After the Disco
You won’t like the way this story ends.
I wanted to warn you about that before we start. I don’t want you to blame me for what happens, to say it’s my fault, that you didn’t know. And you will anyway, and you’ll be right, of course, but at least you were warned.
We’ll begin in the middle. It seems as good a place as any, don’t you think? And besides, you need the context. You won’t understand the beginning if you don’t understand the end. Is this confusing you? It’s confusing me, a bit. Better I just show you.
We begin in the club. My second home. My second life. My second love. It always has been, as long as I can remember. There isn’t a DJ Pon-3 without the club. I stand above the crowds, discs spinning, beats thumping. I watch them sway and jump and twist, and I guide them with my music. They jump the way I want them to, when I want them to. The music sings, the drums thud like a heartbeat. The ponies dance.
Behind dark glasses I stare out at my world with a wide smile. These are my ponies. They’re here to see me, to hear what my music has to say. And I make the music shout it to the world, and I watch the world dance. The tension rises, the music builds, each thump accompanied by the stomp of hooves, rising, rising. It continues until every pony in the room is desperate for it to crash over them, teetering on their hooves, the pressure ever building as it rises higher and higher. The lights dim, the music rises. Endlessly.
And then I make it break, and the lights burn bright, and all that energy that the crowd built up – that I built up – rushes over the stage, and it is that moment. The moment I always wait for, the moment I get up on stage for. The moment the music drops and the crowd’s tension erupts and the solid mass of ponies that had been so ordered, so single-minded, collapses in on itself in pure, wonderful chaos. The bodies move, and I move with them, I move for them, and sweat pins the spikes of my mane to my forehead and it doesn’t matter, nothing matters but to keep moving, keep dancing, keep living, for as long as you can. For as long as the music lets you. Keep dancing as though there isn’t anything else, because as long as you do, there isn’t.
And then the music is over. The crowd stops. The cheers follow me off the stage, but I don’t need them. I’ve already taken my due. I’ve already had my moment. And now I’m Vinyl Scratch, and the glasses come off.
Octavia is here. She’s always here, and she always looks so out of place. She holds herself too well, too straight, and she always sits in the same corner booth with a single, half-finished drink, and she always waits for me. I slide in beside her and give her a wink, and then she leans over and we share a kiss. Chaste, because that’s how she likes it. Believe me, that’s not usually my style, but for Octavia I make an exception.
For Octavia I make every exception.
“That was a good set, Vinyl,” she says, with a warm smile.
“The day DJ Pon-3 puts on a bad show is the day I stop doing this,” I reply, with a grin of my own.
“Like you would ever stop. I know you, you’d just take it as a challenge to prove them wrong.”
“Yeah, you got me.”
I always like these conversations. I’m always tired, always sweaty from the heat and the noise and the dancing, but Octavia never cares. Octavia doesn’t do clubs, but she’s always here, always listening. For me.
Thistle pulls up beside our table, dropping a small bag and a strong drink down in front of me. “How are the lovebirds doing tonight?” she asks.
“Just peachy, thanks,” I answer, pulling open the bag’s drawstring to check the bits inside. Not that I’m expecting her to be short, or even really counting them. It’s all just for show. It’s all just routine.
“You want another drink, Octavia?” Thistle asks, running a hoof through the spikes of her purple mane. It’s not actually purple, though, she just dyes it that way to better fit her namesake. I can’t really blame her for it; it’s a cute look on her.
“I’m fine, thank you,” says Octavia. Ever polite, ever respectful. She’s known Thistle for over a year now, and Thistle’s asked the same question every single time. Octavia never answers any different, any less polite, never shows any frustration. I think Thistle’s just trying to provoke her, honestly, but she doesn’t know Octavia well enough to understand that she’ll answer the same way no matter how many times Thistle asks. She’ll never want another drink, but she’ll also never begrudge Thistle for asking. It’s one of the things I love about her; she doesn’t hold things against others easily. Not like most ponies do.
Thistle just shrugs in the face of Octavia’s stonewalling, and turns back to me. “Same again next week?”
I click my tongue and point a hoof at her. “You know it.”
Octavia watches a little too long as Thistle walks away, hips swaying to the beat of the music.
“Admiring the view?” I ask.
She rolls her eyes at me and takes another small sip of her drink. “Don’t be so crass.”
“Aw, I wouldn’t blame you for looking.” I would, though. Deep down, I know I would.
I drain my own glass in one. It’s not for tasting, after all, and it burns my throat on the way down. Just what I need after a long set, as the air feels so cold now I’m off the stage and the lights aren’t burning into me. Maybe I’ll order another.
“Are you ready for tomorrow?” Octavia asks.
I raise an eyebrow. “Tomorrow? What’s happening tomorrow?”
“Are you serious?”
I can’t keep a straight face. “Of course not, like I’d forget something like that.”
Octavia struggles to hide her own smile behind faux-disapproval. “You’re incorrigible.”
“Sure am.”
“...do you even know what that means?”
“Not a clue.” My smile isn’t quite as wide this time. I always feel like I’ve let her down, somehow, when I can’t keep up with her. Like there was some kind of test she’d given me and I’d just failed it. It happens far more often than I’d like. But Octavia never seems upset. She never judges me, or patronises me. But sometimes…
Sometimes I catch a little sidelong glance that I don’t think I was meant to, and I don’t like how they make me feel. And I know Octavia isn’t like that, she’s too kind for that.
But I still catch those looks, and they sting every time.
She finishes the last of her drink.
“Ready to get out of here?” I ask, knowing she is, knowing she has been from the start.
“Yes,” she replies. “Let’s go home.”
And we do, and we leave the music and the heat behind us as we step out into the biting winter chill, and Octavia walks close beside me so that we can share each other’s warmth.
***
“Stop fidgeting with it, you’ll ruin it.” Octavia’s tone is still light, but there’s genuine exasperation beneath it as I tug at the bow tie again.
“This is horrible, Tavi, it feels like I’m being choked. And not in the good way.”
“Don’t be so melodramatic.”
She leans in to straighten it once more after her admonishment.
“It suits you, Vinyl. It goes really nicely with your fur.”
Despite how uncomfortable the tie feels, her compliment still sends a little warm rush through me. Octavia only gives compliments when she truly means them; it makes every single one special.
She leans in to give me a quick peck on the cheek, and with her other hoof reaches up and swipes the glasses off my head before I can react.
“Really?” I protest.
“Really.”
Even with the betrayal, I’m a little impressed at her sneakiness. She spots my reluctant approval, and giggles. “I learned from the best.”
Celestia, I love the way she laughs. I love the way her eyes light up, how every part of her seems to shine brighter. How the whole world seems to shine brighter.
“What is it?” she asks, still half-smiling.
“Just you,” I answer. “How’d I get so lucky?”
Octavia doesn’t reply, she just kisses me again. Properly, this time. Deep, wanting, loving. It could go on for eternity, and maybe it does, at least until we’re interrupted by a cough. It’s the kind of cough that immediately makes me hate the pony doing it. That kind of overpronounced ahem that’s not even an attempt at doing anything other than barging into something they’re not invited to, just getting ready to pontificate.
Octavia taught me that word. I like it a lot. It’s one of those words that sounds like what it is. There’s a word for that too, I think, but I’ve forgotten it.
Tavi jumps back, an embarrassed flush in her cheeks. I’m not embarrassed, though. I could never be embarrassed by the things we do together.
“H-hey Brass,” Octavia stammers, “we were just-”
“Getting ready?” the stallion asks, peering down his nose at her through tiny spectacles.
I was right, I do hate him. Brass Band is a particularly round, pudgy pony, his short mane flopping over his forehead like a dead animal, plastered with sweat even though the music hall is downright cold. He always seems as though he’s on the verge of a heart attack, and I’m sure I’m not alone in wishing he’d have one already. Brass is one of Octavia’s bandmates, and I’ve never liked the way he looks at her. Or the way he looks at me. Octavia thinks he might be homophobic, but personally? I think he’s just jealous.
“They’re all waiting for you,” he says, with as much haughtiness as he can muster, which is quite a lot. “Shall I tell them you’re with your…” He trails off, making a big show of searching for the right word.
As if he doesn’t know.
“Marefriend,” I say, doing my best to relax my jaw so I’m not spitting it through gritted teeth.
Brass sneers at me. “Quite,” he says, voice dripping with condescension.
“No, it’s fine,” says Octavia. If she’s caught the snobbishness in his words she doesn’t show it. She never shows it. “I’ll be right out.”
Brass shrugs and waddles out of the dressing room, letting the door slam behind him.
“What an asshole,” I say, privately hoping he’s still in earshot.
“Vinyl…”
“What? Do you think he isn’t?”
“No, I just… Time and place. We can be angry after the show, but for now I have to play nice.”
“Alright, fine. But I don’t.”
Octavia smiles at me, but it’s a tired one, one that says far too much. “No, I suppose you don’t. You should head out front, I’ve got to get up on stage.”
“Okay, Tavi. Break a leg.”
***
I always feel so out of place at these things. I stick out as much as Octavia does in the club. Even without my glasses, just the blue mane is enough that anyone could pick me out in the crowd, everyone else sporting such demure and muted colours. I wonder if there’s some kind of genetics at play there, or if everyone else is just too scared to have bright manes and dyes them different, just like Thistle. The opposite of Thistle, I guess.
There’s a difference between the way Octavia and I stand out, though. Or maybe it’s a difference in the places where we stand out. In the club, no one cares if you’re out of place. Everyone’s too busy dancing, living, having a good time. And everypony knows whose booth Octavia sits in. They wouldn’t say anything even if they did care.
Here, even just sitting down on the too-rigid seats is enough to draw stares and mutters, none of them friendly. My tie is choking me again, and I have to force my hooves to stay down by my sides, not to fiddle with it. Octavia wouldn’t want me to, and so I don’t. And I don’t care about the stares or the whispers, I remind myself. I’m here for her, not them. I don’t care what they think.
The curtains split, the lights rise. A wide orchestra before us, and I can pick out Octavia among the rest almost immediately. She sits there, bathed in the bright lights, her bow resting gently on the strings of her cello. Her eyes are closed, and she seems so calm, so composed, waiting for the music to begin. And then it does, and the cello springs to life in her hooves, and it’s beautiful. She is beautiful.
Octavia always asks me if I’m sure I want to come to her performances. She hesitates when asking me to listen to her practice. But I only love her all the more when she plays, when she makes her cello sing and the world narrows and she is all I can see, and her song is all I can hear, all I want to hear. She is never more perfect than when I am lost in her music, when she lets her soul bare itself with each and every draw of the bow.
The band moves as one, the music a greater whole than any individual player, but I can still pick out Octavia’s song, ringing out even amongst the rest. Everything else is backdrop, unimportant. She’s the only one I’m here to listen to. She’s the only one.
And the music plays, and I drift away, and we go back to the beginning.
***
We begin in a bar. It’s nicer than the places I usually end up in, but I’m here with purpose. Octavia is here too, but she doesn’t see me. She doesn’t know why I’m here, she doesn’t know I’m here at all. Her back is to me as she sits at the bar and I sit in a tucked away corner, behind my glasses, a hat to cover my mane. Even if I hadn’t watched her come in I would recognise her anywhere, even without the treble clef that winds so beautifully across her flank.
But I did watch her come in, I was waiting for her. I knew it would be here, the bar where we first met. I was playing, she’d just finished a gig of her own, and I caught her dancing in the audience. She stuck out. She always sticks out. Most of the ponies in front of me then were wild, filled with the passion and energy my music gives them, but not her. Octavia just seemed to drift, in her own little world. And the world stopped for her, the music slowed for her, and it was as if she was guiding me, not the other way around as it’s supposed to be. And so, after, I went up to her and we chatted and then we kissed and then later in her bedroom I made her squirm and gasp and clutch my mane as she clamped her thighs tighter around my head, and I already knew she was special. A mare like no other.
This is not that night. This is a night a year later, and I didn’t have to follow her to know this is where she’d be, where she’d end up. And so I sit in the corner and hide and watch and wait. And I feel sick but I have to watch. I have to wait.
I have to know.
But you’re still not ready to see the whole picture yet. You still won’t understand. And so we go back to the concert, and we leave the bar behind and I’m not sorry to see it go. But we’ll be here again. When you’re ready to see more.
***
The room is crowded. The after-parties always are. Food is passed around, champagne bottles are popped open, the air is electric with relief and congratulations. Octavia is here, somewhere, but I haven’t found her yet. It’s still a party, though. I am in my element.
I jump at the sudden grip of a hoof on my shoulder from the crowd, but then I turn with a smile, expecting Tavi. It fades at the sight of Brass’ chubby features. His eyes are slightly crossed, and his words slur when he speaks.
“What’d you think of the show?”
I prise his hoof off of me. “It was alright.”
Brass lets out a single bellow of a laugh. “Alright, she says. It was a masterclass.” He steps closer, and I can smell the alcohol on his breath now. “You know, you’re quite a fine looking mare, once you get past your terrible fashion sense. It’s almost a shame you’re gay.”
I give him an icy glare to stop myself from screaming. As if he didn’t make my skin crawl enough already.
Brass gets even more uncomfortably close, his hoof on my shoulder again, gripping me tight enough that it starts to hurt. “Why don’t we slip somewhere more quiet,” he murmurs, giving me another waft of his stale breath, “and I can show you what being a fillyfooler has you missing out on?”
Before I can explain exactly how far up his own ass I’m about to stick his head, I’m rescued. Or he is. It’s unclear which.
“There you are, Vinyl,” says Octavia from beside us, and Brass jumps back as if he’s been stung. He quickly retreats back into the crowd without another word, although he does take one last leer back at the two of us.
“What was all that about?” The concern is obvious on Octavia’s face.
“Doesn’t matter,” I reply, not wanting her to worry. “He’s just a creep.”
Octavia smiles, although I can tell she’s not quite satisfied with my answer. ”Yeah, he is.”
“What happened to playing nice?”
“The show’s over, Vinyl. I don’t have to pretend he isn’t insufferable any more.”
This time her smile is real.
She leads me over to the bar and presses a cocktail glass into my hoof.
“Here, try this.”
I eye the blue liquid dubiously. “Is it supposed to be that colour?”
“Of course it is. It’s fun! And I thought you of all ponies would appreciate it.”
I shrug and down the glass. It’s sweet, and fruity. Not unpleasant, but not what I normally want in a drink.
“Good, right?”
“Sure.”
“Arpeggio gave me one earlier, I thought it was really nice.”
Ah. Arpeggio.
I dislike Arpeggio almost as much as Brass, although for very different reasons. Arpeggio is as if someone took Octavia and then removed everything that makes her wonderful. They left in the talent, but everything else that I like about Tavi is absent. She’s mean, patronising, haughty. It’s a good thing for her that she’s pretty because otherwise she’d have nothing to redeem herself.
And I’m fairly certain she and Octavia had a thing, once. Tavi never talks about it now, but she doesn’t have to. It’s easy enough to work it out. I can see it in Arpeggio’s lingering gaze whenever the two talk. I can see it in the hugs that last slightly too long, in the way Arpeggio smiles at Octavia and then glances sidelong at me as if to say I should leave, that there’s nothing for me here.
I’ve changed my mind. I dislike her even more than Brass.
And speak of the devil…
“Hey Octy, you found her then?” says the bright pink interruption beside us that only ever spells trouble.
It’s such a stupid nickname. I’m sure she only uses it while I’m around, too, and I think it must have been her pet name for Octavia from before. I always spot the twinge of uncomfortableness on Octavia’s face whenever she hears it. It’s just for a moment, and then she’s all smiles like normal and if you weren’t paying attention you’d think you imagined it. I did, at first.
Octavia is like that, in so many ways. Lots of small things that seem unimportant but add up, until you realise they’re the truth of her. Glimpses through fractures in her otherwise perfect presentation of herself. Sometimes I wonder if I’m the only one who ever sees it, what she’s like underneath. Sometimes I wonder if I still haven’t seen it, not really.
But it’s that part of Octavia that drew me to her, it’s that part that I love. That, and all the rest of her. Everything, completely.
“What do you think, Vinyl?” Octavia’s question snaps me out of it. I may have been staring at her a little too long, but getting away with that is one of the perks of being her marefriend. If she ever catches me staring she just smiles and blushes and if we’re in private she’ll kiss me and maybe we’ll do even more, maybe we’ll slip into the bed or onto a chair or anywhere it doesn’t matter nothing else matters as I feel her hooves against me and feel her press herself tighter and then maybe she’ll kiss lower and lower until-
I’m doing it again.
“Sorry, I zoned out there. What was the question?”
Octavia giggles even as Arpeggio scowls. She never minds when I slip into that place, when I lose myself in my thoughts, which is good because I do it a lot. You’ve probably noticed. “Arpeggio’s got this small thing planned at her house and invited me. Do you want to come?”
Arpeggio gives me an embarrassed look, but it’s more than that. It’s fake. “Oh, um… Well, this is awkward. It’s really just a musician thing, is all, and…”
“It’s a good thing I’m a musician, then,” I say, flatly.
“Ah, of course. But, well, you know…”
I can feel Octavia’s eyes burning into me. Don’t do it, she says without speaking, her hoof on my foreleg tightening as a reminder. Please don’t do it.
“What do I know?” I ask, wanting to hear her say it, not willing to let her get away with pretending to be innocent anymore. Not this time. Even though I know how hard Octavia must be trying not to wince.
“Well,” says Arpeggio, and her expression is a disgusting mixture of pity and contempt, “it doesn’t really count, does it?”
The air is ice, and everyone can hear it cracking.
“It counts just as much,” I say, each word falling heavily into place like a slab of concrete.
Arpeggio’s smile is the same that one might give a foal after receiving some macaroni art. “I’m sure your music is lovely, Vinyl,” she says, “but this is really something just for orchestra ponies.” Which of course it isn’t, or she would have said that first. But she just couldn’t resist. “No significant others,” she adds, and then, more pointedly, “no DJs. You understand.”
I understand. I understand perfectly.
“You’re such a cunt, Arpeggio,” I reply, and I watch as the ice shatters.
***
The drink burns familiarly as it goes down, the way drinks are supposed to. And as I sit alone at the bar, the party still bustling behind me – without me – that burn is the only thing keeping me company.
I shouldn’t have done that.
I think I would do it again, I think I would do it every time, but I still shouldn’t have. I slipped away from the ensuing drama, and now I’m here, alone, and I still don’t really regret it. There are a lot of things I do regret, but saying that to Arpeggio’s face isn’t one of them. In fact, now that I don’t have to hide it I can’t help but smile a little at the memory, at the sweet taste of Arpeggio’s thrown drink on my lips.
Are you starting to see, now?
Are you starting to understand, now that you see the ponies that Octavia surrounds herself with, that permeate such a large part of her life? Octavia floats, somehow, on a sea of ponies like Brass, like Arpeggio, and somehow she manages to be so different. Somehow she manages to be the pony I fell in love with. We really are from different worlds, and I am afraid, always, that someday Octavia is going to be swallowed up by hers. That she’ll drown in it.
Because sometimes she does.
A pony seats herself beside me. I don’t need to look. I know it’s her. I always know. For a time, Octavia and I sit in silence as I stare down at the dregs in the glass in front of me and try to find something to say that isn’t an apology. I’m not going to lie to her, and I’m not sorry.
“Are you okay?” she asks, eventually, and it breaks my heart.
“Yes,” I say. “Are you?”
“I’m not the one who had a drink thrown in her face.”
I sigh and slump my head down on the bartop, staring at my now-sideways marefriend. “I deserved it.”
Octavia bites her lip. “No,” she says. “You didn’t.”
I frown. I know Octavia well enough, now, that no matter how well she hides it I can see how she’s feeling. I can see through those cracks I told you about. I can see how rigidly she’s holding herself, her hooves not resting on the counter but pressing down on it, a tightness in her jaw as she tries not to clench it. I know Octavia, and she’s furious.
“Yeah, well, if you want to go to Arpeggio’s thing, you should. I’ll just head back to the house.” I close my eyes because I’m not sure I can bear to look at her right now, but the next thing I know I’m surrounded by Octavia’s warm embrace.
“I don’t want to spend another second with that bitch,” she whispers, and I start in surprise at her coarseness. “I want to spend it with the mare I love.”
“You’re not mad?” I ask, scarcely able to believe it.
“Are you kidding? Vinyl, I’m furious.” My ears tuck down a little, but Octavia just presses herself closer. “I can’t believe she would talk to you like that,” she says.
Oh. Thank Celestia. I was so sure she’d be angry at me for ruining her evening, for calling her ex exactly what she is. But she’s Octavia, and so she’s not. At least not tonight. And not after the bar.
“Let’s go home,” she murmurs, and nothing has ever sounded better.
Do you see yet? Please tell me you’re starting to understand. Maybe. Maybe it’s still too early. Maybe it’s not early enough. Would it help if I told you that before the beginning, before the bar, Octavia would have gone with Arpeggio without hesitation? She’d have left me to go back to our house alone and sit in the dark and try not to think about what she was doing and who she was with. Would it help if I told you she may well have blamed me for starting a fight, that I should have been calmer, more careful? If I told you I was expecting her to be angry at me because it was a very real possibility? At least, it used to be.
And you know that’s not like Octavia, that she’s better than that. You know because you’ve seen it, just like I have. But it’s these ponies, the ones she works with, performs with. The ones in her second life, her second love. They’re tainted, all of them, and it was starting to rub off on her. Octavia is a strong pony, stronger than I am, but having to spend days and weeks and months with ponies like Arpeggio will ruin anyone. Everyone. And so now you’re starting to understand, and once you see the beginning it’ll be easier, less painful, because you know it will be worth it in the end. I wish I could have seen the ending first.
But you’re still not quite ready. You will be, though, and soon. Just like Octavia, the little things will add up, and you’ll see through the cracks and it will all make sense. But not yet.
Let’s go home.
***
Our house is small. That’s never really bothered me; I don’t need much space, and as long as I have Octavia and my turntables it doesn’t matter. It bothers Octavia, though. She’ll often look around the confines and sigh, or groan whenever her cello case bumps against a wall, or whenever she has to drag a table out of the way just to have space to practice.
Tonight it doesn’t matter, though. Tonight we have each other. Her touch is warm, her kiss is ready and wanting, and I need her. She’s been so cold lately. We’ve spent nights without even touching each other, nights where one of us would stay up late under whatever pretence we needed. I would be mixing and balancing, she would be cleaning her strings, or whatever else we could come up with. Busywork. Those nights always hurt.
But not tonight. Tonight we love each other and we make it known as we fall down onto the bed together, entwined, entranced. Her touch is fire, and it burns in the best way with every kiss, every brush against my fur.
“I’m sorry,” whispers Octavia in between kisses.
“Don’t be. You’ve got nothing to be sorry for,” I reply.
She does, though. We both know it. But it doesn’t matter, I forgive her. I’ll always forgive her, for anything. For everything, as long as we can have these nights together, as long as she’ll love me and stay with me I can endure anything the world throws at us, anything she throws at me. Because I love her, and that’s what love is.
And so instead of letting her apologise I deepen our kiss, my hooves roaming and squeezing and holding her oh so tight, as if she’ll slip away from me if I don’t. As if she’ll slip out of them and we’ll go back to the cold nights alone and this time there will be no coming back from it. She’ll decide I’m not good enough for her after all. But Octavia won’t let my doubts simmer for long, and it’s like she knows, like she can tell. She hugs me close and kisses me deep and everything is going to be okay, we’re going to be okay, and I melt in her embrace.
And then she’s moving off the bed, leaving me in a confused fog of lust, love, and longing, and then she’s between my legs and my confusion is gone. Everything is gone, as she plants a gentle kiss against my thigh that promises so much while giving so little, and my back hooves twitch a little in anticipation.
I’m already so wet, and oh fuck I don’t know how Octavia does that to me after so little, she always does that and I’ve never known how. No one else has ever even come close, only her. Always her. And so when at last she stops teasing and leans forward and her tongue presses against me I shudder and breathe in sharply and my back arches up and there’s no room for anything but the insistent push against me as I wrap my hindlegs around her head and pull her close out of pure instinct. Need. Love.
Her hooves grip my rump tightly, grey fur against white, as her tongue trails its way slowly upward towards my clit, giving it the gentlest of brushes and coaxing electric shivers all the way up my spine before her tongue dances away again. Just enough of a tease, of a taste, before delving back to my slit and burying her muzzle inside of me.
Fuck, she’s so good at this. Too good. She knows me all too well, just like I know her. She knows every part of me, exactly which buttons to push and when, exactly which spots to give attention to and which to merely tease and brush against because they’re too sensitive for more. It’s almost torturous, Octavia toying with me so expertly. Because even through the pleasure, toying is what she’s doing. She knows me well enough that if she wanted me to cum, she could make me. But she knows that would be too easy, too quick, too clean. And so instead she draws it out, and her tongue makes those wondrous little movements inside me that draw me to higher and higher peaks but never push me over. Little spikes of pleasure before she withdraws and does something else just as wonderful, just as good.
And I writhe and moan and let her know exactly what she’s doing to me, and I can feel her smile against me, and I grip her mane with a free hoof and pull her closer as if I can make her go faster, harder, to stop teasing. But she doesn’t.
She never does.
Instead she toys with me for what feels like forever. Sometimes she speeds up, brings me ever so close to the edge and then backs off and leaves me growling and sighing in frustration. Sometimes she pulls away entirely, leaving me feeling so cold against the air as she plants kisses against my thigh again while she catches her breath, or even climbs over me again to draw me into a kiss and I can taste myself on her lips.
She always knows exactly when to stop, when to leave me frustrated and craving her touch, her tongue. And she knows when the rising tide has subsided, when she can fall back into me again and start the whole cycle over once more. Each time she pushes a little further, letting me get just that little bit closer to cresting my climax and having it all wash over me, but still she doesn’t relent. Still she doesn’t let me have it, not until she deems me ready.
And then, finally, she stops teasing. It’s a subtle change, everything Octavia does is subtle, but I feel it. Her affections grow the slightest bit more insistent, more firm, as she settles herself between my legs for the last time. But we’ve been together long enough that I can always tell when she’s going to grant me the release I need so desperately, when Octavia feels that she’s wound me up just enough and is ready to have that all unleash like a spring.
And so this time she doesn’t back off when those little jolts of pleasure start to merge and meld together. We go past the point of no return and she doesn’t stop, I pray that she never stops, and her movements only grow even more determined, her tongue moving so deeply into me, her lips brushing against my sensitive button as the pressure mounts for the last time.
And then it crashes over me, and still she doesn’t relent, and I’m moaning her name to the world and nickering and biting my lip and clenching her between my thighs. I am lost to the explosion of pleasure, nothing else but her and this feeling, this release washing over me, through me, filling me completely. The music drops. The orchestra plays its final note. And there is just me and her and nothing else and that is all I ever wanted.
When the last shivers of orgasm start to fade, Octavia is nestled against my chest, burying her face in my fur and smiling whenever a final tremor of lust rolls through me. I hook my foreleg around her shoulder, and we lie there as I float in the afterglow, holding her close and tight.
“Did you like that?” she asks, knowing the answer.
“That was amazing, Tavi.” And then, as she looks up at me, “You’re amazing.”
And we’re kissing again, and the taste of me is stronger than ever but I don’t care because it’s her, and as long as we have these moments I don’t care about anything. She squeaks adorably as I break the kiss and roll on top of her, our kiss becoming lustful and wanting once again. “Okay,” I murmur. “It’s your turn.”
But you don’t need to see any more. You already understand. You’re ready. And so we leave here as my hoof wanders between Octavia’s legs and she gasps and hugs me tighter, and we go back to the beginning, back to the bar.
And I’m sorry for that.
***
We begin in the bar. Nicer than my usual places. Octavia is here. And I wait.
I wait even though waiting is agony, even though the worst possible thing is waiting for what’s about to happen. I don’t want to see it, I never want to see it, but I must. I have to know.
My glass is empty. It has been for some time, but it’s not as though I can get another one now. I have to stay hidden, stay tucked away, make sure Octavia doesn’t see me. Her own drink is nearly empty, too. It’s her second. Octavia never gets more than one, but here she is on the verge of a third.
I’m surprised it takes as long as it does. A mare as beautiful as Octavia, sitting alone in a place like this. Maybe the other ponies assume she’s waiting for someone. In many ways, that’s exactly what this is. And sure enough, eventually a mare wanders past me and makes her way to the bar, sitting herself down beside Tavi. Her fur is pale peach, her mane tightly curled, her cutie mark a parchment and quill. I don’t recognise her. I suppose it wouldn’t matter if I did. I can tell what she’s like, though. It’s in her posture, the way she holds herself, the way she looks around the room like she’s the most important pony in it and everyone should know.
She reminds me of Arpeggio.
And when she sits down next to Octavia, my Octavia, and she orders two drinks and slides one over to Tavi, I’m sure I’m going to be sick.
To her credit, Octavia makes a show of declining it. I can’t hear what she’s saying over the music, not from this far away, but I don’t have to. I see her flustered refusal, and I see the other mare wave her protestations away, and I see Tavi give in and thank her. She was always planning to give in, though. She’s here because she’s already given in. I wonder if her attempted rebuttal was genuine or just to make her feel better about what she’s about to do.
I suppose it doesn’t matter either way.
I watch them talk, chat, laugh. She’s smooth, this mare. I don’t know what she’s saying but I can see Octavia start to relax, watch as the stress and the strain starts to fade away, watch as she starts to enjoy the flirting, and even starts to flirt back a little. My hoof taps uneasily against my seat as I watch Octavia lean forward and rest her head on her hoof. I know that move. I know what it means, how she’s feeling. But normally she only looks that way for me.
I can’t look. I can’t look away. My hoof taps faster, a relentless rhythm. Tap tap tap tap tap. It still doesn’t stop me from shaking, ice rattling as I clutch my empty glass. And the other mare leans in and whispers something in Tavi’s ear, and a blush rises in her face, and the music thuds through my ears and I screw my eyes shut.
And when I open them again Octavia is standing, and the other mare too, and she throws some bits down on the counter and then they leave together, Octavia giggling in that delightful way she does whenever I whisper in her ear what I plan to do to her that evening. Their flanks brush together as they push their way through the door, and then they’re gone, and I sink back in my chair and my eyes burn with tears and my head drops down onto the table and each of my breaths come long and shaky and wrenching.
And that’s the beginning.
***
I lie in bed and sleep is impossible. It’s been hours since I got back, and when I first stepped in through the door and I saw Tavi’s cello case leaned against the wall and a photo of the two of us on one of our shelves I really was sick, rushing to the bathroom and then curling up on the freezing tiles after, alone.
I should have stopped her. I should have done something, anything. I shouldn’t have let her leave. But I had to. And so I lay there in the cold and empty bathroom, and then later I washed the sharp taste of vomit from my mouth and moved to the cold and empty bedroom, and if anything that was even worse. And now I lie here and I wait for Tavi to get home.
I wait for hours, but it feels like forever. I would wait forever, if that’s what it took. Just to have her walk through that door again, just to have her be mine again, to wipe away everything I saw and mend those unmendable scars.
I don’t know when I fall asleep, but I know when I wake up. The front door slams, and my heart falters. I hear Octavia shuffle up the corridor, and then she’s in the doorway, a silhouette in the dark. Her head hangs low. “Vinyl?” she asks, and her voice is raw and ragged. “Are you awake?”
“Yeah,” I murmur, not having to feign the sleep in my voice. I do have to feign the next part, though. And every part after that. “What’s wrong?”
Octavia doesn’t answer right away. She stays in the doorway, swaying slightly from side to side, and I can hear her muted sobs.
“Tavi?” I ask, trying to layer my voice with as much concern as I can. Trying not to let my pain and betrayal and heartbreak seep through.
“I love you so much,” she whispers through her tears. “You know that, right?”
I don’t know how to answer.
“Is this about our fight?” I ask.
“Just… Just say it. Please. Tell me you love me too.”
And, without hesitation, I tell her. And I mean it with all my heart, with every fibre of my being. I mean it no matter what she’s done. And so when she stumbles into the room and I can see the stained trails of makeup from the corners of her eyes and the self-loathing in her features, when she climbs up onto the bed with me and she seems so small, so lost, I pull her into a hug without reservation or hesitation. I hold her close and I don’t need to say anything, I just hug her and let her know that I love her and I always will and it doesn’t matter nothing else matters.
And her tears mix with mine and we hold each other, and then I kiss her and her lips taste of mouthwash even though she never went to our bathroom, but I ignore it. There is the faint smell of a perfume she’s never worn, but I ignore it.
Or at least I try to. I fail, but I try.
Because I still see that mare she left with, and now I smell her too, and I imagine them in each other’s hooves and even having Octavia wrapped in mine now – where she belongs, where she’s meant to be, where I need her to be – isn’t enough to dispel those haunting flashes of where she’s been, who she’s been with.
But for Octavia I will bear them. For Octavia I will pretend I didn’t notice, that I don’t know her shame. Because she needs me as much as I need her. We complete each other, two halves of a perfect whole, our broken edges fitting together so smoothly.
“I’m so sorry, Vinyl,” she whispers.
“It’s okay, it was just a stupid fight,” I promise her, the lies and empty reassurances falling from my tongue. “It’s nothing. I’m sorry too.”
And even though we both know that wasn’t what her apology was for, Tavi accepts it. She curls up smaller and hugs herself tighter and we stay like that. We stay like that until my legs grow stiff beneath me but I don’t dare to move. We stay like that until Tavi’s tears are all dried against my fur. We stay like that until the morning light creeps in through the curtains and we fall asleep in each other’s hooves. And I wish we could stay that way forever.
Context.
You had to see it. You had to understand. And now I have one last confession to make: I lied to you. A white lie, but a lie all the same. Things left out, truths left unsaid. But I had to be sure you were ready. I didn’t want you to hate me before you understood why I did the things I did. The price I had to pay. For Octavia there is no price I wouldn’t.
And now you’ve seen the beginning and the end, and it’s time. I can’t keep hiding it from you. And if you do hate me after this, then I can’t hold it against you any more. And so we go back to the bar one last time. Not to see Octavia’s betrayal again, believe me, I see that enough already. Every time I lose focus, every time I have doubts I see that. No, this time we go back further, about half an hour before Tavi even walked in. This time I tell you why I was there first.
This time the betrayal is mine.
***
We’d been fighting again. I don’t remember what about. Nothing, really. It seemed like we were always fighting, and they were all the empty fights that happen in the sputtering embers of a dying relationship. The fights that are about nothing and everything all at the same time. And I hated them, because with each and every one I could feel Octavia drifting further away. I could feel myself drifting further away. And even as we’d shout at each other I’d wonder why I was doing it, why I was channelling all my anger at the one pony I’d never want to hurt. But still we fought, and still we shouted.
And that night there had been some edge to our argument that had never been there before. An extra layer of vitriol to our insults, cutting deeper, more personal. An extra helping of apathy, a disconnect between us. It was the first time where it truly felt like everything was ending.
And so that night, when Octavia stormed out for a walk, to cool her head, I knew where she was going and I made sure to get there first. The bar is too hot, the music too loud. In better times, that would be just what I wanted. A quick scan of the room, and I can’t see Octavia. She’ll be here soon enough, though. This is our spot, whenever we need to get away from the world together. We can come here and it will be that first night again.
I order the strongest drink I can and plant myself in a corner that overlooks most of the room. And then I watch. Not for Tavi, that comes later. No, I’m looking for something else. Someone else.
A certain kind of pony, and there are a lot to choose from here. There always is. For whatever reason, this bar has always been a melting pot; one of the only places in Ponyville where Octavia and I could have ever crossed paths in the first place. There are types like me – musicians, party ponies. Ponies that just want to have a good time. They’re all easy to spot, which is good because it makes them easy to ignore. I’m not looking for them.
I’m looking for someone like Arpeggio.
Someone who thinks they’re too good for this place. Someone who thinks that lowering themselves to a bar like this instead of some classy hotel cocktail lounge will make for a night of easy entertainment as they laugh and roll their eyes at the antics of ponies they think are so far below them. This place bridges the gap between these two worlds somehow, and it brings in the best and the worst of both.
I have lots to pick from. Some sitting in large groups, I can discount them immediately. They’re not here for sex. Smaller groups, twos and threes are better. Still plenty of choices, but I have to make sure I’m right, that my choice is perfect. I can’t afford to get this wrong.
And there. I spot her. And you’ve already seen her, too. You know which pony I’m talking about. You’ve seen her curled mane, her quill cutie mark. Later you see her walk out with Octavia. I see her almost every time I close my eyes before I go to sleep, now, although I can always hug Tavi closer and make the memories fade, even if just a little.
Target acquired, I get back to waiting. My heartbeat is louder than any music’s drumbeat. My glass is empty. The ice rattles. Can I really go through with this? Can I afford not to?
I wish I could tell you that my resolve was strong enough to see it through, that I was prepared to do what I had to do, no matter how much it stung, but the truth is that I’d already broken and was getting up to leave when Octavia came through the entryway and I quickly shrank back into the corner. And then I had no choice anymore.
She’s here. I have to do it. She’s ordering drinks and putting them away faster than I’ve ever seen her. I have to do it. I love her more than anything. I have to do it.
And so I do. I scrawl the message that I’d been running over and over in my head since the moment I’d gotten here down on the napkin in front of me. Such a simple message, almost harmless, but it carries with it so much weight that I have to ball up the first attempt and start fresh because I can’t focus my magic enough to hold the fucking pen straight. And then I look down at my handiwork and another wave of doubt and second thoughts wash over me.
My friend at the bar thinks you’re really cute, but she’s kinda shy. She’s the one with the clef for a cutie mark. It’ll make her night if you’d talk to her (and maybe yours too!)
And as I read the note back, the doubt gives way to simple, terrible emptiness. I’ve got no room for anything. I have to do this, and anything else will just get in the way. And so I’m empty as I wait until Octavia is distracted to slip over to the pink mare’s table, empty as I drop the folded up napkin right in front of her, empty as I raise my glasses and shoot her a wink before circling back to my table. I can tell she’s intrigued before she’s even opened the note. I knew she would be, because I ignored everyone else around her, just like she wants, just like those ponies crave.
And when I sit back down and I catch the little glance the mare gives Octavia, I’m not empty any more. I wish I was, because you and I both know what happens next.
Please. You understand. Octavia was always going to cheat. We were being driven further and further apart, and those fucking ponies she works with are always telling her she’s too good for me, that she could do so much better. Hear it enough times and you start to believe it. Without my intervention it might not have been that night, it might not have been that pony, but that’s why I had to make sure it was. I had to make sure Octavia saw, that she understood. That she had the context.
Because she loves me. We love each other, and it can’t be broken by something like this. Octavia never told me about her one night stand, and she never will. She never has to. I forgive her anyway. Because now she’s remembered how vapid and soulless those ponies are, how much better we are together. How much more real we are. I knew she’d accept any mare that approached her that night, so I picked the worst one I could. To be sure Octavia would regret it, to give her perspective. Because her love – our love – is real, I know it is.
And you’ve seen it too. And if you don’t like it, well…
I did warn you.
And so we’re at the club, my club, and Octavia is here, and she’s always here. For me. It’s time to go on. The crowd stomp impatiently. Thud. Thud. Thud. Octavia gives me a kiss for good luck. Chaste, because that’s how she likes it.
“Go get ‘em,” she murmurs, and I smile, and she smiles too and it’s warm and real and it’s the only thing that matters, the only thing that will ever matter. And then the glasses come down and I am DJ Pon-3.
I climb the steps on to the stage, the crowd roars their anticipation. And I play the music, and I watch the crowd dance on my strings.