[CT]: Bedtime Stories (7)

1) Sunrise: Anon wakes up beside Celestia. Mild grooming.
2) Ruined Date: Plans for a special night go awry due to Celestia's workaholicism
3) Just Before Dawn: Clop, pregnant, mixed with a bit of worry and a lost sense of purpose.
4) Uncertain Sleeping: Vague attempt at poeticism.
5) Late-night Rising: Celestia is tired of being a princess, but knows she has to be.
6) Little Spoon: Anon has a pseudo-crisis of masculinity over realising just how much Celestia outclasses him.
7) Dawn doesn't want to got sleep/ Tech. unfinshed, but I'm ill so no completion.

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1) Sunrise

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>It's an hour before dawn on a crisp autumn's morning, and you've spent the past half-hour lying on your back, covers and a wing across your chest, dozing.
>That's what you do most mornings: doze. You've been living with Celestia long enough that your internal alarm clock has fully shuffled round to the twilight hours.
>You've grown used to it, too. Grown used to the quiet, the peace. And by now, it's not something you'd trade for anything. Not that you wouldn't before: Celestia is more than worth getting up pre-early for.
>Speak of the devil and she'll start to snore: a large 'ghnagh' and a mumble fills your ear as Celestia rolls over.
>You tilt your head sideways and get a good view of the royal molars. Her hair’s like Medusa’s: a tangled ball of wiggling strands that wrap around her horn and cover off her eyes in one great fuzz of colour. More often than not, you wake up to find parts of it curled up around of yours, the strands wriggling through your hair like a sea of tiny tentacles.
>It’s a side to the elegant Celestia most don’t get to see: some know her as an immortal ruler, others as a motherly teacher, but to you, she’s a pony with the world’s worst case of bed-mane and a surprising weakness for chocolate cake.
>And now starts the second half of your morning routine: stroking a hand up over her body, you start untangling her hairs – unthreading the knots and combing them back into a semblance of order.
>Ten minutes later, and you’re finished. Kissing her on the nose, you pull back and admire your handiwork.
>There’s something missing, though.
>Ah. Yes.
>You boop her lower jaw back up, closing off her mouth.
>Perfect.
>The wing across your chest tightens, pulling you towards her. Her forehooves lift up and catch onto your shoulders as you meet; her head nuzzles into yours as your arms likewise slip round her.
>"You know, out of all the ways I could have imagined being woken in the morning, being groomed never seemed like it was going to become my favorite."
"Yet another benefit of having a lover with hands."
>You let one of them slip south to run a finger round her cutie mark and then give a tender squeeze to one buttcheek of the royal hindquarters.
“Where will they end, I wonder?”
>Two purple slits open in front of you. “That tender, loving, chastely romantic moment: gone.”
>You raise the hand back up to stroke along her face. She shuffles forwards, and you can feel the soft warmth of her body-hair pressed against you, the flick of her tail swaying round your toes, the strange hardness of her hooves.
>The two of you kiss – no tongues or open mouths; morning breath takes care of that.
“Morning, Celestia.”
>”Good morning to you too, Anon.”

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2) Ruined Date

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>There are two warnings set up to alert you to the long-awaited arrival of your wife: the first is the loud squawk of Philomena echoing through the arch-windows, and the second is the sound of golden horseshoe meeting marble step.
>At best estimates, you’ve got around half-a-minute till showtime.
>Okay boys: let’s check positions.
>You snap your fingers and glance quickly round the room. The bedroom hasn’t changed that much since you moved in. Banners embroidered with alicorns and stars still cover off the walls and ripple like water in the wind; the brass fireplace is still somehow perpetually blazing come snow or sun.
>In fact, come to think of it, the only real changes to the room are the ones you’ve made today.
>Bed suitably covered in rose petals from that type of flower she made such a fuss over when eating last month? Check.
>Aromatic candles lit and placed in positions where they will most certainly not-set-fire-to-anything (as one singed banner you've hid under the bed can testify)? Check.
>One bath tub big enough for two filled to the brim with bubbles and hot water? Check.
>Some wet towels heating by the fireplace alongside a tub of massage oils? Check.
>A sister-in-law advised to not disturb the two of you at any cost whatsoever and begged if she could possibly be kind enough to raise the sun tomorrow?
>Check, and a reminder that you owe Luna a wheel of Prench cheese.
>Okay. Oh-kay. You’re good.
>A gold glow picks up round the bedroom door; your tongue flits round your lips as you steel yourself.
>Show time.

>The door swings open – silently, as only a wooden door greased by magic can – and through it steps Princess Celestia, her coat the white of untouched snow, her mane a shimmering piece of aurora lit dawn, and the entirety of her body utterly concealed by sheet after sheet of hovering paper.
>Looks like she brought work home with her again.
>Okay, well, while she technically might not have actually left the building that she spends most of the day working in, the jist is there. And it’s always the jist that counts.
>You groan wearily at the sight. Plans had, of course, been made for this eventuality, but that didn’t magically not make it annoying to have to go through with them.
“Celestia? What are you doing?”
>”Hmm? Anon, are you still awake? It was sweet of you to wait up for me, but it’s going to be a while before I’m finally ready for bed.”
>Wading through the paper-storm whirring round her is hard work. Tax-forms and letters jab into your sides, and the risk of death by a thousand paper cuts is omnipresent. But still, you push on.
“Y’know, I had a word with Kibitz earlier on today. Made sure your evening schedule was clear of everything.”
>”That would explain why the evening summaries were missing today. It was a nice thought, dear, but I am rather central to the running of Equestria, and so–”
>Meanwhile, you’ve made it into the inner circle – past the swarm of paper and into the rule of ink bottle and quill: wrapped in gold, the feather flashes here and there, trailing ink like rain behind it.
>And there, at the centre, is the tired and ragged face of Celestia.
>She’s not even looking at you, being currently busy signing a swath of documents about pillow deliveries to Trottingham. One of your hands reaches out and grabs hold of her chin, then steers her gaze towards the hole you just made in her outer paper-wall.

>”Oh…” As one, the papers rise up into the air, fully out of the way. Celestia peers wide eyed round the room. “Oh dear. How long have you been waiting?”
“Long enough that I don’t care it’s cliched to say ‘long enough’.” You turn the grip on her chin into a sensual stroke along her neck. “Happy anniversary, love.”
>The light along her horn splutters, and the sound of rustling paper fills the room.
>”That’s not – I swear it’s another three –”
“It is, it is. Sorry.” The flustered look vanishes from her face; a glare aimed at you replaces it. “I needed payback for two hours spent twiddling my thumbs and stopping the bathtub from turning tepid. Sorry.”
>”No. No, I should be the one apologising.” She sighs. “Even more so because I wasn’t lying when I said I needed to get this work done. Do you think you could maybe spend another few minutes thumb-twiddling?” She smiles hopefully, and any resistance you might have mustered fails. “For me?”
“Alright.” You sigh. “I guess I’ll just go lie down on the bed. Alone. By myself.”
>”Ten minutes, I swear.” The look she shoots you is a mixture of sympathetic and flirty. “And then we’ll see about turning an evening clearly meant to be all about me into an evening all about you.” She winks at you.
>A chuckle escapes your lips.
“You know, that was planned as part of the evening anyway.”
>“Hmm. From what I’ve seen and heard, it was going to be quite the evening.”
>It was. Not that things are turning out terribly, but still: it was quite the evening you had planned.
>Ah well. Can’t win ‘em all.
>Here’s to ten minutes from now.

>It is ten minutes since it was ten minutes from now, Celestia has still not finished and you are all out of fucks to give.
>Because by gum, you’ve spent those extra ten minutes wisely, and have devised yourself a plan.
>And now it’s time to put it into action.
>You roll over onto your stomach and eye the target.
>Celestia’s lying down a few feet away from you. Her horn is still covered in light, though the papers that surround her are now fewer in number. Given how long each of these last papers is taking to process, though, it’s clear she’ll be a while yet.
>You creep towards her as quietly as you can, and manage to reach her without alerting her to your presence.
>Stealth is not required for the next part, though. Legs folding down, you straddle her back and rest your hands around her neck.
>She jumps a little. “Anon, what are you doing?”
>You start to squeeze and knead at her body, running little rings against the spot you know from experience counts as a sweet spot for her.
“Oh, you know. Just twiddling my thumbs.”
>She laughs lightly. “And I must admit, it feels lovely, but it is also very distracting.”
“You said ten minutes.” Your mouth moves up to her ear just as your fingers find and gently stimulate a knot of tension in her back. “It’s been twenty.”
>”I know, I know. I ~mmm~ I just really need to get these… signed.”
“You only need your horn to sign them, though.” The soft kiss you leave beneath her ear makes it flick, then fold down. “There’s no reason why the rest of you can’t come out to play.”
>The corner of your eye catches the sight of her biting on her lip. “I suppose you have been more than patient...”
>Another kiss, another squeeze. Your fingers scratch at the spot around her neck that’s always itchy.
“That’s true.”
>”And I suppose these papers aren’t exactly the most important ones that needed to be signed…”

>Her head’s hanging a bit lower than usual, her normally rigid position relaxed and slumped. It’s a mark of trust that you’re the only one who really gets to see her like this.
“You ready to come to bed now, love?” you whisper in her ear.
>She nuzzles her head back against you as the papers hover to land in a neat stack on a table.
>”Yes. I suppose there’s always tomorrow.” The kiss she leaves on your cheek tingles. “Sorry I ruined your special evening, Anon.”
“It’s fine. There’ll be other evenings.”
>You close your eyes and lean into her, nose drinking in the smell of vanilla, jasmine and something evoking home.
>And you are fine with it: really. Because there will be other evenings; there will always be other evenings. You’ve got one hell of a karmic debt ranked against you, and if it wants to fuck with your schedule from time to time, well, c’est la vie.

– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –

>It is dawn over Canterlot, and the sun rises jerkily – uncertain and wavering. Breakfast comes and goes with the crumpets and light pastries left uneaten. The bureaucrats shuffle papers and folders, looking for approval stamps that simply are not there.
>At the top of Canterlot’s tallest tower, in the bedroom of Equestria’s longest serving princess, an alicorn and her husband sleep soundly – her mane a tangled froth of hair; his nostrils flaring with each snore that bellows forth.
>And in their sleep, the two of them are smiling.

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3) Just Before Dawn

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>It is late evening, and by now, the patterns on the ceiling are burned into your brain. The frescoed ivy takes on a strange quantity in the half-light, its patterns and swirls blurring and merging into a hazy unfocus. You suppose it’s probably designed to distract a troubled sleeper, to help lull them into rest.
>It is not working, not tonight. Of that, you can guarantee.
>Somewhere else in the manor, a grandfather clock chimes out the half-hour. You don’t know what hour you're halfway through – you gave up counting sometime past twelve.
>You never used to be an insomniac. No, your disorder was always more of the opposite: you always used to sleep soundly, dead to all the world till morning.
>But for the past few nights, worry has taken that from you. Worry over Celestia, and worry over your relationship with her.
>You can hear her breathing beside you, the soft rise and swell of air. The gentle shimmering of her mane is reflected above like water shadows: strafes of white and dark that steadily flow back and forth.
>As quietly as you can, you turn your head down to look at its source.
>She’s asleep beside you, lying on her side, facing away. You can feel the soft warmth of her up against your right arm and the dip her weight makes in the mattress. Softly, gently, you roll towards her so that her back rests against your front.
>The covers feel almost insubstantial as you pass your hand under them, like air made form. You manage not to disturb her as you reach the seat of your worries, and the reason the two of you no longer live in Canterlot.

>Her belly feels full – a plump, swollen mound. Your hand strokes in slow circles over her, fine hairs prickling your fingers as you rub one way, then soothing down as you pass back over them. Her fifth month of pregnancy is obvious to all.
>You should feel happy, but instead, you’re nothing but worried. For this is the first alicorn pregnancy in recorded history, and the first human-caused pregnancy too. So far, there’s been no confirmation it’s even alive – no movements from the baby, and it turns out ponies have no equivalent to ultrasound.
>There are no guarantees, no certainties, and a whole world of things that could go wrong.
>And you knew this when you started out, when the two of you decided to wrestle with the odds and try concieving a child. But the moving of it from the abstract to the real has left you broken, as if all your good fortune were made of glass and was only waiting for one errant stone to irreparably splinter.
>This swell against her body is all you’ve gained, and all you stand to lose. It’s a promise, and that you have no idea what it’s a promise of haunts your every hour.
>Your hand stills and cusps her stomach as if trying to hold her all. You want to squeeze her tight, but are too afraid she’ll wake, afraid you’ll hurt her.
>So you stroke it upwards instead. The fleecy feel of her is still something you relish: she’s still divine. Your hand stops beneath her front legs, elbow lying along the feathers of her wing.
>It should be impossible to pull her closer, but nethertheless, you try, as carefully as you can. Your face burrows into the soft curtain of her hair, and your nostrils drink deep.
>She mumbles softly to herself, and you freeze, worried you've woken her. As quietly as you can, you whisper her name.
>Your heart freezes when you hear her whisper yours back.

>You take a few breaths in to steady yourself. Then you whisper back.
“Did I wake you?”
>”No. You’re not the only one who couldn’t sleep tonight.”
>She shuffles in your grip, making herself more comfortable. A few of her mane strands are left stuck to your face as you pull away, but you’re not going to move your arm to try and fix that.
>Celestia mumbles something that you miss, her voice being too quiet. Before you can ask her to repeat herself, she’s adding to it.
>”I’m sorry. I’m not used to… doing nothing. Waking up and not having a schedule in place for the day, not knowing from dawn till dusk exactly what I’m doing. And I know it’s making me… difficult.”
>Your confusion only grows, not lessens, from her explanation.
“I guess I’m sorry too: I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
>She stiffens against you. “Earlier on today, when I was trying to talk to you and you weren’t paying attention.”
“You mean when you snapped at me?”
>”Yes. That and the day before that when I–”
“Celestia, love, you don’t need to feel sorry about that. You’re pregnant.” Your hand slips down and starts stroking her stomach again. “You’re meant to be difficult.”
>She takes a great breath in, inflating in your grasp. “I’m meant to be perfect. Or so everypony keeps telling me.”
>You kiss her beneath the ear in an area repeated sessions have taught you is a sweet spot.
“Which means you can be a perfect ass whenever you want to be. Look – Celestia, I love you, and there’s nothing to forgive.”
>She stays quiet after that, and you hope it’s with contentment. Your hand stays mobile round her waist, still trying to keep her calm, still reminding yourself she’s there.

>”I want to make love.”
>Your hand stops against her while your brain processes the words.
“Celestia, it’s past midnight. The only thing we should be making is forty winks. You're pregnant; you need your sleep.”
>”No. Anon, I need this.” She starts shifting and you let her go; a few seconds later, and she’s rolled over to face you, bodies still close, her precious bump pressed against your waist.
>The subdued glow of her mane flickers in her eyes as she rests her head opposite yours. Warm air brushes across your cheeks as she breathes in and out.
>”I can’t raise the sun because the baby interferes with my magic. My little sister insists that I take time off from ruling the country and the Royal Court agrees with her. I can’t stay in Canterlot because if our enemies were to learn that I were vulnerable, the entirety of Equestria could be placed in jeopardy. But I can’t just do nothing, Anon.
>”I need to… to be something to someone. I need to be your lover. Please.” You can see her smile in the darkness only through the way it changes her eyes. “For me?”
>You sigh, left arm stroking her, touching her, taking in as much sensation from her that it can.
“I’m trying not to do it for you – I love you too much to be able to resist you for long. But you need to sleep.”
>Her eyes close, leaving behind two faint afterimages in the dark. “You say you love me. Prove it. Prove you love me.
>”And if you're so worried about me sleeping, a little exercise might be just what we need, hmm? You’ve always been good at tiring me out now, haven’t you.”

>You feel her face press against yours, lips seeking out your own. And in return, you yield to the inevitable.
>Kissing her has never changed since the first time, never grew less alien or more normal. Your head lifts off the pillow as you search for a better angle; her tongue brushes lightly along your bottom lip, darting back before your own can meet it.
>You can feel the shifting of her wing as you arm rubs over it – feel it twitching and stirring as the kiss goes on. Your hand finds her ear and your fingers rub along it, fondling the inner ear in well-practiced motions.
>Her tongue breaks open your lips, taking advantage of her equine length to easily overpower yours. The sensation’s like a shock through your brain: a flood as touch and taste combine to announce her tongue’s presence in your mouth.
>It’s an overpowering sense of closeness, of desire. She’s throwing everything she is into pleasuring you, and you do your best in return, give her all the joy you can. It’s a thank-you for existing in a language without words; a reformation of your love.
>You sway forwards and down against the bed, rocked by her movements. Your hand steadies her head, making sure that none of them are jerky enough to make you leave her behind.
>Heat rises in your chest as the make-out turns more intense and your lower end comes to the realisation that it’s soon to be called upon. There’s a rustle as the covers move, then the feel of one of her hooves rubbing at your shoulder, pushing you down.
>The kiss breaks. Your eyes fold open to find hers half-lidded. There’s no need for words: the two of you have done this often enough, now, to know what’s both expected.

>You kiss at her neck as she rolls onto her back, cooing happily all the while. Your hands stabilise her movements and make sure she doesn’t roll too far or hurt herself. The covers fly back as her hooves kick, flicking them off both you and her. Shortly after, your pajama bottoms join them.
>You break away from her neck; she shudders as you leave a parting nip. You move down her body, kissing and caressing all the while. Her wings spread open, feathers rubbing against your legs; you make sure not to let your knee dig into them as you shuffle ever down.
>Her stomach is something you take care over, kissing the hairless nudge of her belly button and worshiping the rest with your hands. One of your hands finds her breast and starts inscribing a slow circle round them, tightening it over time into an oval, then a sharp infinity.
>They’re both fatter than you’re used to: plump reflections in miniature of the vast mound that is her stomach. You let your thumb agitate a nipple: let it slide up to the top, press the hardness down and then finish the glide over to firmly harass the other.
>You glance up to see Celestia looking down, her outline visible through the shining glow of hair spread lazily over her body. She’s panting, lips open, eyes at half-mast. The added sight of her front hooves tucked in is a mixture of cute and sexy only she is able to arouse in you.
>You smile, though you’re not sure if she caught it, and then move round to her rear. She sighs as your hands leave her stomach to run up her legs, catching hold of the hooves in a measure of stabilisation.
>Your dick is hard enough to not need much help from you at reaching her body; the harder part is making sure the thrust is true in the darkness. You let the feeling of warm wetness against your head guide you and hope for the best.

>And it looks like luck is with you tonight: there’s no resistance as you enter, and a reward in the feeling of her clit winking against your penis. She moans happily from her end of the bed, and you can’t help but give your own in answer.
>Experience has not changed the feeling of entering her either: she is still hot, her grip still powerful and utterly under her control. You hilt inside her, length swallowed by her insides, and her muscles grasp hold of you – tugging and teasing as if trying to make your length longer.
>You keep the motions slow, sure – body wanting to vent your lust on her, but head far too afraid of hurting either her or your unborn child. Her stomach still ripples with each thrust, however, the bump flowing up and then down, movement magnified by her agitated breathing.
>Her legs shudder in your grip, and you give her hooves a comforting squeeze. You lean forwards, changing the angle of attack, and her front hooves rise to stroke your face.
>”Faster, Anonymous. I’m not going to break.”
>You pause.
“Yeah. Sorry. I guess I’m just afraid of–”
>The feeling of her hoof tilting your chin up cuts you off. The sight of her gently smiling lurks at your vision's edge.
>”I know you are. I know you’re worried about me: about both of us.” Her hoof strokes against your face, and you let go of her back leg to catch hold of it. “But we’re not going anywhere. Everything’s going to be fine.”
>You close your eyes as some tension you didn’t know you were carrying lessens. It doesn’t vanish, doesn’t dissipate, but it shrinks nonetheless.
>The sudden squeezing of your penis jerks your eyes back open.
>”We’re not finished here, Anonymous – don’t drift off on me.” Her tail flicks against your ass. “Mush.”

>You oblige, pushing the pace that little bit faster, letting yourself ride her that extra bit more.
>The indulgence of your rising lust brings you closer and closer to a release; the sound of your body slapping against her and that throat-borne moan of hers only manages to accelerate it.
>Her front hooves push you back, and you follow, hand returning to the ankle of her rear legs. You squeeze it, and then let it flow down to nuzzle at her belly, playing with the swollen lump then running down to tease each teat in turn.
>She comes first, her insides spasming and her body pushing all the air out of her in one long sigh.
>You last for three thrusts more before you too release into her, bodies crushed together in bliss.
>Head murky with tiredness, you almost flop onto her, onto managing to stop yourself last second so your body rests on her lump, not squishes into it.
>She rubs against you with each pant, hairs tickling against the much less impressive set upon your chest.
>Combined with the afterglow, it's enough to almost lull you, finally, into sleep. Worry keeps you awake – worry that you'll hurt her, hurt the baby. Worry that there's nothing there to hurt.

>”A-anonymous!”
>Coming round, you lift yourself away from her.
“Don’t worry: I’m not falling asleep down here. Just give me a few seconds, and then I’ll get back to trying to sleep.”
>Her head shakes, visible as the strands flicker. “No – Anonymous, the baby’s moving.”
>The thought sinks in slowly, like mud prevents its progress, but it sets off a small explosion in your brain when it finally manages to hit.
“It’s – the baby's what? Are you sure? It’s not just–”
>”Feel!” Her hoof grips hold of your head and presses it to her bulge. “Right here. It might not do it again, but–”
–thump–
>Your head jerks back, then presses forwards again, searching for the feeling with everything you have in you.
–THUMP–
>It's like the sound of a second heart's first beats against your ear – quiet in actuallity, but oh so very loud inside your head. Laughter slips from out your lips, barely under your control. A surge of joy more pure and perfect than the orgasm which came before is buoyant in you, pushing all before it. Bit by bit, the worry dissolves away.
“He’s alive.”
>You rub your hand over her stomach, hopeful for another thump. None come, but that does little to dampen your spirits.
“He’s alive in there. Our baby is alive and he is kicking.” You chuckle. "Fucking literally."
>”She.”
>You glance up; her smile is bright inside the darkness, her happiness clearly equal to your own.
>You've had arguments like this before, with Celestia certain the baby was female while you tried arguing with her that it was impossible to know.
>But right now, you’re jubilant enough to believe anything.
“She.”
>You rest your head against her stomach, eyelids folding down. A smile slips over your face.
“She’s alive in there.”

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4) Uncertain Sleeping

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>Most nights, she comes and goes like a ghost. Quiet hoofsteps in the dark; the soft swish of the covers peeling back; the bend and shift of the mattress as her weight molds it down.
>If you’re awake, you reach out for her, palm rustling the feathers of her wing and fingers folding into the soft pudge of her tummy. You’ll pull her close, back flat against yours and head nestled under your chin, horn rising past the curve of your jaw to tickle the earlobe and pass on. Lulled by the feel of her breathing, the two of you drift into the calm of sleep.
>Most nights, you’re not awake, and she’ll have left like a ghost by morning, being only a fading warmth and an absence when you rouse. Sometimes, you stir just enough to catch her leaving, to feel the cold air let in by the covers moving and witness her white form slip through the grey of twilight.
>You wonder sometimes what she does when you’re sleeping. Does she lie apart from you, too scared of waking you to reach out through the dark? Does she watch you sleeping and smile, following her usual protocol of reservation and holding herself back from the rest of the world?
>Or does she shuffle closer, shifting by miniscules through the gap between you till she’s pressed against your chest, and slow bodyheat merges the two of you into one?

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5) Late-night Rising

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>You wake to find an absence beside you. The blankets scrunched and half-folded on one side, their whiteness spilling over the bed’s edge. A few strands of multi-coloured hair left by your missing wife tangled between your fingers.
>Your blinks come slow and tired for a few seconds as sleep drains out of you. The air tastes of chill and frost, and a brief stretch of your limbs makes your toes curl as they briefly exit the blankets. You scrunch your eyes up, rub the sleep dust out of them, and prepare to get out of bed.
>It’s always colder than you expected, always more of a shock; the fuzzy compression of the carpet beneath bare feet is a weird burst of sensation. Your legs feel suddenly weak and uncertain, and you stumble forwards without quite meaning too. A second stretch out in the open squeezes a click out of your back and a yawn out of your throat.
>Navigating round the grey shapes through memory, you make your way towards the balcony. That’s where she’ll be: that’s where she always goes when you wake up without her.
>And indeed, as you brush the red curtains aside and step out onto a marble ledge beneath the black sky, she’s there, a light piece of dawn glimmering in the night.
>She’s wearing her yellow-dressing gown half on again, the left part not passing through her forearm and instead trailing behind her and blurring with her tail. Her mane’s tied up in the loose plait you helped put it in last night, and does not move at all.
>The stone feels cool against your feet – soothingly so without being horrible. Her ears flick at your approach, and you run one hand along her sloped back to reassure her. Crouching down, you turn your slump against her into an almost hug, leaning your weight forwards and letting your head rest by hers.
“You are a very silly horse. It’s more than four hours till dawn, Tia, and what you’re doing right now isn’t sleeping.”

>”Hmm…” It’s more of a sigh than an intentional sound. You try and follow her gaze, try and see what she’s looking at, and find the blank moon shining like a fat dime in the sky.
>”Good morning, dear,” she mumbles slowly, the words slurred by tiredness. You imagine you sound about the same. “You should… you should go back to bed.”
“Not without you.” Your fingers knead into a favourite spot of hers beneath the ear, and she leans her head into it, cheek resting against your palm. “Besides, I know how these night-time vigils go. You have a problem that’s keeping you up at night, so for old time’s sake, you come out here and gaze up at the moon.”
>She sighs deeply, her whole body rising up in a wave of motion, before shrinking back into your grip.
“Talk to me. I’m not just here to keep you happily supplied with orgasms during estrus. Tell me what’s wrong.”
>”There’s nothing wrong. How could anything be wrong where there’s a blank moon up in the sky?” You rub your head beside hers as your eyes move back to it. “Do you know how long I’ve lived with that one big mistake glaring down at me? It was too long, love. Much too long.”
>Nothing for a few moments, just the lull of your breathing rates slowly reaching synch. Then:
>”It’s funny when I think about how much… change has happened in the past few years compared to the past few centuries.” Another pause; you say nothing and hope the silence can wile more out of her. “How much more busy my life has become. My sister’s returned to me at long, long last. I have two beautiful nieces. I have you and Dawn and…”
>There’s another burst of silence, and this time it drags out too long.
“I get a feeling there’s a but coming,” you prompt her, and she shivers in your grip for a moment before turning and burying her head into your chest.

>”I want a day off. I know that sounds… incredibly silly and self-centred, but I just want a day when I don’t have to be /the/ Princess.”
>You stroke her mane as she leans against you, teasing a few escaping strands back into her braided structure. Her breath feels hot and ticklish as it brushes against your stomach.
“I don’t think I quite get what you’re going at here.”
>”I’m the pony in charge of Equestria. Formally, that responsibility is shared between myself and the other princess, but informally, I am effectively Equestria’s queen.”
>Her horn scrapes against the side of your face as she rises. Two eyes glimmer up at you from beneath your chin.
>”Luna and Cadence and Twilight, they… I’m performing much of their responsibilities. Cadence and Twilight don’t realise since they’re much too young, and Equestria has changed too much for Luna to really understand the full weight of the task. And I could accept that back when I had nopony around to really distract me, but…”
“Now you have a family and people to get distracted about,” you finish for her. “That doesn’t sound silly at all.”
>Her head’s shaking against you, mane rubbing against your chest and horn clonking you occasionally on the jaw. “No, that’s not the silly part. The silly part is that, if I were to take a day off, the very ponies I’d want to spend it with would be the ones needed to replace me.”
“Ah. I see.” Thoughts move sluggishly round your head in search of a solution they won’t find. “Couldn’t Equestria manage without all of you for just one day. I mean, most of it’s bureaucracy – an actual alicorn doesn’t always have to be at the helm.”

>”No… No. Given how the system works, it’d have to be known for months in advance that I or a replacement wouldn’t be personally available, and if that were known, it would only be a matter of time before one of Equestria’s enemies knew. Even if I were to try some ploy to make it impossible to tell on which day no princess would be available, the potential danger caused by it would be unjustifiable.”
>She sighs again, and pulls away from you, turning round so that she’s once more looking out upon the moon.
>“No, I’m afraid it is a very silly thing to keep oneself up about at night.”
>You pull her close, pressing her back against your chest until she takes the hint and leans on you.
>”Still,” she murmurs, and even though it’s quiet, the words still somehow carry, “when I look up at that moon, when I think back over all the years that weren’t so… so busy and full of life, I suppose it’s not so bad.”
>Your face burrows into her mane; her scent flows slowly into you, leaving contentment as it goes.
“And I suppose these little moments we have together don’t count?”
>”Hmm.” She shifts against you, body rubbing without quite going anywhere. “No. The things we do together mean we certainly can’t be family.”
>A few heartbeats after your face has left her body and her head is nuzzling into yours – foreheads pressed together, a strand of mane tickling your ear and the warm feeling of her breaths sliding off your lips.
“If me not being family means I get to stick around, then I guess that I’m okay with that.”
>You can feel her smiling through the way it changes the landings of her breaths, see its influence in the way it warps her eyes.
>”What else do you think it is that keeps me going, dear?”

***************************

6) Little Spoon

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>The sweat makes her fine coat-hairs stick close together – makes moving them out of the way so that you can glimpse the skin beneath all the harder.
>Nevertheless, you try.
>And you find it: a hard lump running in a line beneath the hairs – a straight blemish compared to the yielding softness of the rest of her.
“And this one?”
>Celestia tucks her chin into her neck as she looks down to where you’re stroking. Her breaths still come deep and heavy.
>“That one was from… I think Luna and I were…” Her head falls back into the puddle of her mane, and she takes to studying the ceiling. “Do you know, I honestly cannot remember how that one happened. Perhaps a stray blade glancing off my armour, or some misfired spell from a student.”
>You give the area a soft pat and a kiss anyway before moving on to one of the other areas that had always worried you.
>Her feathers are ticklish as your fingers run through them, thumb held flat against the bony section of her wing. Your hand slides over her, down from the very tip and along to where the arm meets her body.
>There’s a strange notch there that isn’t mirrored on her other: a chunk taken out of the bone. You soothe it with your thumb, pulling the skin back and forth across it.
“And what happened here, then?” You raise yourself up from off her chest, one arm held as a pillar up by her head, and make eye contact. “How did this one happen?”
>”Hmm.” Her eyes close over for a brief moment, then open back up to gaze at you. “That was from a griffon during… I think it was the seventh war – the War of Starswirl’s Peak. One of their lieutenants decided that the quickest way to take me out of the air was through removing my wing.” Here, a wry smile. “She did not succeed.”
>Unseen by her, your hand hardens into a fist. You work the tension out of it slowly, wrist revolving and jaw unclenching. She smiles at you, and you offer one back that you know you don’t mean.

>Working further down means you have to watch you don’t rest a hand into her wings – experience has taught you that’s painful for her and, eventually, for you too.
>Your left hand finds the lumps along the lower part of her chest, then joins them together with a traced finger like you’re playing connect the dot.
>And then you reach the greatest one of them all, the one that you couldn’t help but notice: the silver mesh of scar-tissue that creates a warped contour to her breast; the one that matches, in a semicircle line, a collection of other lumps along her body.
“And how about all of these?” You go back over the line, collecting a sheen of her sweat inside your palm before returning to her breast and cupping it, almost instinctively. “Where did all of these come from.”
>”That was from a dragon.” She’s back to studying the ceiling again. Her mane has started to pick up a bit of life, swaying softly in an imaginary breeze. “His teeth managed to pierce straight through my barding, and would’ve probably gone further had Luna not put a spear through his – Anon?”
>You realise, with a start, that your hand’s been squeezing reflectively into her breast ever since she started talking. You release her, but the damage is already done.
>Beautiful magenta eyes are locked onto yours. “Is everything all right?”
>Your sigh empties the air out of you in one heavy load; your tongue spreads moisture over your lips. You swallow.
“Yeah, I’m… No. I guess I just really don’t like hearing about you almost dying.”
>”Then why are you asking, love?”
>You give a half laugh in response and look away.
>Isn’t that just the question of the hour.
>”Anon?”
>Looking back finds her forelegs out and held up to you in a gesture universally recognised.

>A few seconds later, and the two of you are cuddling in not-quite-post-coital bliss – her head buried into the nook between you head and your chest; one arm following the curve of her neck as hers wraps round tightly against your back.
>“Well?” she ventures eventually, apparently convinced she’s calmed you down. Her head peels back and her eyes find yours; your mouth slowly opens and you allow your breaths to mingle.
“It’s not that I don’t want to hear about it, it’s just…” Your hand tries to bunch up again, but you catch the urge and throttle it. “I want to stop it. From having happened. I want to… to save you from having nearly died. I don’t want you to have nearly died at all.”
>”Ah. I see.” A slight smirk spreads over her face; there’s a light dancing in her eyes. “My big, brave, strong human wants to protect me from all the dangers in the world.” She leans forwards and kisses you softly, then whispers, “I see nothing wrong with that.”
“Huh.” Your tongue explores the valleys of your teeth, searching for the right words. “It’s stupid, though. The only real scar I have on me is one I got from my cousin when I was four. If anything, you’d be the one protecting me.”
>”Hmm.” Celestia considers it, then answers, “Yes. I suppose I would be.” She eyes you mischievously, waiting for the facade of your machismo to crack.
>And sure enough, it falls.
>You laugh, and it feels good – better when she joins in. The laughter carries something out of you, some worry, fear or sense of impending loss in a way you’re not sure how.
>It dies given time, though, and the two of you are left cuddled together, foreheads touching and eyes closed. You pull back and open yours to find her fallen quiff is hiding one of hers from sight in a shifting wash of green.

>”Anon, I don’t need a hero. I don’t think I’ve ever needed one.” Her arm squeezes round your back, and somehow, the two of you get closer. “I’m one of the most powerful forces on this planet, and the idea that I might need protecting is… wearisome.”
>”What I need is different. I need someone who can make me laugh, who can cheer me up no matter what. Who I never get tired of talking to or just being with or–”
“Someone who lets you just be you?” you mock, half-certain that’s going to be the cliche.
>”No.” Her head shakes and her lips purse opposite you. “Someone who reminds me of who I am.”
>Your eyes crinkle.
“Yeah, that’s still pretty... lame. I mean, what does that even mean?”
>She breaks eye contact and looks down, lips moving slowly, half-forming words. “I guess…” She half-smiles and looks up. “Someone who lets me be the little spoon.”
>You chuckle back, then turn the thought over in your head.
>Being the only person large enough to successfully cuddle Celestia in the manner she prefers is still pretty manly, right?
>Meh. What the hell. It’ll do.

***************************

7) The wrong side of Dawn

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“… and then Mummy and Auntie Lulu had a big cuddle and a party to celebrate them getting back together, and everything was alright in Equestria.”
>You hold your breath after the words are finished and are glad to see Dawn’s eyes stay tight closed.
>And it only took three books, five potty breaks, one game of ‘Daddy the horsie’ and an impromptu history of Equestria after the old standby of ‘Goodnight Moon’ had suddenly fallen out of style to get them to do it.
>But, you can safely say it’s worth it. ‘Cause at long, long last, your daughter is finally asleep.
>Breathing out a sigh of relief, you push the chair back from the bedside and rise off it to a standing position.
>And that just happened to creak as you did it, undoing all the effort of the past hour in one fell swoop as Dawn mumbles under her breath and once more opens her eyes.
>“Daddy.”
>You sob without tears and look down into the half-open eyes of your daughter.
“Dawn,” you reply.
>“I’m not –” She yawns. “– I’m not sleepy.” She glares at you for a few seconds before almost yawning again; she clumsily thrusts her thumb up into her mouth as if trying to stop any more from coming out.
>Now normally, that might be considered cute. Even adorable. But you have long since become inured to your daughter’s charms, and are well aware that this act of toddler defiance has as much ferocity in it as war.
>‘Cause she’s onto you, now, and there’s no way in hell you’re going to get her back to sleep.
>But what the hell: trying can’t hurt, right?
>You crouch down back by the bed, already adding to the list of ‘On no occasion ever do’ the item of sitting on chairs near sleeping satyrs.
>Dawn blinks at you as you do so and makes soft slurping sounds round her thumb; you brush a few tufts of pink hair from off her forehead whilst putting on your best ‘please listen to me’ smile.
“Dawn. Darling. Little one. Sunshine. It’s bedtime. Please go to sleep."

>Slowly, and without her eyes breaking from their deadlock on yours, she shakes her head. Her fluff of pseudo-mane that you’d just carefully brushed away from her forehead flops back onto it.
>It’s just one of those nights.
>You decide to try for reason. That works well on toddlers, right?
“Darling, listen. It’s going to be night soon. Nobody else will be up. You’ll be all alone.”
>It’s not working: the frown goes nowhere and the thumb continues to keep the yawns locked in.
>Bribery, then?
>Nah. Passive-aggressive threatening works better.
“Ok. Well, if you don’t go to sleep, you’ll be really, really tired all of tomorrow. And then you won’t be able to play with Quick Leaf and Wind Runner. Don’t you want to play with them?”
>The thumb exits the mouth, followed by her second arm from out the blanket.
>”Auntie Lulu doesn’t go to sleep,” she mumbles, lack of sleep making her words slurred.
>You pause and mentally rewind the conversation – well, your begging – back a few spots.
“I… suppose Auntie Lulu is up most of the night, yes. But trust me, she’s not the best company for a–”
>”And that’s… that’s how she gets to be a princess…”
“No.”
>”So I’m going to stay up all night and become a princess too.”
>You close your eyes. You rub your palm into your face. You bunch your hands up into little fist and mime screaming into the centre of them.
>Eventually, you reopen your eyes. The thumb’s re-entered Dawn’s mouth again, and her eyes stare stubbornly up at yours. Her once combed pink hair has returned to its natural state of fluffy ball.
>You were meant to be having dinner with Celestia tonight – a once in a blue moon gap in which the country didn’t need her to keep it all from falling apart.
>And instead, here you are, twenty minutes before you’re meant to be leaving, with a face full of stubble and a daughter trying to usurp her aunt before she’s half a decade old.