Discord Presents: Gals & Fellas
Reel 1: The Infection Election
It all started with a song. A cheerful little ditty anybody could hum.
It wasn’t modern but it had a certain timeless charm. It filled the head with images of another era, mainly in black and white. It filled the head with images of dance parties and fabulous art-deco ball rooms. It filled the head with the urge to put on a good pair of shoes and dance the night away. It filled the head with words like classic and glitz and glamour. It filled the head with the urge to make that shiny, nostalgic, anachronistic world…and do wonderfully dark, primal things to each other in its shadows. And the urge to keep it in the shadows didn’t last long.
It filled the head.
And just as instantly, it was in the blood.
***
Pinkie Pie’s Pinkie-Sense has been going off all day. A strange variation she’s never felt before and she can’t quite put her finger on why she isn’t more worried. In fact, she’d swear she’s never felt quite this…chipper!
It was that song she’d heard Fluttershy whistling at that party, catchy little number. Ever since Pinkie’s been tapping her hooves to it as she whips up a batch of cupcakes, half wishing she had a proper pair of heels so she could make it a real tap dance.
“Yeah, a couple of nosebleed heels, those’d suit me-down-to-the-ground, yes-siree…“
She shakes her head, blinking. Wasn’t there something she was supposed to do? She always loves hanging with the girls, but did she have to tell them something? Ugh, if only her new Pinkie-Sense tingle would stop going off, it keeps interrupting the song in her head. How’d it go again?
Helpfully, Derpy passes by the open window whistling it and… man, she looked amazing, she must have a hot date.
“Oh yeah!” Pinkie resumes whistling and skips over to her mixing bowl. What she has so far doesn’t need much more but it feels like the most natural thing in the world for her to bend over, as much as possible, so much her caboose is practically an air traffic violation, one hand on her hip as she pours. “Mmmm-yeah.”
She coughs. “Uh, I mean…what do I mean? Mmmmm.~” She whistles some more and looses her mojo. Dumb Pinkie-Sense! “I mean this’ll-be-my-best-batch-yet, mmhmm, real- humdingers…what’re humdingers? Ugh, geez-mmm-whooo-tell-ya-what-I’d-kill-fer-asmoke-right-now, hmm, boy-that’d-hit-the-spot, you-betcha.~”
She stands up, indulging the urge to sway her hips then registers a No Smoking sign above the door and pouts. She tosses her mane at the boring health department. “Hmph!~”
She blinks, pushing her fringe out of her face. It seems determined to droop over her eye today. Not that she minds, mind you. “Hang on a minute…I don’t smoke…”
She puts a finger to her more full, pouty lips. “…don’t I?”
A bell rings up front. Pinkie leaves her mix to simmer and skips out to the counter. Well, she meant to skip, her body decided to turn it into a catwalk slink halfway through, so she staggers and falls over. When she springs back into view, there’s something different about her, under her apron. She didn’t put on that much makeup when she got up this morning, either.
“Blah-blah-blah, mmmmm, yabba-dabba, yip-yap!” Pinkie beams. Then feels her jaw. “Guh…um, I mean…” Why did she do that? It’s not one of her bits, it’s not even funny. “Sorry, what can I…Oh, hey-ya-guuuuys!~”
It’s Fluttershy, her best Gal, still all dressed up in that fabulous golden-orange evening dress she wore at last night’s party, swayin’ slightly in the heels of her new black thigh high boots and lookin’ kinda outta it, but not to worry, she’s got that absolute hunk Discord to support her. Pinkie crosses her legs under her apron-skirt at the sudden warmth the sight of those snazzy duds he’s wearing starts in her.
“And a good afternoon to you too, Pinkie,” Discord smirks, leaning down to examine her. Pinkie is surprised she finds batting her lashes at him so surprising. Why wouldn’t she? Whatta dreamboat!~ “Just thought we’d swing by to see how you’re doing.”
“Oooooh!~” Pinkie coos at such consideration, then shakes her head to clear it. If she can get the balance in her head right, she can hold an actual conversation, not blather like a Splatoon character, and keep that lovely song playing in her head at the same time. “Uh, actually…blah-blah-hmmm~…m-my Pinkie-Sense has been k-kinda jabba-jabba-hmm-boopboop-be-doop--”
“Ah yes, that bothersome sense of yours,” Discord nods sympathetically. “I may have a cure for that…well, not a cure exactly. Ah, but I’m being a scatterbrain, aren’t I, darling?”
“Heh-heh-blah-blah-that’s-why-I-love ya, baby, whooo-hoo,~” Fluttershy giggles, suddenly coming alive enough to snuggle up against Discord’s black tuxedo. Pinkie wonders why she perfectly understands what her friend means (specifically that’s she’s Discord’s, all Discord’s) when only the half of that was actual speech.
Discord pulls what looks to be a business card out of his pocket and with a flick of his wrist it becomes an unfurling poster…of himself, sans an arm-candy Fluttershy, doing the same thing. The text on the Escher sketch posters is a series of blurs that might generously be called shorthand, but even with her fringe permanently over one eye, and man alive does she need a smoke, Pinkie can understand it’s perfectly reasonable statement: DISCORD FOR MAYOR
“You don’t mind if we paste a few of these up in here, do you?” Discord asks. “After all, with so many creatures swinging by to sample your…cupcakes, this feels like an ideal place to spread my good word.”
“Mmm, heh-heh, my-cupcakes, mmm-hmm, tasty-yeah,~” Pinkie babbles. She goes cross-eyed trying to stare at her own mouth. “B-blah blah, woooo, mmmm, huh?!~”
“Yes, I wouldn’t have seen myself going into politics either!” Discord beams, holding Fluttershy closer and holding up her gloved arm to show a ring, its diamond a replica of his face, on her finger. “But a Chaos Spirit’s gotta do what a Chaos Spirit’s gotta do to keep his new lady wife in the style to which she shall surely become accustomed, isn’t that right my snuggle bunny?”
“Awwwww, hmmm, boy,” Fluttershy drawls, nuzzling his chest (what she can reach of it) and, in a move Pinkie knows should shock her but feels as natural to her as sashaying, slips her hand into her new husband’s pants, “ooooh, watta-man-watta-hunk-watta-Fella, lucky-me, mmm-hmm, yep.~”
“Awwww!~” Pinkie coos then grips the counter top to try and grab control of…herself, even though she’s worried the sugar will stain her own gloves and when did she even put on gloves? “N-no…I…”
“I know that’s not what you meant, my Gal, just teasing,” Discord chuckles, waving a dismissive lion’s paw. “Yes, I can understand you perfectly, as I shall all my Gals and Fellas. I’ll know what you mean even when you don’t.”
“G-Gals?” Pinkie moans. It feels like there’s a lovely pink cloud that unfortunately weighs a bajillion tons squatting on her brain, flattening everything, and the only thing stronger then her craving for a fucking cigarette is the beautiful, jazzy song humming in her head. “Gals an’ Fellas?”
She bites her lips, her eyes lighting up. “Mmmm, Fellas…~”
“That’s what my little virus makes you,” Discord beams, patting her on the head then using the same hand to slap Fluttershy’s ass. “Here’s a not especially funny joke for you, Pinkie. What do a brainwashing, jazzifying, transforming, bimbo-and-himbo-fying, toon-ifying virus and a song have in common? They’re both catchy.”
Pinkie thinks that’s the lamest, not to mention maybe most evil thing she’s ever heard, but if that was what she really thought then why is she letting out a giggle and effetely wagging a gloved hand to show whatta wag she thinks the big guy is?
“Of course, everyone at my little soirée was infected by my songbird’s singing,” Discord continues, “take a bow, Fluttershy.” Fluttershy giggles and does so. “And it’s gotten to most of Ponyville by now, Canterlot and Cloudsdale will take a bit longer, and of course it’s why I invited those snobs from Manehattan, why pass up an opportunity to spread it to an entire train…which must be quite the cartoony little choo-choo by now, come to think of it.”
He leans in even further, still gripping Fluttershy to him and adjusts the pouty, smiling Pinkie’s little hat, the one that rose up out of her hair like a sapling a few minutes ago. “But I’m only checking in on you, my dear Kinky Pie, because if it can infect you, then it can infect anyone and anything. So why don’t you step out from behind that counter and let me admire my handywork?”
Unable to resist, not finding the outright order weird, Pinkie sashays her new bod out from behind the counter, now complete master of her heels, and gives her master a little twirl before freezing in the perfect pose, showing off everything she can show off without stripping out of her red French maid outfit.
Not that she wouldn’t if Discord told her to, of course.
“Hmmm, interesting, a variation,” Discord muses, looking between her and Fluttershy, though what he’s really doing is checking out their cleavage. “No matter, your wardrobe shall be full of dresses, gloves and etc within seconds of you stepping into your room.”
“Mmm-hmm, uh-huh-whatevah-ya-say-sugar, mmm,~” Pinkie concurs. From outside comes a sudden yell of “WHOOOOOO BABY-DOLL!” Pinkie’s ears perk up and she begins to strut towards it only to be held back by Discord putting his non-Fluttershy arm around her waist.
“Nooooot yet, my pet, not yet!” he chuckles. “You Gals, it’s like herding cats, I swear. I just need to take a few notes before we’re done, and I leave you to spread my song to even more Gals and Fellas.”
“Blah-blah-yuh-huh,~” Pinkie agrees, playing coyly with his beard with one finger.
“You’re…let’s say unique,” Discord explains. “If anypony could shake off my spell it would be you. The more prim and proper that you are…” He stops to roll his eyes and shudder. “…the more powerfully my virus will Gal-ify or Fella-fy you. But you, my funny bunny, have you noticed any…undesirable side effects?”
Pinkie hesitates, her new bedroom eyes fluttering in a way that has nothing to do with trying to lure Fellas to her.
“M-m…my…Pinkie-Sense…” she manages. She puts a glove to her head.
“Oh, of course, how remiss of me!” Discord lets go of Fluttershy to take her by both shoulders, rocking her gently as he puts his eagle talon to her forehead. “There we go, no more silly sense, Pinkie, common or otherwise…well, I think we can leave you your sense of occasion, eh?” He grins, his snaggle tooth sharper than usual. “So what do you say now, my Gal?”
Pinkie pouts thoughtfully, then produces a holder from between her new double-Ds. As if by magic a cigarette has appeared behind her ear.
“Gotta-light, Handsome?~” she asks, winking.
***
Half an hour later Spike is back from a trip to the Dragonlands and wondering if he stepped into the wrong universe.
Most of Ponyville’s buildings are…bigger? Happier? He can’t quite describe it, but they don’t make sense anymore. There’re lopsided skyscrapers now! It’s like the village is trying to be half Manehattan!
Chimneys spew either smoke in the shape of hearts or actually fluttering pink cartoon hearts, which come in geyser like eruptions. Shop signs sway even when there’s no breeze and share space with winking neon art deco signs which are all groan inducing puns. Every single radio, TV and street performer is playing the same damn song, catchy but omnipresent, and it’s making him even more lightheaded than the sense of uncertainty.
Adding to that uncertainty is the fact Ponyville seems to have become a red-light district overnight. Or worse, some kind of hipster convention: Spike hasn’t seen a single person who wasn’t wearing a suit and fedora. And the mares! Spike’s 19, he and Sweetie Belle had that fling that wore itself out, he likes to think he’s an open-minded guy, but he’s almost embarrassed by the amount of heels, stockings and cleavage he’s seen since stepping off the train.
He’s got a cheek-reddening intuition where all those chimney hearts are coming from, not to mention when the occasional building roof blows off and floats happily back down.
He's been trying to get to the castle, which also seems jauntier and to be swaying musically, but it’s been difficult. For one thing the strange new buildings mean strange new streets, full of lurid posters. Spike can’t read most of them but knows they’re promising a good time in several contexts. The only variation seems to be for beauty products or Discord.
What’s also impeding Spike’s progress is that even though most of the town seems to be…busy right now, there’s also enough ponies moseying (or in the case of the mares, languishing in alleys and doorways) to force him into constantly correcting course.
No one’s been hostile, in fact they’re laughing a lot, the prostitutes (if that’s what they are?!) even wink and blow heart-with-question-mark smoke signals at him, but Spike has an odd instinct not to touch them. Something about the glossy texture of their clothes, of their very skin…
***
He uses an alley wall, bedecked with ads for cigarettes, to launch himself into a glide, hoping it’ll speed up his progress. He needs to find Rarity. Well, he needs to find Twilight, or either of the Royal Sisters, but he has this feeling in his gut that it has to be Rarity. If anything’s happened to her…
Why isn’t he more scared? It’s almost like he’s rushing over to see if Rarity is…like everypony else. It’s that damn song coming from everywhere, it makes you feel so positive! He can even hear a saxophone variant of it now, as he swoops over a roof terrace.
A flash of familiar colouring catches his eyes and Spike turns, startled, to see if he’s seeing what he’s seeing, so of course he smacks into a cartoon weathervane and gets spun around so much he smashes into the terrace.
“Whabba-bwuh?! Say-mmm-hey-buster-wassa-big-idea, see, hmmm, eh?!” someone demands.
Yeah, that’s another thing. Nopony can fucking talk anymore! It’s like all of Ponyville decided to learn Banjo-Kazooie speak, and forget everything else….except for cheesy innuendos! Spike’s lost track of how many of them he’s overhead by now. Every restaurant and bar has some variant of “Say (baby/sugar/honey/doll) , you sure (are thing/look like/do thing) that kinda makes a Fella wanna (basically sex)!”
The babies/sugars/honeys/dolls in question seem to like it, or at least they laugh a lot and give their fair share on innuendos back, but everything else is either gibberish or basic “Yes/No” noises.
Spike rolls over and wishes his vision hadn’t cleared up so quickly. He’s looking at Button Mash, dressed like as much of a slicked-back-hair douchebag as every other grinning loon in this town.
The black suit makes Button, who’s Spike’s always had mixed feelings about at best, look like he’s an academy freshman on picture day more than a made man, but the fedora that’s replaced that stupid propeller beanie of his does actually suit him.
What’s making Spike uncomfortable isn’t just that Button’s suit pants are missing and that he’s getting a close up of the gamer’s fully erect chocolate brown and Turkish delight pink cock. It’s that, in defiance of physics and biology, Button’s cock is the same size as the saxophone he’s carrying.
Then again, assuming he’s not popping some kind of pills, maybe this explains why Button was always such a snot. Spike knows he was pretty damn confident when he found out how solid his own dragon stiffies could get.
“Button, man, what’s going…on…” Spike is halfway to his feet and feels like he’s about to drop again. He’s not the only one getting to his feet. He did see what he thought he did…
Sweetie Belle blinks at him, head tilting to one side from her place on the terrace floor. Something’s happened to her proportions just like every other mare. She’s the same age as Spike and Button but now looks older, more…worldly, even with her clueless blinking. Maybe it’s the old school quality of the evening dress she’s wearing, the same greyish mulberry of her hair.
Spike can’t stop himself from staring: even bowled over by his landing Sweetie looks like a million dollars, especially dressed like that, but, well, from here he can see right up her dress. Sweetie isn’t wearing anything except for a garter belt for her stockings and Spike can see the familiar warm magenta shape of her labia.
He never expected to see it again, and Sweetie seems more surprised to see him than what she should be, outraged that she’s inadvertently flashing him this way, that he isn’t doing the proper thing and looking away. She even winks at him. She’s started wearing light blue eyeshadow and it stirs things in Spike he hasn’t felt since their last night together.
“Hrmph!” goes Button, hands on his hips. “Wocka-wocka-grrr-whadda-ya-think-I-am, frickafraka, big-man-huh, gabba-wabba, comin’-in-here, bustin’-up-practice, hooo, wadda-noive, I-oughta-bop-ya-right-on-top, yeah-boy-fugh!”
Spike now on his feet looks right at Button. Is it his imagination or is there something weird about his and Sweetie’s pupils? “What the fuck are you talking about?” he asks, numbly.
Button fumes and points to Sweetie Belle, who’s somehow acquired a cigarette, in a holder no less, even though she always complained about the smell of smoke around Spike, and taking puffs.
“Rrrr, hmm, lotta-nerve, dubba-yubba,” Button fumes, pointing at Sweetie. “Hrrr, mess-with-my-muse, my-Gal, my-Sweetie, in-the-middle-of-practice-bippity-boppity-wham-bam, hmph!”
Sweetie walks over to Button like she’s trying to pop out of her dress and massages his shoulders. “Wooooo,” she coos, “aww-hmm-don’-be-mad-Fella, hickory-dickory, c’mon-zip-slick, yeah.~”
Button backs down and starts making out with Sweetie right there in front of Spike like it’s nothing. Spike’s always wondered what Sweetie saw in Button Mash but kept his distance, and now wonders if that was the smart thing to do. Apparently, they’re literally crazy for each other, given the spirals that’re in Button’s eyes when he opens them. Sweetie trying to sit on his cock while they’re both standing up is a bit much.
“Sweetie, where’s Rarity?” Spike asks urgently. “Can you understand me? Do you remember who I am? Who Rarity is?”
Sweetie stops trying to mount her boyfriend and nods at him, in that rapid way everypony he’s seen moves now. “Mmm-hmm,” she assures in between puffs of her cigarette and pressing her tits against Button’s chest, “yep-yep-yep, big-sis, sure-I-knows-her, whatchawanna-know, her-dress-size, what-can-she-do-I-can’t, huh? Hmm, blah-blah, flim-flam.~”
She steps towards him, which makes Spike flap his wings hard enough to shoot backwards onto the terrace ledge. He’s still not sure about touching anypony, and he’s got a pretty good idea where Sweetie’s been touching Button. He’s also worried he’s starting to adapt to the language barrier: their babble still comes fast, but he figures Button was practicing that stupid song and Sweetie just gave an affirmative about Rarity’s whereabouts.
“Okay, okay…” Spike sighs and runs a nervous hand through his fin. “Everything’s all twisted around, do you know where her shop is now?”
“Bing-boom, yuh-huh, sure-can, you-betcha,~” Sweetie gabbles. She takes the biggest puff Spike’s seen so far and sloooowly lets it out between her luscious, almost strawberry sized lips. The smoke curls into a copy of her face, which winks at Spike, then turns into a Cupid’s arrow and takes off, winding its way between the odd angled new buildings.
“Uh…thanks?” Spike calls, jumping off the ledge and into a glide to follow.
“Hmph,” Button goes again as his purple tail flicks around a skyscraper with a DISCORD FOR MAYOR billboard, “Whadda-maroon.”
Sweetie blows out a last stream of smoke as she whistles the song, the one playing everywhere, their song, the one that showed them how to have a good time. Next to a massage from her gloved hands, it’s the best way for a Gal to sooth a Fella.
“Aww, blah-blah-c’mon-Fella, hmmm,” she coos as a wobbly grin spreads across Button’s face, “grumpy-wumpy, nuh-uh, no-way-Josie, splish-splash, gotta-gig-tonight, mmm-kay, practice, letcha-lil’-muse-put-some-gas-in-yer-tank, okie-dokie-lokie?~”
“Yowza,” Button concedes, nodding almost fast enough to dislodge his fedora, “mmm-whackity-schmakity-gotta-trumpet-for-ya-right-here, baby, yer-da-best, lips-an’-hips, blah-blah-BLAH!”
Sweetie coos and giggles, sinking to her knees. Button resumes practicing the literally viral song on his saxophone, occasionally hitting higher and higher pitches as Sweetie’s luscious lips suck his ever-hardening cock.
Ain’t love grand?
***
When Sweetie’s smoke signal finally poofs out of existence, Spike feels his heart speed up from nothing to do with the exertion of flying.
What was once Ponyville, the parts he cared about like Sugar Cube Corner, the castle, Sweet Apple Acres, even what seems to be a restored, yet caricaturist version of the library have all been pulled together into some kind of patchwork plaza, a huge Times Square style theme park. In addition to the winking (in some cases literally, forming grinning animated faces) neon displays, the once rural area is surrounded on all sides, even Sweet Apple Acres and a somehow…cute version of the Everfree Forest, by tower blocks of billboards, old school painted ones that shimmer in Spike’s vision as if they’re about to move.
Mares he recognizes dressed like tarts wink their shadowed eyes at him and invite him to try assorted foods and cigarette brands, while every few rows a stallion in a suit and fedora is practically leaning out of his own advertisement, frozen in the act of drooling or wolf whistling at the mare in a totally unrelated one. The only difference every so often is a DISCORD FOR MAYOR billboard.
Spike squints at the top of one of the towers, above a billboard for the Great and Powerful Trixie’s new magic show, featuring a disappearing dress. There’s some kind of temple or mansion thing at the top but he’d swear the façade, nestled between two waterfalls of musical notes (probably for that fucking song coming from everywhere) is…Fluttershy’s cottage?
A loud AROOOO-WAAAGH sound startles Spike and he dives aside just in time to avoid being mown down by an antique police van that’s jovially bouncing so much it should come off its wheels. He’d swear its grill and headlights were just one more grinning face.
A face under a helmet sticks out the driver’s window, a cartoon constable in a blue uniform and goofy helmet, and Flash Sentry shakes a fist at Spike. “Blah-blah-blah, wowie-zowie, getoutta-the-road-why-don’t’cha, unga-bunga!”
Spike stares as Flash’s van swerves out of sight around a corner, then comes rocketing back, screeching to a halt in front of Twilight’s castle. A drawbridge it shouldn’t have drops suddenly and Spike can see a waiting figure. He can’t quite make her out from this distance but from the sheer purple of her outfit he knows who it is.
Flash springs out of his van through the roof and drops into Twilight’s arms. Just as quickly they’ve switched places, making out the whole time, and Flash’s feet blur and whistle as he carries her over the threshold. The drawbridge slams shut, and a mailbox bursts out of the front lawn. Cans on strings sprout out of the rear axle of Flash’s van and a banner reading JUST HITCHED drapes itself from nowhere over the front of the castle.
Spike whirls as something briefly blots out the sun. A figure is towering and still growing over a Canterlot that now rests on an impossibly high hill, somehow even bigger than New Ponyville. Spike squints, unable to make out the strange figure, and experiences a strange kind of vertigo as his perception inexplicably zooms in on it.
***
It’s Princess Celestia! Dressed like every other mare in this seemingly worldwide madhouse, she sports a black pair of evening gloves, a dress in every shade of her mane, and judging by the leg she’s flashing from under it, a pair of stockings stretching all the way down to her impossibly pointy high heeled shoes.
Instead of her crown, Celestia now sports a ringmaster’s stovepipe hat, although it does have a crown insignia just above the brim. The princess stands stock still, a parody of Manehattan’s statue of Destiny. Clutched to her ample cleavage is a copy of the Karma Sutra, and in her raised left hand she holds a feather duster like a torch.
Spike isn’t sure if he’s having some kind of out-of-body-experience, or if Celestia really is a giantess now, or if the perspective is just as warped as everything else, but he’s definitely seeing the most powerful being in Equestria, maybe on the planet, posing like a Stepford Wife parody or herself. His somehow all-encompassing POV notices she has a cigarette holder stashed in a holster on her showing garter.
Celestia stares dead ahead, her mane covering her face so that only one eye is visible, her expression blank except for a perpetual pout. Her sole visible eye flicks towards Spike suddenly and winks.
He’s close enough now to hear the almost imperceptible sound Celestia is making in her new role as statue and self-parody; she’s humming that fucking song under her breath.
***
Spike snaps out of it, finding himself back in the square just in time for a factory whistle to go off somewhere. Doors burst open and suddenly the world around him is flooded with mares, some he recognizes, their dresses shimmering as their hips sway and their heels click. The air fills with babble and smoke. Just as suddenly stallions in suits erupt from every alleyway like salmon upstream with cries of “WHOOOOO MAMA!” and “HAMMINA-HAMMINA-HAMMINA!”
Spike manages to launch himself into the air again, perching on one of the billboards to look down on the jabbering hordes. Mares and stallions swarm around each other, small pockets of come ons and make out sessions, even blatant handjobs and fingerings forming like coral in the torrents. Lines that aren’t hollering and babble waft up to him like the strangely pleasant-smelling fumes of all those cigarettes. He can make them out perfectly, even though the song is getting louder.
“Call the fire brigade, Sugar, you're so hot my hose is about to blow!”
“Hey, I don’t mind gettin’ wet, Fella, just make sure ya don’t put out my cig, mmm-kay?~”
“Have I got somethin’ on my dress, Handsome? Why don'tcha take a real close look fer me?~”
“Gimme a sec to warm up my mitts, Baby, an’ I’ll run ’em all over ya!”
“Say Gal, mind openin’ yer jaws of life, yer so gorgeous it’s KILLIN’ me!”
“Sure I'll take ya to Heaven, Sugar, just don't die on me!~”
“I love me some fur, Fella, so why don’tcha getcha paws all over me?~”
“Cutie pie, YOURS is the only rug I’m interested in cuttin’!”
“I can pay or play, Baby!”
“Nah, just drop your pants, Honey, an’ I’ll take me a lil’ free sample!~”
“You look like this Fella I know, lets see if ya feel like him.~”
“One look at you, Sugar, an’ all I can feel is beneath my waist!”
“Say Gal, my pants are real tight all of a sudden, mind givin’ me a hand?”
“No problem Fella, everypony sez yours truly is the loosest Gal around.~”
And on and on and on. Spike claps his hands over his ears. If he could just find somewhere quiet, get his bearings… There! Rarity’s shop, as grotesquely over proportioned as everything else is, which is why he didn’t recognize it at first. Its new tower has an open window, a shape moving around up there. Spike spreads his wings and shoots for it.
***
“R-Rarity?! Is that a new outfit or have you caught this crazy bug too?
“Hmmmmm?~”
She turns and looks him up and down, then sways her way over to him. Despite the fact there's something clearly wrong with her Spike can't look away, frozen in place as she runs a gloved finger over his chest. Her dress is the same colour as her hair and her one visible eye is somehow even more blue than before. Her elegant tailor’s fingers fidget slightly, light shimmering off the cornflower blue gloves she’s wearing.
“Huh,~” Rarity drawls in that strange, somehow too fast speech everyone’s started talking in. “Mmm, boy,you-look-like-you-could-show-a-Gal-a-good-time, yeah, whaddaya-say, Fella, how-’bout-it, huh?~”
“W-what?” Spike takes her hand, feeling the burning blush on his checks. "Look, I think we better take you to the hospital, toots."
He blinks. ‘Toots?’ Who says toots anymore?
“Oooooooh,~” Rarity drawls, in that way that's not speech. She starts feeling his free arm with
her free hand. “Blah-blah-hmm-yeah-boy-whooo.~”
“R-Rarity...” Spike puts a hand to his head, suddenly feeling lightheaded. He adjusts his necktie, then blinks and yelps. When did he get a tie?! He looks down at his suit and takes a while to figure out what feels so off: he wasn't wearing a suit!
...why wouldn't he wear a suit, what is he, a bum?
“Rarity, what's happenin’?” he asks. “Ha-happenin’? What’s happenin’ toots, you look...what the...”
Why can't he suddenly pronounce the letter ‘G’? What's up with his mouth? Why is he calling her that? Why is he wearin’ jeans with this suit, what is he, a palooka?
“Mmmm, hmmm,~” Rarity murmurs, batting her heavily eye shadowed eyes at him. Her lashes are driving him crazier than usual. “Wassamatta,-Handsome,-yer-suit-too-tight? Lemmee-help-ya-with-that.~”
“W-wait...” Spike tries to back away, staggering slightly as his sneakers finish morphing into spats, then turns around and almost puts his eyes out with her cleavage. “R-Rarity, doll, ya gotta...”
“Fresh!~” Rarity giggles as his nose makes a HONK noise and sets her cleavage bouncing. Even though it shouldn't be possible, should kill him stone dead right there, Spike is keenly aware his heart is mimicking each breast bounce for bounce.
...and why wouldn't it? Whatta broad! Whatta dame!
“Wassthematta,-Handsome,” she says, putting a hand on her hip, “nuthin'-to-say?~”
Spike stares at her and feels his mouth stretch into a grin way too broad at the same time his new fedora drops outta nowhere onto his head.
”WHOOOOOOOH MAMA!” he declares on his fresh, new instincts. “Hammina-hammina-hammina!”
Rarity yelps then giggles as he shoots forward to grab her, running his paws over as much of her as he can. Spike feels his tongue lolling like a wolf’s.
“Oooh, fast-an’-fresh, mmm, yeah-baby-oooh~” Rarity coos. It's not language but Spike understands it perfectly. Infect. Fuck. Infect. Fuck. Infect. Fuck.
And now he's one of the infected, a Fella to her Gal.
And he couldn't be happier.
“Say, Doll,-ya-wanna-play-sometime,” he drawls in his husky new voice, honkin’ her hooters, laying claim to her, “mmm-like-right-now-fer-instance, whaddaya-say, hmm?”
“Oooh-wooo-mmm-fast-yeah,~” Rarity drawls, reaching down to grip the eleven inches (and growin’!) hard on slippin’ outta his zipper. “Found-me-my-very-own-Fella, my-widdle-Spikey-Wickey-mmmm…~”
***
The virus spreads so fast Discord doesn’t even have to run an election, not that he ever intended to do so, mind you, but it’s so sweet how all his Gals and Fellas just accept him as their leader without thinking about it. Not that his virus leaves them much to think with. That’s the whole point.
But if they did, they’d probably think quite kindly of the man who made them essentially immortal and indestructible. Falling pianos and anvils? P’shaw! A handy bike pump and a Fella’s back in pursuit of the fast walkin’ Gal, who’ll never break her heels. Just one of a million perks to being one of Discord’s toons!
Such as cigarettes that don’t give you cancer or sex that doesn’t get you pregnant. Hell, the entire planet can now carry a tune! Well, the infected portions of it anyway, but Discord’s working on that. Hmm, tell a lie, no he isn’t. His Gals and Fellas are. But he trusts them to bring everyone around, the lil’ scamps! Speaking of which, he is mayor for life around here, time to do some work. With his favourite secretary, of course.
He makes a show of producing a pocket watch and jumping with an alarm noise. “Good heavens, Ms. Twilight, we’re behind schedule! That’s what I get for spending an extra five minutes inside Fluttershy this morning. Oh dear, how shall we ever get in our afternoon blowjob and dictate that letter to the general at the same time?!”
Twilight looks up from her typewriter, who’s keys consist only of little hearts, and happily lifts her cigarette holder from between her lips. “Aww, hmm, don’t-worry-Mistah D,~” she coos.
“You have a solution, Ms. Twilight?” As if he doesn’t know.
“Uh-huh, right-a-roonie-, you-bet,” Twilight babbles, strutting over with her pen and pad. She poses for him, gesturing between him and her mouth with her pen. “Blah-blah-blah, ya-see, mmm-hmm, yabba-dabba-, up-up-’n-away, ding-dong, whoo-hoo, so-whaddaya-think?~”
Discord strokes his beard as he considers his nemesis turned notary. “Both at once, you say…?”
“Mmm-hmm,~” Twilight agrees with sultry enthusiasm.
“I don’t know, I’m not sure I’m properly motivated…”
“Oooh, I-gotcha,~” Twilight says, and peels her dress off with a reverberating twang that coincides with Discord’s instant foot long erection.
“Brilliant Ms. Twilight, simply brilliant!” Discord grins, admiring that violet Alicorn body in nothing but her black gloves, garters, stockings and thigh highs. “Ah, isn’t this so much better than when we used to argue ethics and so forth?”
“Hee-hee-hee, fer-sure-,Mistah D, mmm, aww-yeah,~” Twilight agrees, thrusting her double-D tits as far forward as they’ll go without carrying her over. She poses a few more times so he can take her in from as many angles as possible, then lets her luscious tongue slide from between her lips to lick her pen, posing with it over the pad and raising an eyebrow.
For the past few months, Twilight has been happily married to her Fella, Flash Sentry, Discord’s chief of police. Somepony’s got to make sure there are bands of roaming constables to chases Fellas who’ve gotten themselves into whacky scrapes, after all. For the same amount of time, she’s also been fucking and been fucked by her boss without a second’s hesitation. Flash Sentry and Fluttershy are fully aware of what their respective spouses are up to and consider it perfectly natural. Twilight’s a secretary after all, what else would she do all day?
“Alright,” Discord decrees, leaping into his swivel chair and rotating a few times so his pants and shoes fly off, “on your marks…”
Twilight uses her horn to levitate her pad and pencil and drops to her booted knees before him.
“…get set…”
Twilight opens her mouth wide, tongue just pressing against his head, hands around what she can reach of his shaft, waiting.
“…go!” Discord declares and leans back as wetness and warmth envelopes everything below his waist. Twilight’s quill swishes in perfect time as he speaks. Its scratching mixes with her slurping and gurgling.
***
Dear General Ember,
Regarding your recent demands to surrender and reverse everything I’ve done to reality, I can only say;
ZOINKS!
HAMMANA HAMMANA!
NNNNNGH!
WOOOO HOO HOO!
WAKKA WAKKA!
AROOOOOGAAAAA!
YAKAA YAKAA!
WOOF WOOF!
GYOIIIIII!
WOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!
ATTA GIRL!
ALMOST THERE, BABY!
UUUUUUUUUUGH--
Yowza, whatta babe!
Sincerely,
Mayor for Life Discord
Reel 2: Alone on a Friday Night? Come to Dashie's, She'll Treat Ya Right!
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Discord Presents: Gals & Fellas
Reel 2: Alone on a Friday Night? Come to Dashie's, She'll Treat Ya Right!
A few more months later and it’s Friday night, which means every Fella worth his salt and pepper’s taking his Gal out on the town.
Cream pies are cleaned off faces, wascally wabbits are left in their burrows, dropped safes are unlocked from the inside, and every Fella mosies his way past ads for lingerie, cigarettes, escorts, gag items and MAYOR DISCORD: ONE SWELL FELLA! posters to picks himself up plenty of flowers and chocolates.
Industry doesn’t really exist in Equestria anymore, except as settings for the constant shenanigans Fellas are finding themselves in, and neither they or Gals are really paid, only running out of money when it makes for a good plot twist, so every joint up and down the social spectrum is open to every Gal and Fella who wants to attend.
Ballrooms, restaurants, music halls, bars, casinos and of course theatres all open their doors, welcoming wave after wave of lovey dovey and unquestionably horny Gals and Fellas, opera gloved arm in suited arm, to have themselves a grand old time. Romance! Comedy! Action! Sex, and lots of it!
Right now the sun is setting and the moon rising, looking almost like it’s buoyed along by waves of chimney hearts. Celestia and Luna don’t need to do it anymore, the mayor can do it whenever he wants, which is a real load off, especially since both sisters now have a nigh-insatiable craving for cock, pussy and nicotine, not necessarily in that order.
So once the sun starts descending, Celestia, no longer a Princess, does the same, stepping off her plinth through some clever perspective trick. She babbles a little with Luna, looking stunning in a shimmering dress of Magellanic clouds and stars, passes her props to her sister, then flicks her cigarette holder out of her garter belt and lights up, already leaving a trail of smoke to trace her sauntering off.
Luna coos to herself a little before using the same perspective trick, simply placing one of her lovely white fuck-me-boots on the plinth and grown to statue size by the time both heels are firmly planted. She raises her feather duster high, clutches her Karma Sutra, and stares out at nothing, her face a pouty kind of blank.
The sister’s roles have not only been reduced but reversed: since Celestia stands as a proud embodiment of Gal-ification all day, Luna gets to cat about town and get the living daylights fucked out of her, every Gal and Fella’s lil’ ray of sunshine.
***
And so ironically, now that her sister is showing every Gal what they could be if they just give into the song worming its way into their very DNA and embrace perpetual arousal, Celestia is free to continue her new reign as Equestria’s darkest nightlife sensation. Legends of her after dark adventures spread, even in the mumbo jumbo language of Gals and Fellas.
“YOOOOOOWIEEE, WHATTA SMOKIN’ PIECE OF BRISKET, MMM-MMM, BOY!”
Ah, a mating call! Celestia stops clicking her way down this particular sidewalk to turn and see what fine specimen of Fella-hood complimented her so, and what size she’s made his manhood already.
She takes a drag partly to make her breast heave a little, feeling that rush building inside her as the three firefighter Fellas she’s scrutinizing pelt her with a barrage of “HAMMINA-HAMMINA-HAMMINA!”s. Got three nice lookin’ Gals with ’em too, all cooing and fluttering their lashes at her, eager to invite her. Celestia takes a last puff, drops her used up cig and grinds it under heel in order to show off her legs before strutting towards the group.
“Rubba-dub-dub, hmmm, hey-sure-why-not, oooh, blah-blah-party-hearty,~” she babbles, spreading her wings to embrace all six and escort them inside their firehouse, the Gal on her right giggling and honking her right breast while her Fella on Celestia’s left, his red helmet wagging up and down like his eyebrows, pokes and prods at her ass.
As Celestia inserts a fresh cigarette into her holder, one Fella coughs pointedly and points to a big No Smoking sign.
Celestia looks at it, then bats her lashes at him and struts closer. She uses her horn to light her cig, a process that for some reason involves looking up so suddenly she swings her jugs into the Fella’s face, then sucks on it so intensely his foot starts thumping like a rabbit’s.
She then grabs the back of his head with her free hand and mashes their faces together, smoke blasting out the Fella’s ears as his hat spins on his head, Celestia’s lips against his so hard his entire torso swings up, almost balancing on his hard on before his legs swing back to the floor.
“Mmmm, wadda-wadda, whaddaya-say-Handsome, what’s-the-big-deal, how-’bout-it?~” Celestia asks coyly.
“Blah-blah-blah,Hubba-hubba!” the Fella concurs and produces an inkbrush that wasn’t under his hat when it was spinning. A few quick strokes and the sign now reads No Smoking? What Are Ya, Crazy, Lookit These Gals, Brother--They’re Sizzlin’!!!
Celestia giggles as the oh-so amenable Fella scoops her up in his arms, despite the fact he shouldn’t be able to, cooing “Ahhh, ooh, mmm, whatta-hunk, yeah-baby, ya-hoo!~” as he hotfoots it up the spiral staircase, the other two hooting Fellas and all three giggling Gals in hot pursuit.
Soon the windows of the firehouse are lit red from all those hearts shooting out its chimneys and air vents, which cast enormous black silhouettes. Celestia mounts a Fella, thrusting down on him, then, ignoring the distance implied by two windows between them, somehow reaches her arms into the last window at the end of the row to grab a Gal from the neighbouring gangbang and swing her into Celestia’s face, which bobs violently into the lucky, clinging Gal’s crotch without skipping a single beat of grinding on her current Fella.
Eventually the hearts streaming from the firehouses exits start to catch fire as Celestia, who’s had all six and has been back for seconds and thirds with no sign of stopping, fucks faster and faster.
A bright red flash envelops the windows! The whole upper floor instantly turns black, crumbling to cinders and leaving only outlines…as well as the blatant sight of Celestia wearing nothing but her gloves and suspenders, still astride the Fella on the bed beneath her.
They drop into the lower floor, which experiences the same flash fire, as do all the ones after it until the lower floor crumbles to leave only the two beds with the other Gals and Fellas looking around making “Wha’-happen’?~” babble, Celestia professionally absorbing her ecstatic Fella’s load, a fire engine, and the altered Smoking/ Sizzlin’!!! sign.
Casually, still mounted on the Fella, Celestia holds up a gloved hand without looking. An ashtray with her cigarette holder in it drops into her hand. Celestia dismounts the Fella, kisses him on the forehead, then digs into a nearby pile of ash to extract her dress. With a twirl that reduces her to a green-blue-pink whirlwind she’s back in it as if nothing happened. She snaps her fingers, and her stovepipe hat leaps off the fire engine’s ladder, scampers across the floor and springs back onto her head.
“Hmmm,” Celestia muses, using a pile of cinders to relight her cigarette and striding off towards a nearby casino, “fo-fum, who’s-a-Gal-gotta-fuck-to-get-a-glass’a-water-round-here, I-asks-ya, whatta-world.~”
Stage curtains close over reality, and a title card appear to rapturous applauses and catcalls:
The well-deserved applause are coming from a packed cinema, one of many in Friday night Midtown. It doesn’t really matter what it’s the Midtown of, everything except the cutesy suburbs is a toony kinda cosmopolitan city, and both locales sprout at random in a patchwork fashion as Discord’s empire expands. Celestia, known affectionately as the Sunshine Slut to aficionados, is just one of Discord’s beloved frenemies whose escapades are shown on screens across the growing cityscape, amusing and arousing every Gal and Fella who watches.
No, there’s no camera crew, not that any Fellas would mind havin’ the privilege of followin’ those fine Gals around, and nopony (although many new creatures have since become Gals and Fellas) would bother to ask how their former heroes and villains antics wind up on their screens. Ya may as well ask how all them faces turn up on daises, or how come sometimes a bullet goes through ya and sometimes it stretches ya like a rubber band before ya fling it back, or how come wabbits look so good in dresses. Just one-a’-them-things, Mac.
Celestia’s shorts (as in theatrical shorts, like all Gals she don’t bother with underwear) are some of the most popular, alongside her sister Lucky ‘n’ Lucious Luna, Dazzlin’ Dashie, and the Creamy, Dreamy Pinkie Pie, to name but a few. Just about everypony Discord’s ever known, good or bad, gets their turn in the spotlight. He’s just that kind of magnanimous overlord! The songs that serve as the intros and outros for these movies are, of course, various remixes of the song that slowly but surely turns everyone who hears it into a Gal or Fella.
As Gals and Fellas snuggle in the rows, the screen flickers and changes to a card asking them to all rise for the national anthem. In perfect cascading dominoes fashion, every Fella’s cock springs to four times its size and every Gal’s nipples poke forward through their dress fabric. To a mix of Hail to the Chief and Discord’s song, Fluttershy walks into shot, her gold orange dress shimmering regally as she slinks up to a microphone. She takes a last drag from her holder and lets it out in a smooth stream of hearts as she takes the mic with her other hands.
“Ooooooh,” she croons, licking her chops, “mmmm, blah-blah-blah, my-fellow-Gals-an’-Fellas, ding-dong, mamma-jamma, gotta-rrrrreally-big-show-for-ya-tonight, rrrrreally-big, mmmm, yeah, jazz-baby, outta-sight.~”
She clears her throat and proceeds to croon a sultry version of the song. She’s the perfect one to do this: she was the first Gal, infected by Discord himself right before he threw a little party for a seemingly random bunch of ponies. He had the inspired idea to remake her, and the world, in this image after watching certain movies with her and since she was probably doomed to be too shy to ever ask him to take their friendship to another level, and since he was tired of having to play by Celestia’s rules, and giving Fluttershy a confidence boost couldn’t possibly be construed as a bad thing, and no, seriously, the old Equestria was getting so damn boring to him…well, you get the idea.
So Fluttershy, with the application of certain potions, magical music spells and Discord getting bored and just pressing his talon to her forehead, became the first Gal, a living toon from Discord’s wildest fantasies, his viral carrier and, of course, his beautiful bride. Oh, everybody knows the mayor has his way with that purple secretary of his but they know who it is he happily goes home to in their city hall-fortress-temple-cottage thingy.
Every single Gal and Fella watching her feels their brains sizzle with something almost better than sex and nicotine, her words lapping at their minds like waves, the inky magic that composes their very being now, a re-enforcing of what the virus that’s rewritten their entire existence is for.
Infect. Fuck. Smoke. Obey. Infect. Fuck. Smoke. Obey. Infect. Fuck. Smoke. Obey.
Fluttershy finishes singing her song, the audience once again breaking into cheers and catcalls. She delivers grateful, cleavage flashing bows, even though logic dictates she should be a pre-recording and unable to hear them.
“Woooo,” she coos, winking, “aww, mmm, wow, too-kind, too-kind, hmmm, an’-remember, like-my-hubby-sez: Ooh-ee-ooh-ah-ah-ting-tang-walla-walla-bing-bang, an-ekki-ekki-ekkiekki-ptang-zoom-boing-z'nourrwringmm.~”
A few Fellas sniffle, some even shed patriotic tears. Profound words, words to live by!
“Yabba-dabba, blah-blah, rubba-dubba, g’night-an’-good-fuck,~” Fluttershy coos, winking at her infected subjects as the screen fades to black, leaving only the glow of her cigarette as she takes a rewarding drag.
A final round of applause for her and then the screen is alight again, blaring joyful trumpet versions of the song as a newsreel starts up. A babbling Fella bids them a good evening and a “Hammina-hammina-hammina!” to all Gals watching. In the babbling nonsense language of the new world, he begins to guide his fellow infected through it, not that they need to understand him. They understand the information on a primal level and what their appropriate response is.
First up, the ongoing war with the uninfected outside world. Well, it’s not much of a war, since nothing can stop this swell virus of theirs, but there’s tanks and what not. Sure, some Gals and Fellas have been captured but that’s not really a big deal since all a Gal has to do is whistle her song and the enemy is eventually more than happy to let her out…or invite themselves in and have themselves a little orgy, same difference.
The audience laughs and puffs smoke appreciatively at footage of an enemy soldier trying to corner a Gal by the name of Apple Jewel. The lady screams and pulls a frying pan out of her cleavage, whacking the soldier in the face. When the pan’s removed he has the face of a Fella and now Jewel’s screams are replaced by coos and giggles as she runs in a teasing circle, pursued by the “Hyuck-hyuck-hyuck!”ing new soldier in this Fella’s army.
The enemy’s weapons are likewise turned against them, tanks turned into fire engines spraying former allies with showers of musical notes, turning battle fields into swinging shindigs and picnics, with lotsa new Gals and Fellas ready to enjoy them. Hell, even former General Dragon Lord Ember’s getting in on the fun, and whatta swell Gal she is. Check out how she sucks smoke from that cigarette in the holder that used to be her staff, Fellas. Play your cards right and that could be you on the other end of those lips someday!
And in lighter news, the music biz is doing its part as well. Those music sensations the Darling Dazzlings and the Filly Fatales are hosting a swell little charity concert to send their singing voices through the airwaves and into enemy radios around the world. Footage of them crooning in perfect harmony, their cleavage squished together from how close they are, cuts to a tracking shot of their musical notes, wriggling like microbes as they strike a satellite, which wobbles until it sprouts into a rubbery, toony version of itself and begins beaming even more streams of viral notes down onto the planet below.
Yes, it sure is good to be a Gal or a Fella! Soon there won’t be anything else to be…
But now, a word from our sponsor! Are you a Fella without a Gal? Or vice versa? Too much versa, not enough vice? Then boy does Rainbow Dash (“Blah-blah-blah, hmm, oooh, call-me-Dashie, sweetie, bing-bang, mmm!~”) of Wonderthots and Elements of Sensuality fame have the place for you!
***
See, when Rainbow Dash caught the babeifying bug from Fluttershy her cloud house got upgraded just like she did, the perfect place for the perfect new her. Some say the clouds it’s made out of are actually smoke from her own custom line of cigarettes, others that it’s, ah, leftovers from how many Fellas she’s taken up there.
Whatever the case, the house is now several times bigger and, of course, even larger on the inside because what’s a lil’ warped time ‘n’ space between friends? You could call it a hotel given how many floors and rooms it has (“As-many-as-ya-need-honey, ooooh, yeah!~”) but Dashie has absolutely no shame acknowledging it as a brothel. It’s named after its owner and her role: Madam Dashie’s.
The Element of Loyalty sees it as her civic duty to help all those unattached Fellas and Gals get together, even if it’s only for a night.
Right now, Dashie is tapping her boot heel irritably against her backstage boards, “Hurumph!~”ing at being behind schedule. They’ve got a full ballroom out there and where’s her band? Probably fucking each other all the way to the moon as far as she knows!
A door springs open and, moving identically, in sway her band. Once, they were the 18-year-old Cutie Mark Crusaders. Now, as far as they and the rest of the new world are concerned, they’ve always been the Filly Fatales, the hottest up and coming jazz band on the scene, their perfectly harmonized voices spreading the song as far as they can to the music of their three Fellas. In this order: Apple Bloom and Rumble on piano, Sweetie Belle and Button Mash on saxophone, and Scootlaoo and Pipsqueak, who’s hulking frame makes it clear he ain’t no pipsqueak no more, on drums.
The Fatales clicking heels come to a stop as they register how grumpy their patron is, blowing two intense streams out her nostrils like a bull. They come to a stop, “Eeep!~”ing as their shapely backsides collide one after the other, and again as their Fellas walking into all of them, a hot, young Newton’s cradle.
“Wakka-wakka-see--” Apple Bloom begins, but Dash takes such an intense drag on her cig that it glows hellfire orange all the way down to the filter and she wisely clams up.
Dash shifts her holder back and forth in her lips for a beat as her band, in perfect sync, looks down and scuffs the floor, their ears drooping. Then she sighs and smiles, plucking her holder from her mouth with a luscious pop and sashays over to wrap all three Fatales in her wings, bestowing French kisses on each of them.
“Ahhh, what-am-I-gonna-do-witcha, oooh, hmm, break-a-leg, mmm-kay,~” the Pegasus sighs.
With a series of zipping sounds, fast enough to happen in the seconds it takes her to casually insert and light up a new cigarette, the Fatales are dresses in their shimmering black stage dresses with their shiny black boots and gloves, and the Fellas have their instruments out and ready.
“Yep-yep-yep, love-ta-see-it, don’t’cha, mmm-hmm,~” Dashie coos, looking them up and down. She gives each Gals cleavage a good luck squeeze, going “Bingo-Bango-Bongo,~” from Sweetie on the left to Scoots in the middle and AB on the right, and spins to strut through the curtain.
The crowd erupts into applause as she takes the mic, letting out a languid blast of smoke. “Blah-blah-blah, Gals-an-Fellas, yabba-dabba, hubba-dubba, mmm-hmmm, yep…The Filly Fatals!~”
The crowd goes even more wild as the curtain rises, the Fatales snapping their fingers in sync as the Fellas strike up their set then leaning into the mic to start “♫Shoo-Boo-Be-Doooop!~♫”ing their way through that glorious, eye opening, mind melting song, wiggling their cleavage at the crowds and their asses to their Fellas playing behind them.
***
Backstage again, Dash takes a proud puff as she watches, then snaps her fingers. She’s got a hot date and gratitude to show. How much gratitude? She’s ready to put up with this particular waiter to get their traditional bottle of champagne.
There’s a series of bangings, clangings, and even cat yowlings and Zephyr Breeze scurries out of the swaying kitchen doors, zigzagging his way towards Dashie.
Without even turning around, Dashie spreads a wing into his path just as he’s about to overshoot her. Zephyr’s face collides with it with a sound like solid steel, his legs shooting out in front of him and an imprint of his face sprouts in Dashie’s feathers. With an irritated flap Dash snaps him free of her wing and shakes it until his imprint is gone.
Swaying with stars and little chirping Fluttershys spinning around his head, Zephyr staggers around in front of her, shakes his head clear with a “Bw-yah-yah-wah-wah-wah” sound and grins imbecilically, almost pleadingly as he holds the bottle out to her.
Dashie takes it, checks to make sure he brought her the right fucking bottle, and makes a half surprised “Hmm!~” grunt of acknowledgement before she stuts off, heels clicking. Zephyr hops around her, babbling desperately in spite of how many stop-sign shaped smoke signals, and even one of a hand flipping him the bird, Dash makes with her cigarette to cut off each angle of his approach. Eventually Zephyr resorts to a running start turned into a knee-slide, somehow making it under her dress and between her legs to be in front of her without slamming his face into her ass or knocking her over.
Dash sighs irritably and folds her arms, waiting.
Zephyr gets down on one knee, pulling a toony box of chocolates and a bouquet of roses from somewhere. He waggles his eyebrows suggestively at Dashie. Who languidly sticks the tip of her cigarette right between his eyes, burning it in place so she can use the holder to haul him to his feet.
She grips the edge of Zephyr’s pants, stretching them as open as she can and contemplating his bulging ten foot cock as it sproing!s out. Her eyes flick to Zephyr’s, her expression unchanging as if to say ‘seriously?’
Zephyr’s grin becomes a bit wobbly.
Dash sighs, babbles “Blah-blah, maybe-later, whatevah, wap-wah,~” and lets go, snapping Zephyr’s pants back so hard he vibrates like a rubber band. His joy at a potential hook up is tempered somewhat by Dash smacking the side of his head with one of her wings hard enough to send his whole body flying into the wall, or more specifically down a trash chute. Naturally it’s not normally there.
Zephyr bangs his way down it with a “YAGH-WHAH-HA-HOOOOIE!” hollering and slides out of the chute completely naked to slam into a St. Ann’s cross, the cuffs of which snap so tight around his wrist and ankles his hands and feet balloon to twice their normal size. Looking around, Zephyr’s teeth begin to chatter from the candles, chains, cages and such as he realises he’s in a dungeon (that also is not usually found at the bottom of Madam Dashie’s garbage chute) and that dear ol’ Dashie has a much different plan for their date than he does.
In the new world, it’s actually not un-common for a Gal to be a little more…hands on with a Fella, but in general Gals tend to be a submissive bunch, wowed by the calls of “WHOOOO MAMA!” and “HAMMINA-HAMMINA-HAMMINA!” from a Fella that has them naked and unresisting quicker than she can light up a fresh cig. Fellas aren’t sexist, just driven by whatever they have instead of blood now to infect or fuck, and since a Gal’s already infected, well, a Fella don’t have many other options, do he?
It's reflected in their new society too; sure, nobody really needs money (or food or oxygen or sleep or whatnot) unless The Plot calls for it, a signal deep inside their altered bodies that makes them all gravitate towards certain events, and certain roles for themselves, which is why Fellas are constantly looking for work (and getting into trouble) or wear some variation of a suit or uniform, while Gals tend to be homemakers if they aren’t in some glamours industry like modelling, singing, acting, escorting, and so on.
The most different Gals’ dresses tend to get is either a French maid getup, like the kind Pinkie morphed into, as you may recall, ever classic nurses and nuns, or the dominatrix get up Dashie intends to slip into when she remembers Zephyr’s down there.
Dashie isn’t an anomaly by any means. The fact that she doesn’t have a single Fella, Soarin’ and Thunderlane regularly battling it out with Zephyr for her aloof affections, is shared by several Gals who gravitate towards her archetype. Or rather what her archetype is now that she’s forever infected by a song-virus that makes her a sexy living cartoon.
Her three Fellas antics are often the subject of her on-screen adventures, and she’s always delighted to delight fans in the streets with her trademark heel-stomp and “Oooooh, MEN!~” catchphrase. Just because she normally takes the lead with a Fella (and definitely with most Gals she’s been with) doesn’t mean she won’t melt and roll over for the right Fella (or Gal), though. She’s a versatile one, that Dashie!
The point being that even in an alternate universe of endless sexual debauchery, with libertine levels of sexual promiscuity and 60% of the female population inclined towards submission, Zephyr Breeze is never going to get with Rainbow Dash, unless maybe she gets to beat him up a little first.
Maybe.
For now, Rainbow Dash in her fabulous new Dashie incarnation stuts down the corridors of her brothel, bottle of champagne in one hand and her holder elegantly between the fingers of the other. She’s got bigger priorities that she’s much more enthusiastic about.
After all, the boss is coming.
***
It's a little tradition that started between them when Discord was making the rounds, checking on his favourite Gals. Oh, he loves what his virus has done to every Element, of course. But while his heart will always belong to his beloved Fluttershy, ruling side by side with him forever and ever, he was especially struck by the change in Rainbow Dash, who will now be his Dashie forever and ever.
Every few weeks the mayor drops in at Madam Dashie’s and every time Madam Dashie herself is there, waiting with a bottle of champagne and a smile on those luscious lips of hers that makes it clear this cork isn’t the only thing she’s planning to pop tonight.
Fluttershy often accompanies Discord on his visits, but this week she’s having her own adventures, appearing in glorious technicolour at a cinema near you in the strange real-time of this altered reality, so his date tonight is Ember, whom he’s had the pleasure (repeatedly) of showing around his little kingdom…usually in his lap and often with his cock either in her mouth or her pussy.
“Ah, Dashie!” he croons, walking over with Ember draped around his arm. He reaches out with his free one to tenderly move Dashie’s fringe so he can see the shimmering hunger in her eyes. “No matter how many times I look forward to these nights, the sight of you always takes my breath away as if for the first time.”
“Awww, heh-heh, blah-blah-blah, yep-yep, ooooh!~” Dashie giggles, slinking into his embrace, holder transferred to her mouth so she can stroke his chest. She looks over at Ember as her hair falls back into place and her cig rises in her mouth in a way Discord’s come to know means she’s taken a shine to someone. “Ooooh, mmm-mmm-MMM, hi-ya-doll, bowwow.~”
“Hey-ya,~” Ember coos back, giving a flirtatious little wave. “Rubba-dubba, uh-huh, fine-piece-of-ass-yerself-Honey, yuh-huh-HUH.~”
“Ah, so nice to see you Gals getting on,” Discord chuckles, looping his mismatched arms around them and sliding his hands down to grip their asses. “Dashie, allow me to introduce General Dragon Lord Ember. Well, just Ember now, she’s changed careers recently and for the better, don’t you agree?”
“Ding-DONG,~” Dashie agrees. She stops batting her lashes at Ember to look up at Discord. “Hmmm, bing-bong, gabba-gabba, two-doopy-doo, Boss?~”
Discord grins, closing his eyes in bliss. Ah, Boss. Dashie’s name for him.
He loves it because he didn’t order or program her to do it, it’s just how committed to her new role she is. Just like how he didn’t make Apple Jewel call him “Big Daddy!~” in that fine Southern babble-drawl of hers, or Rarity to refer to only him as “Darrrliiing!~” , briefly resuming that posh accent. His Elements of Sensuality, always finding ways to surprise him!
“No-no, my sweet feather fucker, I prefer our time together to be private. In fact, Ember, why don’t you wander off and, oh, I don’t know…” Discord strokes his chin thoughtfully. “Ah! Start a catfight.”
“Mmm-hmm, yuh-huh,~” Ember agrees. She takes a puff from her holder, a shrunken version of her staff, and blows a string of hearts at Dashie before slinking into the crowd, swaying up to the first Gal she sees, and slapping her.
As Dashie wraps her arms around Discord’s and guides him to their special booth, he can hear yelling, babbling, and Fellas hooting. Once comfortably ensconced, with Dashie’s hand down his pants and bubbles on his tongue, he enjoys watching Ember easily take on three Gals at once, slapping one right after the other.
One jumps onto her back and starts pulling at her horns, making Ember’s breasts rapidly jiggle up and down. Discord laughs, an arm around Dashie then glances at the stage, where the Fatales and the front rows continue the show (and the assorted orgies around it) as if nothing is happening.
He squints, pulling a pair of opera glasses out his ear to examine first the cleavage then the faces of the three singers, then tosses them away to make crockery braking noises and gently taps Dashie’s right shoulder blade, a signal to make her stop for a moment. Dashie, of course, obeys. She needs to get another cig anyway.
Discord loves the babble and randomly clear innuendos of his subjects, but he also deeply, darkly enjoys giving certain of them, like his Elements and those oh-so-much-more-interesting-now sisters, their power of actual speech back, so he can enjoy hearing what they think of their new state. And also satisfy his more mundane curiosities, like now.
Snap!
“Yeah, Boss?” Dashie asks. If Discord didn’t already have wood from her skilful gloved hands, her new voice would have given him a Stallifornia redwood. He loves, loves, loves that even though she’s as high class as any Gal, on par with Rarity even, the most high class Dashie can sound is like she’s got a Brooklyn accent.
“Now that we have a moment alone, my Little Dashie~, aren't those the Cutie Mark Crusaders up there?”
“The who now?” Dashie asks, polite of course but also more preoccupied with pulling a fresh cigarette from the endless hammer-space supply between her breasts.
“Your lovely singers, dear.”
“Oh no, Boss, those’re the Filly Fatales.” Dashie flicks her lighter, holder already back in her mouth. “Good, ain't they?”
“Oh undoubtably!” Discord smirks. “Never heard of the Crusaders, eh?”
“’Fraid not, Boss. Sounds like one of them comic books.” Long cigarette drag.
All of this, especially her nonchalance, cracks Discord up. Dashie loves it when she makes him laugh like that. “I suppose it does! That one filly, the orange one with the lovely purple mane...”
“Ya wan’ ’er to join us, Boss? Anythin’ for you.~”
“Perhaps later, but isn't that your little adopted sister Scoota-something-or-other?”
“Heh, yeah, that's my Scooty,” Dashie agrees proudly. “Cleans up good, don’t she?”
“You could be twins, my dear.”
“Awww Boss, you say the sweetest things!~” She snuggles closer, and they share a kiss, Discord enjoying the feel of those tits against his chest, her booted leg entwining around his, the smell of her perfume, even her cigarette smoke.
“And you don't find it at all odd,” he asks after they come up for air, “that you have her shaking her hips on stage in front of hundreds of horny patrons?”
“Nope.” Dash casually taps her holder, sprinkling a few cinders from their balcony to waft over the crowd, zero concern. “A Gals gotta make a livin’, Boss."
“And offering to whore her out doesn't strike you as odd?”
"Nope, filly works for me, which means she works for you.” She grins, flicking her fringe out of the way so he can look her right in both eyes. “An’ your pleasure is our business!~”
He cups her chin, smirking.
“And remind me again, my little Dashie,” he whispers, “as you always do, why that is.~”
Her obedient whisper comes back soft and breathless and without hesitation. “’Cause you’re the boss, Boss.~”
Discord laughs his loudest laugh of the night and snaps his fingers, turning Dashie back into just another jabbering slut in his new world.
And to think! All this started with a song…
Author's Note
FA version here. Read for different Gal font/better speech effect.
Writing commission info here.
