For Chuckfinley, if only because his clopfics are some of the best fanfics I’ve ever read, period. And I guess for Jub, too, since he’s such a loveable little sicko he’s probably into this kind of thing. Love you both, guys. Don’t ever clop so hard you end up breaking it in half.
It’s something you don’t expect, ever; and when it happens—never if, but when—it leaves you at once angry, offended, bewildered, disgusted, and slightly fascinated. Such was the attitude of one Miss Rarity Carousel, when she came across it.
The internet was a new invention, this time by the hooves of Earth ponies instead of by the magic of unicorns, and it was pushed and shoved into the daily lives of every equine being. Suddenly, over the span of perhaps a year or two, everypony texted—and tweeted—and updated—and blogged—and, and, and! It was like a giant tree that had deeply taken root in pony society, its branches stretching high and far and bearing tempting fruit.
Some of this fruit, however, was something that greatly shocked Rarity.
When she came across it (not if, never if; WHEN), she held a gasp. Her little sister was in the next room—and heaven forbid she see something so base and foul! Rarity couldn’t believe it then, and to her dying day would continue to not believe it. There, on the screen before she desperately clicked her browser closed, was a picture somepony drew of her.
She was delighted at first when she saw the email. She had her name in magazines, was gaining steam in her fashion business (much of it thanks to the easy self-advertisement afforded by the internet), and had helped to save the country on several occasions. Finally, somepony had the idea to make her the subject of what would no doubt be a beautiful art piece!
Boy, was she wrong. While the artist was very talented (the color theory present really popped at the viewer, and the anatomy was breathtaking), one thing stood out the most. Something that caused Rarity’s blood to turn cold and her stomach to twitch.
It was a painting of Rarity and her friend Applejack in a… rather compromising position: tongues extending into tender female areas, with eager hooves stroking curvaceous bottoms.
She was about to shriek, when she remembered her little sister was in the next room. No! Rarity thought, Sweetie Belle must not see this wretched, perverted thing! So she calmed herself down: she swallowed, closed her eyes, breathed deep, counted backwards from ten, opened her eyes, then closed her browser as quickly and quietly as she could—a practice she had been told was called “noping.”
Rarity took another deep breath. Then the indignity of it all hit her in the soul. She groaned, pushing herself away from her desk, and attempted to busy herself in her work. A new dress she dreamed of a few nights ago, one that she could see every time she closed her eyes, and wouldn’t leave her mind until she’d get started on it, and Applejack’s bottom would be a great color if—
As the cloth ran through the sewing machine, Rarity snorted, pushing the image out of her mind again. She looked to her sketchbook, where she had drawn the schematic for the dress—and scowled. She only noticed, just now, that the dress (as she remembered it in her dream) was being worn by Applejack. Her freckled face beamed as the beautiful bright blue dress really brought out the color of her pelt and mane.
Rarity facehoofed, ran her hoof through her mane, and looked up at the ceiling. She began to sigh, but it quickly slipped into a groan. Great, she thought. Wonderful. Now that she’d seen her best friend tonguing her tenders, the image would never go away. It had latched onto her mental retina like a starving parasite, and it intended to lay eggs the moment its goal for nourishment was met.
But what could Rarity do, honestly? It was her fault for opening the file in the email. That “number one fan” was either a master prankster (she’d heard that they were called “trolls” for reasons she couldn’t remember) or he sincerely thought she would enjoy seeing such an explicit depiction of homosexual activity—starring both herself and a friend. She really hoped it was the former.
She really hoped it was the former.
Suddenly, like a horse at the back of the herd making its way to the front, there came one of the other emotions that had gotten jumbled with the rest. It made itself clearer and clearer until finally all the other emotions had melted away. It was fascination. The picture itself—ignoring the content—looked to be made by a professional. A professional artist had gone and made a picture of both her and Applejack. This idea alone captivated the fashionista’s mind, and that fascination grew pregnant with curiosity.
The parasite laid its eggs, and the eggs hatched. Rarity, curious, went back to her computer and logged back on. Opening a search engine, she typed in her name, then hit Enter.
The rest of the afternoon was eaten up by observing the thousands of pictures and stories about herself. While she was hoping that the picture she was sent was the exception, not the rule, it turned out the opposite was true. Almost all of what she saw would give her parents a reason to ground her—whether she was an independent adult or not.
Rarity groaned. It was about time she closed her browser and logged off, at least before Sweetie Belle walked in and saw something she shouldn’t. The computer was put back to sleep with a low, hypnotizing sound and the screen dissolved into darkness.
She stared at the blank screen, wondering what she should think of her fans now. Were those drawings and stories just done out of curiosity or did they honestly think Rarity ramming her horn into… into…
Rarity couldn’t even finish that thought. She closed her eyes, sighed, and rested her head on her desk. After a few minutes of lethargy, she raised her head again and looked to the clock. Almost time to start dinner. She got up, and walked over to the end of the room.
There, out of the corner of her eye, was the dress she saw every time she closed her eyes. The dress she dreamed up and wanted to make, wanted so desperately to make for her friend Applejack, because it would accent all her best features. She looked at it, and blinked. A split-second of explicit content had taken the place of her artistic mind’s creation. She sighed sadly.
Walking down the stairs took much longer than she intended. Why? Rarity assumed this slowly growing depression inside her was not the parasite called “fascination.” It was not its child, “curiosity.” It was curiosity’s child, and Rarity decided to name it “Why?”
Why did that “fan” send her that awful image? Why were there so many similar images and stories on the internet? Did…
Rarity gulped. She had reached the bottom of the stairs just as the dreaded question skidded into her mind. It danced about impishly, laughing and mocking her. Did her fans … think of her as a sex object? It was one thing to think of somepony else as beautiful—even to want them as your own—but very few of those images displayed any real passion. Sex without passion behind it is empty, unsatisfying. Dispassionate sex turned all its participants into unthinking, unfeeling playthings for one another.
It reminded her too much of the boys and girls in high school. The moment she’d try to pretty herself up and act like a proper lady, the girls would call her names and the boys would just antagonize her the way boys knew how. To both sides, Rarity Carousel was no artist, not a thinker, not even a pony. She was a thing. An object. And she hated it.
Is that how her fans saw her? That couldn’t be true, Rarity thought. Her fans loved her work. They were thankful that she and her friends had saved Equestria from danger time and time again. There was no reason for them to reduce her or her friends into sex dolls.
Of course, maybe it was just the artist in them. Rarity had been in this position before: that great curiosity, that wonder of what if a certain sweaty, smutty situation were to take place. It’s true, she herself had drawn pornographic images out of curiosity—but it was never about anypony she knew, and she’d never shown it to anyone. It was all for her own personal amusement, and after she’d completed her work, she was quick to destroy it.
But these images were posted anonymously for the world to see. The whole civilized world had seen these pictures! Rarity had never felt so embarrassed or confused before.
She glanced up at the wall clock. Evening was setting in. There was little time to get started on cooking anything extravagant, so she pulled out a pot and a can of tomato soup. Maybe some grilled cheese sandwiches for Sweetie Belle. Sweetie Belle loved grilled cheese sandwiches, but as for herself, Rarity could skip that. She had a girlish figure to watch out for—and after what she’d seen today, she’d lost her appetite along with her innocence.
A day or so had passed since then. Besides updating her profile on Horsebook and checking her “Fashion Order” email account, Rarity had steered clear of anything else on the internet.
Then it happened. It just had to. She hadn’t thought about it until it happened.
She had run into Applejack.
The farmgirl was selling her apples in the marketplace—and making a killing, thank you very much—her sales pitches coming on strong and hard. Rarity gulped. “Strong and hard.” But with a mental wave of her hoof, the thought was pushed away.
She greeted her friend and they got to talking. Rarity approached the subject of the dress she wanted to make for Applejack. She was answered with a wry smile. “Rares,” she said, “Y’know Ah’m not too keen on fancy dresses. It was mighty kind’a you t’make me one or two fer the Galas, but Ah don’t need more’n th’ ones ya made… already…”
Rarity noticed her friend had trailed off. That was when she noticed her eyes were traveling all around Applejack’s physique. That was when she noticed Applejack’s eyes piercing her own with an investigative glare. “Rarity,” Applejack asked quietly, “What was all that about juss now?”
“What was all what about, darling?” Rarity said, trying to act innocent.
“You were lookin’ at me like you were sizin’ me up.” Applejack smirked. There was a look in her eyes that spelled mischief, and the smirk broke into a toothy grin. A low chuckle slowly bounded out of her throat. “Oh, Ah get it now.”
“I wasn’t sizing you up!” said Rarity incredulously. “My mind wanders sometimes, and when it does, either my eyes or my diction follows it. What are you implying anyway?”
The toothy grin remained. The mischief never left those green eyes. Her next sentence came out almost menacingly: “You. Were. Checkin’. Me. Out.”
Rarity could feel her frown spread dangerously low on her face. Verbal constipation set in, turning any words she could have used into a raspy whinny. Her cheeks went red with embarrassment.
Applejack burst into a long and whooping laughing fit. She pushed Rarity’s shoulder playfully, wiping a tear from her eye. Passersby looked at this scene with cocked eyebrows and bewilderment. Some stopped and stared. Rarity just sighed.
“So,” Applejack grinned. “Pick you up at eight?” She exploded in laughter again.
Rarity scowled, glaring a hole into Applejack’s head. “You have a poor sense of humor,” she said quietly. The words seemed to sizzle, something Rarity didn’t intend. They did, however, stop Applejack mid-laugh. The farmgirl’s eyes, no longer mischievous, looked her over.
“Hey, Ah’m sorry. It was juss a joke,” she apologized.
“I am an artist, Applejack,” Rarity snorted. “I have an eye for details. I have to catch everything about anything.” She began to trot away, deeply self-conscious. She felt a hoof fall on her back, beckoning her to stop. She turned to see Applejack again.
“Rarity, wha’s goin’ on with you today? Yer actin’ mighty strange.”
A few seconds of nothing but the background noise of the marketplace: the dull droning of business ponies making ends meet, the clatter of bits on countertops, the arguments and haggling. At last, Rarity sighed and clicked her tongue. “How soon do you get off work?” she asked.
“In about two hours.”
“Okay. You do have a computer, right? With internet access?”
Applejack raised an eyebrow. “Apple Bloom does,” she said, almost slowly. “Does her homework on it. Why?”
Rarity pursed her lips. What she’d have to show Applejack should never be seen on a child’s computer. “All right,” she said, “Meet me at the Boutique after you get off work, and I’ll show you why I’m upset.” She waved a hoof before Applejack could say any more. “It’s not something I can talk about in public. Understand?”
The look on Applejack’s face could be whimsically described as “Perplexed, Going On Worried.” She shrugged. “Ohhhhhhh-kay. If ya say so, Rarity. Ah’ll catch ya later.”
With that, the two ponies went back to their businesses—Applejack to bartering, Rarity to picking up… picking up…
Rarity facehoofed. “Drat it all! I’ve forgotten what it was I came for!”
The two hours had passed more quickly than Rarity hoped they would. Likely, Applejack had closed her stall and was on her way over already. Lazily, Rarity’s eyes fell on her previous frustrated attempt at art.
The dress, still static in its artistic embryo, lay neglected, its mother no longer interested in its design. It was a real shame, too. It would have seriously gone well with Applejack’s tongue—
Before Rarity has time to register what she’s doing, the sketch is torn off from the draft board and torn up in loud, papery screams of pain. A rush of adrenaline pumps through her like gasoline through an engine—the draft board gets pushed over—the mannequin is cast aside, slamming the wall—the materials are thrown everywhere—the accessories get stomped underhoof…
Breathing hard, Rarity looked about the room. A mess. She buried her face in her hooves, feeling like a complete and utter fool. What a tantrum she had just thrown! All over some stupid pictures on the internet! All over some stupid, so-called artists and their idiotic sexual curiosity!
Before Rarity could find her fainting couch and delve into one of her usual overdramatic pity-parties, she heard a knock at the door. Rarity answered it to find Applejack had arrived. She welcomed her in, asking her to excuse the mess.
“So, what’s goin’ on, Rarity?” asked Applejack. “What’s gotcha so het up?”
It was that sudden feeling you get when you know—you just know—that this wasn’t a good idea. You get it right before somepony slams the door on your hoof when you reach from behind him as he leaves a room. You get it right before your cat attacks you because you decided it'd be funny to keep her food juuuuust out of her reach. And Rarity got it right as she laid eyes on her web browser.
This was so not a good idea.
Rarity was prim and proper while Applejack was… well, she was very simple and was what she was—no apologies. She wasn’t stupid by any stretch, but when she was resolved on something, she wouldn’t budge for anything. Her country upbringing likely had a rigid objection to things like any kind of perceived sexual deviance or immorality, Rarity thought. If she were to be shown these images…
She breathed in deep; exhaled. This was so not a good idea, but it was for the best. This whole tribulation was driving her crazy, and if it was one thing she’d learned over the years, it was that when something is bothering you, it’s better to talk it over with friends than just let it fester and mutate into a huge problem. It was now or never.
So she clicked on the “number one fan” email. She opened it up. Applejack’s eyes went wide as she blushed. Rarity covered her eyes in embarrassment. “This,” she said. “I was sent this picture by somepony who purports himself a fan.”
Stunned silence. Suddenly, Rarity heard a low chuckle for the second time today. It erupted into a whooping laugh again. She looked to Applejack to see the farmgirl, flat on her back, clutching her sides, kicking her hind legs in the air, laughing her head off as if the picture was the funniest thing in the world.
After a few seconds, Applejack calmed down and sat back up. “R-Really, sugarcube?” she asked. “THAT? THAT’S what’s got unner yer skin? Shoot, y’oughta be flattered!”
Rarity scoffed. “What do you mean?! This... This... vulgar, wretched... THING... is... vulgar, a-and wretched—and—and—”
“Darn straight, it’s vulgar!” Applejack said, getting back up on all four hooves. “But that’s what makes it so dang funny! Lookit how much effort was put inna that thang! Like, does this guy even have a life?!” She analyzed it closely. “Shoot, it’s actually drawn really well. Did he seriously take art school jus'so he kin draw smut?” She laughed again.
Rarity looked on in bemused silence. Applejack turned to her. “Sugarcube, ponies git curious sometimes. You know that, Ah know that. We like to test ourselves in diff’ernt ways, an’, well…”
“But, Applejack!” Rarity argued, “How can you be so… so blasé about this?!”
At this, Applejack’s lips became a mile-long smile. The mischief returned to her eyes. She held back a snort as she explained: “Look, if ya let this kinda stuff git to you, yer gonna be frettin' and worryin’ about how other ponies see you fer the rest’a yer life. Sugarcube, mah whole point is, you shouldn’t care. Who cares if some nut-head, who’s like thirty years old an’ still lives in his momma’s basement, writes some stupid story about us goin’ an’ gittin’ ourselves boffered by our pets?”
Rarity’s face contorted. “They wrote something like that?!”
Applejack then moved the mouse and began a search on the words, “my little pony: may the best pet win fanfic”. She clicked on one of the links and brought them to the story. She looked to Rarity with the biggest, stupidest grin she could make, inviting her on a journey to someplace outrageous.
So the two of them sat and read through the story, laughing at how utterly clunky some of the sentences sounded, how hilariously flat each of their friends were, and Rarity herself could barely contain her laughter when she came across the scene with Twilight Sparkle and Tank.
By the end of this ridiculous tale of sexual misadventures, the two were trying to remain balanced by leaning on each other, but the whole escapade was simply much too funny for either one of them to handle. Rarity’s mascara was running down her cheeks, streaking them with black lines of tears shed from laughing so hard. Applejack’s sides never hurt so good.
The two of them eventually calmed themselves. It felt like they were coming down from some comedic high—as if they’d snorted a few lines of silly. Rarity lie flat on her back, feeling the room around them come back into focus, feeling reality wrap itself around her again. She sat back up and looked over at Applejack, who leaned on the desk, her head propped up by a hoof, a bewildered smile on her face.
“A masterpiece,” Applejack whispered sarcastically. “This story juss changed the way Ah look at everything.”
Suddenly, Rarity thought up a wonderfully funny idea. “Wait, what if we record ourselves doing a dramatic reading of this story?”
Applejack chuckled. “Ah’ll hafta brush up on mah stuffiest fake-Trottingham accent.”
Rarity grinned as Applejack shrugged. “What? ‘S the only way to read anythin’ dramatical-like.” She looked back to the computer screen.
“Well,” Rarity began, “just to be neighborly, we ought to at least email the original author and ask his permission. I don’t want to step on anypony’s feelings just for laughs, you know.”
Applejack nodded. “Good idea.” She looked around the screen for the author’s username. Beneath it was the user’s email address. Applejack’s eyes widened as her jaw went slack.
Rarity raised an eyebrow. “Applejack, darling? Is something wrong?”
It was a few seconds before Applejack came back to the present. Her eyes narrowed. Everything about her—posture, voice, body language—became engulfed in a tide of grumpiness. She snorted in anger as a scowl crawled across her face. She clicked on the email button, then typed in her message almost angrily. When the message was sent, she got up.
Rarity repeated her question. Applejack walked over to the door, and before she left, she turned her head. “Don’t worry about it none. 'Tain’t nothin’ fer you to worry about.”
And with that, Applejack left, leaving a rather confused Rarity to herself. She looked around the room and, with a faraway sigh, began picking up her things and returning them to their proper places. She blinked, and for a split second, the image of Twilight Sparkle and Tank flashed across the backs of her eyelids.
She couldn’t hold it. Rarity fell over laughing.
Apple Bloom stretched lazily as she sat down in front of her computer. It was a lovely day outside, but since Scootaloo and Sweetie Belle were both currently busy, she decided she would get some recreational writing done.
Ever since getting this computer and the internet connection, Apple Bloom found herself enraptured by the literary world. There were websites upon websites where she could go and post her own stories. With a little practice and some luck, she was even able to get her stories into the feature box—one or two had even won awards from the website itself.
She heard a sound that indicated she had just received an email. Clicking away from her word processor program, she read the title of the email, “asking permission”. Opening it, there was a link to one of her stories. Below it was the message:
“You’re in big trouble, missy. Meet me at the tool shed.
~AJ”
Author's Note
Don't post any more "EVERS", guys. I see them, I zap them. End of story. The joke is dead, and it's gonna stay in its grave. If you want to post anything in the comments, make it actually, y'know, BE A COMMENT.
