"Go Get 'Em Tiger"

>Be Sunset Shimmer
>And this?
“Dammit!”
>This is hard.
>You tear out the paper from your notebook and crumple it into a ball.
>You toss it into the garbage can.
>Your aim is perfect.
>“Three pointer. Nice,” remarks Anon, lying on your bed.
>You roll your eyes with a tired sigh.
“Thanks,” you grumble.
>You drag your hands down your face sleepily, groaning as you do.
“How’m I gonna do this, Anon?”
>He scoffs.
>“I dunno. I’m no lyricist.”
>Wow, really supportive boyfriend you got, eh?
>Your nostrils flare, grab your pen once more, and stare down at the empty notebook.
>The white void stares demandingly, almost as if it orders you to place the tip of your pen on it so that you may proceed writing sweet, sweet music.
>Unfortunately, that not happening.
>You wrack your brain like a tennis ball, desperate for any bit of melody or words to rise from your creative spirit, yet like a broken vending machine, that shit’s not gonna give you anything.
>You go to all the ideas all go to at first, but shrug them off; they’re far too dull to use.
>Fine.
>You know what?
>You’ll just write something.
>You don’t know what, but you’ll just fucking do it!
>Yeah, there we go, Sunset!
>Let’s see…
>You scribble your pen at the top of the paper, words making their way out.
“You never…know…what may…um…uuuum…”
>You tear the paper out, crumple it, toss it, and bury yourself under your arms, sighing into the table you rest on.
“This isn’t working,” you say.

>Anon, takes a breath.
>You can’t tell if it’s a sad one or a bored one.
>Doesn’t matter.
>He stands up — you can hear the bed’s springs as his large, muscular body no longer burdens it with his well-earned weight.
>Then, the floor makes a sound at the heavy steps that cease once they’re behind you.
>Two hands place themselves atop your shoulders — you dare not shrug them off.
>They’re nice hands.
>They have a good weight to them…a good size, too.
>The touch they give is grounding, the type that makes you calm down within seconds like a heavy blanket or tarp placed upon your back.
>Nice, warm, strong hands…
>They begin rubbing your shoulders, sliding under the collar of your shirt.
>You purr.
>You care not if his massive forearms stretch the fabric of the shirt collar.
>You’re far too exhausted to refuse this sort of treatment from him.
>“You should go to bed, Sunset,” says Anon.
>His voice crinkles in it’s quietness.
>You love that raspy crinkle.
>You love the ‘quiet voice’ he makes.
>His hands make there way to the back of your neck, his thumbs working the tight muscles in small, relaxing circles.
>“Seriously. Do this in the morning, ‘kay?”
“Mm…I can’t,” you tell him. “Band was s’posed to have a song down a week ago.”
>“Oh? Tell me more,” he says.
>He’s a good listener.
>You tell him more.
“Well…Rainbow was gonna write something,” you say, voice lowering as his hands rise from your neck and to the back of my scalp.
>His strong fingertips massage the sides of your head.
>It’s delightful.
>Ah, Anon’s ‘totally patented for my spidey-widey’ cranial massage…
>It always makes you shudder.
>“Uh huh. And?”

“And…well, she forgot,” you say flatly. “Fluttershy said she’d do it, though…”
>“And let me guess…she forgot too, huh?”
“Mm. No. Jus’ busy…” your murmur, melting at his touch. “Volunteers couldn’t make their shift for the rehab place she interns at. She took their shift instead. Something ‘bout a raccoon or something, I dunno.”
>“Ah. Makes sense. So then what? You had to do it?”
“No,” you say. “Applejack offered to.”
>You feel his fingers stop.
>“Oh. Oh boy.”
>They resume, pulling your hair back from your forehead in a pleasant manner.
“Yeah, my thoughts exactly. She wrote something, though. Wasn’t as bad as I thought it’d be. She can’t write lyrics, though. At all.”
>“Like you?” he says, a smug grin in his voice.
“Watch it. I’ll bite you.”
>“Will I get spider powers too?”
“You’ll get two nights without my ‘totally patented for my Nonny-Wonny’ Shimjobs.”
>“Shutting up.”
>He resumes his ‘totally patented for my spidey-widey’ cranial massage.
“Thank you…but yeah, so AJ wrote something, it was okay, but not good, y’know? So, Twilight tried it.”
>You laugh a little.
“It was literally a song in Shakespearean prose about how Albert Einstein came up with the theory of relativity.”
>You hear Anon laugh.
>“Of course it was. Of fucking course it was.”
>He presses his fingers gently against your skull at pleasurable points.
>A fluttering sigh erupts from you.
“Oh…oh, that’s good…”
>“Thank you. Please, go on.”
“Right, right…so, after that, the girls, they’re all like: ‘Well, that’s not gonna work,’” you explain to him, “to which I’m then about to say: ‘I’ll do it!’”
>You grumble.
“But I couldn’t say it. Know why?”
>“Why?”
“Because fucking Doctor Octo-bitch crashes into the fucking school, declaring that if Spider-Woman doesn’t show up, she’ll kidnap frickin’ Vinyl!”

>You scoff.
“And Vinyl was totally into it, too.”
>“Why am I not surprised by that?” mused Anon.
>His hands leave your scalp and make their way to your upper-back.
>An unpleasant sound escapes him.
“What?”
>“You’re tight,” he says.
>I smirk.
“Tell me something I don’t know.”
>“No, like, your back is more rigid than a divorced business woman in her fifties.”
>Always with the analogies, your boyfriend…
“Shut up and keep rubbin’, will ya?”
>“Yes, ma’am.”
>He resumes.
>Shit feels good.
“So anyway, Doc’s got Vinyl in her robo-arms, Vinyl's trying not to friggin’ blush and smile, being all cute and shit with her fucking captor, and what do I have to do? Go to work. Have to fucking find somewhere to friggin’ change into my costume, then go fight a wannabe cephalopod.”
>You blow several raspberries.
“After finally fnding a space to change — the boy’s bathroom’s gross, by the way — I go out, fight Doc, get my ASS robo-handed to by the fucking nut, and kick her ass. She leaves, drps Vinyl, and I go back. Then school’s out and I don’t get to say that I can write the song.”
>Just then, Anon’s hands go down your back.
>The depth at which his strong fingers reach your tense muscles is incredible.
>He’s good at pampering you like this.
>You fight through the relaxing sensation as you let out a large yawn.
“A-and then, when I get home, I found out that Rarity now wants to try her hand at writing.”
>“She doesn’t write anything the next day, does she?”
“Nope.”
>“Of course. So that left you, right?”
“Yep,” you yawn again.

>You sink into the desk a liiitle bit more.
“Yeah, and, um, I then said I’d do it. But I suck, apparently. Thought some web-slingin’ would do the trick to get my creative juices flowin’, but I only found more bad guys to web up an’ stuff.”
>Again, another yawn.
“Then, I came home, called you over, and now we’re here. And I still can’t write…”
>Your eyes are heavy.
>You feel yourself getting lost in Anon’s massage.
>You let a brief moment of silence pass.
“…I know what you’re trying to do, you know.”
>“Yeah. I know.”
“I told you I can’t go to sleep,” you say with a trailing yawn.
>“You need it. Trust me.”
“Anoooon, stop it…”
>“Neh.”
>He pulls you out of your chair, removing you from the desk.
>You don’t resist.
>He carries you, bridal style in your red and blue suit to your bed.
>He tucks you in.
>His smile, endearing and charming as it is soothing, puts you at ease you wish you didn’t feel.
“I hate you.”
>“Get some rest, okay?”
>He kisses your forehead.
>You grab him by the arm, and gently pull him down to you.
“Nuh-uh. Least you can do is give me a real kiss,” you murmur sleepily.
>He smirks.
“Fine.”
>Your lips touch.
>All is black.
>...


>...
>The crack of dawn shines through the blinds of your windows.
>It seems that despite them being shut they fail to conceal the rays of sunlight as they currently land atop your eyes.
“Mrmm…”
>There’s a warm mass next to you, fuly clothed, warm, large, muscular…
>It holds you tenderly.
>You open your eyes.
>Anon…
>You look to your bedside.
>Notebook.
>From night before.
>Sleepily, you grab it.
>Stupid Anon…not letting you write your song…
>Opening the notebook to where you were, your brows raise.
>In none other than Anon’s very own handwriting are several blocks of text.
>You read it.
>…
>It’s a song.
>It’s nothing extraordinary…but it can work.
>You like the title.
“Go get ‘em Tiger”
>It’s shit like this that makes it worth being a super-hero, songwriter, high schooler, inter-dimensional traveling unicorn, and former super-villain…