//------------------------------//
// From Cloudsdale With Love (Fleetfoot) 
// Story: The Snuggle Conspiracy 
// by CategoricalGrant 
//------------------------------//

	So if the last few days had been weird, this was too weird; but also epic. Never let it be said that being awkwardly blackmailed into cuddling ponies you barely knew didn’t pay off.
“I’ve heard of your skills from Rainbow Dash. Listen, I need your help.”
This was unbelievable. You let your enthusiasm manifest itself as cockiness. “So, the great Spitfire, captain of the Wonderbolts, needs some cuddling? Can’t say I blame you.” You place one hoof on her desk and cock an eyebrow.
Spitfire’s expression is flat and weary, but her voice is tinged just slightly with anger…and was it digust, as well? “It’s not me, pal. Cool your jets.”
Your ears fall to the sides of your head as you return to a very submissive position. “Oh. Sorry.”
“I have a teammate who is struggling. Her house got hit by a freak lightning bolt and burned down.” Spitfire snorted, “Leave it to the Cloudsdale government to build flammable cloud houses.”
“Okay,” you reply, “That’s bad and all, but why will cuddling help her? I can’t bring her stuff back.”
Spitfire rolled her eyes. “She’s been crashing in one of the barracks here at the academy- no place for an officer, mind you, but it’s not safe for high-ranking military personnel to be lounging around hotels downtown with all the unrest in the city. Anyway, she’s been having trouble sleeping, stalking around the academy late at night acting peculiar, and asking Soarin’ to hug her and stroke her mane while she cries.”
You’re a little shocked. “That sounds…extreme.”
Spitfire snorts in a sarcastic scoff. “Yeah, well, you haven’t met Fleetfoot.”

So there you stood in the entry to an empty, prefabricated, sheet-metal barracks with the Captain of the Wonderbolts at your side and a distraught, sky blue Pegasus in front of you.
This poor mare looks like she hasn’t slept in a week. Her shock of electric white hair is frayed and feathers stick from her wings at concerning angles.
Spitfire is the first to speak. “Fleetfoot, this is-“
“I told you I don’t need psychiatric help Spits!” Fleetfoot cries, her anguish palpable as her eyes start to water.
“Look, Fleetfoot, it’s not about that. This is about you getting back to your old self; confident, sarcastic, and not prone to stealing Soarin’s uniform and rolling in it because it smells like him. That last thing especially. He,” Spitfire motions to you, “is here to help you with that. You want someone to hug you and stroke your mane? This guy.”
“Uh, Hi.” You say. You make a complete 180 when you hear the door behind you slam shut, leaving you alone with this possibly damaged mare in a Griffon-Cold-War era barracks lit by a single dangling light bulb.
You feel her brush up against your chest and move her head up and down gently. “Oh, you’ll do fine,” she purrs.
You wish the story continued as creepy as that, but in the end it turned out she just needed somepony to talk to. As you lay on one of the beds inside, she shed the occasional tear on you as she told her what her home meant to her; the memories and objects inside, her (unfortunately deceased) pet strawberry plant, and her soft comfy cloud bed. Turns out, she wasn’t even stalking Soarin’; he apparently just smelled like her house. You told her you were glad she didn’t do anything like bake her hair into a pie for him, and she managed a laugh.
Feeling her snuggle into you and extend her wings to wrap around you too, you feel her go to sleep. You can’t sleep yourself, seeing as it’s still like 11am, but you’re always pleased to snuggle.
After a few hours, she stirs. “Mmmmhmmm…”
“Good afternoon,” you tell her. She starts moving again.
“You’re really soft,” she replies with her cute lisp. “Strong, too.”
You roll your eyes and run a hoof through her mane so she wakes up a little more. “Hey, I’ve got to get going, but listen, if you ever need to talk again, you can just tell Spitfire, or make the flight to Ponyville and I’ll be happy to help you out.”
She looks you in the eyes with a sincere gratitude. “Thank you so much, I feel the best I’ve felt in days. You’re my hero.”
You tense as she brings her muzzle toward yours and nuzzles it. You return the gesture, which itself is caught somewhere between the realms of platonics and romance.


You bust into Spitfire’s office with confidence. “Fixed her.”
Spitfire looks at you, as does Soarin’, who is in complete racing attire. Soarin is the first to speak. “You fixed one of Fleetfoot’s episodes of crazy in…3 hours!?”
Spitfire lowers her sunglasses and looks at the clock.  “That’s an academy record. Nice job, hotshot.”
You beam. 
“You really helped out bro, you have no idea. Thanks a bunch,” says Soarin’, who then stares off into the distance and shivers, as if reliving an unpleasant memory.
“Here,” says Spitfire, tossing you a pair of tickets to the next Wonderbolt’s Derby in Canterlot. “You’ve been a big help, and we won’t forget it.”
“Aw, cool.” You say, grabbing the tickets. You’re not a huge Wonderbolts fan, although you follow them from afar. Plus, you figure, these ought to be great seats. “Are these like, VIP or skybox or something?”
Spitfire spits out a chuckle. “They’re general admission. What, do you think you saved the base from annihilation or something?”
“He probably did, in the long run,” Soarin’ cuts in.