> Sketches
>  by unparchedbutter
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

> Teen Sketches
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

This is a Rainbow Dash/Scootaloo scene I wrote a couple of months ago, under the assumption that Rainbow Dash will, one day, take over Spitfire's job.  I don't know.  I got the idea from a really cute picture showing Scootaloo as a Wonderbolt cadet.  It's my favorite of the lot I'm sharing here.

“Thank you.  I’ll see her now.”
The secretary made eye contact with Scootaloo and jerked his head toward the door.
“Go on,” he said.
Scootaloo shifted her weight and fluttered her wings.  She felt as if she were shrinking.
“So, uh, just go in?” she said.
“Yes, miss.”
“Just let myself in?”
“Yes, miss.”
Scootaloo bit her lip and stepped up to the door, her inner filly watching as the handle rose until it was several heads above her.  Her wings withered to stumps, good for nothing but pushing a scooter.  She knocked at the enormous door just as her cutie mark vanished and was nearly in tears when told to enter.
Rainbow Dash loomed behind her desk.  It tapered up to the sky without end.
“Close the door.  Be with you in a minute,” said Rainbow Dash, not looking up from her paperwork.
Scootaloo obeyed.  The click of the latch shredded the air like the eruption of a volcano.
“Paperwork!  You know, if I could go back in time and tell myself this job would be mostly about dead trees, well.  I’d make sure Fluttershy didn’t find out, for one.”
For the first time, Scootaloo saw a smile.
“She’s been asking after you.  When did you last see her?”
“It’s been a while, uh,” said Scootaloo.  It was still hard addressing Rainbow Dash by anything other than her name.
The incomplete sentence went ignored as Rainbow Dash finished.  Ink was dried.  Letters were sealed.
Then she looked right at Scootaloo.
She pushed herself back from her desk and rose to her full height.
“Look, uh,” said Scootaloo, backing up.
Rainbow Dash maintained eye contact and advanced.
“I did my best!” said Scootaloo, the tears threatening again.
Then Rainbow Dash reared up and embraced, pulling Scootaloo against her.
“I,” she said, quietly, “am so proud of you.”
Nothing for it.  The tears came, rolling down Scootaloo’s cheeks and into Rainbow Dash’s mane.  Rainbow Dash tightened her hold.
“Go on, you can hug me back,” said Rainbow Dash.  “I’m gonna feel like a creep if you don’t.”
Scootaloo laughed and clung, burying her muzzle in Rainbow Dash’s mane as the tears ran.


* * *


This is a TwiDash scene I'd actually forgotten about until now.  It's a bit embarrassing, now that I read it again, but here it is.

Rainbow Dash was blushing.  She was actually blushing. Here, Twilight saw, was a mare who had let the city watch stand down; it was not the real Rainbow Dash, because that suggested she had ever tried to be something else, but it was a part of her kept well out of public eye.
"Bit unlike you," said Twilight.  She wanted to tease, wanted to make that adorable blush worse than it already was, but she suspected that the little window she had somehow managed to jimmy open would slam shut if she even hinted at going too far.
"Yeah.  Well.  I don't like ponies seeing, you know?" said Rainbow Dash, quietly.  There was a fragile tremolo to her voice.
Okay, thought Twilight.  In context, here, that probably meant something like, it's okay if it's you.  Well, no going back.  Oh, things could be stopped, of course, but regardless of what she did next, their relationship had just changed, and irrevocably.
She leaned in.  A hoof pressed into her chest, not really resisting, but slowing.
"Something wrong?" said Twilight.
Rainbow shook her head.
"Um," she said.
"Yes?"
"I'm scared."
"Of me?"
Rainbow shook her head.  
"Of letting me see?" said Twilight.
Rainbow bit her lip and nodded.  
It was remarkable.  Rainbow Dash!  Loyal?  Good intentions?  You couldn’t ask for better.  But she was also arrogant, rude, that very special sort of lazy that only occurs in people who are talented and know it, and she hid behind an ego so enormous it dominated the skyline.  Pile enough genuine affection onto her, though, and she turned into a sad, soaking wet kitten who didn’t even think she deserved a towel.
Twilight stroked Rainbow’s mane.
“I love you,” she said.  
It was such a liberating thing to say.  The word was thrown around, generalized, and buried in so much hyperbole it did not seem to have any meaning anymore, and it was shameful.  Water down “awesome” as much as you liked, but “love”?  It turned acquaintances into friends and friends into lifelong companions.  It made you weep and hope for fictional characters.  Magic of friendship?  Why be so modest about it?  Love was the force behind it all.
She kissed Rainbow’s forehead.
“Uh.  I love you, too?” said Rainbow Dash, although, to be fair, she did not mean it to sound like a question.  It was not the word she would normally use in this context, but she was worried that Twilight was about to break out a guitar and start singing folk songs.


* * *


Actually, that was a lot embarrassing.  Here's some RariJack to finish off this installment.  It's probably my second favorite.

Rarity whipped off Applejack’s hat and flung it away.
“Honestly, dear, don’t you ever let your hair down?” she said.
“Uh, I don’t think you’re gonna like--”
Too late.  Rarity pulled off the band around Applejack’s mane.  This was the moment.  This was when the governess confessed her love to the swaggering something or other, probably a sailor--yes, a sailor; you don’t get much more romantic than sailors, and he was such a loveable scamp, wasn’t he--and then they would kiss, and then the string section would go berserk, and then the governess would undo her bun, and she would shake her head (in slow motion, of course), and reveal a beautiful, glorious, flowing--  
--disastrous, tangled mess.
Rarity’s fantasy popped.
Applejack had a good mane.  Technically.  It was as soft and shiny and healthy as you like, but, unleashed from the band she usually wore, it couldn’t decide whether it was wavy, or curly, or straight, or even corkscrewed.  Where Rarity had hoped, under the influence of the soppy Marequine novels she read as a guilty pleasure, it would fall like a spring mist, flatter Applejack’s quietly handsome features, and generally plump up the atmosphere with all of her favorite romantic clichés, it just fell, gave up, and sobbed until it died of misery.
It had not merely come undone.  It had exploded.
“Making sure it’s out the way ain’t the only reason I keep it tied up, sugarcube,” said Applejack, as kindly as she could.
Rarity’s jaw wobbled.
“I figure the only other solution is to cut it short, but lemme tell you, I look mighty stupid with a short mane,” said Applejack.
Rarity made choking noises.
“And I know it might surprise you to know I care in the first place, but I like how it looks all tied up,” said Applejack.
Rarity’s right eye twitched.
“I mean, it’s nice and quiet and practical,” said Applejack.
Rarity was, by now, pulling some very strange faces.  They did not suit her at all.
“Look, you already know the rest of me ain’t much to look at, and it’s only hair,” said Applejack.
> Mature Sketches
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

This AppleDash scene is pretty much as sexually explicit as I'm willing to get.

Applejack looked at the bed.  Well, she’d heard of mares doing that, so seeing Rainbow Dash do it had not been much of a surprise.  Not as much of a surprise as it would otherwise have been, at any rate.  But, good grief, at least stallions could aim; it was practically what their anatomy was for.
She tore off the drenched sheets.
“Rainbow, I’m pretty sure you ain’t supposed to need towels during,” she said.
“Warmarmyrmtrgdabr?” said Rainbow Dash, around a toothbrush.
Applejack looked at her.  
Rainbow Dash was exactly as scruffy as when they had finished.  Only the smallest concession to cleanup had been made, and that, as she had put into graphic detail, was because she didn’t like it getting sticky.  She could have had the decency to at least blush about the mess, but no, she just stood there with a look of vague interest.
A foam of toothpaste and saliva dribbled from the corner of her mouth as she scrubbed.  She grinned, which made it worse.
“Warmarngyargarndomgmufthlidngafluh?”
Applejack laughed and said, “I might.”
Rainbow Dash turned back into the bathroom, spat, rinsed, gargled as loudly as she could for the look of the thing, spat again, wiped her lips on a towel, and set down the toothbrush.
Applejack’s toothbrush.
“Floor’s cold,” said Rainbow Dash.  “I like it cold when I sleep.”
“You could’ve asked,” said Applejack, looking at the toothbrush.
Rainbow Dash squinted and wore a kind of smirk.
“Really?” she said.  “After all that, you’re gonna complain about sharing a toothbrush?”
“It’s unhygienic.”
“Shoulda brushed first thing, then?”
Applejack’s cheeks went hot.
“That ain’t what I meant, and you know it,” she said, but without much conviction.  Toothbrushes were cheap.


* * *


Here's some Octavia/Vinyl Scratch.  I was a music major.  I've done some professional classical gigs and still dabble every now and then.  Most of us are basically nuts and, well... just not like the way I usually see Octavia portrayed.

Octavia set down her collins glass, sucked on her cigarette, and considered Vinyl Scratch with an expression that suggested she was about to trade national secrets.
“No,” she said, and thought.  
“No,” she repeated, and thought some more.
“No,” she said again.  “Ego does come into it, of course.  If you want to make a living, you’ve got to go after it like the world will come to an end if you don’t.  That’s probably what it’s like for most in the liberal arts.  Classical musicians?  Most of us are neurotic weirdos with an odd sense of humor.  It’s a kind of self-defense.  You’ve got to be at least a little crazy if you want to think you have a chance.”
She took a pull at her drink.
“I mean, some of the oboe players I’ve known.  Wow.”
She smiled at Vinyl Scratch.
“And that includes me,” she said.  “Just a warning.  You know, in case you thought ‘classical’ meant ‘classy’.  I like a dirty joke as much as anybody else.  Hell, I can probably tell a worse Aristocrats joke than any you’ve heard.”
“Oh, really?” said Vinyl Scratch.  She grinned, drained her beer, and thunked the glass onto the bar.  “Try me.”
Octavia tried her.

“--’The Aristocrats!’” said Octavia, five minutes later.
The patrons immediately around the pair had gone silent.  Several of them looked nauseous.
Octavia wore a smug smile and took a long drag from her cigarette.  She watched Vinyl Scratch, made sure their eyes met, and then she blew the most provocative column of smoke she could manage, complete, as such things require, with a knowing, side-to-side waggle of the head.
“Why, yes, it was good for me,” she said.
Vinyl Scratch started to laugh.
Octavia said nothing, kept smiling, and tapped off some ashes.
“I don’t get it,” said a bystander.
Vinyl Scratch was shaking.
“I mean, what was that bit about the parsnips?” said the bystander.
Vinyl Scratch was pounding a hoof on the bartop.  There were tears in her eyes.  She hugged herself and started rocking back and forth.
“Oi!” said the barkeep.  “You want to watch--”
Too late.  Vinyl Scratch slid off her stool and fell to the floor, where she curled up and rolled, laughing, and laughing, and laughing.
Octavia winked at the barkeep, stubbed her cigarette in the ashtray, and climbed off her own stool to hoist Vinyl Scratch back to her hooves and get a noseful of alcoholic breath.
“I’ll just help her home, shall I?” she said, once she was sure her charge was reasonably stable.  “Er, check?”
The barkeep scribbled the total, circled it a few times, and slapped it onto the counter.
“And you’re out of here if I ever hear language like that again,” he said.


* * *


Some more RariJack.  Again, this is pretty much as explicit as I'm comfortable writing.

Applejack stepped alongside Rarity, close, very close.  Her snout met Rarity’s neck, and she gently brushed through it, breathing slow and easy, and watching the unicorn work.
“The perfume’s nice, sugarcube, but I wish you didn’t wear it,” she said.
“Oh?” said Rarity.  Her heart raced, but she spoke as casually as she could.
“Covers you up.”
There was some more brushing through the mane, and then Applejack’s snout traveled up Rarity’s neck until it was just behind an ear.  Lips met flesh.  It wasn’t a kiss, but rather a vague, affectionate mouthing that would have done nothing for either if their blood had not already been hot.  She pressed her nostrils right against the base of Rarity’s ear, and then she drew a long, deep breath, savoring.  Rarity shivered as she heard the sniff so close, felt the suction of air tease her fur and raise gooseflesh.  Her ear flicked.
“So, uh,” said Applejack.
“Hmm?”
Rarity took off her glasses, put them in their case, made a pretense of clearing up her work table, and waited.  
It was always better when Applejack initiated.  She was very nearly as bad at metaphor as she was at lying, so she never bothered with either.  Straight to the point, that was the answer.
“You see, I ain’t gotten off in a while, and it’s been a long week, so I was thinking--”
Rarity tackled her.


* * *


And, lastly, some Pinkie Pie/Big Macintosh, via Applejack.  It's my third favorite.

“--and he’s got one end of the lettuce, and I’ve got the other, and we’re nibbling away, and--”
Applejack let the monologue flow over her.  Macintosh and Pinkie Pie was a strange pairing, but they both seemed happy about it, which was the important thing.  Yes.  That was the important thing.  Her brother had his own life and it was up to him what he did with it.  Life was about choices, after all; her sisterly duty to stick her nose in only came up when the choice he made was obviously dumb.  Not that there was anything dumb about this one!  Macintosh rarely made dumb choices.  It was just unexpected, that was all.
“--and he’s blushing, and he looks so shy and cute, and I’m all blushy, too, and he--”
Applejack nodded.
“--and he’s so much bigger than me, you know, and I’m feeling all vulnerable, and--”
Applejack kept on nodding and did her best to fill her mind with white noise.  It was too weird.  Too much.  Yes, she would have to deal with it, but not now.  Now she was just learning about it, processing it.  She responded automatically with words like “Hmm!” and “Well!” and “Golly!”
“--and then we had sex!” said Pinkie Pie.
That broke through.
There was a long, crowded silence.
Pinkie Pie was the queen of bad jokes, worse puns, and ridiculously oblique euphemisms.  It was always jarring to find out just how blunt she could be about the things that really did need a subtle touch.
“I didn’t need to know that,” said Applejack, weakly.  “I really didn’t.”
“It took a bit of work, but he’s--”
“Yes, sugarcube.  You’re both adults.  You can do what you like. Just--”
“--he’s such a sweetie about it, and--”
“Please stop.”
“--he does this thing where--”
“Pinkie!”
“Hi!”
Applejack breathed slowly.
“You’re talking.  About.  My brother,” she said, as slow and even as she could manage.
It was then, finally, that she made eye contact with Pinkie Pie.  
It was like trying to look at the sun.  
Pinkie Pie could give you a look more focused than the harmonics of a wind instrument.  Those bright blue eyes would bore into you--and the cliché was deserved--as if she were ticking off every single lie, every single hurt, every single injustice, and, in general, each and every single thing you could possibly have done to tarnish your soul, if you believed in souls.  Worst of all, it came with a smile that suggested, with complete accuracy, that she knew a lot more than she was letting on.  It was one hell of a look, and when given, you stayed looked at, tacked to a sort of mental billboard.
“Yes, I am," said Pinkie Pie.  "That’s sort of the point.  Because, I mean, I haven’t asked, but I’m pretty sure I’m his first."
She poked Applejack.
“And we both care about him,” she said, poking again.
“And this is important,” she said, with another poke.
“And you--”
Poke.
“--weren’t--”
Poke.
“--listening.”
“So, wait,” said Applejack, unable to conceal the hope in her voice, "does that mean you didn't really--"
“That’s our business, thank you, AJ, but at least now you’re paying attention.”
> Another Teen RariJack Sketch
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

I like the dialogue here.  I might still use it at some point.  The prose between lines needs a serious re-write, though; I had fun putting it down, but . . . let's just say it serves me right for trying to mix my own romantic experiences, my sense of humor, and my taste for schmaltz and weird metaphors, and trying to write an emotionally heavy scene.  I mean, there's a bit here worthy of Ayn Rand describing a street lamp.  It's that bad.  You'll know it when you see it.

“So, you know, things are going to be changing.  What with Twilight being princess, and . . . things.”
“Uh-huh,” said Applejack, trying to keep her voice level as her mind raced ahead to where she suspected the conversation was going.
“And that’s fine!  I hope it’s all for the better.”
“Right,” said Applejack.  Certainty lurched into her mental harbor, dropped anchor, sprung a leak, and polluted the mind with dread.  Oh, no, she thought.  Not now.  Please, Rarity; I knew this was coming, but I was hoping I’d be ready for it!
“But before they change too much, there’s, uh, something I should--”
Applejack couldn’t bear it anymore; her friend was looking positively wretched, struggling to keep eye contact and fidgeting as if she wanted to stand on one leg and couldn’t decide which.  It was a wonder she didn’t fall over.
“Go on.  Out with it,” said Applejack, with a sigh.
“What?”
There.  Now that Rarity’s wandering speech had been tripped, their eyes met and locked.
“Let’s just say I have reason to think I know what you’re trying to, uh, well, say,” said Applejack, as kindly as she could.
“Sorry?”
“Just go ahead and get it over with, sugarcube.  You’re such a bundle of nerves I’m surprised you haven’t widdled yourself.”
There was a blush, but it didn’t stop Rarity glaring and drawing herself up to strike a haughty pose.  “Excuse me, madam,” she said, very nearly spitting the honorific, “but there’s no call for--”
Despite herself, Applejack laughed.
“And now that we got Rarity back,” she said, “how about you just get it off your chest?  And there ain’t no point trying to make something up; you’re almost as bad a liar as me.”
“Well,” huffed Rarity, “if that’s the--”
“Ain’t no point taking an attitude with me, neither, missy,” said Applejack.  
“‘Missy’?!”
This time, Applejack just kept on smiling.  And it was a smile, but at the eyes, which never left Rarity’s, it seemed to invert itself and turn into a sorrowful, but sympathetic, grimace.  
Embarrassment to sniffiness to indignation.  Progress had been made; the emotional seltzer bottle had been charged and vigorously shaken.  Now to aim and fire.
Rarity slouched and said, her face radiant with blush, “I, uh.  What would you say if--”
“No point asking ‘what if’, neither. There's just what is and what ain't. ”
“AJ!” pleaded Rarity.
“Just be direct.  That’s all I’m saying.”
“I’ve sort of been holding a torch for you for a while now,” said Rarity, in one breath.  "Crush.  Flame.  Whatever."
It was then that Applejack allowed herself to slouch.  And away we go, she thought.  Cat’s out of the cliché.  Just be gentle.
“I know,” she said.
“What?  How?”
“Mare’s intuition?” suggested Applejack, lamely.
Rarity was silent.  The two mares watched each other.
“And I’m . . . darn it, Rarity,” said Applejack, scraping at the ground with a hoof.  “I know that cain’t have been an easy thing to say, neither.  Never had no occasion to say that sort of thing, myself, but I know it must’ve took a lot.
“Sorry I done forced it out of you, but it didn’t look like you were gonna get anywhere anytime soon, and you just looked so miserable, and I cain’t be having with that.  No, ma’am.
“And . . . shucks, I ain’t used to talking like this.  I mean, I ain’t blaming you, sugarcube; it’s just who I am, see?
“And the thing is--and I want you to know I really mean it, sugarcube--yeah, sure, I love you.
“Hell, I ain’t scared of the word.  No shame friends saying they love each other.  World would be a better place and all that if they did, you know.
“And I’m flattered you think so high of me, and I’m glad you shared it.
“It’s just . . . I don’t love you that way,” said Applejack.
“I’m sorry,” said Applejack.
The gadget thus deployed, Applejack felt herself cringing against whatever shockwave was about to come her way, but she forced herself to maintain eye contact.
Rarity unfroze, and her breast swelled as she took in a slow breath that trembled slightly, but which was slow and measured, as if she were counting to herself.  The hiss of air flowing through her nostrils came with a squelch as mucus backed up and Rarity tried to restrain the waterworks, but it wasn’t enough to stop her eyes glistening.
"I see," she said, weakly.
The atmosphere could have been carved into blocks and sold as building material.
Applejack knew when to fold.  She did so, looking down at a forehoof and using it to draw circles in the dirt.
"So,” said Rarity, “if I were to say that, sometime, I'd like to, well, I don’t know what, but it’d start by going somewhere nice, just you and me?”
"I'd say I'd love to, but it'd just be as friends.”
“So.  That’s that, then.”
“I am so sorry, sugarcube.”
Now the atmosphere could have been blown up and used to dam a river.
There came a long, moist sniff.  Rarity drew herself up.
“Oh well!” she said.  “Stiff upper lip.  Plenty of other fish.”
The forced brightness would have fooled nobody, and it certainly did not fool Applejack, but she smiled and nodded anyway, if only for Rarity’s benefit.
“That’s right, sugarcube,” she said, wondering how many times she had used the word in the last few minutes.  It was starting to sound funny, and worse, it was starting to sound insincere.
The atmosphere underwent gravitational collapse and formed a singularity.
Rarity blinked as the sheen of tears finally grew to overwhelm their surface tension, bead, swell, and run from the corners of her eyes in two tiny streams.  She averted her gaze down and to one side, nervously rubbing one foreleg against the other.
“So what happens now?” she said, meekly.
“I don’t know,” said Applejack.  “I ain’t much good at this sort of thing.  What was your plan?”
“Plan?”
“Well, you cain’t have known how I was gonna react.”
“Oh.  Right.  Plan.  Well, I’d thought about that.”
“And?”
“I got as far as ‘don’t panic’.”
“Ah.”
She needs me to hold her hoof through this, thought Applejack.  Oh, land sakes . . .
“Well,” said Applejack, taking a vague stab in what she hoped was at least the general direction of the right answer, “I figure, what happens now is, I walk you back to your place--”
Even if she did not feel the same way, the hopeful look Rarity gave her shoved Applejack’s heart up into her throat, jammed tight somewhere above the larynx.
“--and then I go back to the farm.”
It was even worse watching the hope crumble, accrete around the atmosphere, and seed a small galaxy of despair.
And it was too much.
Applejack sighed, managed to suppress a sniffle of her own, and drew Rarity against her in a tight embrace around the withers.
“It’s been a crowded week for all of us, hon,” she said.  “I figure it’s best we all just calm down, and then we see what happens next, alright?”
Rarity trembled, clung, and snuffled into Applejack’s mane.  Something came from her voice; it might have been words, but if they were, Applejack could not register them.
“Because I don’t know what happens next, neither.”