Author's Note
WARNING:
This is the edgiest, most absurd, bloodiest thing I have ever written for mlp. So of course I wrote it drunk. For Bolding. Because I loves him.
I loves him so much.
Just beware before you read, there is little to no redeeming value here, unless you need a quick, weird laugh. Enjoy, and I am moderately sorry.
-Pencil
For Bolding, with love
As the curtain closes onstage and the lights dim over the runway, a smattering of applause erupts into life. It wavers, then rises to a din as ponies come to their hooves, clomping down on the wooded floor of the small auditorium. Amid the solid patter of the ponies, the sound of your hands coming together rings sharp and awkwardly. You even find yourself cheering aloud and stamping your own feet as a blushing Rarity takes the stage in her ensemble-crowning dress.
A rose falls at her hooves, thrown by some adoring fan, and her blush deepens. She steps forward onstage and sweeps a low bow to the audience. As they continue, she bows again, with all the elegance of a princess and all the humbleness of a pauper. Meanwhile, you're clapping your hands over your head and shouting her name over the top of all the other shorter ponies. You're making a complete ass of yourself, but you're completely out of fucks to give at this point. For a few reasons:
This honestly was one of the better fashion shows you've seen Rarity put on, not that you've seen many.
You're trying to get into Rarity's nonexistent pants, and flattery is definitely her weak spot. That and gems, and what Spike was asking for in exchange was way too much. You just don't swing that way.
You've been sitting still for over an hour looking at frilly fucking dresses, and your body is screaming for movement.
You're drunk as fuck. I mean, reeeally drunk. The kind of drunk where you'd hit on a clothes mannequin if it looked at you the right way.
This winning combo makes you into some sort of excited chimpanzee, and you take advantage of your added height to jump up and down with enthusiasm. You don't even care that most ponies are beginning to stop applauding, and many look at you in bafflement and concern. At you and...next to you?
You glance down to your left to find that you're not the only one caught up in a frenzy of support for your friend. Beside you is a small, rather awkward looking cream colored pony with a small hat set atop her teal pulled-back mane. She's smiling wide, the slow-spreading blush growing below her dancing eyes, as she calls out approval and adoration. Her enthusiasm rivals even yours, and you pause in your celebration to watch her. Through your drunken stupor, you can see the lines under her eyes, the suppressed exhaustion, the obvious weight on her shoulders. And she's alone. Through your drunken stupor, you recognize a potentially easy target.
Well hello there.
Your attention slips away from Rarity. The curtain drops again onstage, but you barely notice. People begin to talk as they file out of their rows and the auditorium as a whole. At last the two of you go quiet, and she notices you staring. Her face registers surprise at first, but she smiles gently then, a low blush of embarrassment in her cheeks.
“Oh, um, sorry” she stutters out. “Was I being to loud for you? I hope it didn't disturb you.”
You shake your head reassuringly at her and flash your best smile.
“Not at all! I was really glad to see someone else appreciating Rarity's work as much as I was.”
You manage not to slur, but you're pretty surprised at yourself for that one. You mentally high-five yourself for your suaveness and normalcy. Her smile brightens again at the mention of Rarity.
“Oh!” she exclaims. “You love...fashion too? That's so wonderful, so few people here appreciate it.”
You shrug.
“Yeah, Ponyville is hardly a mecca of style. Except for Rarity anyway.”
“Oh yes exactly!”
She nods vigorously, her eyes dancing with interest. You continue to beam at her, trying to seem as enthusiastic about clothes as possible. Honestly you've always thought that pony clothes looked fucking retarded, especially dresses. They all looked banana shaped in the skirt area somehow, and they never fucking showed off any pony ass. Now that was a severe disappointment. But for the last few months, you've found it easy to fake it, and she's absolutely drinking in your words like you hope she drinks in your dick later.
Fuck, you're drunk.
“Do you know Rarity?” she asks.
You nod, probably for longer than you should before you find the words to respond.
“Oh yeah, we go way back.”
“What a coincidence, me too!” she says, then her face darkens a little. “She really only spoke to me once, but I'd like to think she remembers me.”
You know for a fact that Rarity has never mentioned this pony before, but you don't say anything. Partly because you don't want to crush the poor girls dreams, and partly because you think boosting her ego might get you some action sooner.
“By the way,” she says. “I'm Coco Pommel, really nice to meet you mister...?”
She extends a hoof to you, and you lift it and kiss it like a sir, trying very very hard not to topple over. She blushes deeply as you release her, and a little giggle echoes in her throat.
“Anon,” you say as you slowly straighten up. “And the pleasure is all mine.”
Coco again reaches out for your hand and holds it up in front of her nose with a look of soft wonder on her face. It's a strange act, but for all your know this is how non-ponyville folks say hello or some shit.
“...Mister Anon,” she says in a gasp of surprise. “Your...hands are so soft! I bet you use that special cream that Rarity has, right? She's so good with fashion and bath and body stuff too.”
That cream? You sure as hell DO use it, but probably not in the way she's thinking.
“She really is,” you say with a stifled laugh.
She reluctantly releases your palm and looks up at you warmly. She is pretty cute, but then again most things are pretty cute right now. That chair over there, for instance, or that mature looking mare over there...at least you think it's a mare. Not that it would matter really. Maybe.
“Y-you really seem to know your stuff about fashion,” she says, dropping her eyes from your face. “I'm a fashion designer, you know, so it's refreshing.”
“Oh you are?”
No wonder she's hanging on your every word. She nods and shrugs sheepishly.
“I really haven't gotten to talk to anyone about clothes since I got here, and Rarity is so busy...”
She sounds wistful as she speaks.
“Yeah?”
“Well...I was wondering...”
She pauses and chews her lower lip. Then she speaks all at once in a rush of syllables you can scarcely understand.
“Would you maybe want to come back to where I'm staying to check out my designs and give me your opinions?”
You blink at her and then smile. Wow, that was easy, you didn't even have to coax her back to your place with carrots or anything. You knew it. She wants the D.
“Why I'd be delighted,” you say cordially.
She smiles shyly up at you as she motions to the door. Careful not to stagger around like a man missing a few toes, you follow behind her out into the evening streets of Ponyville.
-
It's not far to her little shack, but it's pretty isolated. She's on the outskirts of town towards Sweet Apple Acres, and as you walk she explains that she's been renting from Lyra for a modest price, but has to go home tomorrow, unfortunately. You tell here that's too bad and then let her ramble on and on about fashion and rarity and how she used to work for some psycho bitch back in the big city. You half listen as you saunter through the cool night air, your buzz still glowing brightly.
As you walk up to the door, she suddenly seems very ashamed and reddens.
“I know it's not exactly a high profile place, but believe me I am a fashion designer.”
You pat her reassuringly on the flank, which you're sure isn't all inappropriate right now. She jumps a little but says nothing about it.
“It's fine, I'm sure you're great,” you say. “Just show me your stuff.”
Yeah...you show me your stuff, sweetie.
Her smile comes back, tentative, and she pushes open the door for you.
Inside, it certainly isn't the fucking Hilton. You're not sure what standard Lyra keeps her rentals to, but this seems pretty fucking below par. It's dark, dirty, and the furniture looks dusty and old. Still, amidst the old furniture and lack of good lighting, you see several mannequin ponies (that are looking pretty hot right about now) and rolls and rolls of fabric. A small sewing machine rests in the corner, partially packed up for Coco's trip tomorrow. You survey it all then nod at her approvingly. She grins hopefully.
“Looks like the den of a fashion designer to me!” you exclaim. “Mind if I sit?”
You really have to. Your legs feel like some sort of jelly under you and you still want to keep up this sober facade as long as possible. She motions you to a small, old loveseat, and you readily collapse down into it.
“So,” you say, “which designs would you like me to look at?”
She blushes very deeply now and stutters as she tries to speak.
“W-well I was hoping that you could actually...help me with something else?”
Help her with something else, huh? What else could she...
You look at her curled posture, the blush, the bashful look in her eyes. And you see there desire too. Nah, you must just be drunk, it couldn't be...
Coco leans forward and plants a quick kiss on your mouth. You straighten in surprise, and as she leans away, she giggles a little to herself and licks her lower lip. Nope, no mistaking it now, that is exactly what this is. She wants that hot monkey dick. Who knows why and who cares, you're so game for this.
In a flash, your pants are down and you're standing naked at the waist in front of her in a pose like superman, grinning like the big idiot you are. She regards you with shock, her eyes wandering over your genitals, before looking up at you with a now much more mischievous grin.
“Would you mind if we have some fun first?”
“Fuck yeah!” you almost yell, not even caring to hide the ridiculous enthusiasm
No need to be formal now, but fuck it. It got you this far, why stop? Coco smiles as you say yes, and walks towards you. With one hoof she guides you back towards the center of the small dim room, then back towards the far wall. You obey, trying not to trip over your own feet as you shuffles back like a crab. At last you feel your back hit the wall and she stops.
“So...how are you with being tied up?” she asks hesitantly.
You're not really sure what to say. You have never been tied up before, but you sure as hell don't want her to know that. The idea is actually a little frightening, but if it gets you laid then a man's got to do what a man's got to do. For his penis. You shrug.
“Hey, it's all good to me.”
She claps her front hooves together.
“Oh good!” she cries in delight.”Then stand with your arms up, if you please.”
You again do as she says. In flash, the pony rears up on her hind legs and leaps onto a nearby chair. You look up to see that she's pulling down a shackle on a chain from the wall and swiftly attaching it to your wrist. Before you can say anything, she moves on to the opposite side, and you're thoroughly chained to the wall. You look down at her, your alcohol addled brain still trying to wrap itself around what's happening. Your dick isn't shoved into somewhere moist, so you're not having sex right now. But what exactly IS going on? Something kinky, that's for sure. Stupid fucked up fashion ponies and their fucked up foreplay.
Coco looks up at you and gingerly undoes the shirt collar around her neck. You're pretty sure she's trying to be seductive about it, but considering she's already naked from the shoulders down it's really not doing too much for you.
“Wouldn't want to get this dirty,” she murmurs with a little giggle.
“Um, sure?”
“Do you mind if I put some music on? I feel it sets the mood,” she says.
You shrug again, the chains clinking as you do. She walks to a nearby record player and carefully sets it up. After a moment, a song floats out and fills the awkwardly quiet room. The song is somehow familiar to you, but you have no idea where it's from. No matter, not important.
“You know, I always play this right before I leave a place,” she says with a sigh.”Sets me at ease, you know? Helps me say goodbye.”
Enough talk, for shit's sake. Give up that pony pussy.
“Mh hm,” you say, trying to hide your impatience.
She turns and holds up a bottle of something, smiling widely.
“I have some of Rarity's special cream, you know,” she says slowly, and this time you know she's trying to be seductive. Again, it isn't working.
“Yeah?”
“Mind if I rub some...all over your body? I did understand you correctly before when you said you...hm...use it, didn't I?”
Ok, here we go. You hadn't realized she'd caught on, but good for her that she did. And good for you too.
“Why of course,” you say.
She undoes the cap and sets it down by your feet. With slow gentle motions, Coco undoes the buttons on your shirt. You realize that she can't possibly get it off of you now without....oh. Wait, nevermind, she tears it off. Huh. That's at least some enthusiasm. Soon you're completely naked, and rather awkward feeling in the cool air of the room. At least you have your drunken buzz to keep you warm. Coco steps back to admire her handiwork.
“You have a lovely body, Anon,” she says softly. “Really, a work of art.”
“Um...thanks?”
You definitely disagree with her on that, but whatevs. You can take a compliment, and your drunk ego is totally fine with a little boosting. She pours some of the cream onto her hoof and, starting with your stomach, begins to massage it onto you. It's cool and smooth, and you twitch every time she hits your ribs. Damn your ticklishness.
Coco rubs cream everywhere. All over your chest, back, legs, taking special time and care on your butt. It's a good thing that the chains are helping hold you up, because between your lack of balance and how relaxing this feels, you might fall over and just crash at any minute. Come on, you can do this, sex is on the horizon. You can stay awake.
As she reaches your dick, she slows. She's so gentle that you hardly know she's touching you, which really sucks. You silently will her to put some damn pressure on it, but instead she simple slides her hoof around to make sure every inch of you is covered in cream. At last, she stops, your dick hard and unsatisfied, and again admires her handiwork. As you watch, she leans forward and in one long motion and breath, sniffs you from your cock all the way up to your chest. When she breathes out, it's in one long blushing sigh.
“Now you smell just like her,” she says in a near whisper.
Well that's pretty fucking creepy.
“Who?”
She shrugs the question off.
“Pay it no mind, just try to relax ok?”
“O....kay...”
She smiles in delight again and turns away to the other side of the room. As you wait there, dangling, she walks to a small chest there and with a key, opens it. Probably getting toys or something, you decide. You're not worried, as long as she doesn't try to shove anything up your ass. She's humming the tune of the song now as the lyrics come on. Lyrics that you're absolutely sure are familiar to you now.
“Hey, what's this song?” you ask as it keeps bugging you.
“Oh, I dunno,” she says absentmindedly. “Just something that felt so...me, you know? It's a goodbye song, something like...oh...Farewell Ponies?”
As Coco turns back around, a distant part of your brain that has been screaming in panic and warning for the last few minutes is finally loud enough to be heard. You do know this song. It's Goodbye Horses. Goodbye fucking Horses, for the love of fuck. One of the least ok songs for sexy times ever created.
Why would she...
Your thought stops short as you notice Coco is now holding something in her hooves. Something shining, long and thin. As she steps closer, you can see that it's a knife, the kind you use when you catch a fish and need to cut it up.
Welp, boner gone.
“W-what are you doing?” you demand, trying to blink the sight away.
She just giggles and steps closer.
“Just...taking advantage of some inspiration,” she says lightly. “Something big.”
Big? She's definitely not talking about your dick right now, you're super deflated.
“Hey, I'm not into bladeplay, ok?”
“Neither am I.”
She gets ever nearer.
“I've been looking for something to get me big in fashion,” she continues as she approaches. “Something different, something that nopony has ever done before. And it came to me, when I got here and found out about you? You are something unique, one of a kind. So had to have you.”
Have you? You hope she's talking about sex. The pony looks down at the blade and gently rubs her face against it. Nope, not talking about sex.
“Look, I don't know what you think you're doing,” you say, suddenly feeling very sober. “But whatever it is, I'm not ok with it, fun's over. Let me down.”
Again, that sadistic little giggle.
“I can't do that, Anon,” she says. “I need you. You're my muse, my inspiration, my material.”
Material? Oh. Fuck. No. You look at that smile, see the knife, hear that tune wafting into your ears and soul, and you know exactly what's going on now.
“Look, you don't want to do this, whatever you think you'll get from this...”
She shakes her head slowly.
“I know exactly what I'll be getting from this,” she says softly.
She continues approaching you, and as she gets near you she again sniffs at your naked form. Her eyes roll back as she lets out a combination of a sigh and moan of delight. Then she centers herself before you and looks brightly up into your face.
“First, I'm going to cut all your skin off. The rarest fabric in the world, you know,” she says dreamily. “You're the only one who can give it to me, so what I do with it will be one of a kind. Good thing you're a big old fat person then, huh?”
You try not to be insulted.
“Then I'm going to dry it, stretch it, chew it till it's nice and soft, then make the most beautiful gown you can imagine.”
Wat.
“What in the hell?” you can't help but blurt out.
A dress? I mean, come on, if she's going to skin you and make you into clothes, she should at least wear you as a badass sexy thong or something. Suddenly the idea of what part of you would become that thong flashes through your addled mind, and you decide that's not such a good idea after all. Do ponies use strap ons?Not a good time, brain, focus on getting out of this alive not pony-pegging.
“Yes, the most beautiful gown, fit for any queen...or my dearest queen!”
She again lets out a kind of moaning sigh. It makes you feel viciously sick to your stomach for some reason, and you swallow hard to keep from vomiting.
“Your...queen?” you ask weakly.
“Yes, the fairest, most pure-as snow pony there is. Mistress of fashion, goddess of the stitch, perfection incarnate.”
You've gotta be fucking kidding me.
“You mean...?”
The psychotic bitch claps her front hooves together beside her cheek, batting her long lashes as she shivers all over in delight.
“Rarity,” she says, breathing the word like an incantation.
“So you're doing this for her?”
She suddenly reaches up, grabs your shoulders with both hooves and grins wildly. She giggles like a small girl and shakes you once, your chains clanking.
“Don't you see?” she says in a near shriek. “If I make it big in fashion, if I do something that no one else has done, I'll be famous! Then maybe Senpai will notice me!”
Again, wat.
“I don't think-” you start to say, but she raises the knife point to your lips to shush you.
You fall instantly silent.
“Hush now,” she says crooning. “I'll do it quick. And just think, you'll be revolutionizing fashion!”
All you wanted to do was get laid. All you wanted to do was stick your dick somewhere soft and warm, but instead it looks like you were the one being hunted down. You go crosseyed looking down at the knife. You don't deserve this, you know that, but you can't help feeling like it's all your fault somehow. If only you'd just stuck to fapping. The pony giggles again, and the feeling of it resonates up through the knife against your lips, like a strange sort of disgusting kiss.
“I'll do it quick,” she assures you. “It's for the best.”
You suddenly find yourself so angry, angrier then you've ever been before. You jerk your head away from the knife, not caring that it nicks you and you can taste the blood. You pull at your chains, try to kick at the bitch, but she's so quick, and your body is only as fast as the alcohol and adrenaline allows. She slips behind you, still giggling terribly.
“Don't struggle,” she warns. “My model wants the pieces to look as big as possible, the more she looks like a human, the better. I wouldn’t have guessed Lyra was so into fashion, but you never know, right?”
You feel a soft tap of the knifepoint against your back, and a vibration of horror ripples down your spine. Till now, you haven't felt like you were going to die. But you know now. You can't yell for help, you're far away from everyone. You can't get out of these chains, and you can't even fight back. It's done. You're going to die. For the art of the dress. God, fuck this whimsical place.
“Ready?”
“You know,” you spit over your shoulder as best you can, the anger of being cornered still apparent in your voice. “Rarity has never mentioned you. Not once. She doesn't even know you exist you cocksucking whore of a cunt. She'll never give a damn about you, and she'll hate you for what you did to me. So go ahead, go ahead and skin me, it won't do you any good.”
For a moment, there's perfect silence. Maybe you've done it...maybe you've finally snapped some sense into her. Maybe it'll be ok, maybe...
“Okie dokie,” she sings out lightly.
Then she quickly slices off a large portion of your back skin.
The sound that comes out of your throat is foreign to you. You've never heard a human make the kind of noise you're making now, and through the unspeakable pain it makes you mentally squirm to know you're capable of such intonations. Before you can even take a breath, she again pulls the knife down your body, a line this time, deep through the flesh, as she readies to tear the skin back. Your body is shaking uncontrollably, and the cries of agony fill your ears and head. Everything swims, tilts, fades from clear to blurry over and over again.
Suddenly, she yanks at the portion of skin, and every part of your body screams. You feel the fiery pain of nerve endings being torn apart, never to be reattached. You feel a hot splash on the backs of your legs and know it's your own blood. You could probably hear it dripping if it wasn't for the never-ending shrieking. She inserts the knife again, and you gasp, wheeze, and then vomit uncontrollably onto the floor in front of you. Behind you, you can hear the pony singing along to Goodbye Horses as she does her dark work. Through your flickering vision, you can see that there's blood in your vomit, and can even taste it on your quivering lips.
Things fade further.Your body asks you to let go, trying to save you from the pain.Your mind obeys, and you begin to faint. Sure it's a pretty fucking pussy way get out of pain, but you don't even care, manliness isn't worth the torture. Behind you, as the world slips from view, you hear her let out a low sigh.
“I'll have to wash you all over,” she says. “Can't have bloodstains on the new dress! What on earth would my darling Rarity think?”
Frankly, dear psycho, you don't give a damn. You hope you bleed all over her stupid dress. She at least deserves that much.
“Ah well,” she sings out. “Now, which parts would make the best earrings?”
You fall headlong into unconsciousness.
-
You open your eyes slowly.
You're still in the workshop, as far as you can tell, and you feel like every nerve ending on your body has been set aflame. You hear a distant dripping as your eyes try to focus in on your surroundings. Swirls of color and strangeness collect around you. You try to speak, but your mouth feels dry and misshapen. Even your saliva tastes strangely of iron and bile.
All at once, your eyes focus just enough, and you see something horrifying, one of the last sights you will ever see.
In front of you is a pony mannequin, posed just a foot or so from your nose. Or where your nose should be, you're sure. Because your nose is on the mannequin, along with your cheeks, lips, ears, and even hair. Like an ornamental headdress, it leers at you, stretched and awkward. You stare in horror into your own empty eye sockets, into your own expressionless mask of a face.
Choking, gagging, you try to scream but nothing comes out. You can't breathe, you can't speak. All you can do is irrationally think how fucking ugly you are and if you've always looked that retarded, as your world fades back to black and sweet sweet unconsciousness greets you.
You always did think pony fashion was ugly.
-End-
