Hope Greentext Shorts [Incest] [2nd Person]

>4:30 am
>Need water
>Stumble out into the kitchen
>'tik tik tik tik tik tik tik'
>It's a steady, frantic beat
>You creep around the corner, peek through the archway
>There's Hope, illuminated by the light of the open refrigerator
>The carton of milk is sitting, forgotton on the table behind her, unopened package of cookies equally neglected
>She has your dining chair pressed against the wall, it's back facing to the left
>Her right hoof is on the seat, her long left leg stretched down to the floor
>Her chest and head are rested against the wall, braced by her arms on either side, splayed fingers nearly curling the paint off the wall
>Her hips are buzzing back and forth with vigor, her muff riding the smooth curve of the chair's backing
>You can see the glimmer of slickness as her body's motions reveal the backlighting appliance, her rapid humping a weak strobelight effect
>Hot and humid, condensing into fog in the refridgerator's cool airflow, you recognize a particularly human tang
>It takes you back, at least sixteen years, it nearly smells fully human
>You're so overcome with nostalgia and flooding memories from the before times you forget to feel disgusted for being able to smell your daughter
>'tik tik tiktik tik tik tiktiktik'
>She's going even faster now
>As close as you are you can hear her now
>Biting on her knuckle, failing to remain silent
>Hot, raspy 'hnn hnn huh hnn hnn hnn'
>Her outstretched legs buckles, she collapses completely against the wall
>You're halfway back to bed before she finishes her drawn out breath and sigh
>You know full well that means'a job well done'
>It's exactly the sigh you make after a good one
>You also know that Hope will be sitting in your chair at the head of the table from now on.

----

>3:15 pm
>Sweltering hot Summer's day
>Not a cloud in sight
>You're in the garden by the house, tending to all the vegetables
>You never understood what the hubbub was about fresh, organic produce was until you came here
>It's amazing, you couldn't find anything like this back home
>You hear hope coming home, walking with one of her filly friends
>Her unique hoofstep cadence always sets her apart no matter how many pony are in the crowd
>"Hey Dad, I'm gonna take an early bath, ok? I was sweating to death all day."
>Her nearly transparent cotton shirt backed her up well
>Of all the animals that sweat in the world horses were the worst, followed closely by man
>And you could clearly see by her face that the heat was getting to her, with her deeply flushed cheeks
>You nod 'of course' and watch her clip clop up the steps and through the house
>The garden is against the open bathroom window, you can her hooves clicking straight through to the bathroom.
>The door slams and locks, the tub's faucet is opened immediately
>Her wet shirt loudly 'plops' on the tiled floor
>Hooves loudly echo in the tub as she climbs in and sits
>This is all passive observation as you weed your tomatoes, of course
>Until you start to hear some unusual noises
>The faucet is gushing as though her hand were held against it, and had been for some time
>Curiosity gets the better of you
>You stand on the rim of your wheelbarrow, peeking through the open window
>Curtain obstructs her head from your view, she couldn't possibly notice you
>But goodness, what you noticed yourself
>Flat on her back, legs in the air, her cunt writhing against the faucet
>Her dainty fingers digging into and tugging her pubic area, keeping her clit fully exposed to the endless jet of water
>She actually had her towel on her hooves to avoid making noise as shuddered and scraped high against the wall
>How long has she been doing this?
>You let yourself down, no need to embarrass the poor girl
>At least she's keeping herself clean

----

>4:40pm
>Dicing vegetables for dinner
>Something as simple as routine knife skills blew Lyra's mind when you first cooked for her
>Most ponies can only roughly chunk or grind their food at all
>Even unicorn like Lyra had trouble telekinetically wielding a knife
>It was always like having a famous chef around the house
>Hope comes in, her gentle 'tik tak' as close to sneaking up on you as she could
>Glancing over your shoulder you see her, shirtless, glistening with sweat
>She was pretty back and forth about clothes
>She had to suffer through wearing a shirt no matter how hot it became
>Her lily white skin sunburnt as badly as yours tended to
>But as soon as she went indoors or found shade she would whip it off
>No other pony cared, and neither did you
>"Can l have something now, Dad? I galloped all day and I'm super hungry."
>You tilt your head toward the pantry, she rummages through the cool, dark bins
>She pulls out a fresh cucumber you'd thrown in not an hour ago
>Fat little thing, about six inches long and almost as thick as her wrist
>"Call me when dinner's ready!"
>Straight to her room
>You laugh to yourself
>You're familiar with the hunger
>She craves food like you do, poor thing growing up trying to eat pony food she can't digest and 'filler' salads and vegetables that quiet the stomach briefly
>Oh, that reminds you, your leftover lunch
>A big bowl of pasta salad, Hope loved it, you even thought of her when you made extra
>Better carry it up to her, she won't tell mom you spoiled her dinner
>Her door's ajar
>She's got her phonograph playing too loud, she'd never hear you calling
>Teens, right?
>You go ahead and push the door open
>There she is, laying on her bed, cucumber half disappeared
>Reading a textbook, nibbling thoughtlessly on her snack
>She bounces up when she notices you from the corner of her eye
>Appreciation of food blanking out the 'my room' instinct
>Oh yes, your poor growing girl needed some meat in her, bad
>You'd better go fishing tomorrow

----

>12:15 AM
>Summer thunderstorms
>Warm, humid night, rain pounds on the roof violently
>Loud, deep thunderclaps reverberate through your chest as clearly as you ears
>Blinding flashes of lightning penetrate the cloth curtains like noonday sun
>"Uh, Mom? Dad?"
>Here she comes
>You blame it on her horse half, herding and all that
>She can't sleep through a thunderstorm alone
>You scoot against Lyra to make room
>She steadfastly lays like a stone, mumbling "She's yours before the sun rises"
>She's been saying that for almost seventeen years
>You're on your side, backed up against your wife, peeling the sheet back for Hope
>She crawls in, hugging you tightly
>It's always so adorable when she's scared
>You come back to consciousness a few hours later
>The storm has subsided, but the terrible humidity has set in
>Hope's chest is sticky, skin clung to yours while cold rivulets of sweat and condensation stream down
>Ugh, you're never getting back to sleep like this
>You raise a leg to try and kick off the sheet, inviting a heavenly cool breeze inside the sheet
>Hope adjusts in her sleep, hooking a leg inbetween yours before you can settle down
>Coarse, sweaty horse haired thigh tightly wedged in between your own
>Tacky stickiness all around
>Strands of her loose hair are in your mouth, she's drooling on your chest
>Cuddled tightly, no doubt until after the sunrise
>Aww, her hips are moving
>She must be dreaming about running away from something
>Poor dear, you wish you could quiet her dreams
>You simply kiss her damp brow
>Oh no, her dreams got worse
>You stop meddling, and lay your head back down to try and will yourself asleep
>Your little angel might leave the paddock as early as next year
>Goodness, thunderstorms are going to get awful lonely all too soon
>That's the thought that keeps you up at night more often than not.
>Maybe you should ask the pegasus ponies to let a few more wild thunderstorms slip through
>Sleep eventually comes back to you

----

>10:00 AM
>Saturday
>"Hey Dad, can you help me get ready for Sweet Grape's cutecinera? I wanna braided tail like Spring Sprinkles."
>Sure, you could use a little bonding time
>You sit on the floor, she gets down on her knees and elbows in front of you
>You start brushing her tail, fighting knots and kinks every inch of the way
>You tease your little angel, asking how a little girl gets so messy
>She fumes, saying there's no easy way to reach her tail to detangle it
>You have to firmly grip her tail hairs right below the dock, otherwise you'd cause her pain as you had to tear some of these terrible knots
>Your wrist rests gently in a very warm spot
>You'll have to remember to wash your hands before making lunch
>Tangles gone, it's time to start braiding
>You divvy her tail into three parts, tossing one over the side and keeping the other two
>You can't really look away from your daughter completely on display
>Not at her privates, of course, you're staring at her damned tail and trying to remember the braid pattern before she realizes you forgot
>Can't mess up that 'daddy can do anything' impression that's vital to keeping teen kids in check
>Slowly you start tugging at her ass and working it
>Yea, there we go, a nice pretty braid
>Oh, not too tight though
>Poor thing was making noises the whole time you were tugging around back there
>You hardly noticed, so focused on the braiding method
>Dunce of the year material you were, hurting your daughter like that
>You ask her if she's okay
>"Y-yeah, Dad."
>Good
>You put your hands on her hips and pull yourself up onto your knees
>Your own hips pressed against her butt you lean forward
>She sharply inhales, you must be getting heavy
>You tug it out
>One of her pigtails goes limp without it's ribbon
>"H-hey!"
>You rock back onto your own butt and tie the braid off securely with a nice, pretty bow
>You tell hope she'll just have to go with her hair down, you like it like that anyway
>She tugs the other ribbon out and smiles

----

>2:00AM
>Winter Solstice
>Luna's midnight majesty lights the sky nearly as well as the sun
>The constellations themselves revel, tossing comets and shooting stars through the cosmos
>"Wow..."
>Hope has never stayed up this late with you before
>Lyra's long gone to bed, a mare her age unwilling to brave the brittle cold
>But Hope wanted to stay out with her Dad this year and watch the full celebration
>Fine particles of snow drift across her face, teasing her rosy cheeks and ears
>Your fire does little more than cast dancing light onto her face
>And warm a pot of cocoa, of course
>She draws near you, cuddling tightly into you
>Your arm around her shivering frame, your matching winter coats blending together
>Thanks, Rarity
>"It's all so big, Dad. I feel like a piece of dust."
>You give her a warm laugh, happy to guide her through her first existantial crisis
>An Ursa bats an oncoming comet into a nebulous explosion of stardust, shaking it off across the starry sky
>Amazing, you both gasp at that one
>But your daughter continues pondering, in an unusually serious tone
>"Dad? I guess l'm too human to get a cutie mark. How do humans know what they're meant to do?"
>She's sort of asked this before, so you reiterate that she is so lucky to have the whole world before her, how she must follow her heart.
>"But, what if... What if your heart is telling you something really strange? Something you've never seen or heard of before?"
>She's so cute in the cold, her cheeks a bright cherry red
>You grab her waist and heft her up onto your lap, moving your fully grown satyr as easily as when she was a whelp
>She's embarrassed, looking down at her leg wraps and cute little hoofboots
>You tell her that nothing she could possibly say or do could make you stop loving her
>Kissing your sweet little girl on her brow, holding her in your arms as she burrows her face in your scarf, you realize how much you were going to miss her when you had to give her away
>"I love you", spoken in unison

----

>12:00 PM
>You're locked in a wrestler's embrace with your daughter
>Your tongue forces into her mouth, only to be met by hers fighting back with equal fervor
>She refuses to lose a millimeter of ground
>Turns the tables, forces the battle back into your own mouth
>Enough of this
>You grab her waist and lift her high
>Her legs lock around your back, shes grinding furiously against you
>You throw her down on the kitchen table
>No need to be gentle, youth are like rubber
>Her bottom is exactly the height it needs to be
>She grabs a hoof in each hand and spreads herself wide to entice you
>Wet heat hits your face as though opening an oven door
>You immediately oblige her, crawling atop her while kissing her wildly along her body all the way
>Her slickness is smeared all over her thighs, your stomach, and threatens to pool on the table
>She needs it so bad
>Her hair is disheveled, her ribbons lost
>Satyr legs are quaking as though she were freezing despite the waves of heat eminating from betwixt them
>Your hands brace yourself to either side of her shoulders
>Her hands grasp your forearms, fingers like tight bands of iron holding on for dear life
>Her eyes beg
>They're perfect mirrors of your own
>They bear identical expressions
>"Daddy, please!"
>You drop your full weight down upon her, lancing deeply into her core
>So dripping wet you didn't feel an ounce of resistance
>Incredible burning heat inside her, threatening to crush you and burn you all while driving you over the edge of no return
>Her deep, sultry groans reverberate loudly in your ears as you help yourself to your daughter's cherry pie
>Hope's eyes snap open
>Her pillow is soaked with drool
>The pillow between her thighs is too
>She groans, incredible frustration fraying at her mind
>Kicks her legs off the bed, roughly grabs night table clock
>Squinting at it two inches from her face to try and read the time
>4:20 AM
>Ugh, better go get a snack or something to cool off
>Milk and cookies sounds nice

----

>7:20 AM
>Getting ready for the day
>Sitting in the restroom, on your human style toilet
>Took you two years to find someone to make it for you
>Worth every second of trouble
>Especially with your ludicrously high fiber intake
>Hope pushes her way in, rubbing a bleary eye
>Teens, stay up late every night and complain about being tired in the morning, right?
>"Oh, mornin' Dad."
>You bid your sweet little angel a good morning as well, and ask if she needs to sit too
>You've never been squeamish around the toilet with her, if fact you often had to hot seat it
>You two were the only ones in Ponyville who could even use it and you still had to wait sometimes
>"Nah."
>She backs her butt up to the sink, gathers her long tail up and crosses over her lap
>Her arms flex as she does a push down, raising herself up to the sink bowl
>The tinkle grows into a steady stream as that surprisingly lengthy morning piss hits the porcelain sink
>She lets out a long, relieving breath in a gentle hiss as her hooves idly tap on the wooden cabinet door
>You ask her class project she's been working on
>She hops down and opens the water tap, watching the hue of the swirls in the basin shift from amber to transparent
>Tells you all about what a butthead Star Shinmer has been, and how Cinnamon Twist shouldn't even bother showing up to school.
>You smile at her joking frustrations, flush, and wash your hands
>As your writhe your soapy hands unter the warm water you tell Hope how proud you are of how well she handles stress, unlike another pony you used to know
>No towel, so you give your hands a brisk shake
>"Thanks, Dad."
>She always gets all quiet when you praise her
>So you scratch behind her ears to make her mad and get her back to normal
>"Dad, I'm not a pony, look at me like a human, like you!"
>Storming out of the room, clicking down the hallway to breakfast like an angry tapdancer, tail swaying to and fro as agitated as can be
>But she isn't, really
>Pony or human
>She's perfect

----

>8:00 PM
>Everfree Forest, safe side
>Two young game hen roast, spit over hot embers
>You and Hope snack on cold fish caught and cooked earlier that morning
>Hope sits across the fire from you, intermittently turning the spit and idly playing with her homemade arrows
>She was a good huntress, especially when the lust for meat really set in
>If you'd been impressed by how amazing pony grown organic produce was you were equally blown away the first time you ate pure, wild game
>The delay of having to first invent archery only whet your appetite
>"Hey, Dad?"
>Out here in the forest, nearly a days walk from home, was prime father daughter time
>She never looked more adult than when she was silently prowling through the brush, nor when standing still and serene in the shallows ready to uncoil and spear a fish
>You treated her as a fully grown woman on these camping trips, and she tended to ask you all her hardest questions
>"Ponies balk at eating meat, right?"
>You nod, they do. You tell her that it's her human side that craves it, that is invigorated by it.
>"Humans do a lot of things that ponies would find unspeakable."
>You encourage her to continue, she seems quite troubled
>"Like killing. Each other."
>You nod, somberly. You've held back no truth about your people when she'd asked. You half jokingly ask if she wants to kill a pony.
>"No! No, Dad, I was just wondering. Wondering, if..."
>You realize she's been excessively turning the spit almost nonstop now, staring directly at the coals
>"If l want to do something evil because of my human side, or if l really am messed up"
>Her face is awfully red, you tell her to back up from the fire
>You walk around to her, giving her a hand up
>You hold them, the only human hands you've felt in ages
>Her heat flushed face looks up at you
>You demand that she tells you what has been bothering her
"D-Dad, Anon. Anon, I-"
>Scootaloo, fully grown mare, leads a troupe of CMC campers
>>"Oh, hey Anon, Hope!"
>Hope slams the tent flap

----

>8:17 PM
>The foals play around in your camp, unpacking their little tents and settling down for the evening, Scootaloo barking orders and rounding up strays
>Inside the tent you and Hope are keeping busy, desperately trying to stay as quiet as possible
>Condensation forms on the tent walls from the heat and action inside
>The smells hotbox inside the tent, making you heady and amplifying the senses
>Hope groans slightly, her leg shuddering and threatening to kick open the flap
>You shush her and steady her, you can't let the kids see this
>Your hot meat disappeares into her mouth, she groans again and you shush her once more
>She's already polished off her hen to the bone, and is working on yours too
>You let her, growing girl needing her sustenance
>You've feasted her her entire youth, and it shows
>Her long strong legs ripple with taight muscle underneath her coat
>Even her human half is toned, if not outright Amazonian
>She sighs, satisfied and stuffed
>With her nimble reflexes she carried the spit into the tent before any of the foals could see it and become aghast
>Less admirably she'd also started tearing into it while you made small talk with Scoots.
>The potatoes still lay buried with the coals, they would serve as breakfast
>Spit and scraps lay in one corner of the tent, scooting you and hope tightly together in your spot
>Bodies touching, sheet in between, you whisper your sleepy thoughts to eachother
>You tell her stories, guided by her questions
>How you met her mother
>What she did that you loved so much
>Every detail about your first dates she drilled you with
>She must have a special somepony
>You can't say it doesn't bother you a little
>Lucky guy
>You only remember to ask her what had been bothering her after she'd been silent for a few minutes
>Asleep, drooling on your arm
>It can wait until morning
>You rest your head next to hers as carefully as possible, gently touching your crown to hers
>Drifting off to sleep drinking in her stale breath

----

>12:00 PM
>Hope is sitting in the porch working through a bushel of green beans
>Snapping the ends and zipping the strings
>Lyra is helping, although Hope's deft hands are racing even faster than the Unicorn's magic can keep up
>You're on a trip into town for some sundry supplies, leaving your two girls home together for some bonding of their own
>You've always been so excited about being a father, you may have cheated Lyra out of some time with her daughter
>You imagine them talking, laughing up a storm about girl stuff and enjoying themselves
>They don't
>The silence accentuates the endlessly repeating snap-zip of the bean pods
>As Hope grew older and older Lyra grew slightly more distant
>As Hope nearly hung off your arm every second of every day well into adulthood Lyra started to grow cold
>The adult satyr sat on a stool, still towering over her mother
>Tall, strong, beautiful youth and vigor, overshadowing a dimming older mare
>A beautiful, nearly human image of her mother
>Hope spoke for the first time, feeling the need to break the silence
>"So, Dad and l had a lot of fun camp-"
>But Lyra interrupts, "Don't you dare."
>Hope drops her handful of greens
>"D-don't I dare, what?"
>"You know exactly what. I can tell. Don't you dare, don't you even breathe a word. Your eighteenth birthday is in six months. Do you know what YOUR FATHER and l are getting you?"
>"W-what?"
>"A degree, from Canterlot University. You're going off with your grandmother and you're going to stay up on that mountain for four years, got it?"
>"Yes, Mom."
>"And until then, Hope. Don't you fucking dare."
>Hope's face was flushed with embarrassment and shame, tears already stinging at her eyes
>Lyra's horn flared, crushing a bundle of string beans into pulp with a bright, sickening crunch
>Hope stood, scampering off to her room and knocking over the bushel baskets in her haste
>She was a proud girl, she didn't start crying until her bedroom door was locked and her head buried under pillows

------

>3:40 PM
>"Come on Dad, hurry, before mom gets home!"
>She tightly gripped your hand and was towing you to the town lake
>Given how soon it was after school let out she must have galloped straight home the second the bell rang
>It was your usual little gem of time with her, but lately she seemed to place so much emphasis on those moments before Lyra came home
>"It's right over here, l hid it in these reeds."
>She sits you at a stump you'd rolled out to the lake years prior and disappears into the cattails as tall as she is
>You see the motions of their heads bobbing, losing chaff where Hope must be dancing through them
>But on the way back she stops, just out of view
>Silence reigns just long enough to pique your attention
>Soft, tenative notes, as though from a flute or pipes float out of her hiding spot
>Then she grows braver, playing her secret instrument with loud passion, playing the song she's written just for you
>A tear stings at your eye, your heart overwelling with pride and love at your multifaceted and talented little girl
>Clapping as loudly as you can draws her from the reeds
>"Did you like it Dad? Did you really like it?"
>Such warm praise as you lavished on her would make anyone blush, she was no exception
>Her warm red face hid behind her instrument
>A crude, yet lovingly made set of pipes, fastened together into a panflute
>"You liked it a lot when mom used to play for you, right?"
>You remember how lovely that used to be, and tell Hope that you can't wait to see how proud Lyra will be too
>"No! Don't tell mom, okay Dad? Don't tell her, this is a surprise. It has to be a secret, ok? Just our secret."
>You laugh heartily at how flustered she is
>She must not want to play for Lyra because of her musical background, whereas a dummy like you who can't play would be impressed at anything
>A wink and a smile seal it, this is just between you and Hope
>Every week, she puts on a concert for you on her little reedy stage
>And your heart feels so young again

----------

>1:00AM
>Hope isn't sleeping
>She's working fervently, sitting on her bed with a coil of rope in her lap
>Puzzling around, trying to make the slip knot again, one of the ones Dad showed her absentmindedly
>Delicate feminine fingers wrap coils ff coarse rope around themselves, pulling lengths tight and coaxing it into a secure knot
>She grabs it tightly with each hand, screws her eyes shut and breathes deeply
>Throwing her arms to either side the noose snaps snug around her wrist
>"Good."
>Standing up, she coils back down on her powerful lithe legs and springs for the exposed rafter
>Lovely cottage design, very rustic, very utilitarian
>Flexed arm hang comes easy with Dad's athletic training, effortlessly suspending herself while shimming the rope around the beam
>Hope drops down to check her height
>It only haunts before her around eye level
>Left it too long, her hooves could just barely tap the ground
>She'll tie it shorter next time
>Her arms flex again as she pulls herself off the ground, testing her weight
>Rope creaks and beam groans, louder than drums in the still silence of the night
>It'll hold
>Hooves click as she drops to the ground, pausing to collect herself
>Fatigued in her mind, rather than body
>She jumps back up and secrets away her project inbetween the rafter and ceiling
>Rest does not come easy as she flops back into bed, suddenly weak without a task to focus on
>One week
>Her birthday, her plan
>And, an escape strategy
>Gentle moonlight softly plays on her troubled face
>"I love you."
>She repeats it a few more times, envisioning your face as clearly as possible
>Forcing herself to practice, muttering under her breath as heart still races, even alone
>She drifts to sleep admist the urges to puke
>Dreaming of nothing but running away with her father and living in the woods together
>Just them, nobody else, nobody to judge or hurt them, just her and him
>And their own, perfect life