Voices in the Nightmare Night

by Idsertian

Rating: mature
Tags: Octavia, Sex, Horror, Gore, My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, Dark
Length: 11019

In which Octavia Melody listens to the monsters and stalks the Canterlot streets.

But once a year does Nightmare Night come, bringing games of ghoulish fun, sugar on the tongue, and reminders of dark deeds done

But once a year does horror rise, evil re-enacted with costumes and games, ‘ere for everypony’s enjoyment, and not to terrorise

Long gone is the evil we immortalise, most ponies would say, banished by the Bearers and their jewels, allowing once more the sun to rise

Evil is but a nightmare of the past, forever gone, and of which thoughts are bound to never last

But once a year does Nightmare Night come, bringing games of ghoulish fun and copper on the tongue, though her work is not yet done

But once a year does Nightmare Night come, bearing warm bodies, hot blood, and delectable screams of fright

But once a year does Nightmare Night come, and Octavia Melody steps out of the light.

--------

Inspired by ApocalypsePenguin’s Hush Now in A Minor.

Cover art by VipeyDashie. Used with permission.

Published 2015-11-04 23:20:02 UTC
Last updated 2015-11-04 23:20:02 UTC

Ruby

Ruby

It is that time of year again, I can feel it.

No, not early summer, but that time of year when the warmth of the sun goes out of the air, when the cold winds blow and the inevitable chill of winter makes itself known.

Nightmare Night is here.

Ever since I was a filly, I could sense the oncoming weakness in the veil between the sunny lands of Equestria and the darkness beyond our world, could hear the creatures beyond whispering to me. They frightened me at first, but slowly I began to listen.

The things they told me… Oh! Such truths! Such beautiful truths!

They told me how Earth ponies have always risen to power through their strength, overcoming their adversaries not just with cunning and guile, but yes, by crushing the life out of them, too; watching as the light dancing behind the eyes of their opponents flickered out.

They told me how power is not given, never awarded, never bestowed. It is taken, and always with force. Your opponent must be bowed by your skill, before you end their life in the slowest and most delicious manner possible, their screams echoing in your ears for hours afterwards. The best are when you overpower them, and you see it in their eyes; you’ve beaten them, and they know they’re about to die.

Yes, the ultimate power is not one of ruling, of dominion. It is the power to take the life of another. To decide when they die, and how slowly or quickly that death will reach them. To watch as their lifeblood drains, as they choke and sputter, collapsing into a twitching, bloody mess. Seeing the light fade from their eyes, the final twitches of a dying body, hearing their death rattle.

My first kill came when I was five.

It was just a small rabbit, not yet quite an adult. I had been playing in my parent’s garden, sat behind a plastic cello, pretending to be in an orchestra I had no idea I was destined to play for later in life.

I had watched as the small creature hopped closer and closer, nose twitching as it smelled the air for predators. I remember thinking how soft its white coat looked, the naturals oils giving it a slight sheen in the mid-afternoon sun. It had stopped not far in front of me, nibbling at what must have been a particularly succulent patch of grass.

Slowly, carefully, I had lain down my toy cello and lowered myself to my stomach. Creeping forward slowly, I got within reaching distance and slowly lifted a hoof. When it didn’t react, I gently placed my hoof on its back. Taking its lack of flight as encouragement, I had begun to stroke it gently, enjoying the feeling of the soft fur as I passed my hoof over it.

The voices, which had remained quiet for a few days until then, struck up their whispering chorus. I think it had been the first time I had never truly been afraid to listen to them.

(It’s just a rabbit.)

(No-one will know!)

(It will feel good.)

(Who cares about a pathetic herbivore?)

(Only we will know!)

(Don’t you want to feel good?)

Still on my stomach, muzzle on the ground and rump in the air, my hoof had moved up to the rabbit’s neck, seemingly of its own accord, the little creature still nibbling away at the grass the whole time. I had then applied sudden pressure, pinning it to the ground.

That’s when the struggling had begun. The rabbit had kicked and wriggled, trying to get out from under my hoof. I remember the feeling of its flesh squishing as I slowly increased the pressure I was applying, the sound of its little squeals as the pain began, the sudden look of fear in its eyes as it realised its mistake.

A muted, wet, pop. That’s all there was to mark its passing as my hoof had broken its neck. Barely even audible, really. The struggling had instantly ceased, and the rabbit’s eyes had glazed over.

I remember…

I remember feeling nothing, at first. Naught but a detached interest in the proceedings that I had been party to. But as I had lain there, still on my stomach, hoof still pressed to the shattered remains of the rabbit’s neck, I had realised something.

The voices were right.

Watching the rabbit kick and struggle, hearing its panicked squealing, feeling the bones snap and grind under my hoof… it had felt better than anything else had in my short life. I wanted more. From that day forward, my parent’s garden became a hunting ground whenever the voices whispered to me; the game small, nimble and furry.

Now, though, it is Nightmare Night. The time when the voices are at their strongest, when I cannot ignore them.

I look down at my sleeping marefriend, her white coat and two-tone, electric blue mane contrasting heavily with the pink sheets she lies under. The tip of a white horn just shows itself from under her mane. Her ears twitch in her sleep, a sure sign she’s dreaming. The voices are strongest tonight, greater in number than they’ve ever been, their will undeniable. They demand a kill, the same as every year. But it won’t be her.

The sleeping potion I slipped into her drink earlier will ensure she doesn’t wake until the morning, more than enough time for me to complete my night’s work. I head to our bathroom.

With the water running in the shower to heat up, I delve into the cupboard under the bathroom sink. At the back, behind a false wall, is a wooden box--about the size of the large, rectangular birthday cakes you can buy at a bakery--that holds some of my most secret items.

The first are two bottles of dye, one for manes and tails, one for coats. The first blonde, the second a deep sea blue. Dying myself is time consuming, but necessary for what I’m about to undertake. As I stand under the hot water, body going through the now familiar motions of washing and dyeing, my mind focusses on the task ahead.

I wonder who the voices will bid me pick this year? Or will they let me choose, as they sometimes do? Will they be young? Old? A stallion? A mare? Earth pony, like myself? Unicorn, like my marefriend? Pegasi? They were always so satisfying to kill, that smug superiority in their eyes replaced by abject terror as I take the two things from them they’ve always had, right before I end them…

I feel an anticipatory tremor run through my body, but I push it aside. My body can wait, I have to prepare.

Turning the shower off, I shake the excess water from myself, the spray of coloured droplets briefly sounding like rain against the glass walls of the shower. I step outside, still dripping, and towel myself off, lingering perhaps longer than necessary over my femininity. It wants more, but I ignore it. The rest of the night is too important to waste any more time.

Returning to the box on the counter, I select another bottle, pulling it out. It is small, cuboid and clear, the contents likewise in colour. A hoof-written label is on one side: “Eye-colour potion, Green. Perfect for fancy dress and other occasions. Lasts for 8 hours.”

Removing the cork, I steel myself and down the potion in one go, feeling the nasty sensation of the foul-tasting goop sliding down my throat. It reminds me of the one and only time I allowed a stallion to have his way with my mouth, the feeling of his climax hitting the back of my throat and the potion are near identical. I shudder, partly at the memory and partly because of the potion.

I swallow, making a disgusted gasp afterwards, hissing air over my teeth. Looking in the mirror, my mulberry irises remain the same for a few seconds, before slowly shifting into the dark green promised by the potion. No longer does Octavia Melody, famous cellist for the Canterlot Philharmonic, stand before me in the reflection, her mane and tail neatly brushed and styled; instead, just a mask, a role with tangled, knotted hair. A disguise to be worn for one night, before being tossed aside, becoming so much filthy water by night’s end.

I look as low as my prey, but I know from the rapid beating of my heart and the thrum of anticipation in my muscles, that I am the by far the superior pony.

Taking one final object from the box, I pack everything else back into it for now and return it to its hiding place. I will need the box again tonight, but I can dispose of the bottles and replace them over the coming year. Better that way, to avoid suspicion. Always different colours, too. After all, it wouldn’t do to be recognised, would it?

Like I do every year, I take this opportunity to inspect the object I have just taken out of the box. It is a very unique thing, so it is, to own something nopony has any business owning. I’d wager a thousand bits that very few of these exist inside of Equestria’s borders, let alone are used for their intended purpose.

It is a knife.

Oh, sure, lots of ponies have knives in their kitchens, but those are used to cut vegetables and cheese. This particular knife is not. It is practically outlawed in Equestria, solely because its primary use is to cut not plants, but meat.

Placing my hoof gently on the leather sheath, I draw the blade with my teeth and set it on the counter. Griffin steel is nothing spectacular to look at, but as a functional alloy, it is a beauteous thing to behold. I have used several blades prior to acquiring this one, through less than reputable and rather disdainful characters, I might add, and none of them held a candle to this one.

Nothing compares to the cutting ability of a Griffin butcher knife. Six inches of serrated stainless steel, sharpened to the quickest edge that you could ever hope to set eyes on, set into a wooden handle built for the claws of the Griffins and secured with three equi-distant rivets, capped off by the same steel from which the blade was forged.

Designed as a tool for cutting the dead flesh of slaughtered animals, repurposed by me as an instrument of death. This knife was the implement of suffering that had spelled the deaths of twelve ponies in as many years, their agonised screams released as it bit into their flesh, tore muscle and sliced organs. The joy I had had with this knife! Nothing in this life was as precious to me as this knife, not even my marefriend.

I inspect the knife closely before sheathing it once more, its condition satisfactory. Picking it up, I lodge it in my mane and walk back to my bedroom. Inside, I grab my purse and slip it into my mane as I quickly cross to my closet, rummaging inside for a particular item. Upon finding it, I shake out the black cape, the red silk on the inside caressing my chest as I do so. Wrapping it over myself, I tie the lace around my neck, holding it secure. My chest is exposed, but warmth is not what I have the cape for. This is the only way I can cover the one distinguishing mark I cannot alter, the one mark every pony has; my cutie-mark. The only ponies who will see it tonight are myself and whoever I kill.

I make to leave the bedroom, but my eyes stop on the sleeping form of my marefriend. The sheets accentuate her profile beautifully, showing off her curves in all the ways I appreciate. I wonder why I am bothering to go out tonight, when there is a perfectly suitable target right there in my bed.

(Cut her!)

I’ve never had a kill be asleep before, the possibilities are as enticing as they are unexplored.

(Rape her!)

I could strip the sheets, use her in so many ways, run my blade over all the places I have run my hooves, my lips, my tongue…

(Maim her!)

I could carve and whittle her horn, slide my blade along her plump privates, watching as her flesh depressed and sprang back, just before I run the knife right up in her-

NO!!! Not her! Never her!

I snatch back the hoof that had begun reaching for her of its own volition. I stand frozen for a second, stunned at what I had almost done, before bolting from the room, down the stairs and out the front door, slamming it shut behind me. I lean back against the door to catch my breath, tears nearly spilling from my eyes as I squeeze them shut.

Sometimes, the voices can take over on Nightmare Night. Normally, that isn’t a problem, but tonight… I vowed never to lay a hoof on her in that way. She is the untouchable one, the one they won’t have. The one who is the eye of my storm, my becalming on the sea of life. The one who allows me some measure of peace, however fleeting, from the incessant chattering in my mental background.

I do not love. I figured out a long time ago that I am bereft of whatever faculty allows other ponies to feel, at least when it comes to that particular emotion. It never bothered me. Indeed, it’s what makes other ponies underestimate me when I hunt. Their compassion leads them to believe that no-one could or would do such a thing as what I ultimately end up doing to them.

When it comes to the mare asleep in my bed, however, I like to think I come close. If losing my will to exert my superiority, to not hear the voices, to not want to kill, is love… then yes, I love her.

I steady myself. There is no time for this, I have to get moving. Because I have denied them, the next time the voices sound their call will be even harder to resist. I need to find somepony to kill, and I need to do it quickly. I step off my porch and start walking.

This part of Canterlot is given over to the residences of the city’s middle class. It’s true, with the money I make, I could afford a second house much closer to the castle than this. But an upgrade from my part-owned abode in Ponyville is not why I bought this place. Down here, among the families, the expectations of society are less. There are fewer prying eyes, fewer chattering mouths and fewer curious noses to poke where they don’t belong. That’s not to say they don’t try, but I have carefully cultivated my image, despite my fame, to be practically invisible to these ponies.

No-one pays attention to the house on the end of the street, the one from which muted music can occasionally be heard. After all, how much danger could a pair musician mares pose?

Naive fools.

The night is overcast, the clouds reflecting back the light from the city and trapping what little warmth the sun radiated during the day, not that it makes much difference. A shiver runs through me, and I stop briefly to tie my cape tighter. It doesn't help much. After all, it isn’t exactly warm attire.

As I walk down the cobbled street, I notice the late hour has seen off a lot of the younger colts and fillies, no doubt now tucked up warm in bed, their bellies full of the sweets they’d attained earlier in the evening. Some of the older kids are still prowling the streets, talking loudly among themselves as they meander from house to house. As I pass one such group, I can clearly smell the sharp odour of alcohol. Quite how they managed to obtain that will no doubt remain a mystery. I can hear the sounds of a party further down the street, gradually getting louder as I approach, but I know it won’t be my destination. I don’t kill close to home.

I let my mind wander like my hooves, walking, but heading nowhere in particular. Inevitably, my thoughts drift, as they always do on Nightmare Night, to the time I killed my first pony.

I was eight, a mere three years having passed since I killed that rabbit in my parents’ garden. It was Nightmare Night and I was out supposedly trick or treating with friends, but was in fact looking for things to kill and getting incredibly frustrated. All day I had been hunting small animals, but it wasn’t enough. I just wasn’t getting the same feeling I had been for the last three years.

Three rabbits, five birds, two squirrels and a mouse killed by a well aimed rock had been my kills for the day, but none of them had satisfied me. By the time evening rolled around, I had been close to pulling my mane out. I needed that warm, glowy feeling I got whenever I killed. To top it off, the voices hadn’t shut up all day either, their insistence reflecting and mounting upon my own frustration.

Then I saw her.

I almost hadn’t, sat as she was away from the street. Just another earth pony filly, I would guess no more than five or six, sat by herself next to the communal duck pond, munching away happily on some of her acquired chocolate. Her coat had been the colour of milk, her mane and tail deep blue and her eyes a bright sapphire. Most of this I couldn’t see this at the time, due in part to the poor lighting and the scarecrow costume she was wearing, but I would see pictures of her later. In strange contrast to her costume, she wore a pink bow, wrapped high on her tail, just below her dock.

(Kill)

All the other voices had stopped dead as that single, quiet word was uttered. I regarded the younger filly, still eating her chocolate and oblivious to me, her back turned slightly in my direction.

(Kill)

The day’s frustration and the strength of that single word had left me powerless to disobey. Creeping onto the grass, I had silently dropped the small sack I was carrying with its few sweets inside. Three years of hunting instinct had taken over, then, as I left the yellow pool of light cast by the street lamp, dropping to my stomach in the process.

(Kill)

I had prowled through the damp grass, cape from my vampony costume dragging behind me, the other filly remaining unaware of my presence and digging through the small wooden cauldron that held her treats. I wriggled my shoulders and hips, cat-like, as I prepared…

(KILL!!!)

I leaped.

Have you ever seen somepony drown? Most haven’t. It’s an unsurprisingly splashy affair. Lots of kicking and flailing, followed by the pony in question getting slower and weaker, and finishing with a very underwhelming display of their last breath bubbling to the surface. All in all, a rather boring affair.

The earth filly didn’t even have time to scream as I tackled her into the shallows of the duck pond, a caped messenger of death flying from out of the dark. The last expression I had seen on her face was one of shock and surprise, right before I slammed my forehooves on the back of her head, violently shoving it under the water.

Even half-submerged as she was, she still put up a fight. It’s rather impressive what the pony body will do when it comes down to survival. Her forelegs had flailed around wildly, trying to dislodge me and pry herself up from the muck, smacking the water’s surface and spraying water everywhere. When that didn’t work, she’d started bucking, trying to throw me off. Straddling her back as I was, this was decidedly painful, but being the older filly, my larger size and greater strength had held me in place. I had proceeded to shove down harder on her head, no doubt hurting her and eliciting the first batch of bubbles.

Almost immediately, she had begun to convulse as her lungs had tried to evacuate the invading water, only to suck more in. I had held her down through all the spasms, growling under my breath as she had grown steadily weaker and weaker. Finally, with one last twitch, she had gone limp; limbs hanging lazily in the water. With my hooves still on her head, I had watched as the last few bubbles of air to escape from her lungs popped on the surface of the water.

I had waited a minute or two longer before clambering off of her, stumbling backwards and landing on my rump with a splash. Free of my weight, her body had just floated there, hair spread out around her in a broad fan.

It would be minutes before I moved from where I fell, shivering from both the cold water and the sense of power coursing through me. The rush I had been seeking the entire day had hit me, and then some. I had never felt anything like it before, not even when hunting the small animals around my house.

I had killed a pony! Not just an animal, but a living breathing, pony! Somepony’s daughter was lying face down in a pond, and it was because of me! It had felt good! No, better than good, amazing! It… It had felt… It had felt like…

Heaven.

When I had finally gathered the strength to move, I had initially started towards the bank, but stopped. Instead, on impulse, I grabbed the filly’s tail ribbon and pulled, taking it with me. It was the first time I had taken a souvenir, but it wouldn’t be the last. I had packed it in my sack, along with my few sweets and headed home, freezing cold and shivering, but feeling the best I ever had in my entire life.

Of course, my mother had wanted to know why I was dripping wet when I had gotten home, but a simple sob story of being pushed into the pond by some older kids had placated her enough that I was given a warm bath and some hot chocolate before being sent off to bed.

The following day would see the discovery of the filly’s body and the start of the fruitless investigation into her death, but for the night just before, I would sleep like the dead, the filly’s ribbon tucked safely under my pillow.

Tonight, however, I had something to do before I would be allowed to sleep.

I look up at my surroundings, the last vestiges of my reverie fleeing into the night as I take in where I am. My hooves have carried me to a familiar place this year; Canterlot’s red-light district.

What? A mare has needs even when she doesn’t have a partner, or prey to kill.

I used to visit this street often before I settled down with my marefriend, securing nights of base pleasure--both in and out of heat--with golden bits. There isn’t a lot else to do in Canterlot for a mare like me, especially when you purposefully avoid mixing with the social circle that adores you and your style of music.

Unlike most places in Equestria, prostitution in Canterlot is entirely legal and taxed. Indeed, it’s a profession endorsed and patronised by three of our four princesses; a fact first-time visitors are quite shocked to learn, I’m led to believe. Entire businesses revolve around the trade, offering everything under Celestia’s sun, from toys to contraceptives, and even health check-ups. But I digress.

I walk slowly along the street, noting the coloured banners hanging from window ledges, and the coloured leg-bands on the working mares, both a shade of pink the clientele had dubbed “paradise pink” a long time ago.

So, Cherry Cheeks still runs this district. Not surprising, that mare wielded her will like a hammer, smashing aside anypony stupid enough to challenge her. Not that she didn’t care for her girls, of course, that was one of the reasons so many worked for her; Cherry looked after her own.

I respected her for both those things, though the former gave me pause when considering her as potential prey. I had a small fear that indomitable will of hers might actually prove too much for me, allowing her to escape; not something I desired.

The voices are stirring again now, aware as they are of so many potential quarries.

I keep moving, my eyes scanning the mares sturdy enough to brave the cold night air of Canterlot. Years of experience walking these streets come into play as I go on the prowl, spotting the subtle tells of the mares not interested in servicing me.

Most of those working the night are stood together in small groups, chatting idly amongst themselves and flaunting their goods whenever a pony fitting their servicing preference walks by. Others stand by themselves under street lamps, in doorways or even in windows. Most don’t spare me a second glance. Not that those are the ones I am looking for.

Surprisingly, even after my earlier desertion of them, the voices are letting me pick my kill tonight. So picking I am.

I'm not looking for the mares that know the score. I'm not looking for one in a group, or that's been around for a while. Cherry’s girls stick together and all know each other well, at least within any given district. Anyone who picks them up in clear line of sight will be remembered.

No, I'm looking for the anomaly among Cherry’s girls. The one on her own. The new blood. Usually young and yet to prove herself profitable, or to make any friends with the current girls. Since no-one wants to try and make friends with a potential burnout, she’ll be apart from the rest, until she proves she has what it takes to work the streets.

And there she is.

Conspicuous by the lack of other ponies anywhere near her, she's stood under a lamp on the corner at the other end of the street, a small unicorn mare nursing a steaming cup of something hot in the white glow of her magic. Her coat is a pretty shade of pale pink, her curly purple mane and tail a wonderful counterpoint. Her cutie-mark is a bouquet of flowers. As I draw closer, I can make out her magenta irises and the sweet smell of cocoa.

She looks up as I approach, meeting my gaze, a nervous smile appearing on her face as she clumsily adopts a slightly more alluring stance. She’s probably not earning enough to be able to pick and choose who she services yet, not that I would have cared. I’d have hunted her some other way if she’d signalled she wasn’t interested.

“H-hey sugar,” she calls out. “See something you like?” Her voice is uneven, probably a combination of nerves and the cold, while her accent is just foreign enough to be interesting. My guess is she’s probably from Fillydelphia, but lived a good portion of her life in Canterlot. I affect a nervous smile of my own.

“Hi there,” I say, dropping my refined accent in favour of the country drawl from just south of the capital. It feels, as it usually does, rather unpleasant in my mouth. “Er, I uh, dunno. You mind givin’ us a little twirl?”

She does so, making sure to give me a little flash in the process. There is no mistaking she cuts a good figure, but this is all for show. Part of the hunt. Part of the game. She thinks I’m a potential customer, but if she knew my real purpose, she’d have fled in terror by now. Not that it’d help her.

“How’s that?” she asks, smile never leaving her face. I make a show of looking impressed.

“Wow…” I trail off before apparently gathering myself. “Listen, uh, I’m kinda new to this. How’s this all work? You’re cool with mares, right?”

My act appears to be working, as her smile becomes a little more genuine.

“Sure hon, I wouldn’t have called out to you otherwise. Your first time, huh? Well, I can make that special.” She steps a little closer, giving me the bedroom eyes. Once again, I make a show of looking nervous but stand my ground.

“Oh, no no!” I exclaim, shaking my head. “I ain’t a virgin, just… this is my first time doin’ somethin’ like this.”

Understanding dawns in her eyes then, and she giggles, covering her mouth with a hoof. The nerves are gone, now.

“Oh, well don’t worry, it’s quite simple,” she says, the fake smile almost entirely gone. “If you wanna have some fun, we’ll go back to my room where it’s a bit warmer and way more private. Full payment up front when we get there, though, and no refunds after the deed.”

We’ll see about that.

“S-sure,” I nod enthusiastically. “How uh, how much?”

“Twenty-five for my hooves or magic, fifty for eating you, a hundred for the full thing. If you want to eat me or suck my horn, that’s another forty. Thirty per extra.”

“Extra?” I ask. I know full well what she means, but I still have a cover to maintain.

“Yeah, you know, extra stuff.” She scratches the back of her head, her smile turning awkward. “You know how some ponies like being spanked, or putting stuff up their butts? That kind of stuff. Not that I’m judging!” She hastily adds that last.

I nod in pretend understanding. “I get it. So uh, like, are y’all ok with uh… bondage?” I shift awkwardly on the spot, adding to the authenticity of my act. Her eyes widen slightly, but any other reaction is quickly masked. Cherry does train them well.

“You like to be tied up, huh sugar?” she asks sultrily, her smile once more seductive.

“A-Actually, I kinda like bein’ the one doin’ the tyin’ up,” I reply, still pretending to shift nervously. I add a smile just as nervous in appearance to the mix.

Another giggle. “Either way works for me, hon, I have some stuff for that in my room. Just remember it’s another thirty on top of whatever else you choose. Oh, but no anti-magic rings. I gotta be able to get out if I have to.”

Once again, I nod. “That’s fine. So that’s a hundred and seventy?”

“If that’s what you want, babe.”

“Sure.” I grin eagerly.

“Then follow me,” she says with a nod down the street that crossed the one I came down. She knocks back the last of her drink in one gulp, tossing the cardboard cup into a nearby bin. We start walking, her side rubbing up against mine. There’s a small but very real smile on her face, probably from actually securing a client.

“So, uh, what do I call ya?” I ask, keeping up my act, despite the anticipation growing inside me. The voices are louder now, grumbling away in the background.

“Oh, we’re not allowed to use our real names,” she answers with a small shake of her head, “but you can call me Ruby.”

“Name’s Viola,” I lie smoothly. “Pleased to meet’cha.” In truth, I could call myself anything, since by the time she sees my cutie-mark, it’ll be far too late for her. However, I don’t like leaving anything to chance.

“Likewise,” Ruby replies with yet another giggle.

“You been, uh, doin’ this long?” I’ll admit, this question is more to satisfy my own curiosity than for the act. Ruby hesitates noticeably.

“I… probably shouldn’t say this, but no. Not really.” I can feel her tense up against me as we walk. “This is only my third night.”

“Really?” I feign surprise, looking over at her. I have to look down at her a bit, as she is slightly shorter than me. She nods.

“Yeah. I’m really a florist’s apprentice, but the pay’s awful. I had to take this part-time to cover the rest of my bills.”

“I guess we’re both new at this, then,” I say, chuckling. She giggles again. Sweet Celestia’s wings, that is getting annoying.

“Yeah, I guess so.” She relaxes again.

As I had suspected on seeing her, she was Cherry’s latest pick from the down and out. Probably still a virgin the night she started.

We walk in silence for a few minutes before Ruby stops us outside a four-storey apartment. Except for Cherry’s plain banner hanging from a second storey window, it is otherwise completely non-descript, looking like any other building in Canterlot.

“Well, this is us,” she says, mounting the steps. She looks back over her shoulder at me. “Come on.” Her tails swishes from side to side, flashing me again. I follow her up.

The inside of the apartment building is just as I remember it, feeling more like an upscale hotel than a brothel. Cherry’s colour is prominent in the rugs and furnishings of the brightly lit lobby, softly accentuating the dark wood of the floors and walls. Erotic paintings hang on the walls here and there, some more explicit than others, but all featuring the same theme; mares in heat. More of Cherry’s girls are lounging around the lobby furniture, most buttering up potential customers, some simply killing time before their next client. All of them pay us no attention.

“I’m just on the first floor,” Ruby tells me. “We’ll take the stairs.” I just nod and follow her.

The corridor leading to her room shares the décor of the lobby, but with subtler, moodier lighting. It smells faintly of perfume and somewhere from behind one of the doors, a mare’s loud moans of pleasure can be heard. Ruby stops us in front of a door with her cutie-mark on it, turning to me as she fishes a key out of her mane with her magic.

“I hate to be a bore, but before we go in, I have to lay out a few ground rules.” She looks at me slightly apologetically. I just look at her earnestly and pretend to listen as she rattles off rules I already know from my years of visiting Cherry and her girls. I nod when she finishes.

“Sounds fair,” I say in the fake country twang.

“Good,” she replies, unlocking the door and pushing it open. “I just have to freshen up a little and find some of my equipment, but if you could get your bits ready while I do that, that’d be great. We can’t do anything until you’ve paid.”

“Alright.”

We walk into the room and recognition sparks in my head. It used to belong to a mare I visited frequently, until she retired to realise her dream of being a Royal Guard. They hadn’t bothered redecorating in that time, it seemed. Same curtains on the window at the bed’s foot, same carpet with the same large stain in the corner, same wallpaper… all in Cherry’s colour, of course. The double bed was the same, covers sharing the colour of the rest of the upholstery, except, I knew, for a white sheet underneath.

The room itself was tiny, with just enough space for the bed, a bedside table and a wardrobe to fit whatever the mare working out of the room needed. A small archway on the far side of the bed led into a white-tiled alcove containing a toilet and a shower head, just big enough for two ponies to stand side-by-side. The only light currently in the room came from the street lamps outside.

“Please make yourself comfortable,” Ruby says as she closes the door behind us. “I won’t be a minute.” I watch as she walks around the bed to the shower room, magic simultaneously closing the curtains and setting the wall-mounted lights over the bed to a cosy glow. The voices get even louder as I watch her.

Feeling around in my mane, I fish out my purse and count out the bits, stacking them on the bedside table. I undo my cape and throw it into the stained corner. Given that I made the stain on an earlier visit, I’m not that perturbed.

I sit on the bed, turning to face the shower alcove, watching Ruby move around under the water in the bright light from the alcove’s ceiling, steam billowing around her. She notices me and puts on a show, giving me smouldering looks and making sure I see her hold her nethers to the stream. I smile encouragingly, though the tension inside me could be cut with the very knife I hold in my mane.

The voices are chattering madly now, trying to exert their will on me. I hold them back, just.

Ruby exits the shower, steaming slightly as she casts a drying spell on herself, the light clicking off as she passes under the arch. She makes a note of the coins on the table, pulling a pencil and sheet of paper out of a the small drawer in it.

“So that’s a hundred for sex, thirty for the bondage and forty for eating me? Or my horn?” She queries, looking over her shoulder at me.

“Both,” I answer, covering my bases. “Why do you ask?”

“Oh, I have to write down who orders what so my manager can keep track of trends and finances. It all goes back to the madam who runs everything, as well.”

Once again, I know this already. Cherry runs a tight ship. I watch as Ruby jots everything down, pencil in her magic. Once done, she packs the paper and pencil back into the drawer and walks past me to the wardrobe, delving inside it for a minute.

I watch her dig about, shaking her flank from side to side, barely keeping myself from shaking as the voices scream at me to exert my superiority. It won’t be much longer, now.

After what seems like an eternity, Ruby turns back around to face me, two pairs of fluffy hoof-cuffs in her magic. The colour matches her coat. She grins impishly at me.

“Do you want any more toys, or will just these do?” she asks, swinging the cuffs gently to-and-fro in her magic. I pretend to consider for a second. In reality, I know exactly what I want. What I need.

“Have y’all got a ball-gag and blindfold?” I ask her. She looks back in the wardrobe and quickly pulls the items out to join the cuffs.

“Sure do, hon.” The grin is still on her lips. Oh, how I will savour watching those lips contort in agony around that red ball.

“Good,” I nod and stand up, approaching her. “But from now on, y’all are to address me as “Mistress Viola”, or just “Mistress” if that’s too much for ya, understand?” I look down at her sternly. How I am not quaking from how close I am to what I need, I do not know.

Ruby immediately appears more contrite, losing the grin and looking up at me more innocently. “Yes, Mistress Viola.”

“Excellent. Now get on the bed and cuff your front hooves to the bedposts.”

“Of course, Mistress.”

I watch her as she clambers onto the bed and secures the cuffs to each of the posts at the head of the bed. As she makes to put a hoof into the first one, I call out tersely.

“No, on your back. I want to see your marehood.”

“Oh, of course, Mistress.” She flips over and resumes cuffing herself, the click of the locks loud in the small room. She’s fully exposed to me now, the dark skin of her teats and her nethers beckoning to be touched.

I start to salivate. Even now, though she doesn’t know it, she’s helpless. I could jump her now and she wouldn’t stand a chance. I swallow.

“G-Good,” I genuinely stammer. I’m starting to get the shakes now, the voices are starting to unite in their desires. Soon, there will be no stopping it. I step forward and clamber up onto the bed.

“Mistress, why are you having me cuff myself to the bed? Have I been bad?” Oh, she’s good. Better than I thought. Not that it’ll save her.

“Yes, very bad,” I answer sharply, standing completely over her. “I hear y’all have been messin’ around with the boys from the city, and without my permission. What do you gotta say for yourself?”

“It’s true! I couldn’t help it! I was just so horny, I needed to cum! I’m sorry, Mistress, please don’t be angry!” Celestia give the girl a medal, she should have gone into acting.

“It’s too late for that,” I snap. I point at the blindfold and gag where she’d lain them on the bed. “Blindfold yourself, then put the gag on.”

“Are… are you going to punish me, Mistress Viola?” she asks, her voice quaking a little, as her magic lifts the blindfold to her face. Oh yes, you beautiful little whore, but not in the way you think.

“Well,” I reply, leaning down close to her ear. It twitches against my muzzle as I speak. “You said you needed to cum, so you will, but when I say so.” I decide to find out what she tastes like and kiss her, forcing my tongue into her mouth. Disappointingly, she tastes of the cocoa she was drinking when I spotted her. She lets out a whimper as she tries to return the kiss, though I’m far more than a match for her. I pull away as suddenly as I arrived and watch as she ties the blindfold behind her head. It suddenly clicks why she’s so good at this, and I nearly laugh at the sudden realisation.

She’s genuinely into this.

She picks up the gag in her magic, but hesitates.

“M-Mistress?” she asks, nerves causing her voice to quiver.

“What?”

“I, um, I need a safeword.” I run my hoof over my face in frustration. The voices are shrill, I’m so close to my goal, and she’s bothering me with this! Thinking on my hooves, I practically spit her an answer.

“It’s “voices”. Now, gag yourself or this will go even worse for you.” The unicorn practically moans as she complies. Oh yes, she is definitely into this.

I stare down at the complete package below me. Bound, gagged and blindfolded, Ruby has no idea just what’s about to befall her. There’s just one thing left to deal with, and I can finally get the release I’ve been craving all day.

Ruby is wriggling around on the bed, clearly aching to be touched. Her heavy breathing sounds harsh coming through her nose, the gag preventing her from breathing through her mouth. I lower myself down her body, kissing as I go. Might as well get what I paid for while I maintain my cover for these precious final moments.

I arrive between her legs. I kiss the inside of both repeatedly, edging closer and closer to her marehood, but never touching, teasing her. I surreptitiously remove the knife from my mane and lay it on the bed.

She’s wet and winking, pushing herself at my face. I plant small kisses around her labia and she makes pathetic little whimpering noises, begging me with her voice to get closer. I plant a hoof on the sheath of my knife and quietly draw it with my mouth, leaving it where it lies.

I return to her and trace a long, slow, deep lick between her folds, from her entrance to that heavenly button of pleasure at the top, curling my tongue around the nub and flicking it once as I leave. She responds with the most delicious moan I have ever heard, perhaps topping even those of my marefriend. A small part of me is sad I won’t ever get to hear it again, or taste her salty-sweet wetness, either.

I grab the knife in my hoof. I start planting kisses up Ruby’s body, over her teats, up her stomach and chest, over her face and finally, on her horn. She inhales sharply and moans again as I take it into my mouth, the metallic taste of magic flooding over my tongue. I position myself so her leg is between mine and begin grinding myself on her. She responds by lifting it slightly into me.

(Maim!)

The voices’ shrieking chant echoes in my head like some demented crowd. It is time.

After a moment of sucking on her horn, I let go, hearing her disappointed whimper. I lower my mouth to her ear again, once more feeling that delightful twitch against my muzzle.

(Cut!)

“Now…” I start, still with the fake accent. I bring the knife close, subtly altering my stance, steadying myself.

(Mutilate!)

“… The real fun begins,” I finish in my real voice. Ruby tenses up underneath me, obviously confused at the change in my tone, but it’s too late.

Voices screaming in unison in my head, I flip the knife handle from my hoof to my mouth in one smooth motion. I grab one of the pillows and shove it over her face. Pulling my head back, I then bring the knife down with all my strength.

Straight onto her horn.

Funny thing about unicorn horns: They’re filled with hollow channels for magical conductive fluid produced by the horn itself, a sort of derivative of bone marrow, and are actually quite delicate. Enough force in just the right place will crack one of these channels open and render the horn useless. Even a hard strike is enough to disrupt them for hours and cause significant pain in the owner. So as I thrust the blade of my knife into the base of Ruby’s horn, Celestia only knows how much pain she’s feeling.

Judging by her agonised howls into the pillow over her face, and the intense bucking, quite a bit.

Magical sparks fire randomly around the blade as she reflexively tries to cast a spell, probably a teleport, to no avail. Only the very bottom of her horn glows, below where my knife struck, before the magical energy spits out around my knife. Who needs anti-magic rings when you can disable a horn this easily?

And disable Ruby I have. By cracking open her horn, I have taken away her last possible tool for escape. I twist the blade and pull, the horn cracking further with delicious little wet pops. Ruby screams even harder, but the pillow combined with the gag effectively mute her to anyone outside the room. The blade eventually twists free with a crunch, white magical fluid immediately leaking from the hole to run down onto Ruby’s head, sparks still jumping fitfully from the wound.

Spitting the knife out onto the bed, I sit back onto her leg, pinning her down by it and preventing her from making any more painful strikes to my most delicate area. I keep my hoof over her face as I maintain my grinding, ignoring the occasional strike from her other back leg. Her screams and bucking rapidly decrease as she struggles for breath through the pillow, and I remove it once she’s noticeably weaker.

Predictably, she starts hyperventilating through her nose, but her struggling doesn’t resume. Instead, she’s just sobbing and trying to get her breath back. I coo at her, this initial act of violence having calmed me for the moment.

“Shush now, Ruby,” I croon, my hooves resting on her chest as I grind my marehood against her leg. I am quite wet by this point, but not because of my actions. My body is simply responding to the stimulus from before and is running on automatic. There is nothing sexual to my killing. Not that it isn’t improving the experience any.

“Shush,” I hush her again. “Get your breath back, we’re not done yet. There’s a lot more pain to come.” Ruby sobs again at that. I realise something is missing. Her eyes. I can’t see her eyes.

I lean forward and push the blindfold up off her eyes. She blinks, her eyes full of tears, fear, pain and betrayal. Those beautiful magenta irises settle on me, watching me slowly rub up and down her leg. I wonder precisely what she’s thinking at that moment, besides the obvious. I wonder if she feels anything else other than what I think she’s feeling; maybe revulsion or even arousal? I know one or two of my quarries have enjoyed my ministrations right up to the point I ended them.

All I know for sure is that I enjoy watching them watch me as I go about proving my superiority.

Ruby makes a series of grunts through the gag, trying to say something.

“Uh uh,” I reply, shaking my head and thumping a hoof into her stomach. She groans. “Talking time is over, Ruby. I have waited all day for this, and it’s time for my reward. I am going to hurt you, badly, and then I’m going to kill you.” Her eyes go wide and I laugh. Sometimes it really is funny how blissfully ignorant ponies can be, even when the facts are laid out right in front of them.

“Oh, don’t worry,” I continue, getting slightly breathless from exerting myself. Celestia’s teats, but her leg feels good against me. “It’s nothing personal, Ruby. You were just in the wrong place at the wrong time. But at least you’ll have the honour of being the first of Cherry’s girls I’ve killed!”

I laugh again, a little manically. I grab the knife in a hoof, allowing her to see its magnificence for the first time. She immediately starts trying to buck me off of her, kicking at me with her other leg, muffled yells coming from behind her gag. I just lean forward again and tap her broken horn. A small shriek emits from her throat and all her struggling stops, replaced merely by shaking as she resumes sobbing at the ceiling. Her eyes are squeezed shut, tears running freely from under her lids.

“Look at me, Ruby,” I call softly. She refuses, so I reach behind me and press the knife to her folds. “Open your eyes, or you’ll be the third mare I’ll have used this knife on down there. It’s a beautiful pussy and I’d hate to see it ruined.” I press the knife in harder and her eyes fly open, tears streaming down the sides of her face. I smile knowingly at her.

“Good, see? That wasn’t so hard.” I move back to a more comfortable position, the knife handle pinned between her chest and my hoof. I take a moment to steady myself, watching her cry and feeling her hitch and shake under me.

The voices, somewhat mollified by my earlier violence, resume their insistent chanting. It is time.

I pick up the knife once more, trying to decide where to cut first. Ruby sobs harder, trying to struggle away, but the real fight has gone out of her. She’s shaking her head, trying to beg me not to do this. It doesn’t help. Tired of her antics now, I slam my free hoof into her abdomen once more, knocking the breath from her.

“Lie still, or this will hurt far worse than it has to.” She stills as she struggles for breath. I decide her face is the right spot to draw first blood.

Leaning up, I draw the blade quickly down her left cheek, from just below the eye to her chin. She screams and jerks away, but the deed is already done. Blood begins to flow over her pink coat, quickly reaching the pillow underneath her head. I press my tongue to the wound, licking upwards and gathering her blood on my tongue, the coppery taste filling my mouth. I swallow with a satisfied moan.

“Oh yes,” I whisper in her ear. “That’s a wonderful taste.” I giggle at her, a more manic version of the same mirthful noise she’d been making not that long ago. I smile and she looks at me with real terror now, finally realising that this is the end for her.

And it is.

The voices scream in adulation as I set about her with the knife; cutting, stabbing and slicing every which way, sometimes deep, sometimes shallow, but always drawing blood and the pitiful, but muted, screams of my prey. Blood sprays and flows, soaking me, soaking Ruby, pooling on and soaking the bed covers. Droplets flick from my knife to splatter up the walls, dark spots on the pink wallpaper.

At this point I have lost all control, feeling like I’m merely watching myself as I slowly murder Ruby. My body does as it wants, drinking the red nectar, smearing it over my coat and mane, and rubbing it into my marehood. Ruby bucks and screams under me, desperately trying to escape and call for help, pulling against the cuffs with all her might, but her noises are covered by my own sexual moans, my grinding against her leg never stopping.

Eventually, blood loss takes its toll on Ruby. Her struggling slows, her cries getting weaker and weaker, before she finally stops altogether, eyelids drooping. Her breathing is shallow and laboured, her chest barely moving with each breath. I lick and kiss my way up her bloody body to her face, stopping only briefly to lap at some of her blood pooled between her neck and collarbone. I plant small, excited kisses around her gagged mouth, listening with joy to the short, harsh breaths coming from her nose. I’m giggling and quietly moaning the whole time.

“Don’t worry now, my lovely, it’s nearly over,” I coo to her. Her only response is a brief twitch of her eyelids. “I’m clearly the superior pony here, but I was raised to be polite, so thank you for a wonderful time.” A small, ecstatic laugh barks out of me.

I am very close to finishing, my climax mere moments away. I sit up, back straight, all my weight bearing down on her leg, causing the pleasure I’m feeling to triple. I grip my knife between both front hooves, blade pointing towards Ruby. I smile down at her nearly unconscious form.

(Kill)

“Ruuuuubyyyyyy…” I breathlessly moan. Her eyelids flutter, but don’t open. “Look at me, Ruby…” After what seems an eternity, her eyes do open, though it’s clearly a struggle. It takes a moment, but her eyes eventually focus.

(Kill)

“Hello, sweetheart,” This time my laugh is more a cackle, but quickly devolves into a throaty moan. “Do- ooooooh, do you know what happens now?”

(Kill)

A quiet croak from a hoarse throat is her only response. Another laugh escapes my lips as I slowly raise the knife over my head. Somewhere outside, a clock starts striking twelve.

“Now…” I manage to pant out. So close…

(KILL!)

“… you die.”

I swing the knife down with everything I can muster. It slams home in her chest, directly over her heart. Her sternum provides some resistance, but the sheer brute force of my strike punches straight through it. A final, choked cry sounds behind her gag, her eyes widening as her whole body convulses underneath me. It’s the final straw for the dam holding back my orgasm, but I barely notice my body’s reaction as the rush of the kill sweeps me away like a tidal wave. I throw my head back and scream.

“OOOOOHHHH, FUUUUUUUCK!”

Killing is so much better than cumming.

The pleasure seems to last for hours--though I know it’s scant moments--but I soon collapse on top of Ruby’s corpse, still clutching the knife in a hoof. I use it as a lever to gingerly push myself off to one side, the blood squelching under me as I slide off. Energy spent for the time being, I snuggle up to her body, as if it were my lover, caressing her chest around the knife. The light has already gone out of her eyes, a pair of glassy orbs staring up at the ceiling are all that’s left. I spend some time getting my breath back, just staring at my handiwork.

Next to the rush of the kill, these are the moments I live for. The quiet after the screams. The silence after the voices. The peace.

I doze for a short while, post-coitus endorphins making me drowsy. A killer pony lying in a pool of blood next to her latest kill, both slowly cooling around her. I can’t stay here forever, though, somepony is bound to check on dear, poor, late Ruby sooner or later. I kiss her on the cheek one final time.

“You were wonderful, darling,” I say, chuckling to myself for the last time this evening. I grasp the knife in my teeth and pull it free. It comes reluctantly, catching on the bone, but I have plenty of practice freeing it from such places. I walk through to the shower.

The bright ceiling light almost blinds me as it flicks on, my eyes taking a moment to adjust from the dim lighting of the bedroom. In front of me is the room’s toilet, while on the right is the shower head. A floor to ceiling mirror is to my left, its purpose in the bathroom as sexual as it is practical. In it is the most delightfully frightful looking mare, a knife clenched in her teeth.

I am splashed all over with blood, most of it half-dry by now, but my entire right side is a solid red, covered from my lying in the soaked bed sheets. My mane and tail are matted with gore, sticking to themselves in clumps and in a generally terrible state.

I turn around and flick on the shower with a hoof, making sure to keep the water cold. It’ll be uncomfortable, but it’s the best way to clean blood off of anything. Before I set to cleaning myself, I first clean my knife, removing all the blood from it and inspecting the blade. The tip is blunted from an impact, probably the final stab through Ruby’s sternum, but it is otherwise intact. Easily fixed later. I put it aside for now, leaving it on the toilet cistern.

I then turn my attentions to myself, washing as quickly as possible to minimise my time in the freezing water. The water quickly turns red as I clean myself up, my mane and tail taking longer than I am comfortable with. I check myself in the mirror. Not perfect, but then it didn’t need to be, I could clean myself more thoroughly at home. As long as I keep my mane over the right side of my face and wear my cape, I should be okay. I take a moment to relieve myself in the shower, then turn it off and grab my knife.

Back in the bedroom, a quick search of the wardrobe turns up a towel which I use to dry my knife, then myself. I pick up my cape and put it back on, covering my still faintly blood-stained coat. Leaning carefully over Ruby’s body, I find a part of her mane not matted with her blood and use my knife to cut it off. My trophy of tonight.

I keep a piece of pink silk in my purse for just these occasions, which I use to tie the lock of mane hair together, stowing it in my purse and sweeping my bits on the table back in on top of it. The purse goes back in my mane, as does my knife after a quick search for its sheath, which I find on the floor. On impulse, I slide Ruby’s blindfold back over her eyes.

Taking quick stock of myself and the room, I’m satisfied I have everything and quickly, but quietly, slip out of the room. No-one challenges me as I make my way down the hall, down the stairs and through the lobby. No alarms are raised as I walk down the street, no sounds of pursuit as I round the corner. I am away.

I make my getaway into the night, one more late-night partygoer on her way home.

It is nearly two in the morning when I finally step in through my front door, the warm air of the house making my cold skin burn. I am exhausted, cold, damp and shivering, but there is still work to be done. I climb the stairs to the bathroom, leaving my cape on the floor outside my bedroom as I pass, immediately turning on the shower to warm up. I recover my box from its hiding place again, laying it open on the counter.

My box is actually two compartments. The top half is where I keep my knife and other tools, the bottom half is where I keep my trophies. Most ponies would call it a grim collection, but each one is a memory for me, so I don’t forget the joyous occasion where I took a life. The filly’s ribbon is there, along with every other trophy I’ve taken so far.

I swing the top compartment out along its corner hinge, exposing the lower one. I take the lock of Ruby’s hair from out of my purse and place it with the assortment of other objects already in the box. There are locks of hair, pieces of jewellery, cuts of cloth, a few teeth. I’m not fussy about what I take as a trophy, I go with whatever I feel is appropriate at the time. I close the compartment again, the catch making a soft click.

Out of the top compartment, I take a bottle similar in shape to the bottles of dye, only this one is bigger and simply labelled “Dye Remover”. I also grab my whetstone, taking both objects into the shower with me, along with my knife. I sit under the warm water, feeling it wash away the cold and the tension it caused, as I run the whetstone over the knife’s edge.

It is a simple act, yet I find it oddly relaxing. A necessary bond this, between a killer and her weapon, the maintenance of one allowing the other to do her work. Nonetheless, the act of restoring the knife is one I enjoy and take pride in, the final part of the night’s bloody saga. I raise the blade close to my face, inspecting the tip for any sign of damage I missed on my initial pass. Finding none, I set it aside and finally start “maintaining” myself.

I am still sporting the dyes, my coat is matted from the earlier cold shower and is still stained with blood. My mane and tail are in a similar state still, having received only enough attention to remove the worst staining.

I take my time, however, giving myself a thorough clean first. Blood is a lot like sand, I’ve found; it gets into just about everywhere. I spend a good hour-and-a-half cleaning, removing the dye and shampooing my mane and tail. I finally finish and step out, to be greeted in the mirror once more by my usual grey and black self.

Well, almost.

My eyes are still green from the potion, but that will be gone before morning and long before my marefriend can notice. I dry myself and my knife, setting it on the counter as I brush first my coat, then my mane and tail, removing every knot. After I’m done, I pull two final objects from my secret box; a cloth and a glass vial filled with olive oil.

Removing the cork from the end of the vial, I place a few drops of the oil onto the flat of the knife’s blade and spread it all over with the cloth, taking care to remove any excess. I repeat the process with the other side, before sliding the knife back into its sheath. Finished at last with my work, I put everything back in the box and replace it behind its fake wall, where it will remain until my next kill.

I turn out the light and head to my bedroom, picking up my cape as I walk in and quietly shut the door. I return the cape to its place in the closet before climbing into my bed, slipping under the warm covers.

My marefriend is right where I left her, though she’s since turned over in her sleep to face me. I tangle my hind legs in hers and snuggle close, feeling her slow breaths on my chest. I take a moment to breathe in the scent from her mane and enjoy the quiet, reflecting on the evening’s events. Life with her can be loud and hectic, even without the voices’ incessant chattering, so I look forward to these moments, the islands of quiet in an ocean of noise.

Eventually, with a hearty yawn, my body reminds me that I have to sleep at some point, so I lay my head alongside my marefriend’s, giving her a gentle kiss on the lips as I do so.

“Goodnight, Vinyl,” I whisper.

I close my eyes and fall asleep, a satisfied smile on my face.

Author's Note

I intended to release this on Halloween, but missed the boat, as it were. As with many things, this took a bit longer to finish than I thought it would, though I'm happy with the result.

This has been proofed entirely on my lonesome, so if you see an error or something that doesn't quite seem to work right, please call it out! I don't bite for constructive criticism, honest! :twilightblush: