Ow, my pancreas! · 2:30am Oct 15th, 2017
“Esme, you’re killing me,” Copperquick said to his daughter, sighing out the words. “It’s almost midnight and you’re not showing any signs of being sleepy. I have schoolwork I need to do and I didn’t get anything done today. Why can’t you be sleepy?” Reaching out with his hoof, he poked her right in the pudge and got an indignant glare in response.
“Nyuh!” she whined as she waved her front legs about and her face became stormy.
The bedroom door opened and when Copperquick turned his head, he saw Buttermilk, still damp from being in the shower. Her mane was down, spilling all around her face, her neck, and her withers. She had left her glasses on the small table by the bedside and she wasn’t wearing a stitch of clothing, which made his heart race just a little. The pegasus mare was clean now, free of sugar and cinnamon dust, and she clucked her tongue as she approached the bed.
“Somepony isn’t sleepy,” she said when she stood beside the bed.
Buttermilk then lept up onto the bed, turned around in a circle three times, laid down on her stomach, and began to preen her wings. Copperquick stared, his eyes narrow, curious, and one eyebrow raised. Esmeralda lost her balance and fell over, landing on her back with her four little legs up in the air. She whined to express her displeasure at this turn of events, and then very much like an overturned tortoise, she flailed about to try and get turned over, which proved impossible to do on the soft surface of the bed.
“Why, Miss Oddbody, this is new.” When Buttermilk did not reply, Copperquick continued, “You’ve always sought out privacy or sent me out of the room before. I’ve never fully understood why, either, but I suppose it has to be a pegasus pony quirk. So, what’s changed?”
Perhaps because it was rude to talk with a mouthful of feathers, Buttermilk had nothing to say in return, but she did endure a ferocious, fiery blush as Copperquick continued to stare. It took him several seconds before he realised that she was struggling, and it occurred to him that she was trying to include him in the more intimate moments of her life. Now, blushing himself, he turned his attention to Esmeralda, who still struggled to turn over.
With his hoof, he pushed against his daughter’s ribs until she was righted, and she rose into a standing position, her little knees flexing as she tried to keep her balance on the soft mattress. She almost tripped on the blanket, whined, and then toddled closer to her father. She didn’t sit down so much as she allowed her bottom to hit the bed, and then she braced herself with her front legs as she was now sitting in the slope where her father’s body had made a depression.
“I worry, Esme,” Copperquick said as his daughter lost her balance and tumbled into his foreleg. “You should be talking more. You should have more to say. Your mother messed you up and sometimes, sometimes I worry that I might be doing the same. With the eviction and everything that’s happened, you just haven’t had a good, stable foalhood so far. It scares me, Esme, that I might be doing you further harm.”
In response, the little filly began blowing slobbery, flatulent raspberries.
“I do my best, but sometimes, I wonder if it’s enough,” Copperquick continued, and then he remembered that Buttermilk was on the bed with him. His cheeks darkened, going from their usual cheery copper hue to a dark, dark bronze. Somehow, he had lost track of that little detail. Ears drooping, he pushed his snoot against Esmeralda’s cheek and chuffed.
The filly squealed and tried to wiggle away, but to no avail. Turning her head, she wiped her wet muzzle against her father’s face, let out a muffled coo that turned into a gurgle, and then went still, content enough with her situation that there was no need for her to struggle. Copperquick lifted his head, shook it a bit but failed to be rid of the glistening slobber, and then looked down at Esmeralda with something of an amused expression, a wry, dry, amused expression that somehow made him appear both older and wiser.
Unable to resist, Copperquick gave Buttermilk a sidelong glance and caught her mid-preen. She was tugging a long feather through her lips, which were darkened and slick with moisture. Her mane—which had surprising length—framed her downturned face, obscuring most of it behind wavy, clingy, damp strands. The overall effect was near-instant arousal, but much to his own shock and confusion, it wasn’t physical arousal, not yet.
This was new territory for him and he returned his gaze to his daughter before the sight of Buttermilk could gorgonise him. His wing fetish was still a presence in the back of his mind, and it made a very polite inquiry for him to have another look at the preening pegasus on the bed beside him. Esmeralda too, seemed fascinated by what she saw and watched while blowing spit bubbles.
This story just keeps bloating. What was supposed to be a 250 to 500 word chapter introduction to set the mood has turned into something else entirely. It has become the chapter. Sigh. Why does this keep happening? This story wasn't supposed to turn into a 100k epic. It was meant to be short. Ugh.
You wrote LIVING characters, so you made the same mistake as every necromancer who makes THINKING servants, i.e., they start generating their own causality while trying do their job.
you do too good a job with writing, not that I am complaining but you tend to to write long tales.
4698333 When they shuffle around the inside of the Google Doc and you can *swear* sections have added themselves...
It's when the story keeps adding to itself that you know you've done a good job.
basically you have a scenario akin to an ai that has become self aware.
they have so become characters that they write themselves.
I think it's Esmeralda: She is kindof pissed that she's gone this long without being included in a story, and so she is doing her best to make sure it is as long as possible.
Kudz, you just can't help yourself.