newblood - Several Hours of (Community) Service (Fluttershy)

Story is still unfinished.

 

Story image by Nayaase

http://imgur.com/l79ZZgY

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“Hey, m-man. Come over here, duuuude.”

 

>Norman staggers out from the bushes, veering dangerously close to the road.

>This is just after he had so seriously informed you that he’s /totally/ able to jump a four foot high hedge.

>Maybe he can?

>Maybe he would’ve succeeded had it not been for the bottle of whisky in his hand.

>A bottle that weighs far less than it did when you lifted it from his parents’ garage.

 

“Sseriously. Seriously, like, bro. Seriously.”

 

>Apparently he’s trying to build up some sort of composure.

>Better listen, then.

 

“Wwhhhatt? Pffscchhh.”

 

>One bit of drool, apparently dissatisfied with life in your alcohol-burnt mouth, attempts to jump free onto bigger and better things.

>And so, dribbling like a retard and walking like three-legged donkey, you make your way over to your leaf ‘n’ twig covered friend.

>Norman forgets where he is heading with this and instead brings up an insightful observation.

 

“Man, you’re fuckin’ drunk, dude.”

 

>Hark at him!

>Such allegations against your pure and untainted record cannot go unrebutted!

>Let us take verbal action!

 

“No dude, you’re fuckin’ drunk…

 

>You belch, laughing at the sound immediately afterwards.

 

“… Maaan.”

 

>A droopy eyed smile sits on your face, your arms swing low and limp, one clasping a bottle and the other swaying in the slight breeze.

>You bring your free arm up and remove the spittle from your chin using that all-purpose cleaning tool; the back of your sleeve.

>With the intelligent debate over with, Norman remembers the point of this conversation.

 

“No, but seriously. Check it out man.”

 

>He points over the bush, the tiny shift in balance sending him to the undergrowth once more.

>His head must weigh, like, four-hundred million tonnes or something.

>Snickering, taking another quick swig of your own spirit and stumbling into position, you take note of what has Norman so fired up.

>A car; door open, keys in the ignition.

 

“Whrmgp rhahf rmmmf mmff?”

 

>You looked down at your intoxicated partner in crime.

>He has a mouthful of leaves that he seems to think have no effect on his speech.

>Twigs and stems stick out of his mouth like bouquet but in reverse.

>It’s fucking hilarious.

>Braying like the donkey your walk impersonates, you take a grip the bunch in your hands and tank, sending spit-covered leaves (and yourself) flying backwards into another part of the bush.

>Whoever lives here is going to be majorly pissed when they find their garden flattened tomorrow.

>Bah.

>You’ll be long gone by then anyway.

>Oh wait.

>What did Norman have to say again?

>You clamber back to your feet, swaying side to side upon completion.

>Norman joins you, also swinging like a tree in a strong wind.

 

“Should we do it?”

 

>Two hands grab your arm in nervous excitement.

>You yank your arm away.

 

“Ew, dude. Gay.”

 

“Nooo… Not that, faggot. I mean; should we take ‘er for a spin?”

 

>Plodding about in place to maintain his balance, Norman extends a gesture towards the car.

 

“I dun-hic-no, dude. I mean, you’re pretty drunk! Might crash it or something.”

 

>A set of keys land at your feet with a loud “ching!”

>It makes you jump a little.

>By some miracle, you manage to crouch and pick up the keys without falling on your face.

>A voice calls from the passenger side of the car.

 

“Don’t mean I have to drive, does it?”

 

>Norman’s got a point.

>Five or ten minutes should be pretty safe.

>You have fun, speed a bit, pick up some cigarettes, cruise for bitches and do a burnout or two, then you can return the car like nothing ever happened.

>It’s the perfect crime.

>You down the rest of your gin.

>Don’t know, don’t care.

>Another usage of sleeve across your mouth, and you’re ready to go.

>You chuck the bottle away.

>It smashes somewhere on the road.

>That sound alone is funny in your alcohol-riddled opinion.

>Guffawing, you approach the car on the driver’s side, swirling the keychain around your finger.

>The whole scene plays out like something from Grand Theft Auto.

>With your “homie” chilling in the passenger seat, ready to cause uproar, you climb into the car.

>It takes a second or so of squinting, but you manage to make the ignition stop dancing around in front of you for long enough to slot the key in.

>This is going to be so fucking rad.

>You turn the key one place.

>The electrics in the car flicker to life.

>The headlights light up the front of the house before you.

>No one’s going to be up at this time, so it’s not a problem.

>The freaky part is, something about that house gives you a sense of déjà vu.

>Finally, you turn the key the full way, the starter-motor spluttering as the vehicle breathes itself to life.

>There’s only one way a man should reverse; one arm over the passenger seat, leaning to the side and looking straight back.

>Strangely, you have no sense of remorse or concern for what you are doing.

 

>With all the badassery of a true gangster, as soon as you release the clutch, the car stalls.

>Norman thrashing about in his chair in amused, drunken hysteria.

>Tears roll down his face.

 

“Shut the fuck up, man!”

 

>He bites on his sleeve, looking like he’s retaining an explosion of some sort.

>Seething in your embarrassment, you fumble with the gearstick to get the car back into neutral and engage take two.

>This time, you manage to get it right, and the car unevenly lurches out onto the road.

>A strange crunching sound comes from outside the open window, underneath the car.

>Probably nothing.

>Reversing out onto the road and turning; done.

>Now to just shift into first.

>It takes a few uncoordinated assaults on the gearstick but the thing eventually budges into place.

>Lift the clutch…

>Carefully now…

>Your body feels just so heavy and finesse is just a little too much to ask.

>The accelerator is pressed down too far.

>As soon as the gear catches, the car lurches forward unexpectedly.

 

“Woah!”

 

>The both of you harmonise how startled you are.

>At least it’s on a straight road.

>Then again, why is the sidewalk approaching on the right?

>The steering wheel is straight.

>Why aren’t you reacting by turning away?

>Oh fuck, turn!

>You mount the kerb, sending you even further of course.

>The nose of the car makes a beeline for the nearest tree.

>-CRUNCH-

 

>Perhaps not the most horrific car accident the world has seen, but those airbags hurt like a bitch when they go off in your face.

>Cradling your nose and checking for blood, you woozily climb out of the car.

>Norman’s already stood at the side of the car.

>Wait, have you been unconscious?

>He’s crouched at the side of the car, surveying the damage.

>With a hoarse voice, you call out to him.

 

“Dude, isn’t the damage at the front?”

 

>You expected that to sound incredulous.

>Instead, it came out as a croaky slur.

>Mild concussion and alcohol are not a brilliant mix; your stomach twists and ties itself in nots.

>It takes all your willpower to keep your dinner inside your body.

 

“Oi, Norm.”

 

>He finally looks up at you.

 

“Tyres are shredded, man. Look.”

 

>You obey, seeing two decidedly flat tyres, wilting into the asphalt.

>Little twinkles of reflected street light dance off vicious looking glass shards.

>How the hell did they get there?

>Not much time to think about that, though, as it’s time for the main event.

>Waddling deliriously, you circumnavigate the steaming car, ready to cringe at the damage done to the front.

>Surprisingly, it’s not /that/ bad.

>The bumper took a tanning and right headlight looks cracked, but the thing’ll run alright.

>You hope.

>Swaying a little more, you clamber around the car back to Norman.

 

“Norm. Shouldn’t we bail or something?”

 

“WHO’S THERE?!”

 

“Yeah, w-we should.”

 

>A man comes barrelling down the road, waving a torch around erratically.

>The pair of you take off as fast as you can.

>Unfortunately for you, your head feels like it’s filled with water; water that distorts your vision and gives you the most dizzying migraine.

>Norman pulls ahead of your stumbling form.

 

“C’mon, ‘non, hurry the fuck up!”

 

>You can’t.

>You just can’t.

>You can’t run…

>… And you certainly can’t keep yourself from painting the street with second-hand pizza.

 

>After only a few steps, you lean on a tree and vomit violently.

>It burns all the way up your throat.

>Your eyes water.

>Your body writhes beneath its own convulsions.

>It feels like any second now, half of your internal organs will follow the trail of masticated food.

>You stop briefly, worshipping the respite.

>As soon as you try to step away from the tree, you give another empty wretch and spit up bile, your body desperately trying to reject food that just isn’t there.

>Your head doesn’t feel like it’s filled with water anymore.

>That would be a godsend.

>Right now, it feels like it’s filled with shaving razors and is in the process of being drilled with a jackhammer.

>To make matters worse, a burly hand grabs the back of your neck and yanks you away from your shame, back towards the car.

 

“You bastard! You fucking bastard!”

 

>Oh, he’s pissed.

>This must be the guy who owns the car.

>In no condition to fight, you ready your body for another shit-kicking; this time from a man who is entirely justified in doing so.

>Still, something is just a bit off.

>You can’t tell why just yet, but you feel like you’re on the edge of some kind of shocking revelation.

>Either that, or you’re more distanced from reality than you originally thought.

>A powerful swinging motion throws your semi-limp frame into the crashed car.

>You brace against the hood, almost rolling over it with the impact.

 

“L-listen man, I’m sorry…”

 

>Talking is just agony.

>It’s also agony that you’re having to pussy out like this due to your condition.

>Plus, your apparent best friend has ditched you to the blame.

>That hatted mother fucker…

 

“… seriously, I need to… To… Oh God.”

 

>You hold a hand to your mouth, willing yourself not to throw up on yourself during the incoming beating.

>The first blow doesn't come.

>The man just stands there, staring at you.

>At last, you decide to look your assailant in the eye.

 

“Anonymous? Is that… /You/?”

 

>The blurry face of the blurry man remains blurry.

>However, now that you think about it, that voice is unmistakeably familiar.

>Familiar being an apt choice of wording, considering the familial relation that stands before you.

>Straining doubly hard, causing more sickness-inducing pain to your head, you bring that face into focus.

>As the features come into play, your fright doubles.

>Oh, fuck no.

 

“U-Uncle… Uncle?”

 

>Your uncle stares you down, wordlessly.

>He’s a big dude; probably margining about six-four.

>Pretty hot-headed too, which makes it a miracle that he hasn’t weaved your head into the tarmac.

>Yet.

>He sighs, lowering his readied fists.

 

“Anon. What the fucking hell have you done?”

 

“U-unc-“

 

“Anonymous, don’t talk.”

 

>You oblige without question.

 

“I can smell the booze on your breath. I’m going to say you’ve snuck out and got too messed up to tell what you’re doing.”

 

“Y-ye-“

 

>As soon you make noise, a hairy knuckle bears down on the roof of his car, sending a loud metallic boom echoing through the empty street.

>You yelp and hop away from the sound.

 

“I said don’t /fucking/ talk.”

 

>Yessir.

>It’s pretty clear that he’s still kitten-crushingly furious, but is doing his best to keep it under control.

>To be honest with yourself, you’d say it’s lucky that you crashed a family member’s car.

>The hulking man mulls a few things over, tapping his chin with a stocky finger.

 

“Here. You’re coming with me, kid.”

 

>It’s past the stage where you’d have a say in it, as the elephantine hand coils around your arm and drags you back towards his house.

>He tosses you into the bathroom harshly, slamming the door behind you.

 

“When you’re done puking up all that poison, get to bed. You’ll be dealing with your father in the morning.”

 

>That’s just what you do, spending a good couple of hours gagging emptily over the porcelain bowl, before being chaperoned to the guest room.

>You collapse as soon as you see the inviting fabric.

>You don’t even remember touching down.

>Morning in the Canterlot suburbs.

>8:00 am to be precise.

>Your captor bursts into the bedroom loudly.

 

“Alright. Get up. Get yourself dressed and get downstairs. Your dad’s here and so are the police.”

 

>You barely have time to register the planet you are on before your uncle slams the door behind him.

>He marches back down the stairs loudly.

 

“Ooooohh… Fuckkk…”

 

>Easing yourself from your back is a taller order than it should be.

>You have a headache so severe that you swear your eyes are about to shoot from their sockets.

>Mouth is dry too, with a horrible aching sensation in the pit of your throat.

>Considering the fact you are underage, at a mere eighteen years old, you can’t say you are well versed in the art of drinking.

>Sadly, this means no conditioning in dealing with hangovers.

>Grunting in the effort of it all, you bring your body upright and slight your feet to the floor.

>Thank the heavens that you’re still dressed since last night.

>You stand, wobbling ominously.

>Time to meet thine maker.

>After nearly falling down the stairs, you succeed in falling through the kitchen door, barrelling over and onto the floor.

>There you lay, prostrate before your uncle, your dad and two police officers that look like they have better things to be doing at this time in the morning.

 

“Anon, get up.”

 

“Mres, dad.”

 

>You talk into the linoleum floor while you dare yourself to try and clamber to the chair without falling once more.

>Shakily, you bring yourself to the table, arising at it like a mountaineer hauling himself over the last ledge at the peak.

 

>A glass of cold water awaits you.

>You curl your hand around the base of it.

>The condensation lining the cup teases your skin.

>That first, tentative sip is beautiful, but you have little time to revel in it.

 

“Do you mind telling me what happened then?”

 

>You breath in, ready to recall last night’s happenings as best you can.

 

“No lying, either.”

 

>His harsh voice slices across your pounding head.

>It’s like your physical being is made up of regret.

 

“No lying, Dad. Promise.”

 

“Okay, then go.”

 

“Well, I went to chill at Norm’s last night, like I said I was gonna…”

 

>The police start scribbling notes down quickly.

>It’s pretty distracting.

 

“… And he told me he could get us booze…”

 

>You steal a quick swig of that life nectar in a cup.

 

“… So I went along with it. It’s not that big of a deal, is it?”

 

>Your dad grunts, annoyed.

 

“A-anyway, it’s kinda hard to remember, but we had a load of stuff from his garage and decided to go out. It was dark and I didn’t know where we’d walked to, but we saw a car with the keys left in the ignition and thought we’d be able to go out in it.”

 

>One of the police officers sniffs, cutting you off.

 

“Son, what’s the full name of your friend?”

 

>You tell them.

>No use in lying, seen as your dad knows Norman’s full name.

>He scribbles it down on his notepad and motions for you to continue.

 

“That’s pretty much it… There was stuff on the road and the tyres burst… I-I think. I kinda lost control after that.”

 

>The officer finalises his notes, marking it with an over emphasised tap.

 

“Well kid, you’re lucky to have family like yours.”

 

>Why’s that?

 

“Why’s that, sir?”

 

>He leans over onto the table.

 

“We’ve had a long discussion with your uncle and your father. It appears all charges against you will be dropped.”

 

>Fucking yes!

 

“Oh my God! Thanks Unc-“

 

>That man stares at you blankly.

 

“W-wait… Umm… There’s a catch, isn’t there?”

 

“Yes there is, boy.”

 

>Being called boy was a sure-fire pointer towards just how much trouble you were in, especially at eighteen years old.

>Your Uncle nods at the police officers and they take their leave, probably off to track down Norman and tan his hide.

>After how he ditched you, nothing satisfies you more.

 

“We’re not going to press charges against either of you. Thing is, we’ve got different you can pay me and your auntie back.”

 

>Your dad nods in agreement then chips in himself.

 

“Your uncle just happens to know a few people. After some calling about earlier on, we’ve got you a place you can work. Community service, actually.

 

“Dad, please…”

 

“Shut up. It’s non-negotiable.”

 

>Definitely not time to object; you settle on hanging your head in your hands.

 

“I’m covering the cost of the damages. Thankfully, they are fairly minor given how slowly you hit the tree.”

 

>Slowly?

>You could be sure you were but a couple of knots shy of light-speed.

>Vodka.

>Or was it gin?

 

“You’re signed up at the local animal shelter, starting tomorrow morning. Haven’t yet said when you’ll be stopping, but it sure as hell won’t be soon.”

 

“I hope you enjoy cleaning shit and getting scratched and bitten for hours at a time.”

 

>The voice is pushed through a triumphant sneer donned by your uncle.

>Must be satisfying for him, given how well-known it is in the family that you are not even close to an animal person.

 

>The drive back from your uncle’s house is executed in silence, bar the occasional “I’m so disappointed” from your dad.

>It’s pretty hard to care much for how he feels when how you feel is taken into account.

>The water held it back briefly, but that hangover is kicking back in with vigour.

>Hopefully, with your parents probably going out all day, as they usually do on a Saturday, you’ll get to sleep this off a little later on.

>Saturday passes in a blur; your arrival home, your abject ignoring of your mother’s scorn, the sight of your bed, the sleep, the awkward dinner and finally the chilling in your room all fly by you without any substantial cognitive function from yourself.

>Soon, you find yourself in bed, dreading the morning ahead.

>It’s a 9:00am start and they’ve got you working all the way ‘til six.

>The place is a good two miles away so you’re going to have to get up fairly early.

 

“For fuck’s sake.”

 

>You spare a quick thought for Norman.

>What in the hell actually happened to him?

>There are no charges so… What, exactly?

>Is he to get placed in some Auschwitz for unwanted pets like you?

>Probably going to get away with it.

>His parents don’t care what he gets up to, which is why he is always the one at the root of your misdeeds.

>Apart from the smoking, of course.

 

>You picked that one up from your older cousin a couple of years ago.

>Still, you’ve managed to keep that one a secret from your parents for the longest time.

>Come midnight, your parents have gone to bed.

>Your dad is snoring and mom has already gotten back out to do that mandatory check that all the doors are locked, same as every night.

>You’re sure they’re out for the count.

>You climb out of your window and sit on the roof of the extension that extends just below your room, pulling out your lighter and a cigarette.

>As you blow the swirling, grey pollution into the cool night sky, you muse over just how pissed off you are.

>Then again, what if the work isn’t so bad?

>I mean, you’ll meet loads of people that want to adopt the furry little bastards.

>Some of them might be hot?

>There’s a slim hope.

>What about the other people who work/volunteer there?

>No.

>No how.

>You’ve seen the people that do charity work down in the city centre, as well as in the shops.

>Either hundreds of years old and decaying from the outside in, or dorky, fat, short and acne ridden girls with ponytails, glasses and buck teeth.

>The realm of even the most surreal possibilities rejects the notion of a hot piece of ass working for nothing.

>You sigh, feeling defeated before you’ve even started.

>Time for bed; can’t really put it off any longer.

 

>A rapping at your door wakes you up.

>Gradually, your senses come back to you.

>This is a far more graceful awakening than yesterday’s, for sure.

 

“Yeah?”

 

>A voice calls through the door.

>It’s your mother.

 

“You’ve overslept on your first day, Anon. Get up, /right now./”

 

>First day?

>It’s Sunday.

>The fuck’s she talking about?

>As you sit up in your bed, scratching your head, you remember exactly what had transpired over the past forty-eight hours and the resulting punishment.

>Forgot to set that alarm clock, didn’t we, Anon?

>That certainly takes the edge of this nice morning.

>When did you have to be there again?

>Was it nine?

>You look at your clock.

>8:35am

>Shit.

>To be fair, it’s not really that you care about the job or anything.

>It’s just the inevitable shitstorm that’ll come via your dad, should you cock this up.

>Without the time for a shower, you rush around your room, throwing clothes on and grabbing your cigs from under the mattress.

>You catch yourself in a mirror.

>Looking shit, Anon.

>Your hair is a definite no-go.

>Too long to do nothing with; needs cutting, to be honest.

>Looking around the room, you spy an old beanie slung over the back of your chair.

>It’ll do.

>Throwing it on and messing with your hair until it looks somewhat okay, given that it is primarily under a hat, you head out your bedroom door.

>Your feet thump down the stairs quickly.

>Clearing the last couple of steps with a short jump, you land in the hallway and start frantically searching for your boots, only to be interrupted by your dad, who’s stood watching you from by the front door.

 

“Hey Dad, y’seen my boots?”

 

“Kitchen, Anon… And stop banging about, please.”

 

>He eyes you and takes a quick swig of his coffee.

 

“I’m kinda in a rush to get to that job that /you/ want me to do so bad.”

 

>Maybe you shouldn’t be so curt with the guy; he hasn’t actually done anything wrong.

 

“Don’t give me lip. I’ll take you down for your first day. Just this once, I might add. Go get some breakfast.”

 

>Wow, that’s unexpected.

>Certainly beneficial, though.

 

“Thanks dad. Uhhh, sorry ‘bout running late and stuff.”

 

>You offer a weak shrug and crooked smile, trying to be sincere but looking anything but, as usual.

>Before the moment gets a little too awkward, you opt to step past your father and head into the kitchen, whipping up a quick bowl of cereal for the day ahead.

>There isn’t much conversation milling about the house; not that you expected there to be.

>You’re still in the doghouse and won’t be for quite some time.

>Far be it from you to remember a time where you messed up bigger than you did Friday night.

>The more you think about it, the more annoyed you get with both yourself and that “friend” of yours.

>This whole situation could’ve been so easily avoided by simply saying no.

>You briefly consider how well you’d work as a PSA actor, warning kids of the dangers of “not saying no.”

>Then again, that’d make you a massive hypocrite, with the smoking and the strong likelihood of you getting drunk again in the near future.

>You finish with enough time to at least get two of the three sacred S’s out of the way.

>The shit is glorious and freeing, putting you in a quite a good mood, even with the horrible day you’re going to have.

>The shave leaves you smooth and fresh as a daisy.

 

 

“Anonymous, hurry up. We gotta go…”

 

>You head out onto the landing and look down at your dad.

>Waving his wristwatch at you warningly, he continues.

 

“… If you’re late, you’ll get told not to show up again.”

 

>Way to sell actually making an effort, here.

 

“Okaaaay?”

 

>Seeing your dismissal of this warning, he presses the point.

 

“… And should that happen, /you’ll/ pay for the damages yourself.”

 

>Fair point.

>Although, paying a thousand or so dollars to get out of an indefinite amount of time working in an animal shelter is pretty tempting, even if it would such up every cent you earned from other ventures over the next couple of years.

>Might as well give the place a test drive before you decide whether you should bunk it off or not.

 

“Yeah, good point, dad. So… Shall we head out?”

 

>It sort of looks like he smiles at you proudly.

>If only you knew what’s going on up top, you’d not feel so proud of me.

 

“Yeah, let’s go, son.”

 

>He opens the door and motions towards the car.

>Two miles is a fairly quick drive and you find yourself pulling up outside the shelter in not time.

>Your dad turns to you.

 

“Anon. Just get this over with so we can all forget that you’re a thief and resume normal stuff, okay?”

 

>You roll your eyes.

>You’re not a thief; you were going to bring the car back.

>At worst, you were planning on stealing a few bucks worth of gas, big deal.

 

“Yeah, Dad. Okay.”

 

>The very instant you open the car door, you’re hit by a tidal wave of backing and miscellaneous animal calls, cries and shrieks.

>It’s loud and that smell.

>That smell.

>Ugh, it’s like something died in there.

 

“Have fun.”

 

>You bet, Dad.

 

>With that parting shot that one could swear was a little too sing-song to not be taking the piss out of you, he leans over and shuts the car door, performs a quick turn and scoots off down the road in the direction you came from.

>You give it a bit of time to ensure that he’s out of sight and not coming back, and quickly proceed to pull out that packet of cigs.

>It’s a charity.

>They employ volunteers.

>It’s not like they have a right to be pissed at you for being like, five minutes late?

>Walking off to the side, you shield your lighter in your jacket to protect the fickle flame from the wind, toking repeatedly in order to get the coffin nail burning at an acceptable level.

>Slouching against the wall with a cigarette has an almost therapeutic quality about it.

>Mixed in amongst the winding tendrils of smoke, your mild annoyance about this predicament is cast to the wind.

>Still, this niggling feeling about Norman ditching you back there prevents total and utter Zen.

>Once your smoke looks a little bit on the stubby side, you opt to flick it into the road and round the corner into the grounds of the animal shelter.

>The front is a pretty standard affair.

>No real animals to speak of visible, barring an anaemic looking chicken, strutting about on its lonesome.

>The rest of the flea-ridden beasts must be smelling up the place from the back.

>A tiny bit of uncertainty shimmers in your mind as your approach the door.

>It’s weird, but you feel somewhat nervous about doing this.

>Stop it, Anon.

>You don’t run from shit.

>Apart from two-hundred and twenty pounds of furious uncle.

>Either way, you’re stood at the door now so you might as well open it and wander inside.

 

>Surprisingly, the reception area is in pretty good nick.

>It’s clean, warm, welcoming and has very little in the way of animals.

>Well, it would lack animals but there’s this obnoxiously loud parrot that screeches in your ear as you pass by.

 

“HELLO!”

 

“Fuck off.”

 

>Cursed thing nearly gave you a heart attack.

>Scowling at the parrot like it understands the concept of disdain, you strafe towards the counter, buried in numerous “Do your part!” and “Free to a good home!” pamphlets.

>A tiny little brass bell sits just off to the left.

>No one’s here yet, so…

>-DING-

>After about five seconds with no response, you decide to remind the staff that you are waiting.

>-DING DING-

>Nothing.

>-DING DING DING-

>Nada

>Oh for crying out loud.

>Placing both your hands on the counter, you crane over it, looking for anyone down the corridor on the other side.

 

“Hello? I’m Anon? I’m supposed to be working here today!? Hellooo?!”

 

>Yet again, silence bar the muffled sounds of the animals at the back.

 

“Hello!”

 

>That bloody bird.

>It seems that, despite your best efforts, you can’t work here.

>Feeling a little elated at the prospect of a Sunday with no obligations, you stride back towards the door, just in time for a middle-aged woman to be coming back in.

>She’s quite small and mousey looking, with a bobcut and satellite-dish ears.

>The woman is also clad in a navy-blue polo shirt with a logo on the lapel.

>”West Canterlot Animal Protection Society.”

>It appears the cavalry has arrived.

>You’ve been reprimanded, entrapped, cornered, surrounded and ultimately doomed.

>After tugging a large box of things through the door, she finally lifts her head and claps eyes on you.

 

“Oh!”

 

>She laughs and puts a hand to her chest.

 

“Nearly gave me my death there, love!”

 

>Through a few grating cackles and “oh dear”s, she waddles to the side of the room and sets the box down.

 

“Sorry about the wait, is there anything I can help you with?”

 

>Shifting about uncomfortably in this sickeningly homely woman’s presence, you fumble a response.

 

“Ummm… I’m Anonymous? Think someone might’ve spoken to my uncle of my dad about some work here?”

 

>You emphasise the sentence by pointing at yourself then the building around you.

>Not quite sure why you did that.

>Fiddling with her glasses and giving you a shrew-like stare, the looks you up and down, giving a smile when the gears start locking together.

 

“Oh yes, we’ve heard some silly things about you, Anonymous. Up to that young tomfoolery, hmm?”

 

>That forehead wrinkles unappealingly as she eyes you over the top of her frameless little specs in a sort of mock scorn.

>It’s patronising.

>Simmer down, Anon; no need to fire up at a harmless old woman.

>Besides, she seems like quite a nice lady.

>She just doesn’t seem to understand that you’re not ten; you are, in fact, eighteen.

>Also, since when were you so unstable?

>Best to just play along and let her set you to work.

 

“Uh, yeah… Ma’am. That’s me! Just making mistakes and being young and… Uhh.. Foolish!”

 

>You throw your arms in a “what of it?” gesture and force a smile.

>She gives you a cursory glance and blinks sceptically.

>Apparently, your endless charm ends for those people who turn forty.

 

“Very good. Well, you can call me Miss Dearheart. Sadly, I won’t be dealing with you… Um… Here, take this.”

 

>She reaches into the box and pulls out a top that matches hers.

>Uniform?

>You catch the top she throws in your direction and scrutinise it with less than subtle distaste.

 

“Y’can put it on in the bathroom, just round that corner.”

 

>Giving a quick nod, you turn in the allocated direction.

 

“Wait one second, Anon!”

 

“Uh… Yeah?”

 

“Don’t you want to meet who’s showing you the ropes?”

 

“Aren’t I meant to get changed?”

 

“You can do that afterwards, she’ll be back any second from the pups’ morning walk, so we could kill two birds with one stone and have you meet her and help out with the new litter?”

 

“I-I think it’s alright, I’ll go get changed.”

 

“You’d like her Anon. Pretty little thing, about your age too.”

 

>Really?

>I guess you were right about having to awkwardly exchange social graces with lumpy-faced do-gooder losers.

>Let’s just hope she doesn’t take a shining to you over the course of the next however long.; it’s not like you need anything to make this anymore excruciating.

 

“I’d still rather go get changed, to be honest.

 

“Talk of the devil, here she is now.”

 

>Groaning like a petulant fifteen year old, you face the short, fat and greasy-haired mongloid that is to be your partner…

 

“Hello Fluttershy, dear. This is Anonymous, the young lad I told you about?”

 

>There’s one problem.

>She’s not fat.

>Her hair, although scraped into a ponytail, flows down her back.

>Mongloid?

>Most certainly not.

>In the centre of a writhing mass of five excitable labs, the petite girl stands with her shoulders slightly angled away from you, hiding her little, yellow face behind that cascading waterfall of pink hair that is slung over her shoulder.

>Large, expressive eyes betray a demure sense of coy, cast over towards you in a brilliant topaz hue.

>At least, as far as you can tell.

>Her upper body is buried beneath a large, grey, baggy hoodie, limiting any way to gauge her body from that angle; but if those slender legs are something to go by, you’d wager a hefty bet that the hoodie is the ore around the diamond.

>Speaking of those legs, she stands with one knee bent gawkily away from you, as if she expects to flee at any second.

>She seems just a little familiar.

 

>Perhaps the perks of working as a shit-scooper are a little bigger in number than you had first anticipated.

>You offer a hand to the girl, attempting to give off a superspy-esque, enigmatic smile.

 

“Hello there, Miss. The name’s Anon. You must be Fluttershy?

 

>Smooth and suave all rolled up into one flirtatiously-mastered wad of handsome, Anon.

>Blind to it, Fluttershy merely squeaks and tries to pull her face into that oversized hoodie, kind of like a turtle.

>With her mouth and nose covered, her bright eyes stair over the neckline of the outerwear, examining your hand like one would unexploded ordinance.

>The puppies continue hopping about between the two of you, some of the rabid little devils scratting for attention at your legs.

 

“H-hey, geroff me!”

 

>You shuffle away from the mangy mutts and look at Fluttershy from a little further away.

>For some reason, she seems a tad dejected by you.

>Wriggling her head free of the hooded jumper, she speaks her first words to you.

 

“U-ummm. Hello Mr Anon… C-could you head th-through the back for me? I g-guess I should…”

 

>She gulps in a cartoonish manner.

 

“… Show you around… A bit… For a little while…”

 

>A guided tour beneath that frumpy looking hoodie would be most appreciated.

>The disappointing truth is the fact that the tour is to be of a piss-stained hospice for pets that no one loves, and not of this new “friend’s” chesticles.

>Bowing your head, you turn towards the indicated doorway.

>The skittering of the puppies’ claws on the hard, tiled floor is the only sound that accompanies your little duo down the series of cramped little corridors.

>The muffled sound of barking, meowing and so on becomes a little less muffled the further into the bowels of the building you progress.

>Finally, a rickety looking wooden door, held closed by an old-fashioned iron latch signals the final passageway between you and the animals.

 

>Sucking up your distaste for fauna, you unhook it and stride into the morning air once more.

>Dogs.

>Dogs everywhere.

>As presented, this would be the kennels of the shelter.

>It consists of a narrow alleyway that is bordered by two temporary buildings on either side, each one filled with row after row of pens for canines of all sizes, breeds and persuasions.

>They all bark like complete lunatics at the sight of a newcomer.

>It’s kind of intimidating, like being in a pen full of starved wolves.

>Fluttershy strides up behind you.

 

“E-excuse me? Anon? Could you l-let me by, please? If y-you don’t mind.”

 

>Still staring at your prison, you give a grunt and step back, allowing the girl to squeeze by you in the cramped doorway.

>The girl looks at the small gap, then to you, then back to the gap again, hesitating about passing by.

>There’s no way she suffers social anxiety to /that/ extend, right?

>Apparently, considering she slides herself into the gap the same way a tightrope walker takes their first step onto a dangerously high wire.

>The tight squeeze forces her to press up against you bodily as she scrapes past.

>She harbours a very natural, feminine smell.

>The smell of a girl who’s clean, but doesn’t smother herself in perfume or claggy smelling makeup.

>It’s a difficult one to describe as it is barely noticeable.

>A little bit of a marzipan smell comes from that pink ponytail, as a few stray strands tickle your face.

>Almond shampoo, it would seem.

>Her lower body makes hovering contact with yours as she presses through, exciting you just a little bit.

>Her arched frame is curvy but slim and felt firm in that brief second of contact.

>The shy girl is packing.

 

>Her and the litter of puppies pop out the other side, ending your semi-awkward/semi-arousing liaison.

 

“So…”

 

>You decide to try and talk to the girl a little, loosen her up.

 

“… I don’t think we’ve met. You at high school? Senior year?”

 

>No response.

 

“What about your age? Eighteen?”

 

>Again, the girl remains silent as she leads you down the alleyway of yapping hounds.

 

“Have you been working here long, Fl-F…

 

>Shit, what was her name?

 

“… Uh… Miss?”

 

>Well that blunder is certain to rock the already rocking boat.

>Suddenly, she stops at the side of one of the larger pens and strains her arm on the latch.

>The puppies, meanwhile, dance and play around her feet.

>Sensing their hyperactivity and struggling to keep her arm coordinating with the turbulent mass tied to it, she gives up on the door and diverts her attention to her charge.

>She places her hands on her knees and bends over them with a warm smile on her face.

>Too bad the puppies are between you and her and not on the opposite side.

>You’d probably be able to see right up that skirt if she was facing the other way.

>Fucking hell.

>When did you become a borderline sex pest?

 

“Now now, little ones. I want you to keep calm for Mama Fluttershy…”

 

>Fluttershy!

>That was it!

 

“... If you’re not, I can’t open this gate and you won’t be able to rest your wittle pawsies.”

 

>Why are the dogs allowed full sentences when you only get stuttered and broken phrases?

>Totally unfair.

>Nevertheless, this is the first time you’ve heard her voice in proper use.

 

>You scour your brain for a more poetic way to describe it but only one thing comes to mind.

>Soothing.

>Unbelievably warm and soothing.

>All the dogs congregate below her face, pushing and shoving each other to try and place a lick on her yellow nose.

>The girl gives a toothy grin and expels a deep (relative to her soft voice) giggle from her throat.

 

“Ah ah ah!”

 

>She waggles a finger at them.

 

“Are you going to sit down like good boys and girls? Pleeeeeease?”

 

>Pft, should’ve known.

>There’s always a catch.

>This one’s completely bonkers, talking to animals like they understa…

>Holy shit.

>Ho-lee shit!

>The sudden quietness from the litter almost blows your eardrums out.

>They have all stopped and are sitting patiently, looking up at “Mama Fluttershy” with a childlike sort of wistfulness.

>It’s sort of like they were obeying her.

>Listening to her.

 

“That’s impossible.”

 

>You deadpan your words, staring at the obedient pups.

 

“Good job! Now you just sit there like the little angels you are while I try and get this big, old, heavy gate open for you all.”

 

>Fluttershy flexes her thin arms and sets to work on the rusted lock once more, pulling at it with all her might.

 

“Oh… My…”

 

>She leans off of the handle with all of her bodyweight, swinging around it as if the inertia would budge the defective contraption.

>She grunts and strains through gritted teeth.

>Why won’t she ask for help?

>She clearly needs it.

>Enough is enough, you’re stepping up to the plate.

>Like Arthur did unto the Excalibur, you shall dislodge this lock.

 

“Excuse me, Miss Fluttershy. Do you mind if I try and get that unlocked for you?”

 

>She stops futilely tugging at the metal gate and looks at you with an expression that consists of both fear and bemusement.

 

“P-pardon?”

 

“I said I’d help you. It’s what I’m here to do, ain’t it?”

 

“…”

 

“… Well… Uh.. Okay then. Here goes.”

 

>You roll up the sleeves of your jacket and crack your knuckles.

>Of course, you’re not the most physically imposing guy in town but it’s a safe bet that you’re packing more firepower in your guns than that fragile little creature over there.

>Licking your lips, you eye up the lock

>Fluttershy backs away from the door, leading the jarringly obedient puppies out of your stride.

>You make a big show about rolling your shoulders and cracking your neck this way and that, just so she knows that this is serious business and you’re just the man for serious business.

>Lacing your fingers around the handle of the latch slowly, you give it an experimental tug.

>Seems easy enough.

>You brace your body and yank with considerable force.

>With only the smallest amount of resistance, the lock slides free.

>It’s common knowledge what happens when you tug at something that budges unexpectedly.

>The heavy metal door flies open, sending you skidding backwards and to the floor.

>After the backpedal ass-plant combo, you sit on the floor, a little too dazed to stand immediately.

>A tiny little noise escapes from beside you.

>Is… Is she giggling?

>You’re not certain but that’s sure as hell what is sounded like.

>Without a word, Fluttershy steps over your dazed form, allowing you to be trampled by the puppies in the process.

>If you didn’t still need a second to recover from that tumble, you’d probably get riled about her blatant disregard.

>You’re just dusting yourself off when Fluttershy remerges from the dog pen, this time without five little horrors attached to her.

 

>For the first time, she actually takes the time to look at you for more than a few seconds in one burst.

 

“It’s cool. Didn’t have to help me up or anything.”

 

“Oh… Sorry. I-I just thought… Y’know… With you not liking the puppies near you and all, you might not want m-me to… Help.”

 

>Maybe she’s rubbing it in or maybe she’s just dense, but you decide to try and play the bigger person and quell your anger internally.

 

“Hey. No sweat, alright? Glad I managed to help you out and all.”

 

>She retreats into herself a little, physically pulling away from your kind words.

>Also, there appears to be the faintest hint of a blush highlighting her face.

>Time passes with an awkward silence, before she finally opens her mouth once more.

 

“Ummm… I don’t want to bother you but… Uh… You kinda should be wearing your uniform… Maybe?”

 

>Ugh.

>That dreaded navy blue vest.

>You’d been hoping that you’d manage to get away from that obligation once Miss Dearheart was out of the picture.

>It appears as if your new partner also plays by the rules.

>You shrug, and wrap your fingers around the base of your t-shirt, tugging it upwards.

 

“Uhh… Oh! Umm… Anon? Don’t you want to y’know…”

 

>You hesitate in your undressing, looking at her with a quizzical eyebrow raised.

 

“… Wouldn’t it be better if you got changed in the toilets? I mean, because… Like…”

 

>She squeaks and looks at her shuffling feet, clasping her hands behind her back submissively.

>Even though it is but a few metres trek back to the toilets, you cannot find the motivation to make the trip.

 

“Nahh, I’ll just swap tops here. If you feel awkward, just look away or something.”

 

“Oh… Well okay… If that’s fine by you then I guess…”

 

>Hesitantly, she turns her back to you.

>It’s kind of hard to imagine a girl so innocent that she feels the need to look away from the sight of a /male/ upper body.

>At least you managed to keep yourself in shape after numerous pizzas and other crappy foods.

>You wind the top up your chest, pulling it over your head before discarding it to the ground.

>Fluttershy is still staring in the opposite direction.

>Shrugging at the weirdness of it all, you engage yourself with your uniform, bringing it down over your head.

>Having had to strain a little to get the uncharitably sized neckline of the top over your head, you’re dressed for the part, flattening your now ruffled hair.

>The strange part about it about it all is that the pink-haired charity worker is already facing you, without being told that you were finished getting changed.

 

>Again, that slightest hint of pink, and not in her hair but rather across her cheeks.

>Odd.

 

“Miss Dearheart asked me to sh-show you around first… Is that okay?”

 

>You shrug your shoulders and begin fumbling in your pockets for that trusty deck of cigs.

 

“Yeah, whatever’s good. I’m not really that bothered what I do here.”

 

>There is some truth to that.

>You can’t think of a task less menial or horrid than any of the potential work here.

>So, your mentor, colleague and likely jailor turns her back to you and begins walking further into the abyss.

>Wrestling out that all-important deathstick, you keep pace with her, the wind making it an arduous task to get your cigarette lit.

>After a handful of seconds struggling with your lighter, you find success, that familiar bitter burn seeping its way into your throat and lungs.

>Granted, it is an expensive vice, but it has got its perks on days like this.

>You exhale gratefully, blowing the smoke at an upwards angle.

>The cloud is followed by a sigh of relief.

>A sniff can be heard from the girl who walks a few paces ahead and in an instant, her head swivel and her eyes aim straight at what hangs from your lips.

>Those eyes are wide.

>Beautiful too.

>Beautiful.

>Pfft.

>Pfffffffffffft.

>You’re not a faggot, Anon.

>Why don’t you start writing poems about the black chasm that is your soul-rending life while you’re at it?

 

>Ending the brief, internal argument with your inner emo, you redirect your attention to Fluttershy, who continues to stare.

>A hesitant smack of her lips preludes a shaky request.

 

“C-can you p-put th-that out… P-please?”

 

>No matter how little she sounds to be authoritative, there’s a tiny edge to her tone.

>It almost sounds like annoyance.

>What difference does it make?

>You doubt she’d follow up a roasting or have even enough courage to tell tales.

>Your guess is that you will be able to manipulate this girl in your favour; avoid excessive work and whatnot.

>This’ll be a good way to test the waters.

 

“Hey. We’re outside, correct?”

 

“Y-ye-“

 

“Exactly. I can smoke here.”

 

>Offering her nothing more than a sarcastic shrug and a smug curve of your lips, you make a little bow as if you’ve won unanimously.

>It doesn’t take very long for it to become clear that this is most certainly /not/ the case.

 

“A-Anon, put it out.”

 

>Stutter count: 1.

>Definitely an improvement for the timid girl.

>She has stopped walking, now facing you head on.

>A defiant glare from your eyes meet a stubborn one from hers.

 

“The animals don’t like it.”

 

>Oh, fuck off.

>There are numerous things with this.

>Firstly, how can she possibly know that the animals have an opinion on tobacco smoke?

>Secondly, they’re fucking animals, not people with coherent thoughts and preferences.

>You grip the cigarette between your fingers and remove it from your mouth, steadily letting out a stream of second-hand smoke.

 

“Sorry to break it to you, but they’re just animals.”

 

>Her little, yellow hands curl up into fists and her arms tense at your response.

>Seems like you hit a nerve with that last remark.

>Pissing her off isn’t a big no-no in your book, though.

>She’s just some charity worker.

>So, with that being that, why do you feel lament under her ireful stare?

 

>What the hell is up with you?

>Be a man about it.

>During yet another internal debate, something she’s good at instilling in you, the daggers shooting from her eyes steadily become more and more blunt and benign.

>Her shoulders drop and she relaxes her hands.

>Closing her eyes, she lets out a steady yet exasperated sigh.

 

“Anon… P-please, just put it out. I-I don’t want to f-fall out with you. We kinda need t-to… U-um… Mmm…”

 

>Those turquoise orbs dart this way and that with the turning of gears in her head.

>While she searches for something to say, you feel a little confused.

>What do you need to do?

>What do the pair of you need to engage in that requires a lack of confrontation?

>One thing comes to mind.

>Real life isn’t a porno, though, Anon.

>Get a life.

>Still, you’re a little hesitant in questioning her.

>Pressing the only quarter-smoked cigarette into the wall, you let out your last drag with your interrogative.

 

“What do we need to… Er… Do, exactly?”

 

>Looking at the wall where you extinguished your straight, her lips quiver ever so slightly.

>It’s not obvious but that could… It could… Maybe…

>It /could/ be a smile.

>One not aimed at her animal friends.

 

“W-well, Miss Dearheart said you’ll be here for a long time and… Um… So will I. I k-kinda don’t want to not like you… But… Well… You see… It’s really… Sorta… Hard to do th-that.”

 

>As her speech goes on, it becomes progressively quieter.

>She adds the proverbial icing to the proverbial cake that is her sentence by turning her head away and flinching, as if worrying you might retaliate.

>Any response you can think of doesn’t match the emotion you feel at present.

>It’s the most backhanded, implied proposition you’ve ever received; that proposition being one of a potential friendship.

>On the one hand, you feel indignant at the idea that anyone would find it difficult to like you, especially when you’ve attempted to lay on the charm and been met with almost complete disregard while, on the other, you feel complimented that she wants to be friends.

>Might as well stoke the fire of thought a little.

>You bring your cigarette to your lips once more, ready for that all important surge of carcinogens to spark some kind of idea.

>Only, you end up sucking on the air between your index and middle finger.

>What?

>Oh.

>You had put out that cig, at the request of Fluttershy.

>…

>Fucking… What!?

>How did that work?

>Noting the eye-contact you still hold with the girl in question, you decide to mull over that mystery at a later date and at least say /something/ to her.

 

“Sorr….”

 

>You cough loudly.

 

“… Sorta underst-stand you… Yeah…”

 

>Cocking your head on the side, you give her a weak smile.

 

 

>Casting an analytical gaze across your face, she looks pensive for the briefest of moments, leading up to her taking her phone out, without a word, and tapping away furiously at the screen.

>Still feeling a little confused as dishevelled about it all, you stand wordlessly as she finished, waits for thirty seconds or so and finally checks her phone again, following it buzzing and making a small “meow” in her hand.

>She hums a little “mmm” and nods her head, before turning away and starting to walk further into the grounds behind the animal shelter.

>As you stare at her swaying ponytail, you get some time to think a few things through.

>Holy fuckballs; that was a close one.

>What the hell has gotten into you, Anon?

>Apologising when she is the one who quite clearly has the problem with you?

>Get it together, man.

>So far, you’ve bowed down to a request founded by the logic that animals have preferences towards a smoke free environment and almost apologised for this girl not liking you for no reason.

>Perhaps you’re still drunk from more than a day ago.

>It’s the most plausible explanation.

>During this lull in awkward conversation, puppy-dodging and standing around like a bloody idiot, Fluttershy has escorted you to the front of a rather new-looking building, perched on the border of a fenced-off field littered with a menagerie of dog toys.

>From inside said building, you can hear the buzz of activity and the scratching of claws on tiled flooring.

>Fluttershy stops at the door and turns to you.

>You halt as well, switching focus between the building and your “friend” in the hope of pulling some elaboration from her with your expression.

>It appears to work.

 

“Ummm… S-so… W-we were supposed to start by f-feeding mucking out the stables but… I-I had an idea…”

 

>An idea, she says?

 

“An idea, you say? What’s that then?”

 

>In all honestly, you have absolutely no guess as to what she’s changed your work schedule to.

>By the sounds emanating from the small structure just a head, you’d hazard a guess that it has something to do with dogs.

>Fluttershy shuffles her feet together and stares intently at the floor.

 

“U-umm… Well… I hope you don’t mind but I s-sort of made a guess that you d-don’t… Uh… Don’t l-like animals?”

 

>Her inflection gives away her search for confirmation.

>You oblige.

 

“Yeah. I mean, no offense or anything but I’m not an animal person so this isn’t really my dream job.”

 

>She looks almost pleased at this revelation.

>Probably smug that she has you sussed.

>That in itself is rather annoying, considering how she’s seemingly been able to manipulate stuff on some profound level.

>Passive aggression is surely the method to give rise to the next Nazi regime.

>She looks back to the door behind her, craning her neck a little.

>It’s a pretty nice neck, actually.

>Err…

>Moving on…

>After looking at the door, she looks back to you, still displaying that ever-present uncertainty that is quite annoying at this stage.

 

“W-well… I texted one of the other workers and asked if she’d c-cover the horses for us so you can come and try the n-nice stuff f-first… W-well, it m-might help you… Oh dear, Fluttershy…”

 

>Why is she scorning herself?

>Her face shines a garish red hue as she pulls that grey hoody up and over the lower half of her face once more.

>The following words come muffled from somewhere inside that grey top.

 

“…I thought I-I could… M-maybe help y-you get to know the animals… I-if you give them a chance, m-maybe you won’t feel so bad about them?”

 

>She winces, closing one eye, keeping her one remaining open one fixated on your reaction.

 

>Yet /again/, you’re faced with a silence as awkward as an Amish at an Apple store.

>She’s most certainly wrong about the animals.

>Granted, you’ve not had much to do with them your entire life but that doesn’t mean a new experience will change much.

>They’re just brainless balls of fur or scales or perhaps both.

>Fluttershy makes a small squeak in light of the extended quiet, likely assuming an impending “no”, and starts to sink further into her oversized clothes.

>It’s pitiable, in truth, and not even you, with your need to be cold and calculated to feel masculine, are heartless enough not to at least give the shy girl a chance.

>Softening your eyes genuinely for the first time today, you push a hand forwards.

>Two untrusting eyes gaze upon the offered handshake.

 

“Listen. I’ll play along, alright? I’m dead serious. I’ll give ‘em a chance but I will warn you; I’m not often wrong about shit, especially when it comes to my own opinions.”

 

>You leer at her through one squinted eye.

>An “eep” passes through the grey fabric.

 

“Just chill out, okay? I’ll cut a deal with you.”

 

“Mmmm?”

 

>That probably means “deal?”

>It must be difficult to articulate oneself when trying to mouth around thick outerwear.

>Acting on your hunch, you proceed to explain the terms.

 

“If I enjoy it, I’ll turn up on time every day from here on in, that’s your win.”

 

>She nods hastily.

 

“If I don’t enjoy it /or/ something bad happens, that’s my win.”

 

>Another identical nod.

>This time her eyes flick back to your face.

>She furrows her brow.

>It takes a quick wriggle from her head, but she frees her mouth from the confines of her clothing.

 

“W-what d-do you get if it’s… Y’know?”

 

>For crying out loud.

>Is /one/ sentence so difficult?

 

“If it’s what, Fluttershy?”

 

>Your tone is less than subtle in its impatience.

 

>Picking up on this, she twitches a little and fumbles with her collar, externally debating whether to hide her face again.

>Thankfully, she manages to finish her question.

 

“What i-if you win?”

 

“If I win, I… I…”

 

>You hadn’t thought of that one.

>It’s not in Fluttershy’s power to let you out of work early or release you from this prison-esque “community service”, so that gateway is shut for the time being.

>Money’s not a big deal; you have enough and this chick doesn’t look loaded.

>In fact, the only thing that comes to mind would likely have her break down in tears at the mere mention of it or have her run to the police, accusing you of being a sexual predator.

>Either that, or she’d ask you to go to confession for being a lustful sinner.

>Seems the type with the lack of social skills and unfitted clothing.

>Let’s just take that thought and put it in the trash, Anon.

>She might be easy on the eyes but there is no way sex with her would be worth the inevitable crying afterwards… Or the stuttering… Or how bad she /will/ be at it...

>We can go over this later, right?

>Yeah.

 

“I haven’t decided yet, ‘Shy… D’ya mind be calling you that?”

 

>With wide eyes, she stares at your face, shaking her head slowly with a comically dumbfounded expression.

>She opens her mouth as if to say something, then closes it once more and considers your handshake again.

>It takes a brief moment for anything to happen, padding out this already seethe-inducingly long exchange, but, as luck would have it, she appears to have come to a conclusion in her own head.

>You can tell by watching how she snakes her hand out from its sheathe within the over-long sleeves that hang past her hips.

>Slowly (but surely), her arm makes a long, arduous sweeping motion up as she extends her reach to meet your handshake in the middle.

 

>You flex your fingers one by one, in mild impatience, as that shaking yellow hand makes its final approach gingerly.

>At last, having waited the passing of three centuries or something, she makes contact.

>The hand on hand action almost feels electric.

>Strange, to say the least.

>You grasp it firmly and give a manly shake.

>She does not squeeze back so much as let her arm go limp as you move her hand up and down.

>There was a shake at least, so it constitutes as a deal anyway.

>Nevertheless, you feel compelled to question how official this affair is.

 

“We good, then?”

 

>That’s when you take a look at her… Then back your hand.

>You’ve not released her yet and the result is beyond papable.

>She stares at the point where you touch, her face illuminated like an aeroplane beacon.

>If she redirects any more blood to those cheeks, she’ll likely pass out.

 

“Err, ‘Shy?”

 

“Eeep!”

 

>The poor girl nearly flies out of her own skin, literally jumping into the air.

>During her brief flight, she snatches her hand back and retracts it quickly into her far-too-big sleeve.

>This one is the strangest girl you’ve ever met.

>That’s coming from the guy at a school where people fuck in the corridors and release their loads on unsuspected dickheads or earn rumours about eating a retard’s genital warts or get fingered on the back of moving coaches during school excursions.

>Who were those guys again?

>Thinking of school brings you to another interesting question.

>You’ve never seen this girl around before and you’re sure that the sphere of influence about Canterlot High was pretty damn large.

>If she lives close enough to work here for no pay then she surely must go to the same school as you.

>Maybe she’s home schooled.

>Then again, given her demeanour, there’s a chance that her preference to invisibility makes her good at slipping under the radar.

>Ah well, maybe it’ll come to you later.

>Right now, there is a task at hand.

 

“Fluttershy, are you, y’know, alright?”

 

>Her eyes meet yours, looking both scared and…

>… Would hopeful be the right word?

>You never really were much of a poet so articulating this shit ain’t easy.

>Following a short moment, she makes a response.

 

“Y-yes… Thank you. Sorry I-I just remembered s-something from yesterday a-and got a b-bit… Ummm… Y’know… S-side-tracked.”

 

>Is that so?

>You mull over questioning what sounds like a blatant lie but think it’d be better not to risk sending the girl into a seizure induced by the raw power of cringe.

 

“No big deal, ‘Shy.”

 

>She flinches again.

>It’s troubling that she would turn away every time you say that shortening of her name.

>Granted, she flinches every time you even look at her but it’s a different kind of flinch in this situation.

>Hard to tell why, but you’re sure something isn’t right with it.

>Does she not like that nickname?

>More importantly, do you care?

>It’s easier to say so if she dislikes it she’ll learn to cope.

>…

>But… Do you care?

>Brain, seriously bro, knock it off.

>Your self-declared narcissism is not about to be squandered by this timid little creature.

>Only one thing can break that stubbornness that you take such pride in.

>One thing all men are powerless against; something Fluttershy would never be able to provide.

>You refer to, of course, tits.

>It’s at that point that Fluttershy turns to the door behind her, bringing her hands to the bottom of her hoody and beginning to remove it.

 

>Weirdly, you feel a tinge of an inner-gentleman, telling you to look away.

>That’s not anything you’ve felt before.

>It only dictates around 2-3% of the votes in your body though, after all, biology forces you to follow the instinct to eye her up; scope her potential, so to speak.

>What you find by looking is both a shock and a beautiful revelation.

>As Fluttershy lifts her hoody, she slides into view a slim form.

>The fabric of the top catches on the base of the polo-shirt beneath, lifting it ever so slightly higher than her belly button.

>You catch a glimpse of a flat, tones stomach, smoothly curving into the top of her skirt.

>For some reason, you think of a skate ramp, given how perfectly smooth it is.

>There’s even a hint of that peach fuzz that girls have lining their body.

>Your hands twitch with eagerness to wrap your arms around her midriff, pulling that lithe body in close to yours.

>This small show is nothing compared to the encore.

>As the grey jumper is pulled higher, her top regrettably falls back down to its pre-assigned position, severing the view of that fantastic stomach.

>It does, however, bring into your field of vision a pair of wondrous feats of nature.

>The eighth wonder of the world…

>The Valley of the Shadow of Breasts…

>The Dynamic Duo of boobage…

>To make it very clear; Fluttershy is packing one hell of a rack.

>Hazarding a guess, you’d place the two navy-clad jugs at DD, perhaps bordering E.

>They are so disproportionate to her petite frame, yet it suits her perfectly.

>Always the quiet ones.

>/Always/.

>Any second now, the well-endowed female will turn and catch your unconcealed, trance-like stare.

>This is something that is poking at the back of your mind.

>Though, to tear your eyes from the pure cosmological wonder that is this perfect ten chest is a more taxing demand than you think you can take.

 

>It almost takes the use of your arms to avert your gaze, but you manage to bring your eyes back to her face in time for her finishing removing the garment and finding your stare again.

>There’s a brief pause, her eyes lingering upon your face.

>It is coupled with a look of what seems to be disappointment.

>Perhaps she caught you.

>It is her, this time, who shakes herself out of a daze.

 

“C-come this way, Anon. In here…”

 

>Pushing the key that hands from her neck into the door, she gives it a quarter turn and pushes the door open.

>Upon stepping inside, she turns to you and beckons you in, only making eye contact for the briefest of moments.

>The room has almost too much going on at once.

>Dogs in cages line the walls, all turning in place out of excitement.

 

“W-we take them out into th-the playpen in groups, these are the next ones out.”

 

>Her hushed tones are nigh impossible to make out in the mayhem around you but you manage.

>She turns to one of the cages.

 

“Yes you are, aren’t you? You’re going out to play with your fwiends hmmm?”

 

>She slides her finger between the mesh and tickles the dog’s chin, something which it leans into with a canine smile.

>Fluttershy giggles throatily, once again within her zone with the animals.

>She turns to you.

 

“C-could you h-head out into the field and check the gates for me?”

 

>Almost down to no stuttering now; maybe your charm can lull this one into a sense of security.

 

“Sure thing, ‘Shy.”

 

>Again, that wince.

>Halting yourself, you look at her in question.

>She simply lowers her eyes from your scrutiny and returns to the dogs.

>You’re going to have to ask her after work today.

>After work?

>What, so you want to hang out with this girl now?

>Times are a changing, Anon.

>With a conflicted mind, you head towards the door leading to the field.

 

>The day is heating up at a rapid pace.

>It appears that today is to be glorious.

>Lucky for you; you get to spend it working with smelly, obnoxious animals in a shelter rather than down at the beach or in the park with your friends.

>You reach inside for that satisfying rage about your predicament.

>Navigating the edge of the grassy expanse, you ball your fists into righteous annoyance.

>You search for your cigs.

>As you pull one out, you look back to the building, looking through the window.

>Inside, you see the shape of Fluttershy crooning to the bounding hounds around her.

>A warm smile sits on her face.

>Without thought to it, you slide that cigarette back into its holder.

>It’s fine; you can wait until your break or something.

>…

>Fuck it.

>You approach the final gate, giving it a small push to check how it holds.

>Locked.

>Everything seems to be in order.

>Stealing a glance back at the building that houses the dogs, you can see Fluttershy stood, visible in full, facing the door and holding her arms out to you.

>That figure is framed so perfectly in the light.

>You consider how it would feel to peel that too-tight, slightly dorky uniform from her form.

>A small zap strikes your loins and you rip your thoughts away with haste.

>You hold your arm up with a thumbs up to tell her that all’s well.

>Nodding at your signal, she pushes the door open; and out floods pure bedlam.

 

>All the dogs come rushing out, tails wagging and tongues lolling this way and that.

>Immediately, they begin to chase and jump each other, hopping about in canine mirth.

>It kind of makes you feel jealous; to be so carefree would be pure bliss.

>No exams, no need for social status, no stigmas to disassociate with, they live with no worries whatsoever.

>In the wake of the dogs, Fluttershy comes out, running merrily with them.

>Running.

>Oh God, why?

>Her bountiful bosoms are definitely not designed to be ran with.

>They bounce heavily upon her chest, bringing about a hypnotic trance fuelled by pure, carnal instinct.

>Her jogging causes her torso to sway side to side too, teasing you with the sway in her form.

>All the things you could do with such a plentiful form.

>Tilting your head back with a smirk, you close your eyes, losing your mind to fantasy.

>Your hands twitch at the thought of pressing them to the side of her breasts, pushing them together and up before your eyes, the soft flesh entrapping your senses.

>A stint of arousal shoots through your body and the slight ache of an oncoming erection warns you to stop going there.

>You do, cancelling the dirty thoughts to avoid detection.

>Today was not the day to wear tight jeans, Anon.

>Reluctantly, you open your eyes again, only to find yourself watching the running girl once more.

>There’s that cute, bent-armed run that some girls do.

>Good God.

>She’s so delightfully feminine.

>How can one girl be so virile as to do this to you?

 

>A huge smile is plastered across her face and it looks like those tits... Fluttershy… are/is coming in your direction.

>For the first time in your teenage life a pang of insecurity shoots through your mind and soul.

>Thirty metres away.

>As more of her comes into view, more of her figure is clear to appreciate.

>Aside from her reciprocating chest, you find admiration in the rest of her.

>Inspected as a single unit, her body almost defines perfection.

>Her legs, although slender, ripple with the strength of an athlete, toned, marked and true to her surprising form.

>When donning a smile, her face redefines the look of an angel.

>Her eyes illuminate her entire form with joy.

>Oddly, without knowing when you started, you find yourself smiling back at her.

>Bringing your hand to your mouth, you literally wipe the smile from your face.

>Twenty metres.

>Panic about your perception floods your mind.

>Suddenly, your hair, your clothes, even the way you are stood matters to you.

>Rearranging yourself promptly, you bring about as much casualness as you can in your vibe.

>Ten metres.

>Wait, maybe you look like you’re /trying/ to play it cool.

>That’s the most obvious sign that you certainly are not cool.

>You resume your previous position, hunched and notably not posing.

>Then again, now you look as much of an idiot as what made you feel insecure in the first place.

>Fuck!

>Before you get a chance to rectify yourself, she pulls up at your side.

 

>Her apparent joy seems to leave her as she stops running.

>Are you really that much of a buzzkill for her?

>Perhaps not, as you note the tell-tale signs of embarrassment sketched into her features.

>Clasping one arm with her hand, she finds great interest in the floor beneath her.

>Feeling a slight bolster to your confidence in knowing that you are not the most insecure out of the two of you, you take it upon yourself to speak first.

 

“So… Er… What is it that we’re meant to do here?”

 

>A simple enough question; and one that you are genuinely unsure of the answer to.

>It brings about a short pause as the two of you watch over the dogs playing in the field.

>Smacking her lips nervously, she responds.

 

“W-we don’t really have to do… Umm… /Much/. All we have t-to do is make sure they’re all okay and maybe play a bit…”

 

>Slowly bending down, she wraps her fingers around a chew toy that lays at her feet.

>She brings it to her chest and remains still, pensively, as if contemplating the next move in some kind of chess game.

>You steal a glance at the toy, then at what it is pressed against.

>A swift internal kick to yourself forces an aversion in your eyes.

>Is this the second time that you’ve stopped yourself checking her out?

>You could count on one hand how many girls at school who get more time spent with you looking at their face as opposed to what lies further south.

>You don’t get time to argue with yourself with any kind of direction, as the toy in her grasp is gently nudged against your hand.

 

“Do you… Want to… Try it?”

 

“Not really. I kinda…”

 

>As you talk, you turn towards the girl, finding her to look most disheartened.

 

>The toy that she had grasped before now hangs limply in her hand at the base of a dropped arm, kept aloft only by the tips of her fingers.

>Her face is turned on a slight, away from you, with her hair falling in front of her eyes.

>She appears smaller than usual; something that isn’t a light statement to make.

>Your heart whines a little at the sight and words form themselves in your throat without any higher functions having a vote in the matter.

 

“I guess it can’t be /that/ bad… Right?”

 

“Y-you want to give it a try?”

 

>Using her free hand to brush her pink plumage from her face, she makes willing eye-contact with you; a well-established rarity so far.

>Those eyes shimmer with hope, containing a warmth that chips a little more at the ice you hold so close to your persona.

>Maybe you should murder her.

>Being in prison is preferable to being a total fag at the whims of a charity worker.

>Then again, with looks like yours, how long before you find yourself the subject of unwanted penile attention?

>Best use murder as a last resort.

>Homicidal tendencies or not, you find your mouth doing the thinking for you again.

 

“Yeah. Sure. Why not?”

 

>A quick shrug and weak smile is all you can give.

>However, by her reaction, you might as well have told her she’d won the lottery.

>Both her arms shoot out and she takes a tight grip of your bicep.

>She flashes a bright, white, toothy smile, with the same glowing quality as you saw when she ran with the dogs.

 

“Oh, Anon… That’s wonderful! I always thought you…”

 

>The sudden embrace, small as it may be, gives you what you can only assume are palpitations.

>Your ears suddenly ring and your ribcage rattles in protest to your pounding heart.

>As quickly as it comes, it is gone.

>Her enthusing is halted, met with a heavily juxtaposed silence.

 

>Trembling ever so slightly, she removes her hands from your arm.

 

“S-so sorry, Anon. I… I didn’t m-mean to…”

 

>Recovering from the unexpected outburst from the girl takes a little doing, but you find humour in the situation.

>Chuckling a little, you reach for the toy in her hand.

 

“Well, if I knew it’d make you /this/ happy, I might’ve been a bit more enthusiastic.”

 

>As you take a hold of the toy and remove it from her shaking hand, another shocker strikes you.

>For once, this nicety was not a line.

>It was a genuine statement.

>At this rate, you’ll soon be anointed as a saint or whatever it is they do in Cuckoo-Religious Land.

>You take a look at the toy in your hand then look at your partner questioningly.

 

“So… Uh… What am I supposed to do with this?”

 

>Her hands clasped behind her back modestly, she speaks more to your feet than to your face.

 

“J-just hold it up a bit and shout.”

 

>Simple enough instructions.

>It’d be hard to cock it up, at least.

>Feeling nervy, for whatever reason, you bring the toy up high and shake it enticingly.

 

“Uh… Here guys… Look what I’ve got!”

 

>You turn back to ‘Shy, who’s watching you analytically.

 

“Good?”

 

>She nods quickly, motioning to the results of your call.

>Nine dogs have engaged target lock and are hurtling towards you and an intimidating pace, all intent on being the one to get that toy from you.

>Every fibre of your being makes you want to shy away from the flea-bitten animals but you have a task to accomplish and a word to keep.

>Employing some form of sixth sense, Fluttershy does her best to smile encouragingly.

>This is a clear battle for her, given how much she’s visibly fighting her own timid nature to look you in the eye.

 

>Spurred by her effort, you redouble your own, trying to mimic her way with the creatures.

 

“Uh.. Come here… Uhm… Guys… Do you want it? Yes, you do… Yes you dooo!”

 

>Only the dead know peace from this humiliation.

>You even hear a small giggle from Dr Dolittle next to you.

>The warning signs of a blush start to heat your neck.

>Damn it.

 

“Th-that’s good, Anon.”

 

>Maybe not “damn it”, then.

>At last, the pack of dogs close the distance and arrive before you.

>It’s hard not to step back from the creatures engaging in Brownian motion about your feet, but you manage to keep your cool.

 

“Y-yeahhhh… You want it, don’t you?”

 

>Jeez.

>It sounds like your trying to fuck them, not play with them.

>Thankfully, Fluttershy doesn’t notice.

 

“Awwh, they like you.”

 

>Not one stutter there.

 

“So, what’s next, ‘Shy?”

 

“Oh… Uhm… N-now you th-throw it for them and say… Uhm… “F-fetch.””

 

>That borderline speech impediment is back all of a sudden.

>What is it with her and that nickname?

>A second mental note is slapped over the first, reminding you to question that one later on because, right now, you have instructions to follow.

 

“Fetch!”

 

>You can’t escape your wont for showing off your strength, and you launch the toy as far as you can make it go.

>Not to toot your own horn, but you’re damn sure you’ve got one of the better throwing arms out of your friends.

>Unfazed by your cross-country long throw, the entourage of slobber factories launch themselves in pursuit of the toy, battling for pole-position.

>It’s hard to deny the contagiousness of the dogs’ happiness, as watching them tugs at the corner of your mouth slightly.

>Fluttershy watches from your right, smiling shamelessly and in full.

 

“Wouldn’t it b-be nice to be like them, Anon?”

 

>Hold the phone.

>She’s making a conversation here?

>Like, a sort-of-kind-of-maybe-pseudo profound one?

>Well you’ll be.

>It’s only been about an hour or so and this impenetrable lockbox of timidity appears to be a tiny bit opened up.

>You’re not sure whether it is call for you to be arrogant about your skill with women or glad that you might have someone to talk to.

 

“Yeah, I guess. I was kinda thinking about that earlier.”

 

>This seems to elate her.

 

“Oh? Why?”

 

“Just thinking about stuff. I’m not too good at this deep stuff.”

 

>Perhaps you were a little too closed off there, but there’s no lie to your statement.

>Being earnest and deep is something you save for that time when you are alone, in total and utter mental clarity, usually just after beating off.

>Truthful or not, it’s no misnomer as to how ‘Shy has taken what you said.

>Yet again, she displays her fragility by turning away and hunkering down into herself.

>Why must you feel like such a tool for upsetting this girl?

>She’s the kind of person you’d chuck chips at in the canteen and now you give a fuck?

>Sighing at yourself, you decide to reword your statement.

 

“No, like, seriously. I wanna do deep but I suck at it. I guess it’s cool that dogs don’t have to worry about stuff like exams or parents or looking good or anything…”

 

>She perks up but fails to reply.

>In place of that reply, she looks at you in a way only meant to draw out more elaboration.

 

“… I mean… Uh… Dogs don’t have to look good do they, they got all the /bitches/ anyway!”

 

“…”

 

“/Bitches/! Am I right?”

 

>You offer a wide smile and spread your arms in a “ta-da” position.

 

>Were it not for the dogs battling over the chew toy in the distance, you’d be able to hear crickets.

>Not breaking her smile, she looks at you simply.

 

“I don’t get it.”

 

>Should have known.

>She’s not the type of girl to recognise a misogynistic term for girls such as “bitches”.

>Carefully, you consider how to backpedal from this, lest you offend her.

 

“Ummm… It’s sort of an inside joke between me and my friends. I kinda forgot that you don’t know about it yet.”

 

>That seems to do the trick.

>Having dodged that bullet, you decide to bring your conversation somewhere else.

 

“So, you’re at Canterlot High, yeah?”

 

>She nods her head with closed eyes.

 

“Mhmm. I’ve seen you around b-before… Haven’t you seen me?”

 

>Tapping your chin in feigned thought, you let out a long “hmmmm”.

 

“I can’t say I have. I don’t think I have your classes.”

 

“No… you don’t… but we do go to the same place at lunch… I-I thought you might’ve seen me. G-guess not.”

 

>Those last two words paint her to be a slight dejected at you not recognising her.

>Odd that she’d care.

>You start to search for a way to recant what you said but time runs out.

>One of the larger dogs has wrestled himself free of the pack with the toy in tow and is bounding over, expecting round two.

>It arrives promptly, dropping the toy at your feet.

 

“Heh, this one doesn’t n-normally bring it back bring it back so quickly… I guess he likes you a lot.”

 

>Eugh.

>Sorry, pal but the feeling is not mutual.

>You can hardly say that this dog bringing back the now drool covered toy with the expectation that you’ll throw it is his best bet for working his way into your heart.

 

>Looking at the dog disingenuously, you receive a prompt from Fluttershy.

 

“Go on… If you want to… maybe…”

 

>Every side of your internal debate is telling you to leave the middenous thing on the floor.

>That is, every side but one; the one that she has so expertly hijacked… The one that prevails.

>Gritting your teeth, you bend down and slowly raise the slimy object for another throw.

>At this, the dogs engage in the same excitement.

>You look at them, holding the toy high above your head.

>They bounce and hop, some barking and some simply barging about.

>Not one tail is wagging enthusiastically.

>It’s kind of fun.

>Wearing a smile, you launch the toy hard.

 

“Fetch!”

 

>Now with an established routine, there’s a comfort that surrounds you in watching the animals lark around.

>There’s no way you’re going to admit that one, though.

>That deal is not something you want to stick to.

>With the dogs gone, you turn back towards Fluttershy, whose hair flitters in the slight breeze.

>Time for another sixty second break in which you try to pry open the yellow one’s shell.

 

“So, anything you like besides animals?”

 

>Evidently stirred from some trance, she jumps when you speak.

 

“Oh! Uhmm… me?”

 

>You chuckle a little; her awkward social graces have a sort of charm about them.

 

“Well, yes. I’m not asking the dogs, am I?”

 

“Oh… S-sorry.”

 

>She has nothing to apologise for.

>Nor does she have anything to follow up her apology, such as an answer to your question.

>You decide to press anyway.

 

“Saying sorry is great and all, but I kinda would like to hear an answer.”

 

“Oh… Ummm… Sorry…”

 

>Of for the love of…

>Okay, so her awkward social graces aren’t charming 100% of the time.

>You force a smile to hide your frustration.

 

“So… What do you like to do?”

 

>Seeming to scan for inspiration, her eyes flicker over your surroundings.

 

“I… Uhhh… I-I like to sing… Spend time with my friends… N-not much interesting, I’m afraid.”

 

>Well, it’s something.

 

“Oh, you sing, huh? Are you any good?”

 

“W-well, my friends think so. I’ve n-never done anything with it, though.”

 

>The dogs are on their way back.

 

“Why not?”

 

>She pushes a lock of hair behind her ear and looks at the ground again.

 

“I-I just haven’t… I-I couldn’t sing to anyone… All th-that attention… I-it would be awful.”

 

>In all honesty, it would be hard to see another reply from her.

>She’d be the last girl you could see on a stage or in a limelight.

>At least she isn’t arrogant.

>With tits like hers, it should be a no-brainer that would be so.

>Once again, the dogs are on their way back, ready for another go.

 

“Y-y’know, Anon. You throw that pretty f-far… You… You must be pretty… p-pretty strong.”

 

>Freezing an expression of disbelief on your face, you rotate your whole form towards the girl.

>She’s actually straining her neck just to look away, tugging on a lock of her hair.

>Her legs are crossed over each other, one foot being used to stroke the back of her other calf.

>She just paid you a compliment and now she’s all choked up?

>Is… Is this flirting?

>Slim chance, but possible.

 

>Not that it matters, any kind of comeback might blow it.

>Shit.

>Why are you so caught up about it?

>This one’s cute and all but you’re not bound to her and her alone.

>Yet again, the toy is dropped at your feet and this time, in your eagerness to continue working ‘Shy over, you do not hesitate to pick it up and throw it.

>In an instant, the dogs are gone again.

 

“Thanks, ‘Shy…”

 

>You hesitate.

>C’mon, Anon.

>Follow it up with something.

>Leaving it there would surely kill the conversation dead.

>How about shooting a compliment back?

>Not necessarily something flirtatious; just something to bring about the sense that you appreciate something about her too.

>Nothing in your mind, you decide to adlib.

 

“Uh… Well you’ve got a really nice… Um… F-face?”

 

>For future reference, it might be an idea to not rely on improv’ to compliment next time.

>Your breath comes ragged as you attempt to drown yourself in the air around you, knowing full well the most sperglord blush is sitting pretty on your face right now.

>Oddly, no mockery comes you way, nor does the tense silence last.

>Instead, Fluttershy gives a small giggle and brushes her hand over your arm.

>That delicate touch.

>No matter how gentle she is, there’s no other sensation on your body that you can notice in that light.

 

“Thanks. I-I don’t get that very often…”

 

>Surely, everything went better than expected with that abysmal compliment.

>You conclude that her own lack of experience flirting might be why she can’t differentiate smooth from spastic, not that your given situation would make you complain about that.

>The pair of you share an awkward laugh and foot shuffle, you nervously playing with your jeans.

>Before you know it, the dogs are arriving back, that slimy toy spearheading the canine assault.

>Having found fun playing with the dogs, despite yourself, you offer no hesitation in picking it up, ignoring the drool.

 

“Heh, you think I can throw, eh?”

 

>The pink haired teenager looks at you wistfully, nodding slowly and eyeing the arm you intend to use.

 

“Well, check this out.”

 

>You close your eyes in focus, exhaling in one long, drawn out sigh.

>Summoning all your strength and perhaps some of the chi stuff that the Japanimation faggots like, you ready your arm.

>Three.

>Two.

>One.

>Expelling all the pent up energy, you arc your arm as hard as you can over your head.

>It works.

>The toy hurtles off at a blistering pace.

 

“Wow.”

 

>She’s right.

>Wow indeed.

>Not even you thought you could throw that far.

>Crossing your arms in victory, you smirk at the rapidly receding toy then at Fluttershy.

 

“Y-you’re really strong… Mmnnn~”

 

>She eyes your arm with a heaving blush, chewing at the bottom of her lip.

>Those eyes are still so innocent, too, which just paints the perfect picture of sex-appeal.

>You never knew that coy was your ultimate weakness.

>Your legs shake a little as you take in her body language.

>Her posture is open towards you for the first time, allowing you to truly appreciate the sculpted curves of her body.

>Her long, pink waterfall of hair frames her shapely chest perfectly, by falling down over her breasts, following the curvature in smooth, silken strands.

>Her thin arms, meeting in the middle at her waist where her hands clasp onto each other are the kind you’d love to envelop yourself in, her clinging to your midriff as you drag your own, gruff hands down the length of her spine to the prizes that lie yonder.

>That thought alone is marvellous, considering that, in doing so, you’d also have her soft flesh pressed against your torso in two, very noticeable places.

>Again, you admire her flat stomach, one thin strip of it on show due to her generous bosom pulling the too-tight polo higher.

>Just the thought of one finger’s trace along that, making her shudder, is enough to make you physically do the same.

>As you trace your eyes further and further down, you’re brought to your senses by a bright red Fluttershy.

 

“A-Anon… Ummm… Sorry to i-interrupt… B-but…”

 

>Shit.

>How long have you been entrances exactly?

>It’s not like you had been crafty in your ogling; she must have notice.

>Hence, that blush upon her face and her repositioning to a less exposed stance.

>Fuck.

>Then you notice that she is pointing away towards the neighbouring field.

 

“What is it, ‘Shy?”

 

>It’s at that point that you notice all the dogs clamouring at the fence in said direction, trying to find a way through.

>You must’ve launched the toy so hard that in ended up in the other field.

 

“No biggie, I’ll just go get it.”

 

>Fluttershy looks hesitant, but does not speak, once again withdrawn into herself.

 

>You feel compelled to reach out to her, try to physically pull her from her shell.

>It has been nice so far, having opened her up somewhat.

>So much so, that any indicator of her regressing actually weights a little on your chest.

>Shaking the thought away, you start to jog over to the fence in question, leaving the girl behind.

>As you run, feeling the air wash over your face and arms, you think over what exactly is going on.

>For some bizarre reason, you’ve not been able to maintain your normal cold distance from this girl.

>It’s been the strangest morning in recent memory.

>Worrying about your perceived image, you start to throw about the idea of shutting off from her and acting like you had before.

>Is it really worth sacrificing someone to talk to for the duration of this hellish placement just to maintain image?

>Then again, is your interest limited to having a companion?

>Perhaps, you see a friend in her.

>Perhaps, something more…

>Your cock would surely drink to that.

>You slow your pace once arrived at the fence, placing both your hands on it, ready for a vault.

>Teenage years spend running from police cars have taught you well in the art of useful parkour.

>It didn’t matter back then whether you had done something or not, you just ran for the thrill of it.

>Drinking and smoking underage were the worst of your crimes back then.

>Now you can add grand theft auto.

>Ah well, you’ve gotten off lightly.

>You lever your arms as you jump, clearing the four foot high fence with relative ease.

>It’d be cool if Fluttershy caught that, it might have her biting her lip again.

>God, that was hot.

>Thinking of that image distracts you enough to aid in a misjudgement of positioning.

>Your foot catches the top of the fence as you leap, taking your legs out from clean under you.

>Flipping one-eighty, you find your head is in the exact wrong place, entirely beneath your body, and dropping fast.

 

“Fuck!”

 

>That’s the one word that escapes you before gravity closes the distance between you and the earth.

>You see the muddy grass fly towards your face.

>Suddenly, everything goes black.

 

>The first sensation that returns to your battered mind is that of a cold, damp cloth, pressed against a particularly tender part of your head.

>It’s not still, but instead dabbing across your forehead, piloted by a most delicate touch.

>At first, you are unsure of where you are.

>As the edges of your vision seep into light, you become aware of a clinically white ceiling above you and a presence to your left.

>Allowing more time for your disorientation to break, the room around you comes into view a little more.

>It’s not a hospital, as was your first impression.

>There are posters on the wall with pictures of animals and the like.

>You’re still in the shelter, being nursed by…

>It’s at this point that you look up and are met with them.

>The sisters.

>Tips of pink hair tickle your face as Fluttershy panders to you, still unaware of your consciousness.

>Her upper-body is tilted over your head while she tends to the opposite side of your head.

>This positioning is sterling for your view.

>Whilst her arms busy themselves with caring for you, her breasts busy themselves with hanging only millimetres from your face, the rough fabric of her polo occasionally brushing your nose.

>The tiny little touches are tantalising, even in your dizzied state.

>Of course, the best part about it is her lack of care for modesty; evidently she still believes you to be asleep.

>Ensuring you remain as still as possible, you continue to feign unconsciousness.

>It appears as if she’s left something across on the surface opposite her, so, in order to retrieve it, she lifts from her seat slightly, towering over you.

>Upon bending over, you’re smothered by her luscious rack.

>The soft flesh envelopes your face, caressing your cheeks with the inner sides of her tits.

 

>In spite of the fabric, a hot sensitivity flushes through your cheeks, bringing the event to a new life.

>As she cranes further, her breasts drag slowly across you, the very middle sliding over your nose.

>You can swear you could feel a well-proportioned and /erect/ nipple poke at you, inviting a concerning warmth to your groin.

>By pretending to be out cold, you’ve cornered yourself in hiding any unwelcome erections should they come about.

>Still, temptation overwhelms you in the face – no punt intended – of your plight, and, careful to make no sudden twitches, you slowly press upwards, bringing your face into the expanse between the large orbs.

>Doing that, you also steadily move your head side to side, burrowing in further to her chest, the warmth and musk of half a day’s work showering your senses.

>The movement elicits a small shake in the girl.

>Also, a sharp breath.

>And, a noise.

 

“Mmmmmmn~”

 

>The same damn noise as she made before; that one she made as she bit her lip.

>Why is she making it?

>If only you could see her face now, though…

>Not a single girl has mixed the innocent eyes and quiet libido as she does upon making that face.

>Another dangerous temperature warns your pants.

>Pack it in, Anon.

>You’ll blow your cover; and something else if you’re not careful.

>Reluctantly, you retract your face a little, doing so causing Fluttershy to find what she had been reaching over for.

>Wait a second.

>Why had it taken so long for her to pick one thing up?

>Was she… delaying?

>Rationalising the odd is something you like to do but here you hit a rut.

>As you relax the muscles in your neck and retreat from the warm burrow you had made for yourself, only one reason for her pausing makes sense.

>The issue is that it only makes sense in a context that does not involve a sweet creature like Fluttershy.

 

>Gradually, the wondrous view is taken away from your vision, to be replaced with the harsh, synthetic lighting.

>Fluttershy sits upright in her chair, having found the small bottle of ointment that she had been reaching for.

>Not really thinking straight, you realise that you’d forgotten to close your eyes again, and your gaze meets hers.

>The jig’s up.

 

“Oh… Oh my…”

 

>Her cheeks go up like Christmas lights.

 

“Y-you’re awake?”

 

>Her intense blushing only serves to back up your hypothesis.

>Give it time, Anon; you can never be sure with this one.

>You decide it would be best to act as if you have only just come to.

>That’s not hard when you take into account the fact that half your head seems to pound with an intensity that makes you think of sledgehammer on pumpkin.

 

“Uurghhhh… F-Fluttershy?”

 

>She snaps her arm away from your forehead and covers the lower-half of her face with her wrist.

 

“Mhmmm?”

 

“What exactly…”

 

>A surge of pain hits your head.

>With you lacking the shield of semi-arousal, your body is apt to complain unabated.

 

“Ahhh… What happened?”

 

>Her arms poise, slightly panicked, as if ready to jump to a task.

 

“Oh my goodness, a-are you okay?”

 

“N-never better… Shit… So, er… the happening?”

 

>She begins to frantically stroke a selection of her hair with both hands, pulling it down.

 

“Oh… Uhmmm… Well… You t-tried to j-jump the fence and… I-I don’t know… Y-you fell d-down and hurt y-yourself…”

 

>A quick thought crosses your mind, even in light of your pounding and muddled brain.

 

“So… Why am I here instead of in a hospital or… Achhh… something?”

 

>’Shy makes a damn good mimic of a deer in headlights.

>After going wide-eyed, she drums her fingers on her legs twitchily.

>Her breathing intensifies just a little.

 

“’Shy?”

 

“Ohhh… Okay… F-fine.”

 

>Rather curt for demure, little Fluttershy.

 

“I-I got s-scared and I f-felt like… I felt like it was m-my fault s-so I w-wanted to look after you and… Also… N-never mind.”

 

>Never mind?

 

“I promise I w-would’ve called an ambulance, i-if you didn’t get b-better soon! R-really…”

 

>Still caught up on the whole “nevermind” business, you find it hard to push past it but you do so, if only to slow her rapidly accelerating state of panic.

 

“Fluttershy…”

 

“And I th-thought that b-because I m-made you g-go out I’m why you’re hurt bad…”

 

“Fluttershy…”

 

“I’m so sorry I-I’ll get an ambulance right now you’ll see and we’ll get you r-right to hospital and I-I’ll s-save up all my money and p-pay for a-any medical bills I…”

 

>Christ almighty.

 

“’Shy!”

 

>She halts her tsunami of excuses, promises and apologies.

 

“Seriously… Ahh… Relax, alright?”

 

“S-”

 

>You give a sharp gesture with your palm.

 

“Don’t… Say sorry.”

 

“Oh… S-”

 

>The word seizes in her throat and she shies from the perceived scorn, turning away from you.

>Feeling dazed and sick as ever, you do your best to hide your ailments and reach out to her.

>Placing a trembling palm on her thigh grabs her attention

>With a flinch and a wary glance at where you make contact, she looks at you.

>Those eyes; so pleading, so frightened, so… vulnerable.

>Her cheeks are a hot flush.

>The cold resentment that you want to feel just isn’t coming out of the recesses from which you would normally pull it.

>Truth be told, Fluttershy’s attempt at bonding you with the animals was the setting for your head injury and any other day you’d tear her a new one for it but…

>But, indeed.

>The unthinkable reaction leaves you.

 

>You give a weak smile and pat her thigh.

 

“Listen, ‘Shy. It’s okay.”

 

>Once again, she becomes flustered.

 

“R-really? I-I…”

 

>Painfully, you ease yourself upright on the couch that you had been laid across, hiding all grimaces you might make behind your palm.

>The whole display is to prove your good health, of course.

 

“I got a bump, I’m guessing?”

 

>You motion to the sore spot near your temple.

 

“Y-yes…”

 

>Her hands lace each other on her lap and she bores her eyes into her lap.

>A classic manoeuvre to hide her features behind a pink, silken wall.

>Three.

>Two.

>One.

 

“Oh goodness, Anon. Y-you do have a b-bump and it’s all m-my fault I…”

 

“’Shy!”

 

>That nickname.

>It’s like a buzzword with her.

>A “would you kindly”-esque tool to shush her without being rude, as proven many times over the course of the day.

 

“Listen. I’m fine; sore, but fine. Whatever it is you’re worried about, it’s cool.”

 

>She lowers her head once more, toying with her fingers.

>Her stance can be likened to a small child receiving a “I’m not angry, I’m just disappointed” speech.

 

“C’mon… Lighten up…. Uhm… For… For me?”

 

>Perhaps you are concussed.

>What in hell’s name made you think that would work?

>Like, seriously; you’re not the least arrogant person in the world but even you feel a tad narcissistic claiming that you’d be just cause for this girl who you’ve treated like shit to be happy.

>There’s more to…

 

“Okay.”

 

>Her lips quiver to a smile and those half-blue-half-green eyes pierce the shields of her locks.

>That aggressive vibrancy that so contrasts the quiet girl is hypnotic.

>All you find yourself doing is staring back, once again forgetting the pain in favour of some extrinsic factor.

>However, this time it is not lust but something outside of your grasp.

>Those perfect white teeth, sliding into view with her widening smile.

 

>Her lower eyelids are pushed up with her rising cheeks, framing her eyes in a slightly oriental and completely adorable shape.

 

“So…”

 

>She’s starting conversations now?

>Then again, you have no idea how long you’ve been stunned like a rabbit by a stoat.

>Even someone like her can only tolerate awkwardness for a limited time.

 

“So… W-we sort o-of had a deal…”

 

>What?

>Straining your battered and possibly haemorrhaging brain, you scan your memories for such a deal.

 

“Ummm… We did?”

 

>She almost looks hurt.

 

“Y-yes.”

 

>That smile drops instantaneously.

 

“Oh my. Anon! You’re concussed. This is h-horrible. I-I have to c-call a doctor. Th-this is my fault, I’m so-”

 

“Zippit, ‘Shy.”

 

>Obedient as ever, she complies.

 

“Tell me about the deal, ‘kay? We can panic about my imminent demise later.

 

>Most unsettled, she begins her exposition.

 

“W-well, you said that if y-you had fun you would turn up on time every day on time…”

 

>You nod and motion for her to proceed.

 

“But then you said if it wasn’t f-fun or if… If… If anything happened th-then you’d win something instead.”

 

>Having finished, she leans back in her chair, opening her posture a little.

>This shift gives you a brief window to ogle her once more, admiring how her parents had passed down the genetic material for the perfect, feminine shape.

>Her smooth back arched to prostrate her breasts so perfectly against the navy shirt.

>A warm sweat starts to form on the back of your neck.

 

>Battling yourself doesn’t bring about an instant victory over your lustful eyes.

>Your attentions trace down her frame, /again/, and this time you’re given no interruptions.

>Skipping over her stomach, you linger your gaze upon her short skirt, very quickly noting how she sits without crossed legs.

>From there, you get a sterling view of what is seated under that clothing.

>An adorable pair of…

>Adorable…?

>You had expected teddy bear or bunny pants so much that you had almost hallucinated them.

>What you find before you is a much different ball game.

>A thin, conservatively stitched pair of black, lace panties, cover her final frontier.

>There’s no sense in any of this.

>What use would a girl like her have for lingerie of that calibre?

 

“W-well… I had fun…”

 

“B-but-”

 

“Ah ah ah! Wait. I had fun, so I’ll hold up my end and turn up on time.”

 

>What the fuck is happening to you?

>Why are you doing this?

>As you mull these strange changes in your sense of right and wrong over the past several hours, the other side of the deal mumbles something.

 

“I’m sorry. What was that?”

 

>Eye contact.

 

“I said that you got hurt and that’s something bad that happened. Y-you won. D-don’t you w-want something for it?”

 

>An idea comes to your head.

>One that you are so desperate to catch before you voice it.

>One that can only be rationalised by physical trauma-induced insanity.

>One that you’re about to say.

 

“I got an idea. How about we grab a bite to eat after work today?”

 

>The way you said it was your best interpretation of Tony Stark.

>What follows is a slack-jawed Fluttershy, a wordless message coming from her.

>”What?”

>After the first, adrenaline-filled seconds, the realisation of your words sledgehammer the good side of your head.

>You have seriously just asked the young, yellow girl on a date.

>A thing that does not bode well for the result is the ever extending silence in the room.

>It weighs heavy, the air become dense around the two of you as her wide stare dances across your features.

 

“Heh.”

 

>An awkward laugh like that is all you can muster while you wince under a new pang of discomfort in your head.

>You rub at the sore point, looking at the girl who still stares through you.

>She opens her mouth to speak then stops.

>Then opens it again.

>Then stops again.

>Finally, proving that the third time is indeed the charm, this mouth opening brings words.

 

“I-I… I…”

 

>She stumbles over her words and retracts her posture.

 

“I’m… Maybe… Uhmm…”

 

>Almost pulling in the foetal position within her chair, she finalises her verbal catastrophe with a tiny, meek little word.

 

“Y-yes.”

 

>Relief washes through you.

>Unfortunately, that wave of relaxation running up your body doesn’t even exit out the top before the next wave starts, this one being panic.

>You have a date tonight with a girl you know nothing about.

>And now, you have to follow up this little back and forth with something, anything to make her feel like her agreeing was the right choice.

>Pulling your chin to your chest, you start doing a system-wide search for the next move.

>She mirrors you, creating a most horrific sight in the opinion of your more streetwise self.

>A few more seconds pass before something comes to your mind.

>Jerking yourself upright and towards her, you ready the line of the century.

>Incidentally, Fluttershy makes the same movement at the same time.

 

“’Shy, I-”

“Anon, y-”

 

>Like something out of a terrible rom-com, two sets of lips meet by complete fluke.

>Her warm, full and impossibly soft lips press against yours.

 

>As a light brush becomes full contact, her tensed shoulders drop and she’s sighs into you, delicately parting her mouth and twisting her head.

 

“Mmmmmm~”

 

>As she does this, a guttural and drawn out noise comes from somewhere within her, the vibrations of the moan travelling into your body, sparks flying through your nervous system.

>Your body jumps keenly at this and arousal immediately assaults every scrap of inhibition you have left.

>A short moment into the interaction, you start to bring your hand towards her chest.

>Prior to even making contact, Fluttershy’s lips snap together and her eyes shoot open, premature to you even being able to count this as a proper kiss.

>Jerkily, her head is pulled away from you, leaving you longing and with three-quarters of a boner that you hadn’t even noticed arrive.

>You cross your legs over to hide the intrusion while she fusses over her hair, straightening her composure in a rush.

>The two seconds of contact has changed her.

>Her physical appearance almost seems altered.

>Previously, the polo that she wore, although not fully buttoned due to the strain of containing so much, hung straight on her body.

>Now, one side of the neckline has plunged over the edge of her shoulder, revealing a black bra strap clinging to her flesh.

>Hell, even her shoulder holds sex appeal; a very light build, highlighting just how petite she actually is.

>It’s the perfect fit for a large, male hand such as yours to caress entirely.

>A weird compulsion to give her a shoulder-stroke-back massage hits you.

>Referring back to that bra strap, you now know that she’s wearing a matching set.

 

“Oh… Oh no…”

 

>Scrambling with her hands, she manages to yank the polo back into its position.

>Her hair also seems to have bunched into strands as opposed to one sheet.

 

>The parts not contained by her ponytail hand in long bags in front of her face, making her look dishevelled as if just laid.

>Needless to say, the look is most becoming on her angelic stature, giving a fallen angel sort of appeal to her.

>The more time elapses between present and the kiss, the more time she has to build up that pretence of purity once more.

>Once the last wayward hair is slicked behind her ear, the illusion is complete and the animal-caring-likely-church-going girl is back in the room.

>She offers up a smile in the awkward silence.

 

“S-so… Tonight… I-is it…?”

 

>She trails off wistfully.

>Pausing to allow her to pick her speech up again brings no clarification to what she refers to.

 

“Is it what, ‘Shy?”

 

>Wiping her face to gather herself, she battles to speak through her blush.

>Her words start loudly and trail off to near silence.

 

“Is… It… A… D-date?”

 

>Fuelled by that surety that no accidental bump could last as long as the one that had just happened, you feel cocky in answering.

>So much so, that you choose to answer her question with another.

 

“I don’t know, ‘Shy. Do you want it to be?”

 

>You opt to drop a sly wink in there after a slight of anxiety as to whether she’d catch the flirtatious banter.

>She brings her hands to her face, hiding all but her expressive eyes and looks at you.

>You give a pursed smile and hold your hands out as if to say “well?”

>After a quick survey of the room, she moves her hands up further and hides her face in its entirety, eyes and all.

>From within her new hiding place a very definitive signal emerges; she nods her head very quickly, almost vibrating, and flinches upon doing so, as if she expects you to rise up at the mere notion.

>Your wildly fluctuating confidence strikes again, this time making you feel almost as shy as the other in light of this confirmation.

>Still, you speak, mustering as much charm as you can.

 

“A d-date it is.”

 

>Her tightly clenched fingers slide open, once again revealing those eyes that you’re ever closer to photographing just to admire their beauty.

>Faggot.

>Those eyes narrow upwards once more, telling you that, behind her small palms, lies a wide smile.

>You give a smile back, refraining from reaching out to her to claim the main course after that small appetiser.

>Better be safe than sorry.

>The last of your headache has managed to slip away beneath the cover of your whirling confusion and emotions.

>Feeling almost right as rain, you look to the door.

 

“So, er… We gonna get back to work?”

 

>She nods behind her hands again and tentatively rises from her chair.

>The pair of you exit the room, you clutching an ice pack that sat on the table beside you before you had awoken.

>Walking down the corridor behind Fluttershy is all well and good, for the view, but you feel compelled to speak to her.

>Jogging to catch up to her side, you pester her for conversation.

>It feels so unbelievably demeaning to be literally running to her and pushing so much for conversation.

>Not even your closest friends receive that kind of treatment.

>Then again, your closest friend is Norman and, in truth, he’s more of use than he is a provider of companionship.

>That thought catches you for a second.

>How many real friends do you have?

>You snag that thought before it takes over you, deciding the best C.O.A is to cheer yourself up using your new acquaintance.

 

“What are we doing now, ‘Shy?”

 

>She grabs her ill-fitting hoody from the coatrack as you stride past it, wrestling it over her head.

 

“We’re working in the stables, Anon.”

 

>A tiny giggle comes from somewhere inside the makeshift, grey tent.

 

“I hope you d-don’t mind getting dirty.”

 

>Oh, Fluttershy.

>You have no idea just how dirty one would get with you.

>That is one you choose to keep to yourself.

>Instead, you go for a more kosher response.

 

“Sounds… Uhmm… Wicked? So what, are we brushing manes or ‘smithing horseshoes or something?”

 

>Another laugh.

 

“N-no, silly. We’re mucking the stables out.”

 

“Damn. That’s what I was afraid of.”

 

>The two of you walk in a contended silence for a brief moment, exiting out into the brisk midday air after a few yards.

>Fluttershy speaks first.

 

“Y-you don’t mind m-me calling you “silly”, d-do you?”

 

>Classic Fluttershy.

 

“I don’t know. You might have to make that one up to me at some point.”

 

>A playful dig in her arm gives her the prompt that you’re joking.

>More accurate would be that you are flirting but you doubt she’d catch on.

>Her rebuttal comes quietly and is in fact not a rebuttal.

>She whispers towards the ground.

 

“A-and what w-would you h-have me do to… Uhm… M-make it up to you?”

 

>Her face is once again tempered crimson.

>This quiet utterance, however, is not the same as her usual trick of regressing into shyness.

>You can’t quite place what it is, but there is a specific flavour to what she says.

 

“A-Anon?”

>You look across to her and find her eyes staring straight back at you.

>Hope.

>That weird tinge to her inflection was hope.

>What could she be hoping for?

>That almost ever-present blush has geared up significantly and her hands, buried in the too-long sleeves, wring together nervously.

>You catch her eyes drift down your body slightly, resting a little too far south to be checking your uniform.

>A smirk emerges on your face.

 

“Well-”

.

>And with that, you promptly walk into the doorframe of the stable.

 

>She jumps to your aid, ignoring that you are still standing and in good enough health to cuss the inanimate structure out.

>One small hand is placed on your waist while the other lays upon your arm in concern.

>Her body presses up against you.

 

“Y-you didn’t hit the part of your head that y-you did before, did you? Let me see…”

 

>She cranes towards your head until you wave her off.

 

“I’m fine, ‘Shy…”

 

>She falters at that name but does not recreate the distance between you.

 

“…Just hurt a bit, y’know?”

 

>You rub at your pummelled head, sucking air in through clenched teeth as you do it.

>Finishing liking your wounds, you stand half in and half out of the stable with ‘Shy.

>Her “concerned” hands linger on your body during yet another bout of quiet.

>The one that she had rested on your waist, that you had first assumed was there to prevent you from falling, has slipped a little.

>It now tentatively grazes the flesh between your navel and your… Well.

>She must stop being so absent-minded.

>Where she touches is a common turn-on for most guys and, following through on that, you find the hairs on the back of your neck crackling with sexual energy, steadily bringing your body to light.

>A worrying pressure from your boxers comes about once more.

>Your initial thought that it was her being blind to where she was descending to is questioned when you note a transition.

>Before she was breathing through her nose, now, she does it through her mouth.

>Hell, she’s almost panting into your neck.

>A male mind may misinterpret things when horny, however.

>You’re probably looking into stuff when there is no stuff to look into.

>You now stand, one hand placed on your bicep, applying a light pressure and another only millimetres from the top of your belt, a small girl caressing your side with the front of her body.

>Both remaining like this for a few seconds, you raise an eyebrow in her direction.

 

“Ummm… I’m good? Like, you don’t have to play nurse anymore.”

 

>She looks as if she’s been awoken from some sort of trance.

>Shaking her head, she hops back about a foot.

 

“Oh… S-sorry.”

 

>You almost regret speaking, the awkward embrace is easy to miss once it is taken away.

>She drags the back of her sleeve across a forehead, releasing a “phew.”

 

“C-c’mon. I’ll sh-show you what we’re doing.”

 

>Her sentence is punctuated with a flick of her heard towards the interior of the building.

>You allow yourself to be chaperoned inside, attempting to subtly pat down a budding erection in the process.

>The building itself is fairly ramshackle and smells damp.

>There is a considerable absence of horses.

 

“Ummm… Fluttershy? Isn’t this a stable?”

 

“Yeah?”

 

>She speaks from a few yards away as she drags out two rusty shovels.

 

“Don’t you have, like, horses in here or something?”

 

>One of the shovels is pushed into your chest, a little roughly.

 

“They’re out in the paddock right now… Here… Would you t-take that wheelbarrow over th-there, if… Y’know… If you don’t mind.”

 

>You locate he wheelbarrow by the door and proceed to pull it over to the girl.

>Placing it down firmly, you await your next instruction.

>Upon acquiring all the necessary equipment, Fluttershy opens the first stall and ushers you inside.

>Dragging the wheelbarrow and shovel in with you, you set it down, turning away from the unpleasant smell tickling your nostrils.

 

“W-well, here we are.”

 

>She weakly throws her arms out to the side, gesturing to your surroundings.

 

“So… Er… What now, ‘Shy?”

 

>There is an apologetic tone to her voice.

 

“Now… Um… Now we shovel.”

 

>She completes the statement by jamming her tool into the fetid pile beside her, lifting up a large amount and placing it in the wheelbarrow.

 

>Sighing and wishing harm upon the creatures that produced the mess, you follow suit.

>To spare details, the next hour spent goes by uneventfully, only the occasional hint of conversation between the two of you.

>You find the atmosphere to hardly be one of romance or even companionship when you’re at one end of a tool buried hilt-deep in horse shit.

>It goes against everything considered correct in your book but you stay diligent throughout the task.

>Finishing brings about a huge sense of relief from you.

>You gladly return the tools to their designated homes and rush to the nearest sink, cleansing your hands obsessively.

>Inside the bathroom, you find a small amount of peace in the solitude and you decide to scan yourself in the mirror.

>For sure, you’ve looked better, Anon.

>Your hair is messy, looks unkempt and is of a length where it really should be styled to look any good.

>There are dark circles beneath your eyes, highlighting fatigue.

>These clothes suck.

>And let us not forget the enormous red mound on the side of your head.

>Really got looks to kill, today.

>Succumbing to your vanity, you ruffle your hair into something of an acceptable position and try and straighten out these clothes.

>If only you had known today would be spent with someone so attractive, you might’ve tried a little harder.

>After a few minutes of preening, you feel ready to remerge from the bathroom.

>There you find Fluttershy waiting just outside.

>She gives you a quick smile.

>You clap your hands together and give them a quick rub, looking as “get up and go” as you can.

 

“What’s next on the agenda, then?”

 

>She bows her head slightly with a warmth to her movement.

 

“Lunch break. We’ve got an hour.”

 

>That certainly lifts your spirits a little.

>Finally, a break from work, livid sexual tension and debilitating head injuries.

>Plus, you’re absolutely famished after such a stressful morning.

 

“Awh sweet, first bit of good news all day.”

 

>A large grin is present on your face as you ready yourself for respite and a bite to eat.

>The issue is your sudden mirth brings about a dejection in Fluttershy.

>What’s the deal with this chick?

>Is there no way to keep her happy?

>During the now quiet walk to wherever you’re supposed to get a bite to eat, you try to think over what could have possibly offended the girl this time.

>First off, you check that brief time spent adjusting your appearance hadn’t left you looking more unsightly, staring at the windows’ reflections as you walk past them.

>Everything seems to be in order.

>What about your breath?

>You turn away and perform the required self-sniff tests.

>Nothing to report.

>So what is it then?

>Methodically, you trace back over the things that you have said so far, searching for the offending thing.

>The two of you enter a small room with several tables.

>In it, the handful of volunteers sit at tables eating meals.

>Miss Dearheart stands at the end of the room, fussing over the food that they are serving.

>As you approach, you hit a realisation.

>”Awh sweet, first bit of good news all day.”

>That’s it!

>You turn to the girl who spoons food onto her plate.

>Clawing at something to take that back comes as no surprise to you.

>A few hours ago, it would have been pure insanity to think about you wanting to take something back but now this girl has a monopoly on that shit.

>Fuck.

 

>Upon watching the head-hanging girl walk away from the table, the motherly eyes of Miss Dearheart rest on you readying your plate.

 

“Is everything okay, dear?”

 

>That expression is clear as day.

>Feigning that caring nature can only go so far, it is evident that she sees Fluttershy’s offence and thus takes her own.

 

“Uhh… Yeah… Course.”

 

>She gives that eyebrow raise that a knowing mother would give a lying toddler.

>Placing a small hamburger and fries on your plate, she nods towards the girl who sits on her own in the corner.

 

“I think you should talk to Fluttershy.”

 

>She places a soda in your hand, mouthing “go on”, eyes fixed on the girl.

>Defeated, you tentatively stride over the her.

 

“Hey… Umm… ‘Shy?”

 

>She looks up, cheeks cutely bulging with a half-masticated mouthful of food.

>You sit down to her left with a forced smile and a scratch of your chin.

 

“I’m…”

 

>One of her eyebrows goes up.

 

“About what I said… I mean… Damn…”

 

>Apologies were surely a grace you saved for sarcasm and maybe your parents.

>Still, her heavy eyes lighten a little, sparkling in your direction with anticipation.

 

“I’m s-s… So… Soorr…”

 

“Heh…”

 

>Did she just giggle at you?

>/At/ you?

>As if this isn’t hard enough already…

 

“I’m trying to say I’m… S-sorry.”

 

>She swallows her food.

>Her lips give way to a large smile, which she offers graciously.

>In spite of that, she still doesn’t look sure of herself.

 

“Why a-are you sorry?”

 

“What do you mean? I’m sorry for saying that. I d-didn’t mean it.”

 

>A sad look in her eyes betrays the smile she puts forward.

>You take a bite of the burger and shoot her silent questions with your eyes.

 

“Th-there’s nothing to be s-sorry for. I mean… Not m-many people enjoy… /My/ company.”

 

>Her focus returns to her plate of food, where she idly plays with it using her fork.

>The thing is, no one has been more pleasant company, even if a lot of it has been spent with you either unconscious or writhing in the awkwardness of unwelcome silence, much like that one that threatens to come about now.

>You wish to rectify her false perception of herself but your hubris catches your words in your throat.

>Are you really going to take this plunge?

>Offering comfort here feels like passing some kind of point of safe return.

>You should be scarfing your food down and heading out for a well-deserved cigarette but instead your priorities have been misplaced with the wellbeing of this girl.

>Leaning into your hand with a drawling exhale, you rub the bridge of your nose in discontent.

 

“Hey, ‘Shy. Can I ask you a question?”

 

>Her feeble reply comes marinated in a self-depreciating angst, notable even in one word.

 

“Yes?”

 

>You adjust your posture to face her, almost feeling the more alert position will add meaning to whatever you have to say.

>Weird how the mind works sometimes.

>Still, facing her personally in a room with ten or so others dotted around should help you seem more truthful almost.

 

“Why did you say that?”

 

“Say what?”

 

>She must be playing dumb.

 

“That not many people enjoy your company. Like, what’s that supposed to mean?”

 

>Tilting her head forward causes her face to recede within her hair once more.

 

“I… Uhm… I-it just m-makes the most sense…”

 

>You scoff.

 

“Makes the most sense? How does it? I mean… I…”

 

>Those painfully alluring eyes emerge from within that fortress of hair, cutting down your once prideful sense of articulation.

 

“It’s kind of… Like… See, what I’m trying to say is… You’re cool and that… I… Sort of… Fuck.”

 

>Her face comes into full visibility, looking vexed.

 

“Y-you sort of… F-fuck?”

 

“No! I mean, yeah sometimes but… I mean… I’m not talking about that now so no I don’t do that… All the time… Shit…”

 

“W-well, it’s so n-nice that you’re… Umm… S-such an… Open… Person…”

 

>You’re given the most forced smile.

>No!

>This is not what was supposed to happen.

 

“Shit, Fluttershy. That’s not was I was talking about. I was trying to talk about you.”

 

>Her eyes shoot wide in alarm and her fork falls from her hand to the floor.

 

“No! Not like that! I wouldn’t do that with you!”

 

>Now she looks offended.

>This could be going better, all things considered.

 

“W-well, I suppose you w-wouldn’t want to do that… I-I understand.”

 

>Fuck.

>Shit.

>Bollocks.

>Bastard.

>Cunt.

>Are you really so inexperienced in kindness that attempting just one, verbal act of it leads to Hiroshima times twenty?

 

“No… I mean… I would, but…”

 

>But what, exactly?

>You know full well you would.

 

“O-okay.”

 

>Shit, she replied.

>It also appears that you’ve managed to, once again, bring her blood to her cheeks.

 

“Look… Can I start over?”

 

>She gives a quick nod.

 

“Mhmm.”

 

>You place your hands on the table and sigh, bringing your senses into one place.

 

“I’ve enjoyed your company so far today and that was what I was trying to say all along, okay?”

 

>There is a slight smile upon her lips at last.

 

“Th-thank you. I… Sorta enjoyed being with you as well.”

 

>The pair of you trade standing smile after this and a rare, comfortable silence is exchanged as you both turn back to your food.

>Suddenly, Fluttershy halts.

 

“Oh shoot, I just remembered that I dropped my fork, be right back.”

 

>A strange compulsion of yours takes over.

 

“No no, sit down. I’ll grab one for you. Lemme just take this one back first…”

 

>You crane towards the fork, which has bounced almost to the center of the floor space beneath the table.

 

>Damn.

>It’s just out of reach for you to stay comfortable on your chair.

>Grunting, you ease yourself from the chair and transition to all fours beneath the table.

>You scramble for the cutlery item briefly, finding it firm in your grasp after a couple of seconds.

 

“Gotcha!”

 

>Proud of this rather insignificant achievement, you jump upright.

>Well, you would’ve jumped upright, were it not for the table ahead of you.

> -CRACK-

>You hit the wood with considerable force.

>Perhaps due to your already acquired head trauma or perhaps due to the high amount of pain one gets from crowning themself at such a speed, the pain is instant, electric and agonising.

>Grunting, you collapse to your head into your arms and curl up on the floor, sweaty palms clamouring over the point of impact.

 

“Shhiit.”

 

>Your words are ground through clenched teeth.

>A few seconds of trembling in this position brings about a tolerable amount of discomfort.

>Groggily, you move yourself to your knees.

>Having heard no words of comfort or movement from your yellow compadre, you assume that she, somehow, hadn’t noticed the accident.

>Warily, you raise you head once more and open your eyes.

>Staring straight ahead brings to you a sight not expected.

>Holy shit.

 

>But a foot from your nose lies the unguarded regions of Fluttershy’s most delicate area, presented in all its black-laced glory.

>It would appear that she forgets modesty beneath the table.

>You briefly wonder how many girls sit exposed like this, given that this is usually a hidden place.

>The thought, however, is short-lived as you stare, admittedly a little creepily, at what lies ahead.

>Two pale yet shapely legs enter her dress, framed by the black fabric where they meet at their crux.

>And, by God, is it not a beautiful place to meet.

>The translucent underwear shows off the slightest hint of a pink streak; well-kept, hairless, as cute as the girl it is attached to.

>With that, what you are thinking starts to physically manifest down south.

>No.

>Please God, no.

>Crouching beneath the table, you frantically press at your rising tent.

>It does you no favours however, as your ever uncooperative eyes continue their trance-like stare at the half-exposed undercarriage of your new friend.

 

“A-Anon, are you okay down there?”

 

>As if on cue.

>Something worries you.

>Just how long have you been under this table, staring at this poor girl’s snatch.

>Bail yourself out, Anon.

 

“Uhhh… Yeah… I gotta… Uhm… I found the fork!”

 

>You hold the fork out from under the table to present your victory.

>Sadly, this means you must bid farewell to your new acquaintance.

>There’s no decent excuse to be under here now you have the stray item of cutlery, barring one that she’d never understand, what with not being a pervert like yourself.

>Reluctantly, you clamber out from your wooden shelter, ensuring you reposition your now hard member into the upwards-wedged-in-the-waistband-position to prevent any unwelcome protrusions.

>Fluttershy looks oddly flustered.

>You stand by the table, angling your legs as to minimise chances of your “predicament” being discovered.

 

“I’ll be back in a jiffy!”

 

>Hurriedly, you whirl around, heading towards to the table with the forks and shit.

>Hang on.

>Jiffy?

>You remind yourself to ready a noose after that one.

>The walk to said table couldn’t be brisk enough with the unbridled awkwardness surrounding you and the situation.

>A little distance from the girl would do your clagged head some good, perhaps.

>You approach the table and place the fork among the other used ones, keeping your head down as much as you can.

>Having a boner and making eye-contact with the squat middle-aged woman are not two things you want to do simultaneously.

>A quick snort from the woman makes it clear that she doesn’t appreciate your ignorance much.

>You grab a fork and mumble a rushed apology, almost jogging back to the table, tail between your legs.

>Fluttershy still looks a little distressed upon you arriving back, which sets the anxiety train in motion.

>Does she know what you were doing under the table?

>Has she noticed that slight bulge in your pants?

>Heaven hopes it is an unrelated qualm of hers.

>Hastily, you replace yourself on the seat.

 

“Here.”

 

>You offer the fork.

>She’s hesitant at first, but reaches out and grasps it.

>Even with that hesitation, she moves quicker than she would have done a few hours ago.

>Her soft hand brushes against yours on the handle and once more your mind goes apeshit.

>The point of contact buzzes under your skin, pumping just that little bit of extra blood that you really don’t need right now.

>You’d say you’re rocking at 75% right now.

>Any more could be a catastrophe.

>The surge of mental activity breaks your concentration on the complex task; passing a fork.

>You’ve forgotten to let go and only now do you notice two hands on the fork, feebly tugging at it with eyes pleading with you.

 

“Oh shi- Uh… I mean sorry.”

 

>You relinquish the utensil.

 

>The two of you share an awkward glance prior to a synchronised return to your respective meals.

>And you expected to have a date with this girl tonight.

>Well, all things considered, it hasn’t been officially called off but that is becoming a more and more appealing prospect.

>The reasoning is simple, you two can hardly communicate and your usual decent social prowess is lost on her.

>Surely, things will be easier for you if you call it off.

>You won’t have to lose face and act more like an insecure dork than you already have done.

>Turning your head towards her, you analyse the pros and cons.

>The cons are those already stated but the pros…

>Fuck, they’re already stated too.

>She’s not any less of a looker than she at the start of the day.

>If anything, the addition of two brand new reasons to lust after her, namely her breasts in that tight polo, have made her a prize even more difficult to deny.

>The trade-off cannot be worth a risk to your hubris, can it?

 

“Are you okay, A-Anon?”

 

>Damn it.

>Exactly how long have you maintained this semi-psychotic stare?

 

“Oh… Yeah… Yeah. I’m fine. Just thinking, y’know?”

 

>Concern is sketched into her eyes.

 

“Oh… If y-you don’t mind me asking, what are you thinking about?”

 

>Lie.

 

“I was thinking about tonight, actually.”

 

>You had one job.

>Time to make the best of the truth then.

>At least stating that catches her rapt attention.

>It also adds a miniscule sparkle to her eyes.

 

“Wh-what about tonight?”

 

>She’s almost whispering.

 

“I… Uh…”

 

>Narrowing your eyes in thought about how to word your cold feet, you see a small blush emerging on her face at roughly the same speed as the growth of the slight smile on her lips.

>The smile.

>That smile.

>The smile that can be harnessed as some kind of neurological weapon, destined to topple empires and fray the minds of teenage guys.

 

>A choice is made for you.

>Tonight is a night you cannot pass up.

>No way and, certainly now, no how.

 

“Well, I…”

 

>You have, however, started a sentence and the assumed etiquette is to finish it.

>The issue is, now you have nothing to follow “I” up with.

>Fluttershy gives a puppy-like cock of the head.

 

“Is everything okay?”

 

“Yeah. I’m just nervous about it.”

 

>Oh for fucking hell’s sake.

>Anything, literally /anything/, would have been better than that.

>Now not only do you act like an insecure moron in her presence, you also confirm yourself to be one, regardless of any truth to it.

>You had heard something about this kind of thing; “The best solution to a problem is usually the easiest.”

>Not sure where that slice of philosophy came from but it sure fits.

>Lying about your concerns would be so much easier, thus better.

>Honesty is overrated anyway.

>As you make sure to mentally kick your own teeth into your brainstem, something very odd happens.

>This embarrassing situation, one of your own construct, appears to be somehow affecting Fluttershy; affecting her in a positive way.

>That smile once again goes full-blown white teeth mode on you.

>Those cute dimples and the rising of her lower eyelids once again give the gleeful girl a perfect frame to express…

>There isn’t even a good set of words to go after that, at least, in your limited vocabulary.

>No one has ever had an expression so sincere and heartwarming.

>It tugs at the corners of your mouth.

>Her smile does well to be rare.

>This corrupt world is right to be rationed only so much of the visage of angels.

>…

>… What?

>Wow.

>All this fucking poetry.

>Shit.

>She’s bending your brain like it’s made of clay, one twist at a time.

>That sorcerous smile.

>Avoid it.

>Don’t look at her, Anon.

>Shun the witchcraft.

>This succubus will drain your life essence from your cold husk of a body.

>She’ll change you.

>She’ll place her hand on your thigh reassuringly?

 

>Get her off.

>Get her off /now/.

>And yet, you cannot bring yourself to.

 

“I-I’m nervous too.”

 

>Your mind wants to scream “mayday!”, but sadly, a plane that has already crashed and burned cannot send out distress signals.

>It’s good to know you both sit on the same level, though.

>What are you saying?

>You /should/ be above her!

>As tense as your body is in all this stress, there is one point that remains limp and relaxed.

>The leg that she touches.

>In a flash, the soothing touch shoots up through your whole body, and firing an epiphany into your brain.

>This girl does not care what you act like.

>There’s no pretense required.

>As quickly as the near anxiety attack comes, it goes.

>An almost exhausted sense of calm takes the driver’s seat now.

>The silence has still been too prolonged between the two of you, though, eliciting Fluttershy to pose a worried question.

 

“I-is that everything?”

 

>That smile leaves her, but her hand does not leave your leg.

>If anything, it is gripping just a little tighter.

>You grunt, shaking your head like a dog.

>Apt, considering your location.

>After a quick sigh, you respond.

 

“Yeah, it is. Sorry, just remembered something weird…”

 

>You get an idea.

 

“Say, what is it that you’re nervous about, ‘Shy?”

 

>Her face casts in red at that nickname.

>Not that you needed reminding to ask her about it later.

 

“W-well… Uhmm… I-I’ve n-not been o-on a date in a while…”

 

>A weird annoyance forms in the back of your mind when you consider her having been on dates before.

>Strange, although easily shrugged off.

>Her hand squeezes almost uncomfortably tightly as her nerves grow.