Spitfire landed on the cloudyard in front of the house she shared with her chick and the little guy.
She was wiped after a full week of yelling at recruits and was looking forward to a weekend that… okay honestly would still involve a lot of yelling, assertions of authority and general ruckus, but unlike at work she could at least get drunk enough to enjoy it.
Well not too drunk anymore, that wasn’t responsible parent behavior, but she’d be damned if she was to face domestic life without at least an emergency sixpack in her fridge.
Our fridge, she corrected herself as she pushed the door open and stepped inside. She didn’t live alone anymore.
“I’m home bi-!”
Spitfire just caught herself, remembering that she also needed to watch her language these days.
“Ehr… bird!” she finished lamely, swearing within earshot of the kid wasn’t good parental behavior either, or so she had read somewhere.
The complete lack of response to her announcement was a minor annoyance, Spitfire could hear grunting and the high pitched tones of a foal’s voice coming from the living room. So naturally she stomped over there to find exactly what she was expecting.
Her chickfriend Gilda was working the bench press while their son eagerly counted out the reps.
“Eight, nine, ten….. ugh… elven?” Blackbird G. Starfighter called out, only losing track of the last few reps as Gilda finished another set.
“Eleven, twelve,” Spitfire finished, striding into the room with a stern face and startling both creatures.
Despite her attempt to be stern both the foal’s and her chick’s reply was equally predictable.
“Momma Fire!” the colt yelled out and ran over to wrap his tiny hooves around one of her grimy legs.
“You don’t wanna do that until I’ve had a shower,” Spitfire tried in vain to put up her usual shields but Blackbird just melted right through them like usual, boring straight to her heart and hitting that mother’s instinct she’d spent the first 35 years of life thinking herself lucky to have been born without.
“Dammit, kid, you’re making me soft,” she grumbled as she gave in and returned the hug, which only made her son squeal in delight.
“Yeah, momma G says that a lot,” the colt teased, nuzzling into Spitfire’s coat, “And don’t worry about the sweat either, momma G smells worse.”
That last comment was enough to make Spitfire snerk and it finally succeeded in drawing a reaction from the gryphon pretending to not be touched by the loving exchange.
“Hay!” the gryphon stopped pumping iron long enough to give an indignant cry. “That’s only because I’m working out, and besides I’m out of the good insteadofshave!”
“Then you should buy some more.” Blackbird called back, sticking his tongue out at the more feathered of his mothers.
“Yeah well…. you’re not even old enough to use deodorant!” Gilda shot back, apparently too tired from the workout to come up with a good comeback.
“But you are, so you have no excuse.”
Spitfire leaned back to enjoy the verbal sparring between her new family members, but was soon roused from her domestic bliss by one word.
“Shit’s expensive,” Gilda defended, “Besides kiddo, I’ve been too busy spending time with you to drag my ass over to the store.”
“Gilda!”
The whole room froze by the iciness of Spitfire’s voice, honed by years of leading the most elite squad of unruly jocks in Equestria and managing to wear the pants in a relationship with a gangster like Gilda.
The gryphon in question made a spirited attempt to hide behind the barbell as her marefriend approached.
“How many times,” Spitfire spat, “do I have to tell you to not f-bucking swear in front of the eckin kid!?”
“Geese, I’m sorry,” Gilda huffed, hoping that admitting fault would make this blow over like it usually did.
It did, Spitfire gave little more than a resigned huff. After all, she had known what she was getting into when she had decided to date the brutish gryphon, and by the time they were living together and thinking about adopting a foal there really was no excuse left to give. Her future wife and fellow mother was a foulmouth, not much to do about that but make sure the kid got the best foalhood he could ever ask for.
Speaking of which, “Weren’t you supposed to help him with his math homework today?” she asked her chickfriend.
“I am,” Gilda shrugged.
“Really,” Spitfire eyed the heavy barbell and the bench Gilda was sitting at, “because it looks like you’re slacking off and working on your triceps.”
“Hay, I can do both,” Gilda defended, grabbing the barbell in both talons, “Ain’t that right, Blackbird?”
Their son nodded eagerly. “I’m counting the reps,” he announced with pride.
Spitfire resisted the urge to facehoof.
“Look,” Gilda said, noticing the frustration in her marefriend’s face and deciding to relieve some of it. “I really am.”
She put down the barbell and stood up, pointing at their son, “Kid, how many reps did I do?”
“Ten and…. twelve was it?” he asked, sounding somewhat unsure.
Spitfire was less than impressed but Gilda snapped a claw in approval, “Good, and how many sets?”
The colt took a few moments to reply, counting out the number on his hooves, luckily he had just the right number of those.
“Four.”
Gilda smirked, something Spitfire still wasn’t sure how she managed to do with a beak.
“And how many is that put together kid? Twelve times four?”
To Spitfire’s great surprise Blackbird gave the right answer, “Fortyeight?”
Gilda’s smirk grew wider, “And before that, how many wing-ups?”
Blackbird took another few moments to come up with the answer, but once more it was correct. “Uhm… nine times thirty is… nine times three times ten is… 270? Wow that’s a lot momma G, you must be super strong!”
“Told ya,” if smugness could kill, both members of Gilda’s family would have been struck dead on the spot.
Spitfire had to admit that her chick’s unusual methods of parenting was working out, but there was one more thing.
“Weren’t you supposed to have dinner ready when I got home?”
“Shi-” Gilda’s grin vanished and was replaced by a look of if not shame, then something at least somewhat shame adjacent. “Okay yeah, I forgot, Spits,. Sorry.”
Spitfire let out a sigh, but there was only one thing to do. She stomped over to the gryphon and looked her straight in the eye, challenging her.
“It’s okay, you can get in the kitchen now, bird.”
“Oh yeah?” Gilda’s eyes narrowed as she faced down her challenger, “Why don’t you do it, mare?”
“Cause I said so,” Spitfire barked, pushing past her girlfriend to kneel by the workout bench and place her elbow on it in a clear challenge.
“You’re on, bitch,” Gilda smirked, flexing and popping the joints in her talons menacingly before taking the spot opposite her marefriend and grabbing her hoof in a firm grip.
“I already told you,” Spitfire said, firming her own grip on the massive talon before pushing at it with all her might, “Don’t bucking swear in front of the kid!”
Blackbird began to cheer as his mothers faced off in the ancient household tradition of armwrestling to settle disputes. The loser would have to make dinner while the winner relaxed with a cold beer and watched TV with him.
Gilda’s initial fire burned out quickly and she realized she was fucked as her tired muscles, worn out from all the lifting failed to resist the strenght of her pent up marefriend, but she went down fighting, holding out a full minute against the well trained pony while their son cheered them on.
“I win, suck it!” Spitfire eventually declared, slamming Gilda’s talon against the padded bench with a triumphant shout.
“Awesome, momma!” Blackbird called out, it was unclear which of them he was cheering for, and it didn’t really matter.
Spitfire kissed her marefriend on the beak before getting up and trotting over to the couch.
“Bring me a beer,” she teased the gryphon as she too got up from the altar of her defeat, “and make us a sandwich.”
Gilda’s reply was unintelligible but Spitfire didn’t really care as she curled up on the sofa with Blackbird in her lap to watch some children’s cartoons.
The doorbell ringing a few minutes later however was enough to rouse her. Spitfire knew exactly what that meant
“You were supposed to make sandwiches, not order pizza!”
Gilda just stuck her tongue out as she stuck her head out from the unused kitchen, where the phone was.
“Whatever, it’s still toppings on bread.”
Before the two could get into another argument their son gave off a squeal of joy and rushed to let the delivery pony in.
“Hot sandwiches!” he cried, “Thanks momma G!”
Seeing their son happy, Spitfire mellowed out considerably and leaned back on the couch. The beer Gilda tossed her helped too.
As Gilda brought over the food and Blackbird climbed up in her lap to devour the smallest pizza, she pondered how much her life had changed in the last year. She had been tied down as a marefriend, then ended up living together with a gryphon who didn’t give fuck all for what she told her, and lastly she’d agreed to become a mother. Now she couldn’t even swear in her own home.
She also realized that she wouldn’t change a single thing. She loved Gilda, she loved their son, and she had to admit she loved being with both of them.
Damn kid had made her soft, and she loved him for it.