmur, already guiding her hips. “Every night. Fill you. Fill the jar.”

The dependency deepened: her pussy needing his cock to sleep full and knotted, milking him endlessly. His cock needing her depths to drain slow and steady, claiming her womb in the dark.

And the jar grew—gallons of him, preserved forever.

Their perfect, degenerate cycle.

===

Spike’s breeding fantasies had always simmered beneath the surface—draconic instinct woven deep into his blood, sharpened by the migration, the hunts, the raw power of his growing body. But with Emerald, they ignited into something consuming.

It started in whispers during their knotted nights: his cock locked deep in her pussy, her walls rippling slow and relentless around him as sleep tugged at them both. He’d rumble against her ear, voice rough with smoke and need: “Want to breed you. Fill your womb until it’s overflowing. Pump you full every night—make you carry my scent, my seed. See you swollen with it.”

Emerald never shied away. She enabled it—fed it—with her magic and her hunger.

She kept the contraceptive charm flawless, layered thick so no real risk took root, but she wove illusions around it: subtle spells that let her belly soften and round temporarily after a particularly heavy load, the skin stretching warm and taut under his claw. He’d trace the curve in the dim light, growling possessively as she ground down on his knot, walls clenching to milk another pulse from him. “Feel that?” she’d whisper, horn glowing faint teal. “You did this. Bred me full. Look how you’ve claimed me.”

The illusion drove him wild—hips bucking up instinctively, cock throbbing as he flooded her again, the charm letting him spill endlessly without consequence. He’d watch, transfixed, as her “swollen” belly pressed against his scales, the fantasy blurring into something visceral: his mate, heavy with his seed, marked inside and out.

Emerald went further.

She refined the extraction spell—drawing his cum from her womb each morning not just for the jar, but to show him. She’d levitate thick ropes of it mid-air, warm and fresh, letting it coil visibly before sealing it away. “Look what you did to me last night,” she’d tease, voice husky as she clenched around his morning hardness. “Milked you slow while we slept. Took every drop. My womb was stained white with you.”

Spike’s reaction was always the same: frills flushing deep violet, smoke pluming thick, claws gripping her hips as he thrust harder. The sight of his own seed—gallons preserved, proof of countless breedings—fed the fantasy. He’d pin her down, knot her raw, growling filthier promises: “Gonna breed you until you can’t hold it all. Leak me for days. Make you mine in every way.”

And Emerald enabled that too.

She crafted a retention charm: letting his loads stay heavy in her womb longer, the fullness lingering hours or days—belly soft and warm, a constant reminder as they moved through the castle. She’d walk bipedally beside him in the halls, hip brushing his thigh, the subtle weight making her tail flick with secret satisfaction. At night, she’d release it slowly into the jar—showing him the volume, the thickness, whispering how her body had held him all day.

Sometimes, she skipped the contraceptive entirely for a single night—just one—restoration spells ready to reverse any chance. The risk, razor-thin as it was, electrified them both. Spike’s thrusts turned primal, knot tying fast as he spilled deep, fantasies spilling out in ragged growls: “Breed you for real. Fill you until it takes. Make you carry my clutch—our clutch.”

Emerald would clench hard around him, magic flaring to heighten every sensation—her womb tingling with warmth, walls rippling to pull him deeper. “Do it,” she’d beg, legs locked around his hips. “Claim me. Breed your pony.”

The fantasy consumed them—safe, enabled, amplified by her magic. Her body became his perfect vessel: taking his seed night after night, preserving it, wearing it, craving it.

And Spike—lost in the primal thrill—knew he’d never want anything else.

His mate. His breeder. His everything.

===

The castle’s deepest winter had turned the world outside into a silent, snow-bound hush, but inside Emerald’s room, the air hummed with her focused magic. The silence bubble sealed them in, fire crackling low as she worked at her desk—horn glowing steady teal, hooves manipulating soft clay, fabrics, and threads with precise levitation.

Spike lounged on the bed, watching her with half-lidded eyes—curious, affectionate, his tail curled lazily. “Another secret project?” he rumbled, smoke curling from his nostrils.

Emerald’s smirk was sharp, ears flicking back as she finished the final enchantment—a faint pulse of teal light sealing the doll’s form. She turned, levitating her creation into view.

It was her—a perfect voodoo doll rendition, about two feet tall, crafted from soft, yielding materials that mimicked living flesh under enchantment. Green coat stitched flawlessly, black mane flowing in silky threads, teal eyes embroidered with uncanny accuracy. The cutie mark—a crisp black question mark—glowed faintly on the flank.

But the rear… that was the masterpiece.

Emerald had scaled it precisely: the doll’s hindquarters molded to replicate her pussy exactly—lips soft and plush, entrance tight and textured, inner walls enchanted to adapt and clench like the real thing. Scaled up perfectly to fit Spike’s full draconic size—thick ridges, swollen knot and all—without needing the compatibility charm. Warm to the touch, self-lubricating under arousal spells, linked directly to her via voodoo magic: every sensation mirrored in real time.

She presented it with a flourish, hovering it between them. “For when we have to be apart,” she said, voice husky with mischief and promise. “Migration trips. Twilight dragging you on errands. Whatever. You use this… and I feel everything. Every thrust. Every ridge. The knot tying. All of it.”

Spike’s eyes widened—frills snapping open, smoke bursting thick as he sat up. His gaze locked on the doll’s rear, cock already twitching hard under the sheets. “Emer… you made a— a fuck-doll. Of yourself. Perfect for me.”

“Voodoo doll,” she corrected, smirk widening as she floated it closer, turning it to show the detailed pussy—lips parting slightly under the enchantment, already glistening. “Feels real. Because it links to me. Knot it, breed it, wreck it—I’ll feel you from across the castle. Or farther, if the spell holds.”

Spike’s claw reached out reverently, brushing the doll’s flank—then lower, tracing the molded entrance. The doll clenched softly under his touch, and Emerald gasped across the room, thighs pressing together as mirrored pleasure sparked through her real pussy.

“Celestia,” Spike growled, voice rough with awe and instant arousal. His length throbbed fully hard now, knot already swelling. “You’re serious. For the dependency. So we don’t go crazy separated.”

She nodded, tail flicking as she climbed onto the bed beside him, nuzzling his neck. “We’re ruined without being knotted. This fixes it. You get relief. I get… you. Even apart.”

Spike pulled the doll closer, positioning it carefully—then guided his tip to the scaled entrance. It parted easily, warm and slick, walls gripping him with enchanted perfection. He thrust slow—watching the doll take his ridges, the knot pressing home with a wet pop.

Emerald moaned sharply across from him, walls clenching on emptiness as the voodoo link fired every sensation: stretch, fullness, the drag of his ridges deep inside the doll mirroring in her pussy. “Fuck—yes—feels just like you’re in me—”

Spike’s growl deepened, hips rolling as he knotted the doll fully—claws gripping its hips, wing flaring. “You feel this?” he rasped, grinding deep. “Me breeding your doll? Filling it?”

She nodded frantically, magic flaring to heighten the link—her real pussy dripping now, aching in sympathy. “All of it. Knot me—breed me through it—”

He did—thrusts turning powerful, the doll taking him raw and perfect, preservation spells ready for the load. Emerald writhed on the bed, hooves between her thighs, rubbing in time as mirrored pleasure built.

The doll became their bridge—used on long separations, or playful nights when they wanted double the sensation.

And the dependency?

It only deepened.

Perfectly enabled.

===

The castle was wrapped in the deepest hush of a winter night, snow muffling every sound outside Emerald’s windows. She’d gone to bed alone—Spike dragged off for a late-night “assistant duty” with Twilight, some urgent scroll organization that couldn’t wait. The dependency ached already: her pussy clenching on emptiness, walls fluttering in frustrated need, the bed too vast and cold without his knot locking her full.

Emerald curled under the blankets, hoodie pulled high, tail tucked between her legs as she tried to ignore the throb. Sleep tugged at her edges, but rest wouldn’t come—not without him buried deep, milking slow through the night.

Then it started.

A sudden, warm pressure at her entrance—teal magic flaring faintly around her horn as the voodoo link activated from afar. Her eyes snapped open, breath hitching. Spike. In his room. Using the doll.

The tapered head of his cock pressed against the doll’s scaled entrance—mirrored perfectly in her real pussy. Slickness bloomed unbidden between her hind legs, her body responding as if he were there: lips parting, walls relaxing in anticipation. She couldn’t stop it—the link was absolute, sensations flooding her without mercy.

“Oh—fuck—” she whispered into the dark, hooves clutching the sheets as the head breached her. Slow, deliberate—the doll taking him inch by inch, her pussy stretching in perfect sync. The ridges dragged along her walls, thick and unyielding, forcing her to yield even from afar. Pleasure sparked sharp and deep, her clit winking against nothing as slickness coated her thighs.

Spike wasn’t gentle tonight. She felt it in the rhythm: his claws gripping the doll’s hips hard, thrusting with rough, needy strokes—like a personal toy to sate his urges. Each drive slammed home in her depths, ridges popping past her entrance one by one, the swollen knot grinding against her ring without mercy.

Emerald’s back arched off the bed, a sharp cry escaping as her walls clenched helplessly around the phantom cock. She couldn’t close her legs—couldn’t push him away—even if she wanted to. The link invaded her completely: his cock forcing her open, stretching her raw, claiming her pussy like she was there for his use.

“Spike—” she gasped, hooves sliding between her thighs to rub her clit frantically, chasing the building heat. The thrusts sped up—wet, obscene sounds echoing in her mind from the doll, mirrored in the slick gush between her legs. His knot pressed harder, demanding, until—with a burning pop—it tied inside her.

Fullness exploded through her: the knot swelling wide, locking deep, ridges throbbing against her most sensitive spots. Her walls clamped down in desperate waves, milking him as if begging for his load. Spike growled somewhere far away—she felt the vibration through the link—and thrust shallow, erratic, grinding the knot against her cervix.

Emerald shattered—climax crashing hard, pussy spasming around the phantom knot, slick flooding the sheets as she writhed alone. The milking didn’t stop: her walls rippling endlessly, pulling at him, drawing out his release in thick, hot pulses that flooded the doll—and her womb in perfect mirror.

She felt every spurt—warm, heavy ropes painting her depths, filling her until the illusion of overflow leaked down her thighs. Spike used the doll relentlessly: grinding deep, claws digging into its flanks, breeding it like a toy until he sagged spent.

Only then did the sensations ease—the knot holding a moment longer before slow deflation. Emerald lay panting, trembling, pussy gaping and slick, utterly wrecked from afar.

She couldn’t even be mad.

A lazy, sated smile curved her lips as aftershocks rippled through her.

He’d needed her.

And she’d felt every second.

The dependency hummed satisfied—for now.

===

The castle library was bathed in soft afternoon light, crystal shelves gleaming as dust motes danced in the sunbeams. Emerald sat at the large map table—books stacked high around her, quill levitating in teal magic as she scribbled notes on advanced transfiguration theory. Twilight was across from her, buried in her own research pile, occasionally muttering about “dimensional anchoring spells” and levitating scrolls.

It was a quiet, productive day—the kind Emerald usually savored for focus. Her taller frame was curled comfortably in the oversized chair, hoodie zipped against the winter chill, tail swishing idly under the table.

Then it hit.

A sudden, warm pressure at her entrance—teal magic flickering faintly around her horn as the voodoo link activated without warning. Her quill froze mid-word, eyes widening as slickness bloomed unbidden between her hind legs. Spike. Somewhere else in the castle—his room, probably—using the doll.

The tapered head of his cock pressed against the doll’s entrance, mirrored perfectly in her real pussy. Her walls parted slick and eager, the intrusion slow and deliberate as he sank in inch by inch. Emerald’s breath hitched sharply—she clamped her teeth on her lower lip, hooves gripping the table edge under the pretense of stretching.

Twilight glanced up. “Everything okay?”

“Y-yeah,” Emerald managed, voice a little too high, forcing a smile as the first ridge popped past her entrance. Pleasure sparked deep, her clit winking against nothing, thighs pressing together under the table. “Just… cramp.”

Twilight nodded absently, returning to her scroll.

Inside, Spike wasn’t gentle. She felt his claws grip the doll’s hips—rough, needy thrusts starting slow but building fast. Each drive slammed his ridges along her walls, dragging fire through her core. Her pussy clenched helplessly around the phantom cock, milking him as slickness soaked her thighs, dripping warm onto the chair cushion.

Emerald’s quill trembled in her magic, ink blotting the page. She shifted—trying to cross her legs, anything to hide the building heat—but the motion ground the invisible length deeper, knot pressing demandingly at her entrance. A soft whimper escaped before she could stop it, disguised as a cough.

Twilight’s ears flicked. “You sure you’re alright? You look flushed.”

“Fine!” Emerald squeaked, face burning under her coat. “Just… hot in here.” She fanned herself with a hoof, horn glowing brighter to steady the quill as Spike’s thrusts turned relentless—wet, obscene sounds echoing only in her mind, her body invaded without mercy.

The knot ground harder—stretching her wide, burning sweet as it forced entry. Her walls fluttered desperately, clit throbbing in time with each phantom slam. She bit her lip hard, eyes squeezing shut for a second under the guise of concentration, as the knot finally popped in—fullness exploding through her, locking deep.

Spike growled somewhere far away—she felt the vibration—and pounded shallow, erratic, breeding the doll like a toy. Her pussy spasmed in response, milking him hard, climax crashing sudden and sharp. Slick gushed down her thighs, soaking the chair; she clamped her tail tight between her legs, hooves white-knuckled on the table as waves ripped through her.

Twilight looked up again, concerned. “Emerald?”

“Bathroom!” Emerald gasped, bolting up—legs wobbly, tail clamped to hide the wetness trailing down her hindquarters. “Be right back!”

She fled the library on shaky hooves, pussy still clenching around the phantom knot, aftershocks making her stumble.

Spike wasn’t done yet—she felt the hot pulses starting, filling the doll, flooding her womb in perfect mirror.

By the time she reached the nearest bathroom, locking the door with frantic magic, she was a trembling, slick mess—leaning against the wall, rubbing desperately to chase the lingering waves.

Unexpected. Overwhelming.

And Celestia help her, she couldn’t wait for him to do it again.

===

Spike’s room was dim, the only light coming from a low ember-glow in the small hearth he’d stoked earlier. The castle was quiet—Twilight finally asleep after hours of frantic scroll-sorting, the storm outside reduced to a soft whisper of snow against crystal. He’d tried to sleep. Really tried. But the dependency gnawed at him like a fire in his belly: cock throbbing half-hard, knot aching to swell, the emptiness of not being buried in Emerald driving him restless.

The voodoo doll sat on his nightstand—her perfect rendition, green coat soft under his claw, the scaled rear waiting warm and inviting. He’d stared at it for an hour, fighting the urge. But the need won.

Spike’s claw trembled slightly as he lifted the doll, positioning it on the bed in front of him—hindquarters raised, just like she’d arch for him in person. His length was already fully hard, ridges pulsing, knot swollen at the base with draconic want. He gripped the doll’s hips—firm, possessive—and guided his tip to the enchanted entrance.

It parted for him instantly—warm, slick, gripping like her real pussy always did. A low growl escaped his chest as he thrust in slow: the head breaching, ridges dragging through the tight channel that clenched in perfect mirror. He knew she felt it—wherever she was, probably studying in the library—and the thought sent fire through his veins.

“Emer…” he rumbled to the empty room, hips rolling forward deeper. The doll took him flawlessly—walls rippling around his ridges, milking him just like her body did in sleep. He could picture her: in the library, quill frozen, thighs clenching under the table as he invaded her without warning.

The fantasy fueled him. He gripped tighter, claws digging into the soft material as he thrust harder—rough, needy strokes like using a toy made for his pleasure alone. Each slam drove his knot against the entrance, grinding until—pop—it tied deep, locking him in that perfect, velvet heat.

Spike’s wings flared wide, smoke pluming thick as he bucked shallow and erratic, grinding the knot against her depths through the link. “Take it,” he growled low, voice rough with possession. “Feel me breeding you—wherever you are. My cock owning your pussy.”

The doll clenched harder—her reaction, he knew, walls spasming as she came wherever she hid. It pulled him over: cock throbbing, knot pulsing as he spilled deep—thick, hot ropes flooding the doll, mirrored straight into her womb. He rode it out, hips grinding until every drop was spent, the tie holding him fast in enchanted perfection.

Panting, he sagged forward—muzzle resting against the doll’s back, wing draping over it like he would her. Satisfaction rolled through him, deep and primal.

She’d felt all of it.

And tomorrow, he’d tease her about the flushed face she couldn’t hide.

For now, he held the doll close—knotted, claimed.

Just like always.

===

The castle was quiet in the mid-afternoon lull, Twilight off in Canterlot for a princess meeting, leaving Spike alone in his room with nothing but time and restless energy. The dependency had been sated last night—knotted deep until morning—but the doll on his nightstand called to him like a siren. Emerald’s perfect voodoo rendition: soft green coat, teasing question mark flank, and that scaled, enchanted rear—warm, slick, always ready.

Spike’s claws traced the doll’s hips idly at first, cock already twitching hard under his scales. He’d started simple—fingering the entrance, feeling it clench in mirror as Emerald (wherever she was—library, probably) gasped in surprise. But today, mischief sharpened into something filthier.

He gathered pencils from his desk—sharp, smooth graphite ones, a hoofful of varying thicknesses. One by one, he pressed the first to the doll’s pussy: the blunt eraser end sliding in easy, the tight channel gripping it with enchanted warmth. He pushed slow—watching it disappear inch by inch into the yielding depths.

Emerald—in the library, nose buried in a tome—jolted upright. A sudden, firm pressure breached her entrance: cool, smooth, unyielding. Her walls parted around it, clenching instinctively as the pencil sank deep—filling her halfway, foreign and thick. “Ngh—” she bit her lip hard, thighs slamming together under the table, quill clattering. No pony around, thank Celestia, but the sensation was undeniable: Spike, playing.

Back in his room, Spike’s breath roughened, smoke curling as he twisted the pencil gently—feeling the doll’s walls ripple in response. His free claw stroked his hardening length, knot swelling at the base. “Take it,” he murmured to the doll, thrusting the pencil in and out slow—wet sounds echoing softly as the enchantment slickened it.

Emerald’s pussy clenched hard around the invading object—slickness coating it as her body adjusted, pleasure sparking despite the strangeness. She gripped the table edge, tail lashing under her chair, a soft whine escaping. Full—but not enough. She knew him. He wouldn’t stop.

The second pencil joined: Spike pressing it alongside the first, the tight entrance stretching wider to accommodate. The doll’s pussy yielded with a wet give, walls gripping both firmly as he worked them deeper—side by side, filling her more.

Emerald’s back arched in the library chair, hooves slamming the table as double fullness invaded her: two thick shafts sliding deep, rubbing against each other inside her, stretching her walls deliciously wide. “Fuck—Spike—” she hissed under her breath, magic flaring to steady a toppling book stack. Her clit throbbed, slick dripping down her thighs, soaking the cushion. She couldn’t stop it—couldn’t clench them out—the link forced her to take every inch.

Spike’s growl deepened, cock throbbing in his claw as he stroked himself in time. Third pencil: thicker, pressed between the first two. The doll’s entrance stretched obscenely—walls rippling, gripping greedily as he twisted and pushed, filling it further.

Emerald whimpered louder—biting her hoof to muffle it—three now, stuffing her pussy full, rubbing every sensitive ridge inside her. The stretch burned sweet, pleasure coiling tight as her walls fluttered helplessly around the bundle. Slick gushed, her body betraying her with needy clenches.

Fourth. Fifth. Spike worked them relentlessly—one by one, slow and deliberate—until the doll’s pussy was packed: five pencils buried deep, stretching her to the limit, the entrance gaping slightly around the cluster. He twisted them gently, grinding the bundle against her depths.

Emerald shattered silently in the library—orgasm crashing hard, walls spasming around the phantom stuffing, milking the pencils as slick flooded out. She slumped forward on the table, panting into her book, thighs trembling.

Spike finished with a groan—spilling thick over his claw, knot pulsing uselessly as he watched the overfilled doll clench in mirror.

He’d clean it later.

For now, he left them in—knowing she’d feel full until he removed them.

His perfect, stuffed pony.