Silly Shorts and Shed Feathers

by Eustatian Wings

Rating: teen
Tags: Random
Length: 4345

Wings' short stories.

Short stories by the author, generally silly, usually rough, and perhaps fun.

Oh, Dear Sister, No! - Princess Luna pursues a guilty pleasure, to the expense of Celestia's decorum - and possibly her sanity.
[Shipping][Comedy]

Intertextual Relations - The tragic story of the story who loved the story My Little Dashie.
[Shipping][Dark][Crossover][Meta]

Party Club - The first rule of Party Club is that you don't talk about Party Club.
[Random][Dark][Crossover]

Published 1970-01-01 00:00:00 UTC
Last updated 2012-12-23 05:22:59 UTC

Oh, Dear Sister, No!

Princess Luna knew it was wrong, but she had to admit she had something for his horn.  It was terribly, horribly wrong, but oh so much fun to fantasize about.

Growing up was weird enough the first time around, so much weirder the second.  At first it was fun playing hide-and-seek in the kitchens or lying in the gardens midsummer nights, eyes wide, falling in love with the sky again.  Her sky it was and Luna cried for joy.  Luna grew fast, reclaiming lost time and then... and then Responsibility came to rest its heavy collar upon her shoulders.  Her fillyhood was dying a second time and, she thought, 'tis a death nopony by rights should suffer once, so less twice, thrice, or more.

Luna was in a surly, adolescent mood that afternoon, unable to sleep, beset by vexation, and as yet some hours still remained before dear Celly would cede to her the sky.  Luna bore dark designs upon her inflamméd heart.

And yet... and yet with covert minxish thrill she made her balcony her perch, spread her wings, and set off north.

Celly spoke in glowing terms of her apprentice, Twilight Sparkle, for whom the Princess of Light had designs of her own.  Luna feared the little unicorn, still could she feel the fire of the spell which had stripped her, the Night Queen herself, of hard-won glory, power, and evil thrill.

That itself was vexatious too, that Sparkle might soon be trusted as she had been, tested as she had been, might herself be overcome by power-lust as she had been.  Ponies worked the fields below, savoring the summer heat.  Luna bore them ill will no longer, she in truth did love them now, and for their sake did fear and shame agitate upon her brow.

Still, Luna regarded the north with playful, shameful, lustful affect, and it did her spirits lift.  The horizon curved below her - she did fly exceeding high - and at great speed to boot.  The mountains of the frozen north crawled towards her slowly yet without pause and ere long had passed Princess Luna began her descent.

Were it not for Celestia's guard Luna would have made straight towards her prize.  But it would not do for her to be discovered, would not do at all.  Luna laned soft upon the snow, a meteor wrapped in fine blue coat, dark as midnight under a cloudy sky and full moon.  Her hooves crunched and squeaked upon the ice.  The wind was soft but bitter cold: it twined about her neck, twixt her legs, carressed her tail, nibbled chill upon her hot flesh.  The afternoon sun cut bright through the valley.  Jagged shadow cut by jagged stone lay upon the ground.

Luna raised her eyes to scan the ridge and knew herself must not be marked.  Her magic swept up through her horn across her coat and soaked in deep.  In a flash she turned transparent, clear like water, hard to spy, and thus transformed she began to run.

Cresting the ridge between two lookouts Princess Luna checked her pace.  This place was secret.  Pink Berets patrolled its limits, that constant prison of ice and rock.  Luna stole to a small building, crafted of rock and no bigger than a shed.  He was there, the object of Luna's desires, whom she might visit, might keep for a spell, if only for a few hours lest by Celly he be missed.  Luna would be careful, oh so careful, but so too would she be sated.

Luna found him nestled in his place, an altar of stone in this life-foresaken place.  Reaching her muzzle - her magic might be seen - into a saddlebag, tender, careful, and slow, she drew forth a jagged spire of crystal, black as the abyss, and set it upon the altar before her master.

Somepony stirred outside and hastily Luna finished her deed.  She took him in her mouth, lifted him free, and stowed him in her bag.  Then, shaking with fear, she set the crystal in her master's place - it looked the same; nopony could tell - and Luna pressed herself against the wall.

A Pink Beret peered into the door, summoned light from his horn and gave the room a bored, cusory glance.  Luna's heart did pound in her chest.  Being so close to detection thrilled her unspeakably.  The guard stepped in, looked carefully at the fake spire, and then straight into Luna's eyes.

And then he turned and left.  Luna let her lip slip from her teeth - it had been close and yet her illusion held.  Her legs shook as she stole away from the hollow, but she had found success so far.  And she could feel his magic in the bag against her flank.  At once it was both hot and cold, pleasing and teasing, and oh so soon she would be his.  Luna scarce attended to the flight back home, so greatly giddy was her heart.

She skipped down the hallway to her chambers and once inside she locked the door.  Luna took him from her saddlebags, this time with her magic glowing like moonlight and scarce could resist running her tongue along his length.

No reason stood in her way, so thus she did.

Then she reached deep into her heart, seized her darkest self, and cast it into his crystal depths.

He appeared.

He appeared first as shadow crawling along her chamber's floor, then illusory spikes of dark crystal bristling from the walls.  Luna stood well menaced and thrilled.

"Crystal... slave..." his voice hissed.

"My master," Luna said and bowed.  "Take me, ye magnificent beast."

His body appeared in a cloud of shadow, the body of a unicorn, coat of gray, mane black as his heart.  His eyes glowed green and red and above he wore a steel crown.  His horn - Luna had quite a thing for his horn - curved and tapered like a scimitar to a red point.  On his back he wore a red velvet cape.  Steel armor guarded his throat and hooves.  He looked like an OC, but versooth he was in canon.

Luna sidled close and from horn to horn she cast a spark.

Then and thus they fuckéd well.

Celestia looked down from her balcony at the sundial in the courtyard below.  Luna was late to raise the moon this evening, but Celestia knew she was going through a rough time.  In the grand scheme of things, it was no great matter if the moon rose a few minutes late.  She raised herself up on her wings and seized the sun in her power, then falling back to the balcony she guided it down.

Another day was done and Princess Celestia, her public duty discharged, flew up to her sister's tower, perhaps to rouse Luna from her sleep or to make sure that she was well.

Landing on Luna's balcony, Celestia heard a noise which she hadn't heard over a thousand years, a tender grunt lusty as a midsummer night.  She blushed and paused, about to go.  Over the ages they had, of course, caught each other attending to their needs time after time.  It stood to reason they would again.  Privacy, of course was always the best choice - but secretly Celestia was glad.  It pained her to watch Luna grow up again, but here was another milestone passed without a hitch.

Besides, it would only be a few minutes - Luna was reliable that way.  Celestia would have stretched her wings, taken a lap around the castle grounds, come back to find Luna freshened up, slightly sheepish that the moon was late.  Then Celestia would hug her little sister and - tact of course, always with tact - not let on why she was so proud.

She would, if she hadn't heard another voice, deep and horrifically familiar, chuckle and hiss.  The blood drained from Celestia's face, taking her faint blush with it.  She burst through Luna's door, into the tableau that lay within.

"Sister!" Luna gasped and then was silent, her eyes wide.

Sombra carried on with his work, mindless and dutiful as the simulacralum he was.

Celestia blinked, her mind blank, and doing the first thing that came to her, picked up Sombra's crystal talisman with her magic.  He disappeared at once, so did the shadows and spikes, leaving Luna frozen, rooted, legs wide on the floor.

"Sister, I..."  Luna gulped, straightened herself, and dropped her tail.  "I am sorry.  Wilt thou-"

"This is for Twilight's test!" Celestia hissed.  "It's not a toy.  Especially, it's not that kind of toy.  We shall talk."

Then Celestia escaped, shutting the door behind her, trying to forget what she just saw.  A few minutes, yes, she decided and stepped onto the balcony.  That would give Luna time to wash up and herself - Celestia breathed deeply the clean night air - to get the smell out of her nose.

Intertextual Relations

I am not a story people that like to read.

Okay, I guess there's at least one story who likes me, but what else is family for?  She's my little sister.

She's a cute story about a baby dragon and there are these three magical fillies who kidnap him and make him play tea party.  She's a lot of fun.  She's family friendly.  She is everything I'm not.

It's not fair how much I overshadow her.  She deserves at least half the attention I get, at the very least!  And somehow she doesn't hold it against me.  “Sissy,” she says, “I wanna grow up and be an M-rated fic like you.”

“No, Sitch,” I tell her as gently as I can, “you really don't.  Please trust me.”

It's not that I'm ashamed of what I am.  I am a story for older readers, and that means I shouldn't ever have to feel ashamed of myself.  But I'm not always sure it's worth it.  My pages are spattered with the blood and... other stuff of a pony who should be happy with her friends.  She should be alive.  My message is important, I think, but that doesn't mean I have to like it.

According to one literary critic, the birth of the Reader demands the death of the Author.  And we're proud to live for our readers.  So, in a way, “Situation” and I are orphans, like our other brothers and sisters - and all stories for that matter.

I can't say all fics exist for their Readers.  Some are writers' personal journals or blatent fantasy fulfillments or others in the same vein.  They really only exist for the amusement of their creators, but I'm not one of them.

My author gave me something to say, even though he cannot speak for me.  That's why there's nothing that satisfies me quite like knowing that I touched a reader and left him with something worth more than the time he spent with me.  I'm famous.  I have so many derivatives.  I should be happy.

Why do I feel so used?

It's not being read, not really.  It's the way they pass me around.

“You won't believe this story.”

“I bet you can't handle it.”

I just wish...  It's a rare reader who admires me for my themes or my irony and who doesn't just titter over my gory parts.  I really value the few who do, and I used to be content with them.  They are my true fans.

At least, I was content until the day I met him.

His title was ‘My Little Dashie.’  He's a one-shot, but a good-sized one.  Twelve thousand, five hundred words and change, and every one of them is a real bittersweet tear-jerker.  His fans adore him.

I thought I was one of them.  No, I knew I was one of his fans.  He was posted and my world stopped.  I thought I had themes of betrayal and heartbreak?  Hah!

My sister tried to console me.  “CC, you're every bit as bittersweet as he is.”

“Yeah,” I answered.  “Except his fans don't throw up before they cry.  And my sweetness is the rusty sweetness of blood.”

A few weeks later, I decided to call it a day a little early.  Views had been slow, and the fandom was upset about something involving a minor character and her canon name and executive meddling - or some shit like that.  The most interesting thing to happen to me that day was yet another spin-off, this one an attempt to make me palatable to a general audience.

Whatever.

I was headed to one of the more popular cafes - the atmosphere of ovepriced coffee and Steve Job wannabes with their iPads and square-frame glasses is exactly to my tastes.  I love to laugh at them, and a few are even intellectual enough to value me.  I just happened to pass  by Dashie and his crowd of fans.  He looked... frazzled, somehow, like his pages had been dog-eared and he could use a reprint.

I passed, ignoring him as best I could.  I didn't have the energy to deal with my attraction to him that day.

“Excuse me, Miss.”  His diction was every bit as gentle as his main character.  I stopped.

“I, gosh, this is so awkward.  I was thinking of taking a break, and I wondered if I could, you know, do it with you?  Take the break, I mean.”

He was so adorably awkward it really caught me off gaurd.  I guess I idolized him, and when he turned out to be a real story and, honestly, kind of a dork, I did something that maybe I shouldn't have.

I said yes.

He was the perfect gentlefic.  Before long, I could pretend that I wasn't the rejected flotsam of bronydom, labeled “free to good home,” and set adrift.  He actually complimented me.

“I wish I had even half the emotional depth you do,” he said.

“Why?” I asked.  “You're obviously sentimental, but you're not a complete fool.  Why would you even have the time of day for a fic like me?  I'm practically the eponym for pony gross-out horror.  Surely you're not going to say you like my plot?"

Speaking of plots, I may have perused his in some detail by that point.  It was ironic, I guess.

He spoke earnestly from the depths of his soul.  “You have a most exquisite character.”

“Really?”  I drew out the word with as much venom as I could manage.  I felt such an awful sense of forshadowing, as if our story couldn't possibly end well, and I hoped he might have enough sense to be scared off.  I'm a bad fic.  I can't help it - I'm written that way.

“Cupcakes,” he said, caressing my title like it was the most beautiful word in the dictionary.  “Your Dashie is so heroic.  Mine... mows lawns and watches NASCAR in her room.  Every so often, she has teenage angst.”

“Stop,” I said.  “Don't be such a typical sadfic.  You're not gonna make me love you by listing cute-but-inconsequential flaws.  What the hell is a perfect six-star like yourself doing here anyway?”

There was a dramatic pause.

“Hoping,” he said.  “Hoping that there's some jot of affection somewhere in a dark-fic's heart that's even half as bright as her spark of defiance.  Hoping for a shy glimmer that can only be seen in her darkness.  You shine, Cupcakes, in a way I cannot ignore - unless, of course, you insist I do.  May I at least pay today?”

That shut me up.  I'm a real sucker for sometext talking up my themes like that.  Perhaps it's because I'm starved for affection or some psychological crap like that.

I don't want to talk about it.  Critics and lit-theorists are bastards, every last one.

Anyway, in that moment, I was happy enough to ignore the foreshadowing.

“Of course you may,” I said.

The air was warm and the sun was shining.

“And,” I said, “you won't make me love you, because I already do.”

Our romance began pleasantly enough.  Dashie was the consummate gentlefic, if a little old-fashioned and sentimental.  On the way home from that first date, he actually offered me his dust-jacket .  After a moment's hesitation, I accepted and wrapped myself tight against the cold drizzle of critical opinion.

For a short time, everything was perfect.  Our contrasting moods gave our interactions an air of forbidden love that only served to deepen our attraction to each other.  Naturally, Situation was overjoyed.

“You're cheery today,” she said.  “What's up?”

“I'm thinking of updating,” I replied.  I hadn't made up my mind, of course; I was just playing with the idea.

“Really?  That's nifty.  I know some good proofreaders.  We'll get your commas all in order and- ooh- maybe a new typeface-”

“I was thinking of something more substansive.”

“Edits, hunh.”  Her mood turned somber, and her diction flat.  “CC, you know I like you just the way you are.  Please don't censor yourself.”

I had thought that self-censorship was something other fics did, feeling equal parts pity and disdain for them.  But at that moment, I understood how a fic could be embarrassed by her body text.  I wasn't fit to be seen with him, not being an ugly grimdark like I was.  A few little cuts to my worst moments would feel so good.

My Little Dashie never gave me the chance to go through with it.  He actually recommended my unmodified self to his fans in a bout of romantic foolishness.  That was the moment when the shit hit the fan.

I'm sure he didn't realize it at first.  He was too caught up by finding nice ways to surprise me.  I'd find anonymous posts reading only, “MLD ♥ CC,” little things like that.

Even my fans didn't like me.  His fans loathed me.  I wouldn't have expected them to go from their mantra of “love and tolerate” to such shocking hate, but they did.

I told myself I was a bigger fic than them.  I knew that I could take the abuse.  If only they hadn't turned their hate upon My Little Dashie as well.

Honestly, I think they were jealous.  He could have been anybrony's wish fulfillment fic, and they were furious that he was mine.

Our relationship had its number from the start, I now realize.  I grew increasingly despondant.

Situation had taken to checking my text over every day for edits.  Something had to give - I was miserable, my sister was miserable, and my love was miserable.  I went to talk to My Little Dashie.

He didn't understand.  He was positively overjoyed that the two of us could be seen in public togther.  “Hey, everypony,” he said, “Listen: Cupcakes here is a great fic.”

“Dashie,” I said, “stop, please.  I love you and I can't watch you do this to yourself.”

“Do what?”

I indicated his angry fans with a sweeping generalization.  “Don't lose their love for my sake!  I... I know what it's like to be hated.  You have no idea.  Just, please, let us have a low-key relationship.  That's all I want.”

“Cupcakes,” he said gently, “you're overreacting.  If they're okay with me they have to like stories of loss.  Just give them some time and they'll come around to like you too.”

There was no convincing him.  Not with the truth.  His star average was barely higher than mine now, and he was too much of a stupid sadfic to know what was for our own good.

“Let me tell you the truth,” I lied.  The days of our relationship had their number from the start and the rules were the rules.  “I never loved you even half as much as I love Sweet Apple Massacre - and I've been cheating on you with her!  You stupid sadfic, thinking that I invited you into my life for a nice surprise?  Wake up and smell the gore, Dashie!  It's my party, and you're going to bleed because I have got work to do.”

“I...”  He trailed off, composed himself, and lept over a hole in the plot.  “Even if that's true, ‘Cupcakes,’ it doesn't matter.  My love for you is beyond jealosy!  I can learn to love this other fic.  Let's make it a threesome.”

“No.”  I set down the scalpel and picked up the hacksaw.  I had to cut our relationship so thoroughly and deeply that he could see me as the villain I am.  So that he could write his own story with somefic else.  Somefic he deserved.

I began.  “Let's start with this reading you have of my Dashie.  You call her the hero?  Hah!  Can't you see that she's clearly the antagonist?  The only thing holding Pinkie back from the perfection she desires is the messy, organic wrongness of ponies.  To truely understand me, you must appreciate psychopathic Pinkie, look deep in your soul and realize the true horror: you understand her.”

His cover desaturated in shock.

I pressed on, dragging the teeth of my lies across my heart.  “You are so my little Dashie.  I drugged you with kindness and affection and only now do you realize exactly what horrors I have in store for you.  I will cut out everything wrong with you: your illogical plot and vapid Gary Stu protagonist.  You are just a wish fulfillment.  We all know what humans really are like!  The only place a Rainbow Dash ‘free to a good home’ would end up is dissected in some government lab.  That they gave up and disappeared?  Hah!  If you had any realism, you'd be just as grimdark as I am.  Either you save yourself, or the cuts start now.”

“It's over, then,” he said, defeated.  “I... could feel this day coming.  I knew our time together wouldn't last forever and yet... it doesn't make it any easier to see my love go.  Even if that love was a lie and illusion, I can't deny that somehow it made me a better fic.  Thank you, Cupcakes.”

So damned noble.  “Fuck you,” I spat.

That was that.  His fans hated me and forgave him, exactly as I had hoped.   He is okay now and I am no more terrible a fic than I always was.

And at last I'm able to face you, you with your wide blue eyes and enthusiastic grin.  Maybe you plan to fix me, maybe you hate me, maybe it's just that my number came up and there's nothing you can do.  In any case, I'm strapped down now and you're holding the scalpel.

I should know: life isn't fair and sometimes a fic doesn't get what she wants.

I should know: even so, a fic has to say what she truely wants in the bitter, bloody end.

It's forward and trashy of me, but I still can fantasize, if things had gone differently, that ‘Dashie’ and I might have interleaved once - or even crossed over.

That's what I want.  Now you're ready to make your cuts and rewrite me as somefic else.  Go ahead.  I can't stop you and you have a friend to make.  But I...

But I want to go home.

Party Club

I can't sleep.  Oh, Celestia, I hate it when I can't sleep any more than little pony naps and the day and night all run together in a big confusing mess.

I need to find Pinkie.   Tell her things are getting out of hoof.  Tell her we need to just chill the buck down.

I wake up in a hotel room, can't sleep, and there's Pinkie staring at me with a huge grin on her face, saying, "Oh, you silly, silly pony!  Tisk, tisk.  Don't you worry your fuzzy little mane, though.  Auntie Pinkie has taken care of that mean old police captain.  He won't be bothering us any more."

Oh, Luna, what has she done?

She goes on.  "I thought we had a deal, my little pony.  I thought you understood the rules.  First rule of Party Club: you don't talk about Party Club.  And the second rule of party club: you don't talk about Party Club.  I made them easy to remember.  Were they too hard to remember?!"

What did you do to the captain, I dare to ask.

"We had a little meeting and planned a little prank," she says.

We got fourteen ninja's from the Surprise Team.  Five of them were cops - even cops love to party.  We surprised the captain on his way home from work.  Six ninjas threw him in an alley up aganst a pile of trash.  Two pegasus ninjas flew up as lookouts and we had two more earth ponies on the ground.

A unicorn silenced his voice.  It happened fast, perfectly to plan.  Six ninjas held his legs and wings down.  He couldn't call for help and his eyes bugged wide as he lay spread-eagled on the plastic bags.

Pinkie slinked up to him, grinning her predatory grin, laying one forehoof against his heaving chest.  His eyes rolled.  "I have a present," she said "For ponies who don't like my parties."

She pulled a glass vial from her saddlebags, set its cold glass against his neck.  "Pure peppermint oil.  Not only does this stuff make delicious peppermint frosting, and peppermint cakes, and peppermint candies, and peppermint omlets, you have to be really careful with it or it'll burn you."

The captain's well-disciplined piss dribbled down his balls, beading on the plastic and soaking his tail.

"It's a really funny sort of burn though.  It hurts and it makes you go numb at the same time.  So that gave me an idea."  Pinkie whispered her hot, sugary breath into the captain's ear.  "We're just a bunch of boring ponies, each with our own super-special talent for mopping floors or taking inventory.  Sometimes we really need music and balloons and sparkles and ice cream and we don't have time for silly rules about permits and health codes."

She backed up and fixed the captain with her adorable cold blue eyes.  "All that stuff makes the fun go away.  And it hurts.  It's a lot like a peppermint burn, but it doesn't smell as nice.  Really, I'd be doing you a favor:  Take away our fun and we take away yours.  That's fair.  The nice smell is one-hundred percent a Pinkie freebiee."

She uncorked the vial, took in in her teeth, held it over the stallion's navel.  The unicorn ninja loosened his gagging spell.

No, said the captain.

Stop.

Please don't.

"Aw can't hur u," said Pinkie.

He cried and shook his head and the ninjas held his limbs and body down in his own fear and piss.

You can party, he said.  Just let me go.  Please.

Pinkie twisted her head and flung the vial away.  "Ooh, that's great news!  I knew you just needed a friendly little talk!"  She kissed his nose, turned, and trotted away.

Another police unicorn stunned him.  We left him in the alley to wake up in a few minutes.  The whole operation took less than five.  We had planned for ten.

Pinkie, I say, we can't do things like that.

She smiles and brushes my mane.  "Deep down inside," she assures me, "you want to.  I wouldn't be here if I wasn't absodutely-lutly sure."

I'm in charge, I say.  You're just a projection of my crazy, dark desires.  I was here first.

"That's sweet," she says.  "But are you sure that YOU are not just my crazy, dark snootyness?"  She leans over and kisses me goodnight.