Thirty-Minute Pony Stories

by Silvernis

259: The Power of Wub Compels You

259: THE POWER OF WUB COMPELS YOU

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She orders wine, and I accidentally drop a little harder than I planned. Not that my subjects notice, or care. They just cheer and grind harder in time to their queen’s crazy beats, completely not seeing the even crazier thing happening over at the little table in the corner.

Nopony orders wine. Not here. This isn’t a wine club. This is a booze-yourself-stupid, dance-’til-you-drop-or-get-laid kind of club. (Sometimes the dancing and getting laid happen at the same time.) Sure, it’s fancy, but that’s only because it caters to ponies with more bits than brains. It’s definitely not wine fancy.

It’s also not a bowtie club. Why in Tartarus is she wearing that? Maybe she’d like a monocle with her wine?

Smirking to myself, I watch from behind my signature shades as she pours herself a glass from the big bottle. She doesn’t notice me, though. She just sips at her drink, wrinkles her snout—whaddya expect in a joint like this, high quality wine?—then sets the glass aside and gives it a dirty look. (Bad wine! I am quite frankly shocked and disgusted!) She leans down and plops her chin on the table, staring out at the thrashing mass of ponies as if she’s not quite sure what she’s doing here.

Eventually, her gaze wanders up to me on my little stage in the middle of the dance floor. This is my castle. This is where I hold court, with my tables ready to take down the skull-shaking decrees of DJ-PON3. This is where all my little ponies gather ’round to beg for the soundgasms that only their queen can give them. This is where I make them howl and shake.

This is where I rule the bass.

I drop it again, just for her. The crowd goes wild, but she gives me the same look she gave the wine, her lips curling.

Oh, it is on.

I crank everything up, up, and up some more. My sound swoops and soars and explodes again and again. I make the whole place shake, my sound oozing everywhere and through everypony.

She’s shaking, too. She still has her head down on the table, and she’s still looking around like me and my music and the club are an affront to all that’s good and decent in Equestria, but I can see her twitch with every drop. She’s feeling it, whether she wants to or not.

I grin in triumph at her—just at her. Nopony can resist the mistress of the beat.

She glowers back. She sits up, reaches for the glass of wine, and takes a quick gulp before she remembers why she put it aside in the first place. I watch her sigh and slump dejectedly back onto the table. Her head and hooves are still bouncing with my sound.

I take pity on her and abruptly wind down the music. The dancing ponies cheer for me, then start clamoring for more. I flip on some plain records—nothing special, but it’s enough to keep them occupied for now—then descend from my throne and shove my way to the bar.

I use my magic to snag a bottle of brandy from the special stock, then grab two glasses. I head over to her table, making sure to float my presents safely above the sweaty, jostling ponies.

“Hey,” I say, grinning. “How ’bout a real drink? My treat.” I wave the bottle at her.

She frowns, then stiffly nods. She reaches over and pulls a large black case away from the other seat to make room for me.

I look at the case as I sit down, wondering where I’ve seen it before.

“Cello,” she says curtly. “Now are you going to pour, or shall I?”

* * *

She’s still there when I wake up. I’m honestly surprised, and surprisingly happy. I expected her to flee the second she was sober enough to remember whose bed she was in, but she didn’t. She’s still there, curled up against me and studying me with those beautiful amethyst eyes.

“Good morning, Miss Scratch,” she says quietly, giving me a little smile.

“Morning, Tavi,” I murmur. I pat her cheek. “After last night, I think you can call me Vinyl.” She blushes adorably, and I grin. “I gotta say, you sure know how to make a mare scream.”

“I suppose I’ll take that as a compliment,” she deadpans.

“Damn straight,” I say.

I hesitantly put a foreleg around her. She doesn’t object, so I pull her closer and breath in her warm, musky, I-just-spent-the-night-getting-pounded-by-Vinyl-Scratch scent. She settles in between my legs, sighing contentedly.

It feels . . . right.

“Why didn’t you leave?” I ask suddenly.

She thinks for a moment, then says, “I’m not sure. This . . . ” She chuckles and shakes her head. “This is completely, utterly, and certifiably insane, but . . . this feels right, somehow.”

I smile and squeeze her tight.

Maybe—just maybe—this will be crazy enough to work.

Comments

[Arteries]

Oh, why not. Today's just the day for wubs! Even the I-met-you-in-the-club-and-got-you-drunk kind.