Stitches Never Hurt

by Calamity Velvet

Rating: teen
Tags: Sweetie Belle, My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, Dark, Thriller, Rarity
Length: 3766

Rarity had always treated her ponniquins with a bit of love. But what if they didn't consider it just that?

Stitch, stitch
Dress, dress
That little bitch
Ever progress

Knot, sow
Stack, show
When will she go?
We wish to know

Sitch, stitch
Ow, the pain
But that's to gain
When wounds remain

Inspired by the Mannequins by xXMarkingXx

Published 2017-10-28 00:20:07 UTC
Last updated 2017-10-28 00:20:07 UTC

But Love Does

The door opened with a fine, jolly little jingle followed by a lovely sing-song, "Sweetie Belle, darling, I'm home~!"

With the entrance made, the beautiful mare made her dainty little march a little further in while a few bags of groceries—wrapped in a soft blue aura—gracefully floated by her side in company.

But, to her disappointment, there wasn't a sound in response. No greetings, no "Rarity!"s; not even a sign of her sister's mere presence to at least make her feel a little more welcomed.

Her eyes rolled as she bounced up the stairs, down the hall, and immediately to the left. "Sweetie Belle~?" she sang again.

"Oh, hey Rarity."

That was it. That was all she got.

Fillies these days. It was as if all Rarity was was merely a substitute for companionship until her sister found her own friends.

But that was not to say that it was bad or anything.

No, no, Rarity couldn't help but relish with a smile at the sounds of the three high-pitched yells and giggles and sounds of thuds and rips (she would have to ground her later for that), complemented by the ever-so timid voice of Fluttershy trying to calm the ruckus.

It was actually adorable if she didn't dare say so herself.

With a small sigh and a smile, she trotted back down the stairs to stock, recycle the bags, and maybe even open the Boutique a little early. Maybe not. Maybe so? Oh, a lady can never predict how her mood would go.

It turned out she might open shop a little more on schedule; for almost perfectly, she could hear the tiny little hoof-steps down the stairs on cue with her last can of peas.

"Sorry about the mess, though." She could hear the raspy voice of Scootaloo apologize.

Well, it was good to at least see her manners improve, but a firm lecture on not letting a sleep-over get out of hoof was still due for Sweetie Belle.

"Oh, it's fine. I'm sure Rarity wouldn't mind. It was already a mess anyway." Sweetie dismissed with a wave of her hoof.

Speaking of which; oh sweet Celestia, did she mind more than Sweetie Belle could possibly imagine. That was her inspiration room, it wasn't a mess; it was organised chaos.

When will she learn the difference?

That wasn't anything she felt like dwelling on anymore, quite sadly. With her friends giving their hugs and Sweetie being such a dear as to actually thank Fluttershy for babysitting on such short notice, she just couldn't build up the strength to be angry anymore. Sweetie Belle would have to suffer another time.

Ignoring Sweetie Belle's innocent little hums, she turned her attention to the little 'open' sign. With a small amount of concentration, it flipped over; commencing the day's work.

Satisfied with the effortless feat, she turned her head to where the real headache was: the orders to make. Knowing that art must always be done when one is in the mood, she decided to see if she could make a few new dresses to put up on display first.

---[({x})]---

Opal seemed a particularly bit more fascinated in the purple thread that morning, with her little paws swiping at it with her tiny claws that hurt far more than they should. Her eyes were sharp and focused, like if she swiped at it just right, it might make something extraordinary happen. But, try as she might, Rarity couldn't figure out just what it was.

Perhaps Opal wanted the ball of yarn to fall in a certain way: not too far to the left, not too far to the right. Maybe she had a target of some sorts? There were a few other balls of yarn, so suppose she was attempting to play some game of pool?

It was too late to debate on that, for an immediate second later Opal had supposedly succeeded in making her mark.

Or maybe she failed.

Who knew.

What Rarity was sure of, though, was that the ball of yarn had landed on a folded piece of white cloth. She blankly stared at it, unsure of how to find it amusing. It did remind her a bit of her own colour pallet, with the violet yarn placed on top of the snow-white cloth. Maybe that could be her next dress? Purple and white? Would it be based off of herself, or perhaps it would just go with the scheme? Her eyes wandered to the window, where she had a fine view of the Ponyville market She mused that Applejack must have moved to a new spot for some reason. Maybe somepony wanted the spot she was at, maybe she felt like shaking things up a bit. Maybe it was a business tactic, or maybe it was just her mood.

She then began to wonder what Applejack's colour pallet would look on a dress; it would be challenging to make a swirl of two similar yet ever so different colours. What about two shades? Pinkie Pie's hot with bright pink? Or mayhaps two really bright colours that, normally, would look ugly and garish unless done right, like Fluttershy's bright pink and bright yellow.

A grin slowly formed—and with her eyes intensified to an expression that could make one wonder if she was going to maniacally laugh—her horn glowed, inspiration giving her its loving touch she oh-so longed for. She had always loved musing about what sort of dress would look good on a certain pony: how it could reflect their personality, compliment their colour pallet, and in every way express what made that pony unique. But never before did she think about making a dress about their colour pallet!

Fabrics of yellows, blues, oranges, and many purples and pinks began to dance round her boutique in an almost elegant dance. Paper and pencils covered every desk, and markers with almost matching colour of the fabrics waltzed with each other as she compared their hues to see if they matched. So many designs, so many ideas... oh Sweetie Belle…

Everything faltered to a halt.

Every paper was left alone.

Every fabric draped the floor.

And every marker bounce once or twice before concluding its final movement.

It was like a symphony trained to perfection abruptly stopped by a director's hoof, but this time for a tragic reason.

She stared with horror at the manifestation tragedy that would halt her muse.

A ripped up ponniquin.

With a sigh, she brought forth her sewing kit.

She was still at least a little excited about the new fashion line—of which she decided to call the Schéma de Couleur—but it certainly wasn't going to be the same now that her mood wasn't as it was before. The needles glided from hole to hole, stabbing into the ponniquin's skin to stab into another portion to create a grip between the gaps.

She hummed peacefully to herself. There wasn't any melody to it, just three notes adjacent to one another without any real reference. All just for the sake of slightly amusing herself as she performed this simple, mundane task.

In a way, she felt like a mother tending to a foal. There had been times when Sweetie Belle had bruised herself, and she would rather kiss her boo-boo or actually take it seriously enough to attach a band aid. But she never really hummed like that when she did so. She always instead assured her sister that it was nothing to worry about, that it was simply a bruise or a cut that wouldn't take too long to heal.

Her eyes blinked lazily as she hummed, and hummed, until her mind started to clear and relax to practically nothing. Time started to slip away. And before she knew it, she began to almost sleep while still sewing her ponniquins.

This was getting silly.

She snapped out of her stupor. With a glance behind her, it was suddenly dark. How long was she sewing that ponniquin? Her head shook.

"Oh, how late has it gotten."

She stretched and yawned, and blinked lazily.

"I suppose it's already time to hit the hay..."

With that settled, she turned and headed for bed. She carefully slid herself into the covers, with a bit of a wiggle here and there.

Her bed was soft. It was warm. She couldn't be any happier.

Sleep almost took its toll on her when she felt her bed shake. She didn't wish to bother. She only wanted to sleep. But it happened again, only this time it felt like there was a bit more weight on the bed. Slowly, reluctantly, Rarity opened her sleepy little eyes.

All she saw was her ponniquin placed perfectly in front of her bed. Almost like it was staring at her.

How odd.

She didn't remember moving that.

She could be mistaken, but it looked like it leaned a little. In this new view in lighting it started to look like an obsessive, creepy stalker.

She stared hard at the ponniquin before she felt safe enough to close her eyes.

Oh how silly it was to think that way.

But the launch by a sudden force said otherwise.

She screamed, of course.

She backed away, reasonably.

And she was breathing heavily, indeed.

The head of the ponniquin twisted its head unnaturally towards her.

"What are you?!"

She backed up to the safety of her bed as swiftly as she could, but it wasn't a good idea. When her back almost hit the headboard, she felt two hollow hooves wrap round her underbelly. She screeched as her horn flared with panic, the captor and every single sharp object in the room trapped in her ever-gripping blue aura.

She shot everything everywhere, with hardly any aim as she flailed off of her bed to run to the light switch. She flicked it, but nothing happened. She flicked it again, and still nothing. On and off, over and over, she desperately cried, "Come on, come on, come on!" completely off sync with her switching. With desperate measures, she flared her horn the brightest she could.

What she saw, was terrifying.

She cantered towards the window and jumped.

And then everything went black.

She floated amongst the nothingness. While most ponies would feel devastated in this state of existence; in a morbid way, Rarity was used to it. Amongst the void, her ever-louring eyes began to make out simple objects.

Clocks, baby carriages, and even other ponies. But not exactly ponies.

What she saw before her were things.

They were there, yet she could not truly touch them. She would say hello; they would respond in kind. It was all in a simulation, a dreamscape. But yet her guts and the objects round her begged and insisted that they truly weren't.

That's the strange thing about ponies: they have flesh, they can talk, they can look you in the eye and say 'yeah, I'm real', but yet the ponies' liveliness seems to only reside with other ponies they knew, ponies that are in their inner circle. An object would never turn like that. They admit it, with all honesty, that they feel naught for you. But because of that, it made them feel more real, simply because of their silent honesty.

When you place them in a spot, they will stay and never move. When you push them to move, they'll move. When you cuddle with them, they don't make it weird.

Rarity couldn't help but scoff. Of course she associated with ponies, she talked with them all the time. She even served them, gave generously to them, and made their day by reminding them that they are beautiful in their own way.

But why not tend to her every need, like the ponies she read about in her books?

Well, the answer is simple: she's a drama queen. Every emotion is exaggerated, every tear easily bursts upon the lost of a single thread. So why take her sorrow seriously if she gets upset over a fabric with the wrong hue of pink? Why even bother?

Objects never question logic. They just do as you wish, they allow feelings be shared, and shed no judgement.

"Stop it, stop it, stop it!" she desperately screamed as she held her hooves over her ears. "Get out, get out, get out!" Her eyes opened, and what was before her was exactly what she saw before.

She didn't see grass, all she saw was floor and ponniquins. Lots of them. She flared her horn once again, and with anger she yelled, "Now what in Celestia’s mane is going on?!" There was but naught of an answer. Every head just stared at her blankly.

Trying a different route, she turned round and opened the door.

She ran down the stairs.

Then off to her main door she went.

But what she met on the other side wasn't grass; it was just her room.

Her horn flared once again, and an onslaught of needless and diamonds were sent forth to shred apart the abominations before her.

A pony who was cut would fall upon a cut in the heart. A ponniquin only fell upon the force of a diamond. But Rarity didn't care. She sighed when the last ponniquin was 'taken'. Oh how silly was she getting, having to 'take down' a ponniquin. They were objects. Models for her dresses to put on display, and references for how to fit her creations through a pony's hips and arms.

With them already down, and after breathing for about a minute to calm herself, she ventured back down the stairs to assess the situation. Ponniquins surrounded the bottom of the stairs, and every single head faced her. Taken aback by this, she turned back round to avoid this scene that had put her incredibly off ease.

But when she turned round, the ponniquins she had shredded apart were there at her bedroom door.

Finding no better place to go, she stormed past the ponniquins to Sweetie Belle’s room. She knocked hard, and asked, "Sweetie Belle, dear, are you there?" trying in vain to sound calm and assuring only to come off a bit too desperate.

As she had desired, the doors opened before her. And there was Sweetie Belle.

She sat on her haunches.

Staring.

Seemingly deep in thought.

"Oh, Sweetie Belle, thank heavens you're all right!"

Sweetie Belle's head turned dully towards her with her neck leaned to the right, her eyes rolling round like they were just googly eyes. Her hoof awkwardly and slowly rose, then it waved. Simply like that. Then she slowly turned round and dragged across the floor towards the window.

"Sweetie Belle, what are you doing?"

Her hooves hugged the edge.

Her flank floated in the air.

Then dropped.

So instead, she dragged sideways to the edge.

"Sweetie Belle, stop this at once, please~..." Sweetie Belle lifted her chin and threw her head towards Rarity's direction, but didn't seem to be looking at her. Only forward.

"Sweetie Belle, don't—" And then she fell.

"SWEETIE BELLE!"

And off she went.

Rarity charged towards the window in hopes of catching her little sister, but instead she fell. And when she opened her eyes, she had once again faced her captors.

As twas before, they all just stood there.

Watching her.

Mocking her.

"I don't know what you are up to, but as impressive as it all is, pranking a lady and scaring her off her wits is simply impolite! Let me guess; it was Rainbow Dash, wasn't it? What, did you and Pinkie feel like being a bit more morbid? Did you convince Starlight into this? I always knew she had issues, but if she had the nerve to go this far with her magic than I dare call it witchcraft! Now stop your foolishness, I'm quite sure you already had enough laughs tonight. Or today. Whatever in Tartarus the time it is."

The ponniquins didn't respond. No pony or thing did. They only just blankly stared at her. "Well then, I suppose I'm sure where you supposed three must be… right here!" She slammed her bedroom entrance door behind, only to yell and fall to the floor.

The ponniquins waited behind that door.

She curled up and wept her heart out.

She didn't even want to know anymore.

She didn't even care.

She wailed and yelled, and when she ran out of air to spend, she just instead breathed it all back in and wept silently.

When she opened her eyes, a ponniquin's head leaned before her.

A thread floated in a clear, silver aura.

Was it a threat?

Was it a message?

In the most sickening way, the ponniquin slowly stood itself back up. Rarity, having no choice, pulled herself back to her hooves to see what her dear children were asking for. The needle floated before her. The ponniquin looked at her with nonexistent, pleading eyes.

Rarity took the needle in her magic, still unsure what she was suppose to do with it. But it all became clear when the ponniquin slowly turned its head to present its neck, which carried a large cut.

Timid, she raised the needle near the shred.

All the ponniquin did in response was turn its head further to Angle its wound towards her.

With a shrug and a sigh, she casually sent the needle straight to the bottom of the cut to begin the procedure.

She screamed and ran again, for as soon as she placed a hoof on the ponniquin to keep it still, the cut became a wound ofand flesh and blood began to spurt.

She jumped out the display window.

Only to meet the ponniquin again.

It was no use.

"No, I can't do this! Please leave me alone!"

She ran out her door again.

She didn't care where she went, or how she went there; she just ran. The first place she ran to was to her main store, where ponniquins were still placed all about. In anger, her horn flared once again and took one ponniquin to throw against all the others to make a rough path. The ponniquin she had weaponized fell to the floor, and soon after its head twisted in her direction.

She would soon regret her decision...

Slowly, the ponniquins had risen one by one, and each turned their attention towards Rarity. In one silent thought, they all agreed to make one, single term. A goal they all possessed.

To catch her. To obtain her. To get things back in order.

One by one, they all began to walk, slowly, but surely.

When Rarity had almost made it to her kitchen, a ponniquin simply leaned in the way to block her path. Her horn ignited, and as the same for the ponniquin. But it didn't move this time. She cried out in anger, but the ponniquin refused to move. While her frustration raged, another ponniquin slowly made its way towards her. Slowly, carefully, like how their master would move her ever elegant needles, it wrapped a leg round Rarity's neck.

Feeling this, her first reaction was to shriek and grab the ponniquin by the grabbing arm to physically force it down before her, before she aimed her horn towards its heart to stab.

She didn't even care if that seemed unladylike anymore, she just tore the ponniquin apart to unleash her rage.

She turned round, and saw the other ponniquins stalking behind her. Taking the opportune moment, she dashed past the unmoving ponniquin and ran for her life in the kitchen. Again. And again. It took several loops for her to notice how she seemed to canter into one clone of her kitchen after another, adjacent to one another, like an endless conveyor belt rolling in an endless loop.

It finally ended when a ponniquin stood at the final exit: perfectly straight, perfectly aligned to her direction. Without even thinking, Rarity levitated a knife from one of the thousands of drawers and sliced the ponniquin's chin, then physically shoved it out of the way with a hoof. The ponniquin stood itself back up, and turned in her direction. It now had a smile, one made with flesh and utter gore.

But it was certainly not a happy one.

Rarity found herself in the dining room at last, where Sweetie Belle and her shared many meals for many years. A sharp glare was aimed at the three ponniquins that dared make residence in her beloved dining room, not to mention her very Boutique. One of them even dared to walk towards her. The ponniquins were shown no mercy at that instant.

Little did she know of the gore that formed upon walking on the shredded cloth and wool.

When she entered the shop, the ponniquins once again crowded the room. But she didn't care. Her horn glowed, and she focused on the nearest ponniquin and made it explode. Its force sent all the other ponniquins flying about, clearing a path for her to head straight to the door once again. She stared, amused at the darkness that greeted her. With a dainty sigh, she decided to walk in anyway, and when she blinked, she found herself back in her main room.

Only this time, there was a needle floating by her head.

She froze.

She felt unsure if it was a bluff or if they really were capable of actually drilling it through. Afraid, and unwilling to take any chances, she carried the needle once again in tears as she began to sew back together the disgusting, gory, and unnatural wound.

And soon after she had finished with that one, the next had trotted up with another series of wounds.

One ponniquin after another.

Eyes began to bag

Her mind and soul began to tire.

Still, whenever she so much as stopped, so much as sighed, so much as nodded off, another needle would near her beautiful head, or sometimes even one of her eyes.

So, she kept going.

If she liked it or not.

Stitch, stitch.

Knot, sow.

Stack, show.

"They don't make them like they used too." Rarity murmured as she fixed the latest ponniquin that had fallen into disrepair.

Nothing a little sewing won't fix though.

It's not like she even had any choice...

Stitch, stitch

Please stitch

Oh dear Rarity

Come and stitch me

Knot, sow

Fix me like so

We never sought

For us to rot

Slaughter, slaughter

We love the pain

Tis cost to gain

Our Dear Mother

All My Best,
~Calamity Velvet