Fimfic Authors Are In Your Bed

by Admiral Biscuit

First published 1st of January, 2015

A collaborative collection of stories about finding ponies in your bed.

You're just an ordinary guy, living an ordinary life. But your life changes one miserable Monday, when you arrive home to find an unexpected visitor in your house: specifically, you discover Twilight Sparkle in your bed.

Things go downhill fast.

And she's just your first visitor.

---

Tags and contributing authors will be added as needed. A couple new chapters will be added daily until the well runs dry. Continuity is overrated, so don't complain about it. It's a thematic collab, not a big budget Hollywood movie where there are never any continuity errors.
Do you want to join? Click here!

Prologue

Fimfic Authors Are In Your Bed
Prologue
Admiral Biscuit et. al.

Mondays are the worst. You've always wondered why people think that coming to work on Monday after a weekend off, you ought to be well-rested and raring to go. Ha!

Maybe in some commercial, that would be the case, but in real life, it takes a massive dose of caffeine to shake loose the cobwebs, and whatever cheer and motivation you'd managed to obtain by the time you reach the sales floor vanishes in an instant when you see what the weekend shift left you to deal with.

And that's to say nothing of the customers. There's a special level of hell reserved for customers, you hope. Sadly, you've got a terrible fear that you're already in it.

By your lunch break, you're wishing you'd brought a bottle of bourbon instead of a sandwich, and late in the afternoon, you're wondering if it's possible to hang yourself with a necktie. It probably wouldn't work, and while you were waiting for paramedics to cut you down and rush you to the hospital, you'd still have to deal with customers.

The last hour of the shift drags by with two assistant managers repeatedly and consecutively cornering you and countermanding your previous instructions. You just nod and do whatever you're told with a false sense of cheer.

You've got escaping the confines of The Man down to an art form. Enter the breakroom, swipe your timecard without breaking step, work uniform shirt off and into your bag, check the hallway for any managers wanting to have your help with “one little task” that will take an hour of time off the clock (but if you refuse, you're accused of not being a team player and given crappy shifts for the next week), and duck out into sweet, sweet freedom.

Your first stop is Panda Express, where you get your usual fried rice, two spring rolls, and a fortune cookie. Most days, you'd prefer to eat it at home, away from the throngs of people, but today you're just too weak from hunger to make home without sustenance. Plus, you can get a free refill of your soft drink, and have that for the trip home, which is a nice bonus.

Naturally, you choose the most secluded booth, and hunch hermit-like over your meal. You don't rush—your smartphone provides you with Facebook's daily drama, and further evidence that humanity is doomed in a generation or so.

Never a traditionalist, you open your fortune cookie by smashing it when it's still in the wrapper, and then pull the fortune out from the shards of dough. You blame The Legend of Zelda for this reckless disregard for breakable containers.

“Your life becomes more and more of an adventure,” you mumble, mentally adding “in bed.”

That's followed by a line of Chinese
一個小馬會去你的床上

And your lucky numbers: 2, 5, 52, and 88.

You slip the fortune into your pants pocket, where it'll either join the others in your bedroom, or become a meaningless ball of paper if you forget to take it out before washing your pants. As tempting as it is to just get up and leave your tray and waste behind like so many others do, you feel some solidarity with the Panda employees. Plus, unlike your customers, you're not an asshat.

Three-tenths of a second after you tip your tray into the garbage can, you remember you were going to refill your cup. It's not worth going after it, though—it landed in a pile of noodles and mystery meat.

“My life is about to become more and more of an adventure,” you tell the trash can. “I don't need that cup.”

Satisfied that the trash can knows its place in the world, you walk outside, just in time for the rain to begin.

Rain is one of those things that often brings out the worst in people, and this time is no exception. Whether it's being shoved by some witch who's sure she'll melt if one more drop falls on her expensive overcoat, or a driver who demonstrates that anyone with a pulse can get a driver's license, the trip home ratchets your stress level back up.

It's still better than being at work, though.

You fumble your way through the keys until you find the one for the front door. Your private sanctum is the one place where you can kick off your shoes and relax. Maybe take a hot shower, watch something dumb on TV, get on the internet, or look at that book you got for Christmas from a well-meaning relative and are going to read one of these days.

Your bag goes on a chair by the front door. You pull out your work shirt, making a mental note to throw it in a laundry basket when you happen to be headed that way. Your shoes go next, neatly arranged under the chair, and you look around your humble abode for clues what to do next.

The kitchen is a good first stop. You reach out to grab your favorite cup, but it's gone. Puzzled, you give a quick search of the kitchen, even going so far as to check the refrigerator, and strike out.

It's not in the living room, either. Not unless it got kicked under the couch. And speaking of things that are missing, that book's gone, too. It's been sitting accusingly on the side table since Christmas, and now it isn't.

You scratch your head. It's not the work of burglars; they would have made off with the flat-screen and the game console, and left the book and cup behind. Could have been something one of your friends did, to mess with you.

Well, whatever. You don't need a cup anyway. This is modern society—drinks come in bottles.

You flop down on the couch and click the TV on. The volume is turned way down, because your next-door neighbor who has nothing better to do complained a couple times, and it's just not a fight worth having. Besides, the Tru TV Caught on Camera marathon isn't better with sound. Before long, you're lost in the self-inflicted misfortunes of complete strangers.

You feel a brief pang of regret at having wasted your entire evening watching TV, but at least it helped you forget all your problems. You yawn and scratch yourself. The marathon's over, and even with something like a thousand channels of TV, there isn't anything on worth watching, unless you want to come into Vegas Vacation halfway through, and you've seen that enough times that it holds no surprises.

You take one last look at your work shirt, and decide to ignore it for now. Grabbing one last bottle out of the fridge, you begin your trek into your bedroom, where your computer waits. Surf the net for an hour, and then hit the sack; get a good night's sleep before work. You know that that hour will turn probably into two or three, and you'll be a zombie at work, but you don't really care.

One step down the hall and your phone chimes. You yank it unceremoniously out of your pocket and glance down at the screen.

You still @ work?

You pause in the hallway and tuck your bottle under an arm. No, shifts over I'm back home. Why? While waiting for a reply, you unscrew the cap and take a drink. Just as you're putting it back on, the phone chirps again.

GF dragged me over there and I was gonna stop and say hi. NP, catch ya later.

You nod unconsciously. Kk. Maybe next time. The phone goes back in your pocket and the bottle back in your hand, all while closing the remaining distance to your room.

You're halfway through the door before you notice that your room has changed since you saw it last. A pile of books are neatly stacked on the floor, your missing cup is on the nightstand, and in the center of the bed is Twilight Sparkle, a magazine in front of her and a stack of commandeered printer paper beside her.

Author's Notes:

Inspired by a blog post by Estee.
Title courtesy of Hoopy McGee.

Brought to you by the probably insane Admiral Biscuit.

Twilight Sparkle Is In Your Bed, Reading Playboy (Admiral Biscuit)

Twilight Sparkle Is In Your Bed, Reading Playboy
Admiral Biscuit

Twilight was so absorbed in the magazine that she didn't notice your arrival. It's probably just as well—your bottle falls from nerveless fingers, and if you'd still been holding your phone, you'd've dropped that, too.

For the next little while—you have lost the capacity to keep track of time—you just stare at her. She's intently focused on the magazine sitting propped up on a pillow, while next to her a pen hovers in her magenta aura. Every part of the tableux is so unreal that your eyes keep moving from one scene to the next. Your eyes are drawn to the unnatural yet totally believable way the pen hovers in the air, slowly rotating around its vertical axis, until it's pressed into use on the page.

Then she flicks her tail, and you notice the way that stray hairs are spread across your comforter. Since you're already looking at her body, it isn't a stretch for your eyes to follow up her tail to the curve of her rump, and to the cluster of stars proudly displayed on her flank.

Her hind leg is tucked under her like a dog might, you notice, before your eyes move upward, to the spill of her mane over her withers, and the more cat-like way she's folded her forelegs on your bedspread.

Twilight's brow is furrowed in concentration, her attention laser-focused on the words on the page. You watch, unmoving, as she reaches the end of the page and looks away from the magazine long enough to scribble another few lines of notes, before grasping the page in her aura and flipping forward.

You're briefly distracted by her right ear flicking back, and your poor brain struggles to make sense of the movement, but then you see her rotate the magazine sideways and unfold the center spread.

I'm going to hell. This is certain. In life there are things that Are Not Done. You cannot punch grandma, no matter how annoying she can be. You cannot ever admit to looking at another guy's junk, regardless of circumstance. And you cannot show porn to a pony.

Never mind that she found it herself. That doesn't make it better.

You mutter out a garbled sentence. In your mind, you said, “Don't be afraid, and don't look at that.” What came out was more like “Nurgh.”

This gets Twilight's attention.

She jumps to her hooves and back, turning to face you. The magazine is held up in her aura, like a shield, and the centerfold hangs down like an accusing tongue.

Your reaction is much more manly. You shriek, and move back into a defensive crouch. This has the undesired effect of placing your foot directly on top of the bottle. Your foot slips out from under you, and as you're falling backwards with all the grace of a drunken sea lion, you absently notice that the bottle is flying towards Twilight.

On the pain scale, this is nowhere near your worst landing; on the humiliation scale, it's in the top five. You crack your skull into the wall with a comical bonking sound, get your hands back under you, and stagger back to your feet. Twilight, you're relieved to see, has managed to catch the bottle; it's joined the magazine in her aura.

“What are you doing here?” you both say simultaneously.

“It's my—“

“I don't know, I—“

Both of you glance at each other through the doorway, and then Twilight gives off a nervous little laugh. “You go first; it's your house.”

“It's my—wait, how do you know that?”

Twilight blinked. “The bed smells like you do.”

Oh God, that's right. Horses, and by extension ponies, have a good sense of smell. “Yeah,” you say with false bravado. “It's my place.”

“I hope you don't mind,” Twilight said. “I . . . well, I found myself here, and I would have gone back right away, but I saw a book I hadn't seen before. And some magazines. And I got distracted.” She had the grace to blush at that statement. “But I didn't hurt them, and I was going to put them all back afterward.”

“It's okay,” you assure her.

“Even if your filing system is a bit . . . unusual.” Twilight frowned.

“I—“

“Who keeps magazines under a bed? Nopony would know they were there. It was a good thing I dropped a pen.” She lifts a stack of magazines aloft to illustrate her point, and your mortification is now complete.

“There are so many of them.” She fans them out to illustrate her point.

Turns out you weren't at rock bottom yet.

“It was hard to choose which to look at first.”

A glimmer of hope.

“So I skimmed through them all.”

Okay, this is probably rock bottom.

“Most of them weren't very interesting.” She lifted a sheet of paper into her aura and glanced at it, although you were certain she didn't actually need to. “Nor were they terribly comprehensive.”

Or not. . . .

“Honestly, a single illustration would have sufficed. Then they would have had more pages available for articles, like this magazine does.” She pulled the Playboy back out of the stack. “I can't say I'm thrilled about their choice to mix fiction and journalism like they do, but I suppose it's hardly a scholarly journal.”

“Yeah,” you squeak out, eagerly grasping at the idea of the articles rather than the pictures. “It's more of . . . ah, light reading. And fiction. Kind of meant to appeal to a bunch of interests, you know?”

Twilight blinks, and then scrunches her muzzle in the most adorable way. “Is it meant to get you interested in the subjects in the hope that you'd read more books about that subject?”

“Yes, sort of,” you explain.

“There was an interview with Benicio Del Toro,” she said. “They used a lot of words I wasn't familiar with, but am I correct in believing that The Wolfman is a play?”

“A movie,” you say automatically.

“Oh. Is it educational?”

You shrug. “Maybe? I haven't seen it.”

Twilight looks at you sympathetically. “The article made it sound rather interesting.”

“I just haven't gotten around to it,” you lie. “But I'm going to.” When Twilight looks away, you cover a yawn.

“Oh—I had a question, if you don't mind.”

“Is it about the magazines?” You narrow your eyes. “Which I just realized that I'm keeping for a friend.”

She shakes her head. “It's about the book.” Twilight floats the skin magazines into a neat pile and lifts up your Christmas present. Which you haven't read. On the plus side, you can probably fake it—you read the summary on Wikipedia, so you could sound like you'd read it, in case it ever came up in a phone conversation.

“The book. Yes.” You nod eagerly. “I'm normally more of a book reader. That's why I never read the article about the Wolfram, and haven't seen it. In fact, I've never opened any of them.”

“Wolfman,” Twilight automatically corrects. “On the first page of the novel, the protagonist gets into a car. I get the sense from the story that it's a self-propelled vehicle.”

You nod. “Yes. You're right.”

She gets a smug smile on her face and checks off a line on her sheet of notes. “That's what I thought.” Her lavender eyes bore back into you. “How does it work?”

Mondays are the worst. For every good thing you get on a Monday, the universe gives you a kick in the shin as well. Or the groin, just to mix things up a bit.

You've proved beyond the shadow of a doubt that ponies really exist. But, Twilight's incessant questioning about every single detail in the novel is beginning to grate on your nerves, and you can barely keep your eyelids open.

It's an interesting learning experience, to be honest. You'd heard about people falling asleep on their feet, and wondered what that might be like. Now you have the benefit of firsthand experience.

It's not as fun as it sounds. You dimly wonder when you'll just pitch forward and crash face-first into the floor, and more importantly, if that will wake you up. As you conclude your brief summary of modern plumbing and why you can't flush away all of life's little problems, inspiration strikes. “I have to go to the bathroom,” you tell Twilight. A nanosecond later, you find yourself wondering if ponies do that—but there was an episode where Pinkie needed to pee, so yes.

Twilight nods, and you scurry off to the privacy of the toilet, making damn sure to lock the door behind you. It might not stop a unicorn, but it would slow her down.

When you're done, you open the door and practically trip over her. It's the first time you've seen her standing, and you can't help but notice that her horn is at the perfect height to gut you, or—if she ducks her head—ruin your love life forever. Not that she'd really need to use her horn for that.

“I kind of have to go, too,” she says sheepishly. “I just was so fascinated by our conversation, I didn't want to interrupt it by leaving the room.”

“I can see how that could happen,” you mutter. “There's a bar of soap on the sink; if not, there's one in the shower. You can use any towel you can find.” You stagger down the hallway as the door shuts behind you.

You have a brief moment of concern as you wonder if she'll know about how a toilet works, but then you remember that there was a flushing noise before Pinkie went into the outhouse, so surely Twilight will figure it out. You're too tired to care, anyway. You round the corner into your bedroom, and there's your unicornless bed in all its glory, just begging you to lie in it.

If you weren't so tired, you'd have neatly cleared the bed. But you're on the verge of physical collapse, and besides, it's your bedroom.

According to the alarm clock, if you fall asleep right now, you'll be able to count your hours of sleep on one hand, and you're getting dangerously close to not needing all your digits. You take your cell phone out of your pocket, check to see your alarm is set, and put it on the nightstand, then slide under the covers. Yes, you're wearing your clothes to bed, but you're an adult and you can do that if you want to.

You've just rolled away from the door and the hateful overhead light when Twilight comes back into the room. You hear her hoofsteps pause at the door.

“You snooze you lose,” you mutter ironically under your breath.

“I hope you don't snore,” Twilight says.

“Pretty sure I don't.”

“Good.” You feel the bed shift as she climbs back up.

Once upon a time, staying up all night and functioning the next day would have been a possibility, perhaps encouraged by doses of caffeine—but those days have passed. As much as you would like to stay up and bask in Twilight's splendor a little bit longer, it's just not feasible. And as late as it is, you'll have no trouble falling right asleep, even if Twilight Sparkle is in your bed.

It would be comforting to say that your sleep was restful. Indeed, there are even studies which show that sleeping with someone has health benefits; if it truly does, those benefits don't arise in one night. Your alarm is blaring and insistent. That's logical; a quiet alarm wouldn't be much use. You jerk awake and instinctively reach out to shut it off, but your arm smashes painfully into something unyielding.

That's enough to wake you, although it does nothing to quiet the alarm. As you gaze in wonder at the magenta prison that now entraps you, the past night comes crashing back with a vengeance.

To your total lack of surprise, Twilight is in the same position she was in last night; the only difference is now you're in the same bed and there's a magenta bubble between you and her.

“Hey,” you shout. She's not paying attention; she's noticed your alarm, too, and is lifting your phone off the nightstand with her magic.

Sudden, terrible, claustrophobic visions began to seep into your weary mind, and you began trying to force your way through the bubble. You might as well try to lift a piano with one hand.

After what seems like an eternity but is probably only a few seconds, she notices your futile gestures, and dispells the bubble.

You glare at her.

She glares back.

You snatch the phone out of her field and cancel the alarm. “Why did I wake up in a bubble?”

“Because you snore. Normally, I wouldn't mind—Rainbow Dash snores, you know—but I was trying to study and it was quite distracting.”

“I could have suffocated!”

“No you couldn't. It would be a worthless shield if it suffocated anypony inside, don't you think?”

“Fair enough.” You yawn and stretch your arms. “Okay, move out of the way. I've got to get up and use the bathroom. And take a shower.”

Twilight nods and lifts her notes out of the way, before getting out of bed herself. She stands out of the way as you struggle to follow, finally making it to your feet just as the snooze on your phone ends, and the alarm shrieks out again.

This time, at least, you can get right at it, and it's only a moment's work before the alarm is silenced. You instinctively scratch yourself before remembering you have company, and jerk your hands away before you embarrass yourself.

The shower at least has the effect of waking you up most of the way, and your coffee pot downstairs will finish the job. Feeling mostly human again, you get dressed and make your way back into the bedroom.

“I've got to go to work,” you announce. “Unless you need me to stay?” Privately, you hope she says yes. You can call in! And when they ask you why you can't come to work, you can tell them that you have an unexpected quadruped house-guest.

Twilight nods absently, then sets down the pen and looks up. “I—oh. Um, I hate to ask.”

“I'd be—“

“But could I keep this book?”

“—to skip work . . . um, yeah.” Sure it was a gift, but there's no harm in re-gifting. It's not gauche if it's a request, right?

“Great!” Twilight breaks into a broad grin, and it's like the sun emerging from behind clouds. All your cares just evaporate in the light of a soul-cleansing pony grin. “How about this?”

Your good mood vanishes like a snowball in magma.

“It has quite a variety of detailed anatomy photographs.”

Yup. Going to hell.

Author's Notes:

Well, there you have it. Chapter one. Stay tuned; writers are churning out more chapters as we speak!

---

There is a significance to the lucky numbers. One-third of an internet to the first person to figure it out.

Vinyl Scratch is in Your Bed, Lighting it on Fire (Samey90)

Vinyl Scratch is in Your Bed, Lighting it on Fire
Samey90

The next day is probably one of the worst days in your life. You’re sitting in your workplace, doing your crappy job and dealing with your annoying colleagues, but you still can’t stop thinking about the pony that visited you just yesterday. Will she still be there when you get back home? Or maybe she’ll bring some friends, who will steal your TV and make a large hole in the roof for no reason?

As soon as your shift is over, you get your stuff and leave, thinking only of getting back home. What if it’s now infested by ponies? What if they got wet or had a snack after midnight and changed into some creatures just waiting to bite your ass off?

Shuddering, you get the key and open the door to your house. You rush to your bedroom. The house is silent, but you feel some terrible smell permeating the air. What if the pony got out of your bed and found the kitchen?

You practically kick the door to your bedroom open. You walk in, ready to fight, flight or–

“Easy, mate,” the pony in your bed says.

She looks a bit different than the last pony that visited you. Her coat is slightly yellowish. You try not to compare it to watered-down piss, but that’s your first impression. Well, that probably shows how crappy your life is. Maybe some psychologist would explain to you why you automatically associated that shade of yellow the way you did. Maybe they’d even figure out that you really, really love your mother.

She also has a two-coloured mane: blue and... a darker shade of blue? You wish your girlfriend was here – she was good at recognising colours and she even knew all those fancy names like cerulean, teal, cyan, and so on.

Oh wait, your girlfriend left you two weeks ago. It probably had something to do with all those ponies in your bed but you’re not sure. It might have been your diet as well. Or your salary. Or whatever, really. You’re a guy whose bed is being constantly invaded by ponies. Nobody who is sane can spend five minutes in the same room with you.

You’re still busy with staring at the pony, who wears a pair of absurdly large, purple sunglasses with almost opaque lenses. She also has a musical note on her flank – not that you were staring there. She’s just leaning in such a way that you see mostly her flank.

Also, something in the room smells terribly. You wince, approaching the pony. To think about it, you were in the room together for more than five minutes. She definitely isn’t sane.

“Who are you?” you ask, looking at the pony, who’s levitating a box of safety matches. When you look at the mattress behind her, you notice that part of it is charred.

“DJ PON3, at your service, mate,” she replies. “But you can call me Vinyl.”

“What are you doing here?” you ask, even though you gave up any hope long time ago.

“Dunno, I’m just lying here, mate. This bed is kinda comfy, you know.” Vinyl stretches her body and lights a match on fire. She puts it to the mattress, but nothing happens. After a while the match burns out.

“I know, it’s my bed. I sleep here, you know,” you say. “Also, stop calling me ‘mate’, okay? I’m not used to strange ponies calling me that.” Something tells you that you should sort out your priorities. You don’t exactly know why, but you feel that you’ll learn that soon.

“Chill out, dude.” Vinyl strikes another match and stares at it for a moment, before lighting your bedsheet on fire. You quickly grab a pillow and use it to put it out.

“What are you doing?!” you yell, grabbing the matches from Vinyl’s hoof and hiding them in your pocket.

“I’m trying to light that bed on fire,” Vinyl replies. “For some reason, the mattress doesn’t want to catch it.”

You start to wonder if there’s weed in the place those ponies come from. If it is, Vinyl is definitely a stoner. Or maybe she does mushrooms.

To think about it, what those colourful little ponies see when they hallucinate? Colourful little humans? Sasquatches swimming in the strawberry river? Though strawberry rivers are probably quite common in the land those things come from.

“You know, I think they make them that way,” you say. “So you don’t burn in your own bed.”

“That’s strange,” Vinyl says. “If the house is on fire, it doesn’t matter if the bed’s burning or not. You’re toast anyway, pun not intended.”

“Maybe they wanted to stop people who’d try to light their beds on fire.” You sit on the bed next to Vinyl. “Or ponies, for that matter.” You don’t think that Chinese company who produced your mattress ever contemplated the existence of ponies, but who knows? It’s China, after all. Maybe some old, grey-haired kung-fu master came to them from his cave in the mountains to warn them about ponies landing in your bed and lighting them on fire? Or maybe Mao wrote about ponies in his Little Red Book?

“Still, the bedsheets are flammable.” Vinyl points at your sheet, causing you to stop thinking about what Marx, Engels, Lenin, and Che Guevara had to say about ponies. Ponies of all the countries, unite? Every pony struggle is a class struggle?

Anyway, your sheets are now partially charred and smell of smoke. “Imagine a house burning,” Vinyl says. “Some dudes come to put it out and they find your charred bones lying on the intact mattress. How logical is that?”

“It’s not,” you say. “Maybe because no one with half of a brain lights a house on fire intentionally.”

“I once did,” Vinyl mutters. “And I have a brain. The doctors had to x-ray my head after my roommate smacked me with a cello. Like, ten times. They say that I have a brain.”

“Unbelievable,” you say. “One can only wonder how generous nature can be, sometimes. Also, why did you light your house on fire?”

“I wanted to see how it burns and replace all the stuff that was flammable with something safer.”

“You have problems, Vinyl.”

“Yes, half of the things in my house caught fire in seconds,” Vinyl replies. “Do you know how hard it is to find something that doesn’t do that, mate?”

“I can imagine,” you mutter. “The thing is, there are easier ways of fireproofing your house than burning it down.”

“That’s what my roommate said before attacking me with a cello.” Vinyl sighs. “She could never understand that I was doing that for her good.”

You think that you can relate here. Your previous roommate ran away through the window, previously writing “Burn!” on the wall of his room. Maybe he also cursed you? You make a mental note to find him and ask him about all those ponies in your bed.

Vinyl is just sitting on your bed silently. You think that maybe you hurt her feelings or something. Maybe burning stuff is the sense of her life?

“So...” you say. “Aside from experiments with safety matches... What do you do in your life?”

“Well, I sleep all days, party all nights... I’m a DJ, you know,” she replies.

It doesn’t exactly make your mood better. Some people are simply lucky. Or ponies, for that matter.

“Also, I tried to pick up my roommate, but I think she hates me now,” Vinyl says. “She moved to her mother and didn’t give me the address.”

“Well, she smacked you with a cello. Maybe in some cultures it’s a sign of affection?” You feel that it doesn’t improve her mood. But hell, her job is partying. Karma had to strike her, somehow.

“I don’t think she meant it,” Vinyl mutters. “She mentioned putting a bow in my–”

“Well, that could mean that she’s just kinky.” You smirk.

“She was rather aggressive about that.”

“Nothing’s better than a burning love...” You hit yourself mentally for that pun. Vinyl probably rolls her eyes behind her sunglasses.

“You know, I got a bit hungry,” you say, getting up from the bed. “Do you want something to eat?”

“Umm...” Vinyl bits her lip.

“What?” you ask. You have bad feelings about this.

“Umm...”

You sigh. “Say ‘umm’ again. Say ‘umm’ again, I dare you, I double dare you, mo–” You pause. You don’t know what kind of relationship Vinyl has with her mother, so you don’t want to imply anything. Also, no matter how you try, you don’t sound like Samuel L. Jackson.

To think about it, you don’t even know if ponies have mothers. Maybe they divide, like cells? You feed Vinyl too much chili and she suddenly you have two pyromaniac DJ’s in your house?

“Umm...” Vinyl smiles sheepishly. “So, you were gone for so long and I thought that I can do something for you, instead of just lying in your bed...”

“And...?”

Vinyl gulps. “I checked. Turns out, your fridge wasn’t fireproof...”

Queen Chrysalis Is Disguised As Your Bed (Estee)

Queen Chrysalis Is Disguised As Your Bed
Estee

Meanwhile, in a bedroom somewhere else:

Everything looks normal from here. The laundry basket is just where it should be. Everything which was on the dresser at the last departure remains so, meaning the perpetual state of supposed disorganization which makes perfect sense while still somehow terminally offending anyone else who manages to look at it for more than five seconds -- well, it's perfectly intact. The lamp still has the shade somewhat askew to the right. The remote, if the Mute button is pressed down with all the force it's possible to muster and held that way for thirty nail-breaking seconds, may cause the television to experience a three percent drop in volume.

Perfectly normal.

But that's been a lie before.

Nothing in the closet.

Nothing in the bathroom.

Under the bed... well, nothing should fit under the bed (or rather, nothing else). Or at least hasn't so far. Still, there doesn't seem to be much need to look, if only because if everything is truly normal, it means confronting everything which would generally be under the bed.

But the fact remains... before the most recent entrance, there were sounds. A startled gasp. Scrambling noises, as if hooves were scrabbling for purchase on an unexpected surface, and that sound had an oddly-hollow ring to it. And then, once the approaching footsteps were possibly detected -- silence.

Maybe it's just paranoia. After all, there's no reason to expect anything unusual, at least after discounting the reams of prior experience.

Still -- everything looks normal. Which could mean that if anything else happened, it's already left.

So the next step is clearly to shrug, put another checkmark in the 'paranoia' column, and sit down on the bed.

This goes fairly well. At least, after factoring out the sudden rough feel of chitin against skin, the outraged scream, and the pointy bit. Especially the pointy bit. The pointy bit shall not be discussed at this time, nor will the location of impact. Or 'insertion'. There's a word no one's going to be dealing with any time soon, and possibly ever.

Jumping occurs, of the sound-propelled variety, An unbiased and rather cruel observer might have likened the noise to something produced by a goose.

Eventually, after many attempts to avoid rubbing, some level of stability occurs.

"All right. What are you?"

The bed, resting altogether too silently in a position which might be slightly off from the standard, somehow gives off the impression of thinking it over, and rather quickly.

"I'm a magical talking bed," says the magical talking bed.

"Really." The word pulls most of the moisture out of the air.

"Yes," the bed haughtily declares. "That is absolutely what I am. And furthermore, I resent your questioning me on this, especially when the proof is right in front of you."

"And... that proof is?"

"Do normal beds talk?"

"No." That much certainly has to be admitted, if only for the sake of potentially-dwindling sanity..

"Well, there you go," the bed smugly replies, thoroughly satisfied with itself. "If I happened to be a normal bed, clearly I wouldn't be talking. And since I am, my speech must be produced by magic. Therefore, I am a magical talking bed, and I'm not the least bit ashamed to say so."

"Really." The word repetition is now solely responsible for drought conditions in California.

Silence descends, then hangs around for longer than anyone's strictly comfortable with.

"And clearly," the bed imperiously adds, mostly to break up the very uncomfortable extended silence, "I am in no way a changeling queen who found herself in a completely unexpected situation that was, and I can't emphasize this enough, in no way her fault."

"...because?" Got to hear this one, right?

"Because," the bed states with careful logic, "if I was a changeling, it would have been in my best interests to stay completely silent when you tried to sit on me. In order to keep up the masquerade, correct? No truly intelligent strategic planner and supreme leader of all she surveys would have given herself away on sound, no matter how unwelcome the impact. Absolute quiet, that's the way. But I? Felt completely free to react, which in turn must indicate that I, as a completely innocent magical talking bed who has nothing to do with changelings at all other than having heard some very flattering stories about them once, all of which were incidentally almost criminally understated..."

The bed seems to become aware that it's being waited out, indicating this realization with a slight shifting of pillowcases.

"Anyway," the bed regally concludes, "a perfectly-trained royal changeling would have stayed quiet. But I, as a magical talking bed, have nothing to hide, and therefore felt free to speak openly. As you can plainly see. And hear."

"Right..."

"I just thought I should clear that up immediately," the bed says. "In case you have any doubts. Which you shouldn't. Because magical talking beds never lie. That's a well-known fact, at least for those who know anything about magical talking beds." With a rush of relief, "Therefore, any doubts you might somehow still possess are entirely your fault!"

The bed slowly realizes this may not be entirely diplomatic, as seen in a minor rearrangement of the off-seeming ruffle.

"Or..." the bed generously offers, "...perhaps your school simply didn't offer the proper courses while discouraging independent study?"

"Maybe." That much certainly has to be conceded.

"I don't know what kind of standards they have in schools these days," the bed frustratedly declares.

"Me neither."

"It's as if no one can be bothered to sing a proper learning song to the combs."

"Obviously."

"If there were changelings involved," the bed quickly adds. "And their exalted teaching methods. Which, regretfully, they are not. Because changelings have nothing to do with magical talking beds. Other than occasionally appreciating them should the two happen to meet. Personally, I would much rather be a magical talking bed in a changeling queen's hive chambers than here." With a disdainful sniff of the quilt, "Wherever this is."

"And -- what happened to my old bed?"

"...what?"

"The old bed. Where is it?"

"How should I know?" the bed disdainfully sniffs for the second time, proving its supreme expertise in the maneuver. "I can't be bothered to keep track of non-magical, non-talking beds! It's not as if I can ask it where it happens to be going as we pass in the aether, or why it decided to swap places with me, or if it's planning on landing somewhere else entirely. Or rather, clearly I could, as I happen to be a magical talking bed. But it wouldn't answer me, now would it?"

Again, that one pretty much has to be conceded.

"You're rather stupid, aren't you?" the bed decides. "Imagine, expecting a bed to talk."

This silence lets that one sink all the way through the sheets.

"An ordinary bed, I meant," the bed clarifies.

"I got that part."

"Good."

"In fact, I totally get the point."

"Very glad to hear it."

"And having gotten the point -- about the point?"

"...I don't quite take your meaning," the bed admits after a very uncomfortable moment.

"The. Point." A rub at offended anatomy seems to be called for, which is why it doesn't happen.

"Oh," the bed says without the slightest trace of embarrassment. "That."

"Right. That. And?"

"Well, you wouldn't expect a magical talking bed to go out in the world without defenses, would you? It's not as if I'm about to let just anyone sit on me! And as for lying down..." The bed shudders. "So I'm rather picky. And I'm hardly about to apologize for having standards, which I find to be completely lacking in all non-changeling communities."

"And the defenses are why your sheets felt like chitin?"

"...they did?"

"Yes."

The bed seems somewhat abashed. "That's odd." For a moment, the entire thing takes on a light tinge of green. "Try it now. Just your hand, please."

"Still chitin."

"Well... clearly something happened during the transition. Which was in no way my fault, because I'm not the one who intoned any kind of emergency escape spell and choked on several syllables due to the smoke. Incidentally, did you know changelings can't be smoked out of their hives in any way and to try it is a complete waste of time which no one should ever bother with at all? It's not as if we're insects, you know."

Slowly, "We?"

"They," the bed quickly says. "I'm not used to your language. I'm entitled to a bit of pronoun trouble."

"Probably."

"Additionally," the bed definitively states, "it is very easy to identify with changelings, especially if you're a magical talking bed whose highest possible duty would be to serve in the royal bedchambers, as opposed to here. So I don't apologize at all. I never do. Magical talking beds are above such things, as are changeling queens, which is yet another reason it's so easy to identify with them. Now if you'll give me a moment to myself, I'll see what I can do about making those sheets feel right. Because I know what proper sheets should feel like, having been a magical talking bed all the life which I probably don't technically have. Just close the door behind you when you go. Because privacy will help. Lots and lots of privacy. Why are you still here?"

It's probably not a good time to ask about the things which were under the bed either. Maybe leaving would be best, at least when it comes to the amount of story which will be laughed at through during the inevitable follow-up meeting with a still-disbelieving psychiatrist.

"Wait," the bed says, and does so when the door is almost closed.

"What now?"

"That smell. Alcohol tinged with honey. What is that?"

"Marinade whiskey."

"Leave that by my front left leg. Bed leg. I think it might help."

"Fine..."

The door starts to close again. The singing begins.

The door opens.

"Why are you still here?" the bed demands. "I ordered you to get my whiskey! Even the most incompetent fresh-hatched drone could --"

"-- you were singing."

"I was?"

"Yes."

"No, I wasn't," the bed quickly insists.

"Yes, you were. Something about 'this day is going to be perfect'."

"I didn't sing that," the bed doubles down. "I would never sing such a thing, mostly because that beautiful traditional changeling conquest song has a certain personal connotation of insufferable and totally coincidental bad luck, and I've had more than enough of that in finding myself here, thank you. I would never be mentally distracted enough to wind up singing it again. You misheard me. Clearly if I was singing at all, it would have been something else entirely."

"So what were you singing?"

The bed takes a moment.

"'This duvet is going to be perfect.'"

"Duvet."

"Yes. Duvet."

"Because?"

"Because I'm adjusting the feel of my sheets and I'm a magical talking bed," the bed haughtily clarifies. "Obviously. It's a simple mental exercise in the form of a work song. And day, duvet, it's clearly all the same to whatever kind of ears those are supposed to be under all that hair. Really, it's all your fault for not being able to understand whatever language this is. Which I presume is your native tongue, so not comprehending me is your fault, and that happens to be a 'once again'. How stupid are you, anyway? Never mind, I know that one -- stupid enough to still not have brought a magical talking bed the marinade whiskey with honey which she so desperately needs. So go fetch it immediately like a good drone."

The door starts to close again. As if that's going to help.

The last words to come through before it completely shuts are more of a mutter. "Now, what's a ruffle, and what is the point of it...?"

The door is allowed to seal. All things considered, a self-proclaimed magical talking bed can presumably work that one out for herself.

Star Swirl the Bearded Exiles your Bed to Another Dimension (Daedelean)

Star Swirl the Bearded Exiles your Bed to Another Dimension
Daedelean

Your stomach grumbles as you get off the subway after another lousy day at work. Today you were yelled at, shoplifted from, spilled upon, beaten with a rake, and robbed of most of your lunch break, and right now you want nothing more than to seal the world away and never let it out again. Your thoughts turn to the weekend you have planned: a weekend of staying in bed, getting out only to make more food or go to the bathroom, and otherwise staying right under your sheets on your laptop or reading a book. To begin with, you think as you climb the stairs up to your apartment, you're looking forward to a nice relaxing evening of eating pizza while watching a movie. You'd been meaning to see Alloy Man: The Corrosion for ages, maybe tonight was the night.

You reach your apartment and close the door behind you, then kick off your shoes and toss your bags on the couch. The couch springs groan in complaint, but you ignore them. You drop down onto the cushions and lay back with a contented sigh. Your day-to-day routine may have been a soul-crushing grinder, and you may have found that making a discovery that completely shattered the world's understanding of the cosmos meant very little since nobody was going to pay you for it, or even be nice to you as a result, but your apartment is still yours and nobody is going to change that. The place looks just like you'd left it this morning, with the exception of the floating orb in the kitchen.

It's a pretty good orb, you have to admit. Very clear, like mercury, it ripples as it moves slowly through the air. You can't see it very clearly from the couch, and you have very little interest in getting up again, but as it turns you see that on one side it has a round disc, like a pupil, that glows with a shimmering, golden light.

It is not too large (about the length of your hand in diameter), and it makes a slight humming sound as it moves, which easily fades into the background and is not at all intrusive. In fact it's kind of soothing, so kudos, floating orb. Floating orb can be your friend. You can go on adventures together, if that's the orb's thing.

You wonder to yourself what floating orbs do for fun.

The orb relaxes you as it goes about its business. You had meant to turn on the tv, or head over to your bedroom and go online, or make something to eat, but now you can't really be bothered. You are comfortable, for once, and the rest of the world can go hang. You listen with mild interest as the orb leaves the kitchen and roams around the living room, studies the furniture and the pile of undone laundry as well as the other pile of laundry you have done but haven't bothered to put away yet. It pauses momentarily by the window to admire the view of the other apartment block just across the road. It continues on its tour of the apartment until it has seen everything, and then heads over to your bedroom door, which clicks open to permit it in. The door closes, and the humming stops.

It's at this point that you think to yourself that something isn't quite right here.

For one thing, now that the hum is gone you suddenly realize you're starving. You also are now aware of an ache in your legs and back. You move to stretch and scratch a sharp itch, but find your muscles complaining, as though you've been sitting still in an uncomfortable position for a long time. But that can't be, you thought, you only just got home a few minutes ago. You grab your phone from your pocket, and see that an hour has gone by. You have five unanswered calls. You groan, feeling the anger rising in your throat. “Twilight!” You mutter, as you get up from the couch and stumble unsteadily towards your bedroom. “I know you're in there! Asking me questions is one thing, but using magic to mess with my mind is horrible roommate etiquette, Twilight!”

You open your bedroom and see a pony on your bed, and are disappointed to note that it's not Twilight, nor Vinyl, but somepony new. Once again it's a unicorn. This one has a coat and mane that are both shades of green, and she's wearing some kind of shabby-looking cape, like a pony rain coat made of sackcloth, and she smiles at the sight of you. “Hi!” she says. “You must be

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=r0epAB3_aYA

I'm Clover the Clever, so nice to meet you.”

You stare at her. She looks back at you, her stiff smile slowly wavering. “So... Everything okay?” she asks.

“There was a floating ball out there,” you say, pointing to the door. “What's going on?”

“Oh, that was just the Dontmindthe Orb,” Clover says. “It won't hurt you, or so Star Swirl assures me. There's nothing to worry about, everything is fine!” She laughs, and it sounds like someone who has only ever heard laughing described in words, her eyes glancing rapidly about the room before settling on you.

There is a shuffling and a groan from a lump under the bedsheets. You step to the right to see, but Clover steps up to block you and clears her throat. “That's my teacher, Star Swirl the Bearded. Don't mind him, he's just... really tired. But listen, now that you're here, maybe there's something you can do for me?”

Her grin is completely fake and her eyes are desperate and uncertain, yet somehow her obvious charade only serves to make her more adorable. She's like a little kid who desperately wants to please in the face of insurmountable obstacles, and you can't help but sympathize. You nod.

“Great!” Clover leaps down from the bed and races over to your computer. “Can you help me command this device? This strange box promised to show me twenty-seven pictures of things that will give me great faith in your species. It tells me that number twenty-two in particular is 'just so right', but no matter how nicely I ask it won't show me!”

She pouts and glares at your computer with adorable fury, and you find yourself reaching out a hand and scratching behind her ears to console her. “Yeah, I don't really think that's worth watching.”

“But it must be,” Clover says, turning her huge pleading eyes on you. “This 'feast of bees' message makes it sound so heartwarming. I want to learn more about your world. Won't you help me?”

Your patience is quickly running out, and you remind yourself that you want to find out what is going on, and preferably get it to stop ASAP. You are just about to ask what the big idea is, and demand some answers, but then Clover starts humming and wouldn't you know, all of a sudden you don't see any reason to question her after all. It's funny how life works out sometimes, don't you think? It's probably because she's just so adorable, and not anything to do with casual mind-control magic. Definitely.

You sit there for a while on the computer with Clover next to you, eagerly watching picture after picture of nauseating clickbait. Clover studies them attentively, occasionally asking you to explain details she doesn't understand, while both of you continue to ignore the snoring lump in your bed.

After far too long, the orb suddenly materializes over the bed, ringin a melodious tone to announce itself. This draws Clover's attention, and she leaps up on the bed to study it. “Finally,” she mutters, as you take the opportunity to close the web browser. “Let's see what you've found...”

Again you realize that this pony, adorable though she is, is doing something to your thoughts, and you're still pretty sure you disapprove of that sort of thing. “Look, what do you want from me? Why are you here?” You demand. “And don't do that thing again!”

Clover sighs, and looks down. “I... I'm sorry, mister human, I promise it's nothing harmful. It's just that, we're doing magical research and we need to avoid contaminating our test subjects. It's standard procedure.”

As she speaks, the orb begins to give off a series of whistling sounds and flashes of light, making her jolt and grimace. “Oh dear.”

“Oh dear?” Your thoughts begin racing to list a dozen unpleasant meanings for that phrase. “What's going on?”

“The Dontmindthe Orb has finished processing the data it gathered from your home, and that my teacher has collected in the Umbra surrounding your bed,” Clover says. “It says that your bed has a frankly extreme buildup of corrupt energy anchored in it. I don't understand how this is possible, I've never seen anything like it! It would take many years of somepony, I mean somebody, regularly nurturing the most twisted and depraved of thoughts at length, while lying in—”

She suddenly falls silent. She glances down at the bed, then over at you, then back to the bed, then back to you again. Her cheeks grow red. “Um, never mind.”

“It's alright, Clover,” a new voice says, yawning. You and Clover both turn to see that the lump in the bed has risen and revealed itself to be an old stallion with a great and powerful beard, wearing a wizard costume straight out of a fairytale, complete with sequins and bells. “You take my place in the Umbra while I deal with this.”

“I'm not sure this is going to work, Professor,” Clover says. “The test subject won't stop interfering with the process. I'm trying to keep him away, but it's not working.”

“Just take my place in the bed, I'll fix it.”

Clover glances unhappily at the bed. Her eyes flick back to you for a split-second and her muzzle scrunches up in revulsion. “Do I have to?”

Star Swirl groans loudly and fixes Clover with a glare. Then he starts humming, and Clover relaxes, swaying gently back and forth like a branch in the wind. “Yes, Professor Star Swirl,” she says, her voice dull and sluggish. She then climbs into the bed and slips under the sheets, and begins to snore lightly.

Your jaw drops. “Did you just use mind magic on your own student?”

“Student, test subject,” he says. “I am multitasking! This is your bedroom, correct?”

“So that's a yes then?” you spit, glaring at the stallion. “Yes, this is my bedroom! Seriously, what the hell are you doing and will you please stop?”

“Would you say strange things have been happening in your bed lately?” Star Swirl the Bearded asks you, ignoring your request.

You stare at him. The silence stretches out. He does not move. You suspect he is immune to awkwardness.

“Yes,” you finally say, as dully and heavily as your vocal chords will allow.

“I and my student came here following a strange magical signature,” Star Swirl says, as if that should mean anything at all to you. “Your bed is cursed. It is the center of some sort of confluence of energies, which erupts in strange events and manifestations. It will need to be destroyed or purified with incredibly powerful magic.” His eyes narrow as he peers deeper into yours. For some reason you lean forward and open your eyes wider for him to see, ignoring the urge to blink. This, you think, is perfectly reasonable and definitely not a result of mind control magic. “Ah yes, it is as I feared. There is a significant trace of it in your mind as well. You may be doomed to live out your existence as a malleable aperture for forces from beyond your world. But I can at least attempt to mitigate the damage like this.”

He then stamps his hoof on the floor, and in a burst of light, your bed disappears.

“Our work here is done,” Star Swirl declares, as he poses dramatically and turns to the door. “Come, Clover, we're leaving!”

There is no reply. He turns back to look over the room, which now has a large empty area where your bed used to be. “Ah horseapples... Oh well, it'll be a learning experience for both of them.”

Epilogue: Clover the Clever brings your bed back from the other dimension.

Everything is just fine, and there is absolutely no reason to be suspicious of that fact, you think to yourself as you lay in your coccoon on the couch, listening to the voices in your head that tell you that there is nothing suspicious or unusual about the voices in your head. Everyone has voices in their head. Yours aren't even telling you to kill and kill again, so there's really nothing to worry about.

Yet.

You smile as you stare at the ceiling. The voice tells you that you smile, and so you smile. You smile and stare at the ceiling until the doorbell rings. Then you leap up from the couch and loudly proclaim, even though there is no-one to hear you: “That must be the new bed!”

Everything is going to be fine. Everything is going to be just fine.

You open the door and sign for the delivery. You get everything moved into your bedroom, you assemble the frame, you lay down the mattress and the sheets, and you step back to admire your work just as a flash of light erupts and your old bed crashes down from a portal in the ceiling, accompanied by a screaming Clover the Clever.

Your new bed is utterly destroyed. Your old bed is exactly as you remember it, seemingly unaffected by the crash, or by its stay for the past several days in another dimension.

Clover the Clever falls to the floor and kisses it. “Free! Free at last!” She looks up and sees you, her mane dishevelled and her eyes bloodshot and mad. “Where is he? I'm going to kill him!”

You take a step back and raise your hands. “He's not here – he left just after you disappeared! He said something about a mysterious high school and I never saw him again!”

She glares at you, but then her eyes lose their anger. “It's not your fault,” she says softly. She trots slowly to the door, her head hanging low, then stops and turns back. “Oh, I need to warn you about something,” she says. “I've been doing some research in my spare time. Since you've had dealings with Star Swirl there's about a 15% chance that you, and also your bed, are eventually going to be corrupted by dark magic. If that happens, there's about a 50% chance that you'll turn into monsters that somepony else will have to deal with in a thousand years time. I'm not sure why that happens. Good luck.”

Fluttershy is hiding under your bed (Hoopy McGee)

Fluttershy is hiding under your bed
Hoopy McGee

Your life recently has been beyond crazy. Work has been… well, work. Customer service is always going to suck, especially when you’re dealing with a combination of idiotic customers and aggressively lazy management. But your home, which used to be your sanctuary from all the madness, has recently become infested.

No, not with roaches. You may not be keep the place obsessively clean, but you’re clean enough that pests like that aren’t a problem. No, the creatures you’re having trouble with are much larger, much cuddlier, and much more sanity-threatening.

Your home has been infested with ponies. All of whom tend to show up in your bed. Exclusively on Mondays, for some reason. As if regular Mondays weren’t stressful enough.

Maybe that’s why you find yourself standing in front of your doorway this particular Monday evening, your keys in your hand but your door still shut. You have no idea what you’ll find this time, and you’re not particularly eager to find out.

Your pathetic excuse for a dinner stirs unquietly in your stomach. No Panda Express today. Instead, you had picked up a wholly unsatisfying sub, even though you’d been craving fried rice all day. You simply couldn’t risk another fortune cookie.

As you stand there with the keys in your hand, the knowledge that you actually blamed the fortune cookie, even subconsciously, slowly filters its way into your awareness. Snorting with disgusted laughter, you shake your head. As crazy as ponies in your bed might be, blaming the whole thing on a Panda Express fortune cookie is just… silly.

You brace yourself and open the door. As you step in, you flick on the lights. So far, so good. Nothing seems out of place, and there isn’t a pony in sight. The lack of mysterious glowing orbs is also a huge bonus. You walk cautiously inside, trying to make as little noise as possible.

It doesn’t take long to clear your kitchen and living room. With the door to your bathroom wide open, it’s clear that there are no ponies in there, either. There’s only one place left to check.

The bedroom door seems a lot more foreboding than it should, considering that it’s just a cheap hollow-core door with a slightly-dented brass-colored knob. Even so, it takes you a moment to gather the courage to open it.

The door swings open, and your eyes immediately dart towards the bed. You blink several times, almost unable to believe what you’re seeing. Your bed, though still unmade from this morning, appears to be completely unoccupied.

You let out a breath you hadn’t been aware that you were holding as you sigh in relief. Then your nerves wind back up. It’s a trap, some instinct warns you. You reluctantly agree with the instinct: you aren’t that lucky.

It’s not as if it’s a large bedroom. There’s nothing hiding on the other side of the door. Your closet, though frighteningly disorganized, is completely pony-free. The side of the bed you can’t see from the hallway is also devoid of ponies.

Tension flees from your body and your shoulders sag as you realize that, for the first time this week, you don’t have to worry about random ponies hogging your bed. Or trying to light it on fire. Or banishing it to a different dimension. And, just for a moment, you allow yourself the luxury to think that you’re done with the weirdness.

Feeling exhausted, you close your eyes and collapse onto your pony-free bed.

squeak

Your eyes snap open. You don’t remember your bedsprings ever squeaking before. A memory surfaces… something about individually-wrapped bed springs in a high-quality mattress and box spring, according to the salesman who sold this bed to you.

You paid a lot of good money for this bed, because it was important to you to have a comfortable (and, fortunately, fireproof) place to sleep. This is a bed that shouldn’t ever squeak. In fact, you remember the feeling of unease you felt at the salesman waggling his eyebrows when he told you that even “vigorous activity” wouldn’t be enough to cause this bed to make noise.

You move experimentally, just to test a theory.

squeak

A sense of dreamlike unreality washes over you. There was one place you hadn’t checked when you investigated the room. Moving slowly, you rearrange yourself on the bed, lowering your head and arm over the side. Taking a deep breath, you pull up the bedsheets while simultaneously sticking your head down to look under the bed.

There’s something there. Soft curves hidden in shadows, while a pair of large, teal eyes stare back at you.

For a long moment, you and the pony under your bed stare at each other. As the hammering in your chest starts to abate, a weary resignation takes you over.

“Hi,” you say. “Why don’t you come out from under there?”

squeak says the pony.

“Look, I’m not going to hurt you. But you can’t be comfortable under there.”

The pony blinks, then looks away. It nods and begins pushing itself out from under your bed. You get out of bed and stand up, making sure the bed is between you and the side where timid pony is coming out. Some time passes, enough for you to open your mouth to ask if everything is okay, when the top of the pony’s head starts to poke up on the other side of your bed.

At first, all you see are the tips of a pair of ears. Apparently, the coat of this one is a soft yellow. The pink mane, looking impossibly soft, appears next, rising over the side of your bed like a bashful moon. Finally, a pair of large, beautifully bright teal eyes look at you nervously from the other side of the bed.

You realize two things. The first is, the pony this time is obviously Fluttershy. The second is that you just might be having a cuteness-induced heart-attack.

“Hrng,” you say, doubling over and clutching your chest.

“Oh, my,” Fluttershy says, looking alarmed. “Are you alright?”

Fortunately, concern for your well-being seems to have snapped her out of shy mode. Unfortunately, this means that she has now reared up to put her forehooves on top of your bed. With her wings half-spread and a look of worry on her features, Fluttershy is now cuter than ever.

“Hrng!”

Before you have time to really register what’s going on, you find yourself kindly but firmly made to sit on the edge of your bed. Fluttershy darts out of the room, returning a moment later with a glass of water somehow balanced perfectly on top of her head.

“Here, drink this up and you’ll feel better,” Fluttershy says, stretching her head towards you. She has to keep her head level to keep the water from spilling, but she’s looking up at you through her long eyelashes. You quickly look away before you really do have a heart attack.

“Thanks,” you say as you take the water.

“You’re very welcome,” Fluttershy says. “I, um, also found some medicine. I think?” She jumps up on the bed and opens her wings. The bottles and tubes she’d been holding under them tumble onto the bed. “I don’t know what most of this is, but hopefully something here will help you.”

You glance at the pile of stuff on your bed. Apparently, Fluttershy just nabbed everything in your medicine cabinet without really looking. That would explain why your shaving cream was sitting there next to your mouthwash. Fortunately, she also grabbed some aspirin. Since that’s good for both headaches and for preventing heart attacks, you pop the bottle open and take a couple, chasing it with water.

“Thanks,” you say.

“You’re very welcome,” Fluttershy replies with a wide smile, apparently forgetting the “shy” part of her name for the moment. The smile lights her whole face up, and you let out another quiet “hrng” as you return her smile.

“I hope water is okay,” she says. “I couldn’t get you anything else, because it looks like your refrigerator has some fire damage.”

“Yeah. A different pony did that.”

“Oh.” Fluttershy frowns. It’s very cute, the way her ears fold back and her muzzle scrunches up. It occurs to you that it’s probably impossible for her to do anything without doing it cutely. “Well, that was very rude of them. Um. Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” you say, though of course it really isn’t. But it’s not like that’s Fluttershy’s fault, and some instinct you didn’t even know you had is working overtime in order to not upset her. “So, uh...”

Fluttershy’s ears fold down over her head. With the apparent crisis over, her shyness is starting to return. She looks down, running a forehoof over your bed sheets.

“You, uh…” You’re at a loss for a moment, finally blurting out the first thing that crosses your mind. “You want to go watch TV or something?”

Fluttershy looks up at you, tilting her head to one side and blinking in confusion (hrng). “What’s ‘TV’?” she asks.

Five minutes later, a fascinated Fluttershy is sitting on your couch, sipping on a glass of water and watching Animal Planet.

I guess there are worse ways to spend an evening you think to yourself from your nice comfy armchair.

A few hours later, Fluttershy falls asleep on your couch. You can’t help but smile at the sight as a warm feeling spreads through your chest. Not wanting to wake her, you go and get a spare blanket from the bedroom closet.

You spread the blanket gently over her. Fluttershy doesn’t wake, though she does snuggle down into the blanket with a happy smile on her face.

“Hrng,” you say softly, so as not to wake her. Then you go and get the first decent night’s sleep you’ve had in a while.

Octavia is in your bed, drinking whiskey (Splat)

You open the door to your bedroom and walk inside. You see yet another pony in your bed. This time drinking whiskey and was obviously drunk. Very drunk. You could smell her breath from where you stood, at the opposite side of the room.

You sigh. “When will this madness end?”

The pony starts to wave her almost empty bottle of whiskey around, spilling drops of it in various spots on your bed sheets. “I-I’ve been asking the same damn question for a long time.”

You’re already annoyed. This has happened several times before, you’ve had a long day, and you’re exhausted and you’re definitely not in the mood. You start to think how many more times it’ll happen.

The pony gets to all fours and looks at you, still standing on your bed. You can see her face clearly now and you can see she is a mess. She had huge bags under her eyes, she obviously hasn’t been sleeping lately. Her mane is tattered and dirty like a stray. She takes another huge gulp of whiskey, still making a mess and dripping some on your bed sheets. “My name is… Oh what? Uhhh... Yeah, my name is Octavia. Would you like to hear my story?”

“No.” you say. “I don’t care who you are, I just want you out of he-“

She points to the mark on her rump. “You see this?”

“What? The mark?”

“Yes, come sit on my bed and I’ll tell you what it is.”

“Actually, it’s my bed and I want you to leave, Octavia.” You move over to your bed and attempt to shove her off but there’s no use.

“I’m not leaving, sweetie.” She takes pours the last of the whiskey into her mouth and throws the bottle at the wall. She pulls out another bottle from her bags.

“Do you mind?!”

“What? OH! Sorry, here.” She hands the bottle over to you. “Where are my manners?”

You push the bottle away back towards her. “Obviously back where you came from. Why don’t you go fetch them while I lock the doors when you leave to find them? I won’t ask you again. Please lea-“

She interrupts you again. “This mark means what my special talent is. My special talent is making music. Classical music to be exact.”

“You may as well listen to her because she isn’t going to leave until she’s finished.” You think to yourself. You sigh again. “Go on…”

“Classical music is a dying genre of music. It’s all dubstep now. There is no room for me and my passion anymore. I’m going to have to live off the wages of my partner who does dubstep, Vinyl Scratch. Personally, I think dubstep is a huge heap of shi-“

“Yes! I know Vinyl Scratch.” Your remind yourself of the events of night that occurred a while ago. You stroke your new bed, hoping that it doesn’t face the same fate as your old one. “I know Vinyl Scratch very well.”

Octavia looks at you suspiciously. “How do you know my partner?” She goes blank for a few moments. “Are… ARE YOU HAVING AN AFFAIR WITH MY PARTNER?! YOU HUMAN PIECE OF-“

“Will you please calm down?”

“SHE DOESN’T REALLY LOVE YOU, YOU KNOW! ISN’T IT ILLEGAL FOR YOU TO DO IT WITH A DIFFERENT SPECIES?!”

“Octavia, I assure you I didn’t have an affair with your partner. If anything I hate her.” You start to grumble as you remember the flames that were started by the white unicorn burn the object that was the cause of countless cozy memories.

“Why?”

“She burnt my bed.”

“Oh. Yeah she does that sometimes.”

“But speaking of beds, why are you on mine? Why not my neighbors bed?”

“Heh. Neighbors. Get it? Because I’m a pony.”

“Yes. I do. Giggle, Giggle, Giggle.” Your face is emotionless and very serious looking. “Now answer the question.” You wonder why you asked that question and not the other one; Why you? Why were they only coming to your bed and no one else’s? What attracted these ponies to you and you alone? Another was why were they so weird. One was looking at porn, another burning your bed, the other being your bed, yet another sent your bed to another dimension and this one was drunk because her career was going downhill.

“Fine! Fine! I’m on your bed because as soon as I started drinking this whiskey, I suddenly found myself here. From that point I knew, I knew that this bed knew the solution to my problems.”

“It isn’t because it’s an inanimate object. It’s not living.” You explain to her, not that it should need explaining.

She looks up at you while tears start to run down her cheeks. “I know. I’m just being silly. I’m just desperate for an answer to my problems.”

You start to feel sorry for her. Unlike the other ponies who had shown up, this one needed help. You start to think if you should kick her out, which would be the heartless solution to the problem or give her advice to help her. You decide to go with your second thought because even though you had a stressful day, if there is a distressed, crying, cute pony looking for an answer. You couldn’t just kick her out and make her feel worse.

But you start to think about her partner. She would be able to give her advice, but then you think that a pony who burns things wouldn’t give good advice so you decide to stick with the option you took.

You look back down at her. Octavia was now crying into your bed sheets, sobbing quietly and covering her face with her hooves. You knew exactly what to say. It was the same advice that was given to so many before her; keep trying.

“Octavia.” You say, getting her attention. She looks up at you. Her face was even worse than when you first saw her. “Just like in your world, there isn’t much classical music in my world either. It’s a dying genre here too.”

“Really?”

“Really, but just because it’s a dying genre doesn’t mean it has to end. It doesn’t mean no one likes it. I am a fan of classical music. There is a show I watch who gets a huge soundtrack for its series every year and the one who writes the pieces always uses instruments that are related to Classical Music. The soundtrack is Classical. Classical music isn’t what kind of music you would expect to be used in a Science Fiction show. Classical music doesn’t match Science Fiction shows, but he makes it match. He is brilliant and is considered important to the show. Sometimes, the music doesn’t sound like Classical. But trust me, he is brilliant at creating Classical music.” You explain, hoping that your speech would make her feel better.

Octavia felt happier. She realized that there could still be hope for her. “What is his name?”

“Murray Gold.” You reply. “I would let you listen to some of his pieces but I lost my phone. I’ll replace it soon, but Octavia, all you need to do is keep trying and eventually you will create a piece of music that everyone will love. It doesn’t matter about the genre.”

“I think I feel better now. Thank you.” She gives you a smile. It wasn’t pleasant, the teeth must have been stained yellow by all of the alcohol. “I knew that choosing that bed was a good idea.” She rolls out of your bed and falls to the floor, failing to get up. “Oh dear. I can’t stand.”

You sigh a third time. “I’ll carry you out and then you can find your way back from wherever you came from.” You pick her up and carry her out of your room.

“Oh buck, I love you.” She pulls your head closer with her hooves and gives you a drunken kiss.

You’re stunned by what just happened. “How many bottles of whiskey did you drink?”

“Consult the pile of empty whiskey bottles in the corner.” She said, slurring her words.

You look over to the corner. Empty bottles are stacked high. “Oh god.”

“Hey, can I come over some other time? I remember the way to get here.” She asks you. She notices by your face that you are considering saying no so she decides to give you the puppy eyes.

“To see me or the bed?” you ask back.

“I still truly believe that the bed can help me in some way.” She thinks about her answer. “To see you and the bed.”

“Maybe I will let you come back since you haven’t caused much damage or creeped me out as much as the other ponies. Fine, but only as long as you don’t give yourself alcohol poisoning or get drunk.”

“I promise I won’t. I may even bring Princess Celestia along with us to wed us. She promised me a favor after Prince Blueblood started flirting with me at the Grand Galloping Gala.”

“There is no chance of that happening. I promise.”

Author's Notes:

I'm not obsessed with Murray Gold; I just used him as an example because I like him

Sonata Dusk Is In Your Bed, Eating Tacos (MythrilMoth)

Sonata Dusk Is In Your Bed, Eating Tacos — MythrilMoth

After another horrible day of customer service work, you return home. You didn't bother to stop and get anything to eat on the way back, having decided it's not worth it. Besides, you have bologna in the fridge...

As you walk through the door, you hear loud crunching and moaning sounds from your bedroom. Frowning, you hurry back, dreading what you might find.

For once, there isn't a pony on your bed.

It's a teenage girl with light blue skin and two-tone blue hair in a ponytail, dressed like a reject from an Eighties girl rebel band.

There's a huge bag of Taco Bell tacos sitting next to her on the bed, which is covered in bits of lettuce, shredded cheese, tomato, beef, taco shell crumbs, and wadded-up taco wrappers.

She looks up at you, mouth full of taco, and fishes a wrapped taco out of the bag on the bed, offering it to you. "Taco?" she mumbles.

...you know what? This one isn't reading your porn, setting fire to your bed, banishing your bed to another dimension, or dead drunk...and also, she's not a pony, but a very cute girl. So...screw it.

"Sure," you say, accepting the taco. "Thanks."

"Sorry about the mess," she says once she swallows. "I just get so into eating tacos...they're just sooo goooooood..." She perks up. "I'm Sonata, by the way! Sonata Dusk."

Name rings a bell...

"You're not a pony," you say.

"Nope! I'm a Siren. Well, I was. Now I'm a teenage girl..." Sonata looks contemplative. "Actually, was I always a teenage girl even when I was a Siren? Oh, except I'm like, really really old even though I look like I'm in high school." She takes another big, crunchy bite of taco. "Sooo gooooood..."

"A Siren?" you ask.

"Uh-huh. I was half-fish, half-pony, or something like that. And I could fly."

Well that makes sense.

"So...what are you doing on my bed, and why are you eating tacos on my bed?"

"I dunno," she says. "Your bed just seemed like a good place to eat tacos." She tilts her head. "You know your bed smells like ponies, right?"

"So I noticed," you say.

"I noticed you have some magazines under your bed with pictures of naked girls," Sonata says. "You know, I don't get it...if humans like looking at each other naked so much, why wear clothes all the time? I mean, I kinda like my clothes, and I get yelled at if I try going out naked, but..." She looks up, tilting her head. "Now that I think about it, the only time I ever really see naked humans is on TV when they're having sex." She unwraps a new taco. "Adagio really likes watching the shows with humans having sex." She giggles and crunches into her new taco.

This conversation is making you uncomfortable for a number of reasons, so you grab another taco out of the bag. There seem to be far more tacos than should be possible...

As the two of you sit, eating tacos and making a huge mess, Sonata keeps babbling on about things that make no sense, or innocently saying things that a girl her age shouldn't be saying. Despite her claims of being a centuries-old half-fish, half-pony, all you see when you look at her is the kind of girl you probably would've wanted to bang when you were in high school.

"You know...this kind of thing usually happens to me on Mondays," you say. "How'd you end up in my bed today?"

Sonata shrugs. "It's Taco Tuesday," she says.

...right. Of course it is.

Sonata suddenly jumps up, jogging in place. "Oh my gosh...where's your bathroom? I gotta go, for realzies!"

You direct Sonata to the bathroom, then set about cleaning up the terrible mess she made on your bed. After an hour, she comes out of the bathroom, staggers back into your bedroom, and collapses on your bed, passing out as soon as her head hits the pillow.

You sigh, cover her up, grab a spare blanket and pillow, and head for the couch. You watch television for a little while with the volume down until sleep claims you.

You reflect on all the myriad reasons you've found yourself here on this couch lately, and decide that one of the least objectionable is the cute girl who gave you her taco.

...until, at around midnight, you need to use the bathroom.

The bathroom was clean when you left the house this morning.

Now, it looks like the bathroom at a greasy truck stop in the middle of nowhere.

"SONATAAAAAAAAAAAAA!"

A Swarm of Changelings is Under your Bed (Scarheart)

A Swarm of Changelings is Under your Bed
Scarheart

A lone nightlight was plugged into the wall, drawing the attention of a certain little girl snuggled deeply into her covers. She had been hearing noises every night for the past week. They scared her and she naturally hid beneath the covers of her blankets because everyone knew they kept the monsters away.

She had tried to tell Mommy and Daddy, but Daddy would look under the bed and into the closet only after tearful insistence there was something there!

The girl’s name was Christina and she was told she had an overactive imagination for a six-year-old. She was too old to be calling for Daddy to chase the monsters away, she was told.

Mommy kissed her on the forehead and Daddy assured her there were no monsters under her bed nor were there any lurking in her closet. She was tucked in, her father grumpily telling her to try and stay asleep this time. Mommy tucked her in and soon both left Cristina alone with her nightlight.

The same light she was now staring at.

There were no monsters, Daddy had said. Monsters aren’t real, Daddy had insisted.

The soft chittering sounds reaching the little girl’s ears begged otherwise. Always, it came from under her bed. Once she had dared to lean over her bed and look. Only shadow greeted her. Shadow and her teddy bear Paddington she had put specifically there to guard against the dark little monsters who grew bolder and bolder with each new night.

The grandfather clock struck midnight down the hallway, its mournful tones seeming to beckon the things lurking in the shadows beneath the mattress.

“Is it Monday already?” hissed a voice in a loud whisper from beneath Cristina.

Apparently, Paddington was a very bad guard.

The little girl jumped and gave a little scream, cutting it off before it could escape her lips. She clamped both hands over her mouth and held as still as possible.

“Well, she went to that one guy’s house...became a bed...then those idiots at the hive decided it would be wonderful to do the same thing. We gotta take a chance.” The second voice was only slightly less harsh and more inclined towards some semblance of stealthy communication. “And yeah, it’s just as Monday here as it is back home. Now shut up! You’ll ruin it for everyling else!”

“Why are we doing this again?” piped in a third voice.

“Stop poking me with your horn!”

There was a giggle. “Well, I’m horny and I can’t help it!”

A sigh followed and yet another voice joined in. “Yo. Six year old up top. Watch the innuendo!”

“Do we finally have everyone here?” growled the first voice. “We need to do this as a unit. Did we bring all the things we need?”

“I got the crown!”

“I’ve got the cape!”

“Hey, one of my lucky lottery numbers is eighty-eight!”

“Shh! You’ll wake the parents! I am not doing another changeling fire drill if they come in again!”

There was the sound of a scuffle coming from beneath the bed. Catherine’s fear had given way to curiosity. Surely monsters weren’t this silly! Slowly, she inched closer and closer to the edge of her bed, her fingers grasping the mattress. Holding as still as possible, she held her breath and cocked an ear to hear better. She could have sworn she could hear an odd buzzing sound. Make that a lot of buzzing sounds!

“Can we go home?” yelped yet another voice! How many were down there? Catherine wondered, her eyes having gone round with wonder.

“Not until we do this! We’re starving for love.”

“I want a donut.”

“Shut up! We’re all hungry! We’ve also determined little girls are the best source of nutrition for our dietary needs!”

“Don’t eat me!” Cristina blurted, suddenly afraid again. “I don’t want to be eaten!”

“Well, crap, she heard us,” griped the shadows beneath her bed.

A dark round head poked out with two glowing blue eyes from beneath the bed. It looked at Cristina. “Um. Not going to eat you. Promise!” It zipped back beneath the bed, but only after something had reached out and grabbed it. “Hey! Establishing contact and a peaceful overtones!” he complained.

It had to be a he. It sounded like a he. Cristina wasn’t sure. “Who are you? How many of you are there? What are you?”

She was ignored. “Are we doing this? Are we sure we’re going to do this?”

A chorus of voices rose with a fervent “Yes!”.

There was a pause beneath the bed. A collective intake of breath. Cristina was holding her own. “Okay, we’re coming out and we’re not going to hurt you! We just want to… talk.”

“Uh, should just one of us go out there? I mean, if she sees all of us, she’s probably going to scream for her parents and I really don’t want to do another changeling fire drill.”

“Heard you the first time.”

“I am not going to make the siren noise!”

“Will you idiots kindly shut up! We need this and this needs to happen! Our queen is a bed. A bed!”

“On another manic Monday!”

“What are we doing Tuesday?”

“Not going back to the Badlands, that’s for sure. The bed thing is all the rage now.”

“We’re off track again, aren’t we?”

Cristina giggled. She had no idea the monsters under her bed would be so weird and funny. “What are you doing under my bed?” she asked curiously.

“Talking,” came the dry reply. There was the sound of something being pelted pretty hard. “Ow! What did you do that for?”

“Just shut up and let Speaker do his thing.”

“Speaker?” Cristina asked curiously.

A dark head poked out from beneath the bed. “Uh, yeah, that’s me. Hello there!” Bright blue eyes were lit cheerfully. They were completely blue! The hues were darker on the outer part, lightening to almost white to what Cristina thought were the creature’s pupils.

“What are you?” she asked again. The faint light of the nightlight hinted at some sort of four legged form no larger than a big dog or a small pony. Cristina liked ponies. “Are you a pony?” she blurted with a rush of excitement.

The creature stared at her. “Erm, not quite. At least not at all like the ponies you might be thinking of.”

“You look familiar,” Cristina said. “I want to turn on the light!”

“No! Please don’t do that!” insisted the Speaker. “We...um...don’t want you thinking we’re scary. Ah...how...exactly are we familiar to you?”

“A cartoon...you look like a bug.”

“What show?” the Speaker asked, tilting his head suspiciously to one side. His ears had gone...flat? It was hard to tell in the gloomy light. His eyes swirled, showing emotion. Cristina thought he was nervous.

“My Little Pony?”

“Oh, that’s it! We’re gone! I’m packing my bags! I’m going home to mother! OW!!”

“Hey! Did she just say ‘My Little Pony’?”

“I do believe I heard Thunderfury, Blessed Blade of the Windseeker!”

It was absolute chaos under the bed. Cristina could feel whatever was going on underneath her through the mattress and the bedspring. She wondered if it was possible to jump on a bed upside down.

The Speaker sighed and looked at the girl apologetically. “One moment, please. I’ll be right back.” Then, he produced an enormous hammer from seemingly nothing and dove beneath the bed.

“IT’S HAMMER TIME, YOU IDIOTS!”

There were thumps. There were lumps. They were given out judiciously, if the girl’s ears were telling her correctly. The cries of pain and agony reminded Cristina of the sounds of Bugs Bunny and Friends. One of the dark forms tried to crawl out from under the bed, clawing futilely at the floor with what looked like legs with holes pitted up and down their lengths. A hook shot out from beneath the bed and grabbed the odd bug pony thing about its midsection, then dragged the thing as it babbled pleading words at Cristina before being sucked up by the shadows beneath the bed.

The mayhem went on for a bit longer before the Speaker returned, hefting the broken shaft of his once hammer. “I hated having to do that,” he lied, flashing her a grin that had really neat fangs in it. She had not noticed them before. “Let me get straight to the point,” he insisted.

The girl clutched her blankets around her, staring at him expectantly.

“We are changelings. We are hiding from ponies. We have left our queen because she has become a bed.”

“Queen sized, too!” chirped a voice from beneath Cristina’s bed.

“Yes. Queen sized,” sighed the Speaker as he rolled his eyes dramatically. “Look. Cristina. We’ve been watching you for a while. We’ve been trying to keep away from being spotted by your Father—”

“HE’S GOT BIG, NASTY TEETH!”

“Shut up, Reggie!”

There was a gasp. “You spoke my name!” accused one of the monsters, er, changelings from beneath the bed.

“Why are you hiding from ponies?”

“Pink Bubble of Doom,” the Speaker whispered, looking away in shame and showing obvious signs of Post Traumatic Team Rocket Syndrome. “Our tale is too sad and terrible to contemplate.”

“The lazer pony was worse!” quipped another changeling lurking down below.

The Speaker shook off whatever terrible memory he had...or it was last night’s five bean burrito slathered in syrupy love....he would never tell…

“Bottom line is, we formed a committee,” the changeling went on, scuffing the floor with a...hoof? Cristina was sure it was a hoof. A holey hoof!

“I brought the donuts!” exclaimed another unseen voice. “With sprinkles!”

The Speaker pressed on, ignoring yet another interruption. “We need a queen.”

The little girl blinked. “Really? Why do you need one?”

“Our current queen is a bed. A magic talking bed! That’s embarrassing!” He scoffed at the indignity, running a...hoof?...over his...crest? “Have you ever been a tree?”

“No.”

He smiled. “Good. Now, do you have any personal desires to become a bed?”

“Huh? Noooo. That’s silly! I don’t want to be a bed!”

“Huzzah!” came a cry beneath the girl’s bed.

“Oh, good Luna impression, Kekee!”

Cristina’s next question was not exactly high on the list of questions expected by the Speaker. “How many bed bugs are under my bed?”

“Changelings, not bed bugs. We’re not bugs at all,” he insisted, buzzing his gossamer wings. They looked like bug wings in the faint wall light. “There are a dozen of us, actually. We’re not mindless drones who think becoming a bed is the answer to all love problems! We represent a faction who have decided to ditch the witch and start up our own hive. The problem is, a proper hive needs a proper queen.”

“You want me to be your queen?” Cristina surprised herself with her own question.

The Speaker nodded eagerly. “Yes please!”

“I don’t know. I’d have to ask Mommy first.”

There were groans from beneath the bed. “Oh, come on!” came one indignant cry.

“Now, now, that’s a properly raised child, I tell you!” said yet another voice.

“Baker’s dozen!” chirped the Speaker nervously.

“We are changelings of action! Lies do not become us!”

“Well spoken, Wesely!”

Everything beneath the bed was humming, having grown from nothing, going past the squirming group crammed deep within the darkness of what lay beneath a typical little child’s bed. There was a growing din, a coming swarm.

“We’ve gone over a score! They all want to meet the new queen!”

“But we haven’t decided yet!”

“She must choose!”

“What if she says no?”

There was sudden silence at the awkward question. “Maybe Celestia will be our queen?” came a horrible suggestion which started a tremendous uproar down below.

“Bad! That was bad, Bob! Newspaper me! GIVE ME THE ROLLED UP NEW YORK TIMES!”

“Can I keep the editorial? They have such interesting articles…”

“Gimme the funny pages!”

“Hey, I found a copy of an old Atari game… Can we beat him with it, instead? I need the wanted ads.”

The voices were now everywhere. They had spilled out from beneath the bed and were on the walls, on the ceiling, crawling everywhere on the floor! Cristina knew she was not afraid because she was in a fit of giggles. Everywhere she looked, there was a blue glow coming from dozens—no, hundreds of eyes going about and staring at her with intense curiosity.

Suddenly, Cristina’s bedroom door swung open, sending a few changelings scattering. They chirped, buzzed, squealed, hopped, scolded, and finally went silent as a pair of very surprised and suddenly open-mouthed parents were staring when Daddy found the light switch.

A room full of changelings stared right back.

“I told you there were monsters under my bed!” chirped Cristina happily. “Can I keep them? They want to make me their queen!” She grabbed a random changeling —which happened to be the Speaker— and gave him a huggable squeeze. He squeaked like a rubber ducky.

“Yes,” said Speaker. “Our queen has turned herself into a bed and some bozo is probably sleeping on her. We want a new one. How does ‘Queen Mother’ and ‘Queen Father’ sound to the both of you?” He was ever so diplomatic as a living squeak toy.

Daddy fainted into Mommy’s arms. The changelings all smiled awkwardly and tried —tried, mind you— to look as adorable as possible. Half looked as though they were trying to conceal a very bad bout of constipation while the other half made duck faces.

Rainbow Dash Crashes Into Your Bed (Rinnaul)

Rainbow Dash Crashes Into Your Bed
Rinnaul

Sunlight is just beginning to peek through your bedroom window, something that normally wouldn't disturb your rest, as you use a blackout curtain to get the most out of what sleep you can catch between work and late-night internet browsing sessions that you always swear seemed more productive than they turned out to be. However, last night you left the window open in the hopes of clearing out the lingering smell of smoke.

And so, in contrast to your typical morning, you're greeted by the rising sun, the sound of birdsong, the crisp dewy scent of a fresh dawn, and the promise of an overall beautiful day.

Fuck that. It's your day off.

You pull the blankets up higher over your head to block out the light, noise, and slight chill, and do your best to avoid leaving bed without being physically dragged from it. Of course, you should know by now that such intentions are virtually an invitation for the universe to do bizarre, terrible, and often pony-related things to you. So while it’s not necessarily unexpected for something to suddenly slam into the other side of your bed, collapsing the frame and boxspring in a cacophony of snapping wood, it still managed to be surprising.

As is the impact thrusting your half of the bed upwards in reaction, as though the entire bed were a lever, sending you flying through the air. You have barely a moment to think “fucking ponies” before your trajectory suddenly concludes with your floor. You let out an unmanly squawk of pain as you come down hard on your shoulder, and agony shoots outward from it, down your arm and side. You pull the blankets tighter over you as you writhe on the floor in pain, hoping to at least delay dealing with whichever pony has been unceremoniously dropped into your life this time.

“Oh man, that wasn’t nearly as soft as it looked from outside,” a familiar voice says from the ruins of your bed.

Your attempts to curse the universe in general, your life in particular, ponies specifically, and Rainbow fucking Dash very very specifically mostly just come out as vague, pain-themed groaning sounds. These unfortunately gain her attention.

Rainbow Dash pokes her head over the side of the bed. “Oh, hey, is this your place? I’m looking for a friend of mine, Twilight Sparkle? Purple, nerdy, wings and a horn. Ring any bells?”

Your continued tirade of pain-noises seems to go unnoticed—at least, the part where they’re the result of terrible agony does, anyway.

“She’s kinda gone jumping between dimensions or something, and Princess Luna’s spell was supposed to send me after her, but it doesn’t look like she’s around.” She finally looks down and actually pays attention to you. “Are you okay down there? You’re kinda rolling around in agony and stuff.”

You really wish your preferred arm was functioning at the moment so you could flip her off properly. She’ll have to made do with a half-hearted gesture from your off hand.

“Sorry, dude, I don’t know your weird bald-monkey-finger-language. I’ll just have a look myself, alright?”

Rainbow Dash hops down from the bed and flutters her wings to come to a soft landing beside you, where she begins jabbing a hoof around your side and shoulder. The yelp of pain when she touches the latter seems to be diagnosis enough for her. She’s not paying attention to your face, and thus doesn’t catch the glare of pure hate you give her at the same time.

“Yeah, looks like you dislocated something. Stay put, I know what to do.” She catches your incredulous-yet-pained look this time and rolls her eyes. “Do you know how many broken bones, dislocations, and sprains I go in for? I’ve watched the nurses patch me up dozens of times. How hard can it be?”

This time, you manage to actually produce the words “Wait, stop—” as she dashes off, but don’t get any further because your attempt to roll over and keep her from doing anything else proves excruciating to the point of nearly making you pass out. You’re forced to lie still and try to recover for a few minutes, and when she comes back to you, she’s carrying a pile of white strips that you recognize as having once been your sheets. You groan and drop your head back against the floor.

“Sorry, but I needed something to work with, and with all the stains and burn marks, I figured you’d be getting rid of these soon, anyway.”

You… honestly have to grant her that point. Between the scorch marks, whiskey stains, and lingering obscene energies from the darkest depths of the human psyche, that sheet set wasn’t much longer for this world. Still, it wouldn’t have killed her to ask first.

And those complaints are suddenly rendered trivial when Rainbow Dash pulls you into a sitting position with no warning and begins tending to your wounds. As befitting her name, she works fast, if with little care for her patient’s comfort, but you soon realize there’s a bigger problem—Rainbow Dash’s understanding of medicine seems to begin and end with “wrap it in bandages.” In short order, she’s virtually mummified your torso, and in the process (rather painfully) pinned both arms to your sides.

You’re not certain how or why she bound your mouth tightly shut as well.

“There we go, off to a great start,” she says, beaming at you. “Now, if I know recovering from injuries—and I know recovering from injuries—the most important thing is going to be getting a lot of rest. So let’s just get you into your—” She pauses when her eyes land on the ruined mess that was once your bed, before it met her. “Oh, right, landing pad. Don’t worry, I’ve got an idea!”

With that, she lets you go, and you hit the floor with another “glurk” of pain, which once again goes unnoticed, between the muffling effect of the cloth strips covering your mouth, and the fact that she’s already flying back out the window. You decide to lie there in a state of general misery, trying to focus on the one bright spot in this day: for a least a few moments, there aren’t any ponies here. You close your eyes and bask in that one, shining, fact.

A few minutes later, though, you find yourself feeling inexplicably damp and cold. Opening your eyes again, you find your room is hidden by a field of white. You hear the window shut.

“Oh man, you guys put your clouds way higher than ours,” Dash says, as you hear wing flaps from her. “This’ll just take a second. I promise it’s going to be a hundred times better than any other bed you’ve ever slept in.”

The fog—or cloud, apparently—gradually fades from vision, and you get to watch why: Rainbow Dash is kicking and stomping the clouds into shape, compressing them into something roughly the same size and shape as your prior bed, and floating just inches off the floor next to it. As she works, the fog you had been seeing is being pressed into this much more compact shape.

“Am I awesome or what?” she says, then pulls you back to your feet. Fortunately, she manages to grab the arm that isn’t dislocated this time, and the experience is far less painful than the last everything she’s done to you have been.

You still mutter a few impolite things about her under the cloth bandages.

“Now just lie down, relax, and let the healing begin.” With that, she gives you a solid nudge in the back, sending you falling towards the cloud bed.

A few thoughts pass through your mind.

“I wonder if they’re as comfortable as they look?”

“Can Earth clouds even be used this way?”

“Are humans magical enough to be supported by a cloud?”

“What happens if I—”

You promptly pass through the cloud and land, dislocated-shoulder-first, on the floor. There’s a loud pop as you hit, but the bandages fortunately muffle all the screaming you would have been doing otherwise.

On the other hand, you think the impact managed to knock your shoulder back into place. It was still unspeakably painful, but you’ve got to see the silver linings.

“Oh, buck, are you okay?” Dash zips over and lands on the clouds, looking down at you through the hole you made in them.

That you made a hole in them, but no other cartoon physics have applied to you for this entire encounter, feels monstrously unfair.

“That looked like it really hurt, but, uh,” she hesitates and gives you an awkward grin. “At least your shoulder’s not at that weird angle anymore.”

You manage to work your jaw enough to expose your mouth from under the bandages. “Please stop helping me,” you manage to croak out, pained tears in your eyes.

“Sorry, sorry, let me just—” Whatever she was about to do this time is interrupted by a sudden swirl of blue magic above her head. She looks up towards it. “Huh? Princess Luna? Well, no, she’s not here, but… But I was helping this guy and… What do you mean the spell is about to run o—”

Rainbow Dash vanishes in a swirl of blue magic.

The compressed cloud, now that it’s no longer in the immediate presence of pegasus magic, promptly obeys its nature and condenses into water. A few seconds later the cloud is done being rain, and you are lying in a puddle in the middle of your bedroom floor.

“Silver linings,” you think to yourself. “At least the ponies are gone.”

Author's Notes:

Originally intended to follow immediately after Admiral Biscuit's chapter, with Dash showing up looking for Twilight the next day after Twilight's visit. But I wrote it piecemeal over several days, so I worked in references to the other chapters as best I could as they went up.

Pinkie Pie is Playing Twister With Your Bed (Maxes Altho)

Pinkie Pie Is Playing Twister With Your Bed
Maxes Altho God, you needed this. A nice weekend away from your apartment and the crazy reality-warping bed that keeps dumping ponies into, on, and around it.

You’ve decided, after the last disaster, to go see your parents and kid sister. Thankfully, they didn’t keep their promise and move to Hawaii the moment you set foot out their door.

You four had loads of fun, seeing the latest bad comedy, going to that museum you’ve been to a dozen times before, and just walking the town as you swap stories about where your friends went after high school.

Monday, Evening

You walk into the four-bedroom house after picking up groceries for your last night at home. You’d love to stay longer (work sucks, and you’re fairly certain one of your managers is making passes at you), but you need to pay the bills. The very least you could do is make dinner for your family. Speaking of, Mom and Dad are working late, and your sister is on her computer, like always. Perfect time for the surprise!

… At least, it would be, if you didn’t hear loud, obnoxious music as soon as you opened the front door. Your sister doesn’t own any dubstep, and she’s always got her headphones on anyways. You set the groceries in the kitchen, put the most valuable frozen foods in the freezer, and investigate. The wubs are coming from your room.

“Oh my god, if that curse followed me here… at least, if it’s Vinyl, she brought her turntable this time. Just gotta keep her away from, well, everything.”

You shove open the door to your room, and freeze. Vinyl is most definitely not in your bed. Your bed isn’t even where your bed is supposed to be.

Your room has been turned into the closest approximation of a party in the Capitol Wasteland as you can get. Everything is shoved up against the walls, tables covered in snacky foods are everywhere, party music is blaring from your speakers, and a familiar pink party pony is playing Twister with your bed, and losing.

She, who is obviously Pinkie Pie, eventually notices you standing there, jaw so open you could swallow the Titanic, and waves. “Hi there! Care to joi—Whoa!” That wave threw her balance off, and she crashes to the mat. The bed stands on two legs, and is… laughing? At least, it is making the motions of laughing, no sound is coming out, as it is a bed and, therefore, does not contain any of the necessary parts to constitute life.

She gets up, a playful grin on her face. “Oh, you won’t be so lucky next time!” The bed salutes, then leans against the only bare wall. Pinkie brings over a plate of snacks, shoves a slice of cake in your mouth, and forcibly shuts it. The blast of pure sugar finally gets your attention. You swallow (hey, it’s good cake), and try to speak.

“Uh… wha… Pink… huh?”

She grins even wider. Any bigger, and she’d be saying “You wanna know why I got these scars?”

“Hi! I’m Pinkie Pie! I was getting ready to throw a mondo party just ‘cause I wanted to when I got poofed here but my Party Cannon came with me and went BOOM in here instead of Town Hall so I decided ‘why not? I’ll just party here instead!’ and now I have a new friend so this is now a Fun-Party-with-a-New-Friend-Party! Actually, it’s a Double-New-Friend-Party, but my other new friend drank a little too much ginger ale.” She waves a hoof at a pile in the corner, where your sister slumps, unconscious. “You wanna play Twister? That bed is really good, but I know the two of us together can beat him!”

A deep voice comes from the closet. “Are you sure you want to, Pinkie? Currently, you are at 0-5.”

“Discord? You brought Discord here?”

“What? Oh, no, I’m not Discord. I just voice him.” The closet door opens, and sure enough, John de Lancie steps forward.

“YAAAAAAA!” With a shout, yet another figure leaps through the window, landing on one of the tables. “Sheogorath has returned, foolish mortals, and I have brought the finest Nordish ale! Now the party can commence!”

That’s it. You can’t take it anymore, and your legs agree. You slump to the ground, and your brain takes a vacation from this vacation.

You wake up hours later, according to the clock, sometime around midnight. You have a splitting headache, and a foul taste in your mouth. You sit up and look around.

Was it all a dream? The room is in impeccable order, there are no Daedric Princes swigging ale, no celebrities in the closet, no ponies, and your bed is in the correct corner, made. The only thing out of place is a small pink present in the center of your room.

Dear Funny Guy,

Thanks soooooooo much for letting me party in your room! You were an absolute blast, once that guy with the silver hair and funny clothes picked you off the ground! That other guy who sounds like Discord was fun and all, but you outpartied even me!

It really got crazy when all those other things started showing up and partying too, but it was so awesome! It was so so so sososo fun!

The party ended when the real Discord showed up, something about cleansing an interdimensional rift around a certain individual. I think he meant you, by the way you were running around, pelting him with bottles as he chased after you. Everyone joined the chase, and it somehow turned into a giant conga line!

Discord, the party pooper, poofed all the other things away, and tried to fix you. He got really frustrated, and red in the face, so I thought it was a mean face challenge so I tried to outmeanface him, but he stopped me. He said something about ‘he can’t be cured’ then poofed your room back to normal and poofed us home.

Here’s a little gift, from one party animal to another.

Enjoy,

Pinkie Pie

You’re not sure how she got all of that on a 3x4 apology card, but you open the present, and find a large cake in the shape of Pinkie’s face. You take a bit of the frosting in hand, and lick. Exactly as they describe in the show, almost pure sugar, but oh so delicious. This will constitute your evening snack for at least the next week.

You exit your room, and walk down the hallway. Your parents and sister are in their respective rooms, sound asleep. You make your way back to your room, and stumble into bed.

“Eep!”

You bolt upright, and find Pinkie Pie hiding under the covers.

“What? How? … You know what, I’m not even going to question anymore.”

“Oh! I asked Discord to bring me back here so I could be sure you got your present! He’ll be back in the morning, so can I sleep here tonight? No more party, I Pinkie Promise.”

“Uh, sure, I guess.” She snuggles up to you, and you somehow manage to get a peaceful night’s sleep.

You wake up with a mouthful of candy-pink hair, but it was peaceful nonetheless.

Author's Notes:

Not quite as Pinkie-crazy as I was expecting it to be, or maybe as bed as is needed, but I’m happy.

Cadance Poofs into Your Bed (Flutterpriest)

Cadance Poofs into Your Bed
Flutterpriest

Meanwhile, in Equestria...

You stare at the ceiling, counting upwards in your head in a vain attempt to bring you sleep. It was called 'insomnia'. Despite your best attempts, you could not fall asleep. You could scream, cry, try to put your mind off of it or simply try to think of nothing. Sleep would never come to you.

It didn't matter that you slept on one of the most comfortable and coveted beds in all of the land. The light, fluffy goodness of the pillows nor the gentle, smooth silken sheets could comfort you to put you into the world of dreams. You could always try taking medicine to help you fall asleep, but a part of you never quite wanted to take the risk, in fear of taking too much. Then you would have a real problem you couldn't fix.

With a sigh, you rolled over to look outside the crystal windows at the evening's bright moon. It was just another boring Monday. Just like every other day, you would stroll the Crystal Empire trying to find a job. Spend time trying to find some sort of job around the city. Dine on delectable meals with Princess Cadance and Shining Armor. Then retire to your quarters to read a book or maybe play a game or two with Shining.

It really was almost painful.

Day in and day out it was the same routine. Most of the citizens considered it to be a great honor that the royal couple invited you into their palace to stay. Honestly, you probably didn't even need to find a job, but you can only burn things in the kitchen and annoy the guards so many times before you run out of fun things to do in the oversized castle. Getting a job would just break up the monotony a little bit.

Rolling onto your stomach, you close your eyes and pull a pillow over your head, burying your face deep into the layers of quilted heaven. The fact was that everything was boring. Shining was boring. Cadance was boring. Everything was just miserably, horribly boring. The two royals liked having you around because you didn't hold them on the same high horse as everyone else did.

Although, they likely wouldn't have worded it the same way.

At least they were there for you. If you had the need to talk or wanted something to do, they would happily oblige. You saw them more as the best high-class roommates ever. Mostly because they pay for your stuff. Well, most of your stuff. That set of tea cups is yours, god dammit. They can't take it away from you.

Okay. This clearly isn't working. You have to get some sleep. You have a whole lot of nothing to do tomorrow. Just don't think of anything.

You lie in bed, staring into the darkness provided by the power of the pillow and any sounds of the castle being muffled by the same force. The pillow was your sword through the evening. Your shield through the dreams. Your closest friend that would never spill that you secretly had a drooling problem. Except for the one night where-

Damn it. Get yourself together. With a sigh, you hear a muffled popping noise in the darkness. It's probably nothing. Maybe a bird ran into the partially see through castle. Who even decided to make a partially see through castle anyway? Who in the world thought that was-

Then, you felt it. You pause and hold your breath. The bed moved. Just wait. Maybe it was just your imagination. You listen carefully, the silence of the air only interrupted by the sound of your beating heart.

Then a light and feminine groan breaks through the silence. It was unmistakable and it was directly next to you. You pull the pillow off your head and gaze to the other side of the bed. There, lying directly beside you, her face buried into a pillow, was Princess Cadance.

Her pink, purple and golden hair was illuminated in the moonlight beside you. You sat up in bed as you were suddenly perplexed as to why the Princess of Love and the Ruler of the Crystal Empire was suddenly lying beside you. Was this a dream? Was there something you didn't remember? You study the gentle features of her face and the delicately cared for pink fur that covered her body. She was dressed in a silken light blue night gown and was laid above the covers of your bed.

Well, at this point, what do you have to lose? You reach out a hand and gently nudge her.

“Mmmh~” she lightly groans. “I said not toniight...”

You immediately retract your hand and your eyes grow wide. You look from your hands, back to her and then back to your hands. Does she think you are Shining?

Slowly, the princess rolls over to you with a smile on her face and her eyes still closed tight.

“Well, unless you give me a kiss first~” she says lightly, in a tone you've never heard her use with you before. It tensed the back of your throat and you suddenly focused on her lips. What the hell is going on? Why is this happening? Why now?

Why are you even still considering this?

You lean closer and you can feel her hot breath against your skin. A million thoughts reel through your head as you consider your options. Should you stop? Do you continue? You gulp and sit just inches from the face of the Princess of Love.

Then, slowly she opens her eyes and the two of you lock gazes.

Sometimes, when something magical happens, time stops. No words need to be said. The two people experiencing the magic of love simply understand each other entirely in that single moment. Forever in their minds, that moment will be burned as the moment they knew that they loved the other.

This was not even close to one of those moments.

Cadance's eyes shrank to the size of pinpricks and her face became flush with embarrassment. Her hoof connected directly with your face as the sheer force of her punch sends you flying across the room and against the wall. You bounce off the wall and onto the table which held your prized tea set which promptly smashed into a thousand pieces.

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING IN MY ROOM?! WHERE IS SHINING?!” Cadance screams aloud to the world, covering herself with the blanket.

Slowly you rise to your feet, after getting forced out of your own bead. “Your room?” you ask her in pure shock. “This is my room! I've slept in here every day since you let me in this castle!”

Cadance breathes heavily as she looks around the room, trying to absorb where she is. Slowly, she begins to calm down and shake her head.

“What?” you ask her, frustrated with how lightly she's taking the situation. “Why did you suddenly pop into my room in the middle of the night?! Huh? Why don't you explain that to me,”

The Princess laughs and shakes her head. “Sorry! Sorry. You deserve an explanation. It's just, sometimes when ponies with unicorn magic have nightmares in Equestria, they might accidentally set off a spell in their sleep. It's sort of like when animals try to run in their sleep. It's a defense mechanism. I was having a bad dream and, well. Poof!” Cadance giggles to herself and shakes her head.

Your jaw drops as you hear a knock on your bedroom door. “Dear? I heard you yell from Anon's room. Did you teleport in your sleep again?” you hear the voice of Shining call through the door.

Cadance raises her head and looks toward the door. “Yes, dear. I scared the life out of Anon. I'll be right out.”

“Okay, well don't be too long,” he calls through the door, sounding frustrated.

You look between the presence at the door and back to the princess, who stands up on your bed and stretches her limbs.

“Wait, so this just happens all the time?” you ask, bewildered. “Unicorns will just pop around in other beds in the middle of the night? How is that normal? How is that okay?!”

Cadance smiles and steps down from the bed. “When you say it like that, you make it sound as if there was anything more than an accidental teleport in the middle of the night...” she says lightly.

Instantly you raise your hands and take a step back. “Woah. Now I didn't mean anything like that, I just-”

Cadance quickly interrupted you as she took a few steps closer to you, wearing the same smile. “You know, I remember some of my unicorn friends would accidentally pop into the homes of the stallions they liked in school. Then claim that they had some horrible dream where only that stallion could save them from certain horrors,” she continued. Her hips swayed side to side as she walked closer to you, her tail accenting her movements.

“Uhm...” you mutter, but words don't seem to come to you as quickly as you would like.

She smiles and moves just a few steps away from you, her violet eyes looking up into yours. “What were you trying to do when I thought you were Shining, Anon?” she whispers gently. You opened your mouth to speak, but no words escaped your lips. Your eyes darted from side to side as sweat slowly moved down your forehead to your nose. I-is she making a move at you?

She takes another step closer to you and you try to swallow a lump in your throat. Her gaze pierces your eyes and stares deep down into your soul.

Then, a loud thunk, juts you awake as a bird collides with the window of your bedroom. The noise practically makes you jump out of your skin. Quickly, you look around your room as the bird picks itself up off your balcony and flies away. What happened last night?

Your eyes move to your tea set, which sits as proud as it always does on display, in just the event that you might need to entertain a guest with a pot of tea in your room. Or if you were just in the mood for tea. Hey, it was in your room. Who was going to judge? However, the tea set was in one piece. Sitting like no one, or no pony, had ever touched it.

“It must have been some sort of dream... then,” you say to yourself, as you gently move yourself out of bed and dangle your feet off of the edge of your bed. Rising to your feet, a sharp stabbing pain shoots through the arch of your feet and lose your balance. With a yelp, you fall and forcefully give the floor a high-five with your face. “Owww...” you grumble.

Sitting up on the ground, now fully wide awake, you look at your foot and see a small trickle of blood ooze out of a cut in your foot.

“What the hell...” you whisper, as you look where you dangled your foot. A small jagged object sits on the ground. Reaching over, you pick it up and inspect it. Looking it over, it was made out of marble, slightly curved... and had the same pattern on it as your prized tea set.

Tuesday is already off to an interesting start.

Ms. Harshwhinny Finds Your Bed Unsuitable For Hosting The Equestria Games (nemryn)

Ms. Harshwhinny Finds Your Bed Unsuitable For Hosting The Equestria Games
nemryn

This time, there was only a note placed on the center of the bed.

“I must say, Mr. The Human, it has been quite some time since I had the displeasure of inspecting a venue that was so uniquely unsuited to the task of hosting the Equestria Games. The pillows aren't regulation weight, the springs need a tune-up, and the bed itself isn't large enough for any events other than the 5k Nap. The sanitation facilities are inadequate, and a single portal is not nearly enough to accommodate the expected number of ponies. Additionally, while it is not part of the formal inspection process, I find your taste in pornography questionable. A lesser mare might say she regretted denying your application, but the only thing I regret is participating in this farce.”

Discord Turns Your Bed Into A Chocolate Raincloud (Chicago Ted)

Discord Turns Your Bed Into a Chocolate Raincloud
Chicago Ted

Well!

You walked into your bedroom, bone-tired, the last drop of your energy squeezed from your system, like the rind of an orange, or a lemon. These customers of yours have a way of demanding more effort than you have, especially on Monday. By the time you punched out come day’s end, your soul and your soles were begging you for mercy. --And to top it off, you’ve seen several ponies in your bed recently. You can’t help but wonder how and why they wound up there.
But you’re not willing to find out why at the moment. In fact, there’s not much you can do, save for earning a well-deserved rest. So you climb into the duvet, shut your eyes, and let Hypnos take over.

“Cleanup on aisle six,” droned the intercom. Aisle six contained several refrigerated products. --Perhaps someone spilled some milk?

You continued with the checkout-- the janitor would take care of it. Just as you started packing a second bag of groceries, you heard what sounded like a water main bursting in aisle six. A large puddle of chocolate milk started permeating the floor throughout the store. The flow rate was so fast, soon it was up to your knees. Clearly, the janitor couldn’t handle it.

Well, what were you going to do? Continue like nothing was happening?

Nay! You leave as fast as you can!

Two problems arise as you proceed to the egress. One: everyone else had the same idea, and the doors were only so wide. And Two: the chocolate milk was really thick, which further impeded movement.

You started to make your way to the nearest door, which thankfully was relatively uncrowded, but an assistant-manager grabbed you by the shoulder and ordered you to finish packing the customer’s groceries. You tried to object to such an absurd proposal, but you were threatened with termination.

Grudgingly, you made your way back to the counter, and finished the second, and then the third bags. The last item you packed, you noticed, was a carton of chocolate milk.

Oy vey.

Now that that was out of the way, you start to leave again. Fortunately, the doorway was much more clear than before, but the chocolate milk was now up to your waist. To make matters worse, someone or something tripped the sprinkler system, which was now raining down-- yup, chocolate milk. At this point, you started to wonder if it was really chocolate milk. --In Heaven’s name, you hoped so.
You were trying not to think about the possibilities of this substance, besides chocolate milk, by the time you burst outside of the store. You were astonished that, quite against the laws of physics, the chocolate milk appeared to have halted entirely at the door, as though an invisible barrier were holding it in place. And then you looked up, and realized you have merely went, as the idiom goes, out of the frying pan and into the fire.

There were large pink clouds hanging above the parking lot, and possibly the rest of the city, all raining down chocolate milk. It was coming down faster than in the store, but wasn’t pooling up as severely, thanks to several dozen storm drains placed around the city.

But that wasn’t all. You saw several cars and street fixtures floating in midair. --Some were even rotating in circles. Through the pooling-up milk, you could see the pavement was in a checkerboard fashion.

Without warning, one of the pink clouds reached down to you, grabbed you, and pulled you up into the sky!

And everything dissolved into nothingness.

You came to your senses, to realize one aspect of the nightmare held true-- the chocolate milk rain.

One pink cloud was hanging right over your bed. It had soaked your bed-sheets, leaving you vulnerable to pneumonia. The chocolate also gathered in one large puddle-- nay, scratch that, a small lake-- surrounding your bed.

“I see you’re awake,” something unseen said.

You’re too speechless and sleepy to respond. --Worse yet, you have no idea what that voice just meant.

Then a door opened-- but not your bedroom door!, but one that appeared in the æther at your bedside-- and in walked what can be best described as an animal that can’t make up its mind.

It had the head of a horse, like the many you have encountered in the past, but the dual horns it possessed were those of a deer and a goat on its right and left, respectively. It had a snake-like body, with wings and four legs from several different animals, and it walked upright.

It shut the door behind it, and with a snap of its fingers (one of its hands was an eagle’s talons), it disappeared.

“Good evening, human,” it addressed you. “I’m Discord.”

“What the hell are you doing here?” you ask.

“Oh, I just saw how boring your life had been recently,” explained ‘Discord,’ “and I thought to myself, ‘Hey-- what better way to fix that than throwing a wrench into the works?’”

As though on cue, a monkey wrench suddenly dropped down onto your shin. You cried out from the sharp pain. “What was that for!?” you shouted.

“Just to make a point,” Discord replied, with a casual tone and a shrug.

“Why’d you wake me?” you demanded.

“Sometimes it’s not enough to experience chaos in a dream,” he explained. “Sometimes I have to show it to you in real life. Dreams are much more flexible than reality, after all. --Here, I’ll show you!”

With a snap of his talons, your bed became a pink cloud-- exactly like the chocolate raincloud hanging above you!

You tried to get out of the raincloud, only to find you were stuck there in a gooey mess.

“C’mon!” Discord beckoned. “This’ll be fun!”

“I’m stuck in a cloud that’s made of-- feels like cotton candy,” you protested as you figured out the material. “I’m about to go on some sort of adventure with a complete stranger. --Tell me now, how is that fun!?”

“You’ll see in a minute,” he simply replied. He boarded the cloud hanging over your bed, and announced, “And now for something completely different.” The two of you promptly sailed out the window.

You looked down to see where you were, and find you were hovering about forty feet over the central square. Such a high altitude made you nervous, but this cloud wasn’t about to let you go anytime soon.

“Here we go,” announced Discord. “Watch!” He clapped his hands twice, and the moon was instantly replaced by the sun. (Undoubtedly, the princesses would be most displeased.)

You covered your eyes, for fear of permanent blindness. But that wasn’t all. Down below the two of you, Discord had gathered up several of these cotton candy clouds, and then a shower of chocolate milk pounded the streets.

You watch several residents coming out of their homes, each asking the same collective question: “What’s going on here?”

You roll back above the cloud, and pray to God you weren’t seen. “Oh, relax,” said Discord. He was wearing a pair of 3D glasses, and had a bag of popcorn in his hand. “Don’t you just enjoy such beautiful chaos?”

“I-I never asked for this,” you meekly complained. Then, in a fit of desperation, you cried out, “Change it back!”

“Oh, please,” he retorted. “la lejahēra antulne anλānne ānen jajēλa antēña nā;”

You were too stunned to ask for the translation.

“So just sit back and relax. --And don’t pay attention to that babbling narrator.”

Meanwhile, the residents-- excuse me?

“Yes, you! Chicago Ted! --Shut up and let us watch our orchestrated chaos in peace!”

But how would the readers realize what’s going on if I don’t speak?

“You can just put some pictures into the chapter. A picture’s worth a thousand words, after all.”

True, but I want the story to come alive in the readers’ minds. That way, none of their interpretations are ever the same. How chaotic would that be?

“You know, Ted, you have a point. On second thought, keep narrating. But keep it quiet, I don’t necessarily need to hear it. Okay?”

Very well, Discord. Now where was I? . . . ah, yes:

“Who were you talking to?” you asked Discord. You looked around for anyone else nearby, but you and Discord were the only ones above the square.

“Oh, nobody you know,” he replied. “Here, why don’t we head back to bed now? I’ll save some more for tomorrow night.”

He clapped his hands twice again, and night instantly fell. Then, with a snap of his talons, you were startled awake.

You sat up in bed, wondering what you had just experienced. You looked up; no pink clouds. You felt your bedsheets; they were perfectly dry. The floor offered the same testimony.

You shook the cobwebs from your mind, and checked the clock by your bedside. 5:48 ante meridiem. Might as well start the day.

“Relax,” you told yourself. “It was a dream. . . within a dream. . . but a dream nonetheless.”

“Don’t be sure of that,” said Discord.

Gamer Luna Is In Your Bed (Trolleroids)

Gamer Luna Is In Your Bed
Trolleroids

Meanwhile, a lone person combats his own bed-invaders...

You completely hate winter. You hate the frostbite ruining your skin. You hate the colds it inflicts upon your frail body, and you definitely hate the fact that you have nothing to eat while other families have whole feasts on their tables.

Still, the holiday spirit radiates from your body. No- wait. That’s not the holiday spirit. That’s raw hatred.

The sound of your car’s horn echoes throughout the bustling street brimmed with cars. Rolling down your window in a maddened frenzy, you promptly raise your fist outside as you yell out,

“You bastards! Get going!”

Your words are drowned out by the sounds of other cars blaring their horns in a frenzy. Disgruntled at your failed attempt at coercively persuading the line of stationary cars, whose drivers are just as apoplectic as you, failed miserably.

You glare at the drivers straight into the back of their heads, or at least you would have, had the rear of the cars hadn’t blocked your view. Regardless, your stare is intense. Anybody who could’ve seen it would’ve backed away from fear. Those with faint hearts would just simply melt upon glancing at your leer.

To you, this is an art-form. The art of threateningly eyeballing someone. Through the many entailments of your apoplectic life, you were required to master it. Needless to say, you’ve done so. For many years you’ve practiced it, and now, you’re at the zenith of menacingly staring at someone.

It’s a skill that you’re proud that you’ve mastered.

You glance at your wristwatch. You're two hours late for work. Not exactly ideal for someone knee-deep into the dicey waters of being not-so reliable at working.

You're late for work for what seems to be the twentieth time, and you being not a valued employee, you knew the chances of you getting fired was probable. Very probable. Perhaps it’s paranoia, but you’re just certain that your boss is writing down the pink-slip for you as you speak.

Your vision tunnels as you descended into the dark abyss of rage. 'Tis a familiar place for you, yet you still loathe it. It’s a dark place where your sanity is attributed to anger itself.

Your hands clench tighter on the wheel, and judging by the fact that you are visibly shaking with spite, you’re not coping so well.

The temperature of the car’s interior soars to insane degrees as your ire continues to boil. “My boss is going to kill me. No- wait. With the lack of decent pay I’m given, he’s going to kill me by starvation.”

Suddenly, the violent gusts of winds pick up in speed as barrages of ice batter your vulnerable car. Turbulence rocks you as you fold your hands in annoyance. Your whole windshield is blanketed by cover after cover of snow.

“What the hell... “ you muse to yourself in feigned despair, “This whole car is going to be consumed by winter itself--a tribute to the god of snow.”

You shift on your seat in boredom. “Seriously, who could drive in this visibility-”

Just as those words come out of your lips, a stray, piercing sound resounds through the haze of snow, diverting your attention.

It is the sound of an engine at its pinnacle accompanied with the sound of wheels speeding through the frozen ground, lobbing ice into the air. ‘That sounded awfully like-’

Paranoia gets the best of you as you looked to the left side. Suddenly, through the whitened pane of glass on your car, you could see it; a car heading straight for you.

Your perception of time decelerates as adrenaline cascades your system as if you were in a terribly cliched movie. Only in this case, you’re not the main character.

With reflex rivaled only by that of a professional athlete, you dive to the passenger seat. Your hand is guided by instinct as you open the door. Kicking the door open, you contemplate before jumping.

You snapp out of the daze with a shrug. Your eyes forward to the ground, and with the least amount of elegance possible, you dive out.

With cold, hard frost slamming into your cheek, you face-plant onto the ice-layered street. If you had landed just a bit more roughly, you’d probably be incapacitated right now.

Despite the bone-chilling sleet covering your face, you stand up. More accurately, you stand up with vigor comparable to that of a dying old man.

Suddenly, you feel a fresh tear form on your eye as you hear a jarring sound of metal clashing against metal. “My… car…”

You briefly catch the glimpse of your car’s hood shattering into several fragments of metal as another pathetic excuse for a vehicle impacts on to it.

To you, this is akin to watching someone you loved being executed wrongfully right in front of your face.

At the very least, you survived. Perhaps you were wrong on you not being a main character? Oh well.

You fall to the ground with a muffled thud as the last shards of metal vanish into the blizzard, to be forgotten for eternity--or at least until winter fades. You feebly stand up in disbelief as the sound of car doors swinging open filled the street.

Several passers by rush to the scene, their footsteps stifled by the snow. Their figures are obscured by the frigid, thick winds. From your perspective, they all become indistinguishable shadows.

You se several of the bystanders attempt to pry open the door of the car that slammed into yours, but you didn’t care about that in the slightest. Your gaze was in complete fixation at the smoking wreckage of what was once your pride and joy.

Okay. That was a bit too much. That car was crap and you knew it. You were more concerned for the amount of money you lost.

Distorted shouts penetrate the whirring tornadoes of snow, but you don’t pay attention in the slightest. They were reduced to nothing more than muffled whispers.

You approach it, shrugging off the cold. Once again, with the vigor of a dying old man. “No… Why did this have to happen?” you speak out in despair as you fall to my knees. The unrelenting sting of sorrow becomes unendurable to you as you falter in steps.

Suddenly, a familiar tune rings out from your jacket. You reach out for your phone, eyeing it as you hold it in front of your eyes. You had received a message. Displayed in black font was your boss which was aptly named in your contacts as “Tormentor”.

With a deft press from your finger, the message pops up on the screen. It read:

“Blizzard’s too violent. You don’t have to come for work today.”

In a fit of uninhibited rage, you bellow a pained shout as you rais both fists into the air as if you were a mad man.

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”

Perhaps you are a mad man...

A slow creak grates through the empty halls of your house as you open the door. “Everything is so dark…” You resort to talking to yourself in an attempt to alleviate the depression coiling around your mind, though your endeavor simply makes you sound like a psychopath.

A psychopath that lost something dear to him, to be more precise.

Flicking the light-switch, you shamble to the kitchen with an expressionless face donned. Not even minding to notice the sounds coming from upstairs. You're simply too pitiful to even be bothered with it right now.

There are certain rumors about ice-cream being a remedy for sadness. You intend on either confirming or disproving that theory.

Suddenly, your eyes widen at a sudden revelation. There are sounds coming from upstairs; your room. Your broadened eyes expand even more when you see your fridge had been left half-opened.

“Thieves…” Your stance tenses up as your eyes dart around the room frantically. There were no signs of forced-entry, but you’re definitely sure that you locked this place before going out. “Very sneaky and lazy thieves…” You say as you close the fridge properly.

Grabbing a knife, you head towards your room. Your footsteps are sneaky as you tiptoe upstairs. Your hand trembles as it firmly holds the knife. Your attention is focused on the also half-opened door to your room.

The lights are on, alarmingly enough. Sounds of synthetic gunfire play through what you presume to be your speakers as the unmistakable rhythm of techno music blares from your room.

You recognize these sounds. They were from… Payday 2?

Your hand was reluctant on pushing the door open, but you still it as you breathe in and out in a rather panicky fashion. “Alright. Whoever this bastard is must be really idiotic if they think that they can rob this house while blaring the volume up this high.”

You pushed the door open, revealing an unfamiliar being sitting on your bed. It resembles a horse… but much more smaller, and much more adorable. It has what appears to be a perpetually wavy mane decorated what seems to be actual stars. Its coat is midnight blue. It has folded wings furnished with velvety feathers. It also features a horn protruding from its head.

Despite her rather cartoonish appearance, an atmosphere of supremacy pervades the air around her.

Well, you think it’s a her. Otherwise, this would be rather awkward if it was a male.

Much to your dismay, however, she has pulled the table which had your PC resting on it towards your bed. It is now standing in front of your bed as she is completely engrossed on playing whatever games you have on your Steam account.

Then your recollection kicks in. This isn’t just another unicorn. This is Luna.

“The Luna? The Princess Luna” you speak to yourself in uncertainty. Half of your mind wants you to just run away screaming. The other half wants you to go ahead and poke her. Finally, the middle half wants you to question your sanity. You decide to go with the middle half.

You take a staggered step backwards as your heartbeat quickens. Cuteness is your only kryptonite. To your knowledge, you’re the only one that knows you have the ironic weakness for anything cute.

Even more contradictory to your rather spiteful nature is the fact that you watch the show. It’s a guilty pleasure of yours.

Yes. The show that you despise and love at the same time; My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic.

The unicorn lets out a triumphant cheer as her left hoof shot to the air in victory. She briefly looks around the room, spotting you.

Her eyes don’t even widen as her glance returns to the PC screen. “Oh. Didn’t see you there. Forgive me, but I took the liberty of beating Transports on Deathwish for you.”

Your mouth refuses to respond with words. Instead, it responds by twitching slightly. You are at the bottom of dumbfoundment for two reasons: she managed to beat Transports on Deathwish, and two--she’s in your room.

You're more aghast at the former. Transports on Deathwish is hell. You know that all too well.

After several weeks of rage-quitting, you were unable to beat it, but Princess Luna managed to complete it!? Needless to say, you're both appalled and frustrated at the same time.

“What- What? You actually managed to survive that hellish thing?” you ask in disbelief.

“Not just survived it. I managed to stealth it with no dead civvies.” With a smug smirk, she continues. “Team composition was good.”

“No--that’s not the question that I should be asking.” You cautiously approach her. “The question that I should be asking is why are you here?”

Luna dismissively waves one of her hooves in a spiral. “Meh. Sis banished me to this place for perhaps a week or so. She thinks that I spend too much time playing video games. Unfortunately for her, video games still exist here.”

Then you noticed something. This isn’t Luna, or more specifically, this isn’t the Luna depicted in the show. This is some sort of parallel version of her.

With a scoff, your heart rate normalizes. Discarding the knife onto your table, you sit next to her as she continues on playing.

“Wait--is that Battlefield 4? “ you speak out in both bewilderment and amazement as she takes out three hostiles with exactly three headshots with her dextrous ability at scoping.

“Yeah,” she casually replies as she began to make a dash for it to a nearby enemy tank. Planting a couple of jeep-stuff onto it, she promptly detonates it. The detailed explosion melts away your mind as she easily racks in the kills.

You shake off the drooling stupor you had donned on your face. Your face feigns a stern face as you spoke to the mystery horse, “I don’t remember buying this game. Nor do I remember my computer being able to play something like this at maximum graphics!”

Eyes focused on the screen, she casually kills off five targets as she takes the objective. “Used your bank account.”

“What?!” You yelp in panic.

“Don’t worry. I used my own parts to improve your PC,” she reassures you as she strafed in order to dodge an incoming sniper bullet.

“Still, you used my own money?!” you speak out in irritability, but you coan’t help but spectate the seemingly unstoppable onslaught displayed on your monitor.

“Fine. Fine. If it infuriates thou that much, I’ll gladly give you compensation. How does a hundred bits sound for sheltering me and allowing me to use your once pathetic rig?”

“A hundred bits? Uh.” You pause as the last, opposing objective is captured by none other than the being sitting beside you. “What are those, exactly?”

“A hundred coins of solid gold. Should be fair enough, I suppose?” You feel your consciousness waver, but she places her hoof in front of you before you can faint. “Ah. Now for my favorite part. Behold.”

She gestures her hoof towards the screen. Specifically, the chat.

Text upon text of rage come up as several of the players subsequently ragequit.

“Dammit! dammit! i can’t grine for hedshots with that ***** headshooting me!”

“Reported. Scrub.”

“i AM TIRED OF THESE HACKERS.”

“i literaly want to die r8 no.”

“U mad bro? U mad bro yolo!”

Suddenly, the myriad of rage-text ceased as the game finally comes to an end. Needless to say, she scored number one in the leaderboard for this match. The opposing team was showered with negative KD’s.

“Not a bad game if I say so myself. Oh, by the way, my name is Luna,” she closes the game in order to switch to something else; World of Tanks.

“Now then, time to see if my VK 5 has returned from battle. Thanks for selecting the ‘Remember Me’ option in the log-in.”

Sure enough, the beast of a heavy tank is proudly displayed on your garage. It is just a beautiful sight to behold for both me and you. Not only that, there are several tier seven’s in your garage as well. I, the narrator of this odd chapter, am exceedingly jealous of you.

“What else did you work on while I was away?” you speak out with shallow breaths.

“Eh. I played your Starcraft. Placed you right in Diamond League.”

“But I was Bronze just a day ago!”

Sweetie Belle Is Making Cereal In Your Bed (Just A Fabulous Cat)

Sweetie Belle Is Making Cereal In Your Bed
Just A Fabulous Cat

You let out a long sigh as you unlock your door and step into your house, knowing full well that another pony would end up being in your bed somehow. Like, why would you get a break from this living nightmare?

Taking slow, tedious steps forward, you eventually reach your room, where you open the door and shout,"Who's in here today!?"

A childish voice speaks up.

“Er, It’s me… Sweetie Belle…”

You look on your bed. There’s a white unicorn filly with purple and pink hair sitting on your bed. But that’s not the only thing there. She’s levitating a cereal box, specifically Cocoa Puffs, along with milk, pouring the contents into a bowl casually.

“...why?”

It’s all you can say. There’s a unicorn filly with milk and cereal on your bed.

“What do you mean?” she replied, not even moving her head or eyes away from the task in front of her.

Beginning to get agitated, you gesture to her with spastic movements of your hands.

“Why are you pouring a bowl of cereal on my bed!?”

“Oh, well one minute I’m making breakfast, the next minute the world explodes in a fiery ball of death and I find myself here, making breakfast again. Seeing as I’m hungry, I just shrugged it off and continued.”

You don’t know how to respond.

Continuing on her merry way, Sweetie Belle proceeds to hum a tune as she finishes pouring the milk, tossing the carton away as she moved on to the cereal. (Who does that? You always put the cereal in first!)

Now normally you would care less, seeing as there are already Dorito bags scattered across your clothes-ridden floor, but the milk hits your Playstation 4, the creamy white liquid spilling all over it.

You let out a scream of horror as you watch the scene unfold, running over to it in a frenzy. Proceeding to snatch the controller beside it and turn your TV on, you press the middle button in the center of your control.

A few sparks come out of your Playstation, but besides that nothing happens.

Tears welling up in your eyes as your vision becomes blurred, you drop down to your knees as let the controller fall out of your hand before letting out a choked sob.

“M-my… my playstation…” you whimper, staring at it with shock and sorrow.

“Oh, relax. This kid Button Mash goes through those things at least once a month. You can buy another for, like, three bits at that Game Stop Horsified or something.”

She then proceeded to eat some cereal with a swift movement of her spoon.

Your Playstation bursts into flames.

“WHYYYYYYYYYYYYYY!” you scream out as you collapse onto your side, openly crying as your one true love burns in front of you.

“H-Hundreds of dollars… wasted… unable to play GTA5 for the next few months as I save up money from my crappy job… IS THIS SOME KIND OF SICK JOKE!?”

Sweetie Belle scoffed.

“Baby…”

She then shifted in your bed, accidentally spilling her cereal as her hind leg kicks it.

You flat screen TV also bursts into flames. You cry some more.

“Er, sorry…” she sheepishly replies as she watches you weep on the floor, covering your eyes with your hands and rolling around.

“Kill me now God… just kill me!”

And she watched the entire scene, dumbfounded. She usually just sets her own cereal on fire when this happens.

“I… I don’t know how to respond to this.”

Her tail then taps the overturned bowl. Justin Bieber appears in your room.

“Whoa, how did I get here?”

A microphone then appears in his hand with a bright flash of white. Shrugging, he begins to sing.

“BABY, BABY, BABY, I!”

Shaking uncontrollably as you continue to cry by the two fires and Justin Bieber, you slowly turn your head over to a confused Sweetie Belle still lying on your bed.

“I will cut you if you don’t leave now,” you hiss. The pain must end.

Eeeping, she scrambles up to her legs, only to slip on the milk covered blanket and land straight on top of the bowl.

Michael Bay appears.

“Allow me to ruin your childhood.”

“KILL MEEEEEEEE!”

A Pony Is In Your Bed, What A Twist (Flutters Is Shy)

A Pony Is In Your Bed, What A Twist
Flutters Is ShyIt's probably for the best you didn't invite a friend over tonight. You'd been meaning to bring in someone else on this whole 'ponies showing up and hogging your bedsheets' thing, getting someone else that knew about all of this would have put a load off your mind.

As it stood, the pony that now stood before you was one that was simply too precious to subject to endless questions, and/or another human constantly looking at them and trying to convince themselves that what they were seeing actually existed.

"Thorry mithter, but in my defenth yer ithebox looked like it had more fire damage than yer thtove..."

The particular mush-mouthed young filly that found her way into your home this Monday happened to be a curly red haired young lass, sporting a pair of purple spectacles on a slightly extended snout. If you were to make an observation, you might just deduce that she had a rather pronounced proboscis.

"Why exactly did you feel the need to set my stove on fire, anyway?" you ask. Thank goodness you invested in a quality fire extinguisher. You were thinking about installing an immediate water dispersal system, but it turned out to be far more expensive than first imagined. God forbid Vinyl come back before you managed to take precautions.

"I didn't thet it on fire...it jutht...thorta happened." She scuffed at the floor, leaving a sooty mark on your rug. At least she has the decency to try and rub it off after the fact. Too bad all that did was make more of a mess.

"Right. And I assume you weren't doing anything that might have contributed to it?"

You wish you could do something more than vaguely chastise this tiny pony, but you aren't cruel enough to be giving out spankings or to simply yell out your frustrations at her. You have some level of self control, after all.

"I wath...making you thome peppermint?" Her slight speech impediment is just on the cusp of being annoying, right over from being adorable. Whatever she had been making smelled sweet, at least. "You're running low on thupplieth, mithter. I had to repurpothe yer marthmallowths to thubtitute for mollathith. Altho, yer out of thugar."

Well it was one thing for them to invade your personal space, but wasting your food and burning it? To top it off, she apparently destroyed your backup marshmallows! Sure, they were three years old, and they were the weird pink and white variety pack, but it had been nice knowing that if you ever wanted them you could have them.

"Well I guess it's too bad everything got burned up then," you mutter, trying to preemptively console her.

"Only the latht batch got toathted, I made three other batcheth, jutht thee!" she proclaimed, dashing back into the kitchen. You decide to follow, simply for the sake of making sure she doesn't accidentally set something else on fire..

You step into the kitchen, to see that indeed, there were three trays that had been put to the side. On them were a smattering of frankly beautifully made twisted candy. If you weren't witness to them in your own home, you would have assumed they had been made by a professional. She offered you a piece, and you popped it into your mouth. A blast of flavor explodes in your mouth, the candy melting like the sweet nectar of the gods. It's still a bit hot, even though she pulled it out of the fridge.

It's at this that you notice something. This little pony didn't have a horn, and none of them had all that good control without one. How did she twist the candy?

"How did you twist the candy?" you ask.

"Oh! I hope you don't mind mithter, I uthed my mouth for the twithting, but then I put it right back in tho anything dirty thould be cooked right off!" she declared with a beaming smile.

That was... "Wait, but that has to be burning hot, you're telling me you just stuck that in your mouth? How did you manage not to burn yourself? You are alright, right?"

"Oh, I'm fine, I have calutheth in my mouth, it hurt when I firtht thtarted, but I found I wath really pathoinate about making peppermint. Tho I kept with it, and now I can do it without it hurting. Thome ponies find they can do thingth right off the bat, but otherth have to work really hard to make it work with what they really like doing. It might take time, and thome major thacrifithithe, like a difficulty to pronounth assssssssssssssssssssssssssssssound," she giggled with her effort, so apparently it is still possible for her to make s's, it's just really hard. "But I wouldn't trade being able to talk 'normal', " she punctuated this with two outstretched hooves making air quotes, "for thith anyway. But you like it, right?"

You have to admit, it is quite delicious.

"I have to ask," you begin, popping another strand of candy in your mouth, "You seem rather calm about all this. If I was in your situation, finding myself in a strangers home, I'd no doubt be panicking..." you trail off, noticing that this filly's face has a look of amusement stamped on it.

"Mith Twilight told everypony that 'wall' thingy was thin or thomething, and that ponieth were getting thucked into your world every week. She thaid you were a nithe thtallion, and that if we found ourthelfth here we thould thow you rethpect, theeing ath we're invading your home." So the purple porn thief was telling others about you? You aren't sure whether to take that as a good thing or not...

"Tho when I found mythelf here, I thought I'd thay thanks for looking after nithe mareth like like Twilight and mith Flutterthy...thorry about yer thtove, again..."

Oh yes, the stove. You almost managed to forget. As it stood, you'll probably have to replace the entire thing. Along with your refrigerator. Maybe you could get a tax write off for someone else setting them on fire? Or maybe just blame it on the landlord. No one likes him anyway...

"So..." you try to start again, heading this conversation towards a less confrontational subject, "Wanna watch some cartoons?"

You treated the little tyke to a wide selection of cartoons. GOOD cartoons, the old Disney and Warner Brothers ones, God forbid you had tried to submit a sentient being to something like "Uncle Grandpa". All of today's cartoons were lacking, save for a scant few.

You ordered a veggie-lovers pizza to share with her, and she actually seemed to like the combination of cheese, tomato sauce, and assorted vegetables. After a few hours, it became readily apparent that the two of you were fast approaching a state of unconsciousness. You set the couch up with a smattering of blankets and a big, fluffy pillow. Anything to be hospitable. And this way, you might actually spend a Monday night without a random pony trying to sleep in your bed...It hits you like a brick. In your haste to discover the source of smoke coming from the kitchen, you have yet to check on your room.

Opening the door you find...nothing. Nothing is wrong. Everything is exactly how you left it, Your bed is just as it was when you went into work this morning, unmade with a sheet dragging on the floor. Well that's a nice surprise. You turn off the light, and tuck yourself in, only to be woken up a scant hour and a half later.

"Mithter?"

You would groan, but that would prove to be too much of an effort. Instead you settle for rolling over, and letting out a strained "What?"

" I don't mean to athk..." her question is punctuated by a loud crack that permeates the room. A flash of light bleeds in through your closed curtains, and you remember the angry looking clouds that loomed overhead as you made your way home from work. It seems you slept through the start of it. You were about to tell the little pony to suck it up and just go back to sleep, but another loud crack echoing around your room is accompanied by a sudden source of warmth, pressing against your side. The face of the filly has also disappeared from the lip of the bed. If you were a gambling sort of person, you might put 20 to 1 odds as to what had happened. But seeing as you aren't a betting individual, you decide to follow up your assumption with some fact checking, just to be sure.

Dragging the sheet to the side, you're welcomed to the sight of a certain red headed filly trembling against you. Your protests and arguments die on your tongue, and you let out a long sigh as you draw her up to your chest.

"Fine. But the first snore, and you're going back to the couch."

"Thankth mithter."

Something occurs to you then, which causes a small laugh to escape.

"So, seeing as you're probably not going to be here when I wake up, I should probably ask you now what your name is." You can't believe you forgot to ask, but something about an impossible life form invading your home leads to you forgetting certain social stuff.

"My nameth Twitht!" she declares, grabbing the sheet and covering herself with a giggle.

She makes a candy that's traditionally twisted, and her name is Twist. You're beginning to think these ponies might have some sort of conspiracy going on with the naming process.

Monday night. What do you know, there's a pony in your bed.

What a Twist.

Rainbow Dash Is Eating Your Bed (warewolves)

Rainbow Dash Is Eating Your Bed
warewolves

The door opens with a creak, and you make a vague mental reminder to get some oil for the hinges. For a small moment, you pause, hand still on the door, halfway into your home, and wonder why something so normal even registers on your ‘concern’ radar. After all, today was a Monday. And Monday meant…

Your stomach growls, and you go to your new fridge. A big bite out of your savings, but at the very least this one claims to be more fireproof. You don’t want to take chances. Shuddering, you grab out a can of drink and close the door with your foot, turning toward the shelves. Opening it up, you immediately notice all your bags of chips have been opened, and cleaned of their contents.

Sighing, you open your drink, and rub your forehead. Turning, you make your way through your living room and up the stairs. Pausing at the bathroom, you wrinkle your nose. The smell still lingered, even after fifteen doses of bleach. Turning, you look toward your bedroom, and consider going downstairs, ignoring whomever was visiting today.

Grabbing the handle, you know that wouldn’t be wise. After all, you feared what damage the ponies that come could do to your room, let alone the rest of the house. While you didn’t like the fact creatures were appearing on your bed, the only one’s that had proven to be an actual danger, either to you or themselves, were the ponies. And so, you reach out, and turn the handle.

While not as strange as your bed being sucked into who-knows-where, what you were seeing was somewhere in the Vinyl end of the pony spectrum, that much you were sure. Maybe it was the rainbow mane and tail, or the fact that the cyan mare had a set of wings erupting from her back, but you were certain it was what she was doing to your bed, not even caring that you could see her doing it.

Rainbow Dash was currently eating your bed.

Well, if you were specific, she was currently finishing off your pillow, and moving onto the sheets. As you looked on, you realised the mare even had a knife and fork in her hooves, slicing up the sheet into sizable chunks. Taking your hand off the door, your put your drink down on your desk, and cough once, gaining the mare’s brief attention, before she resumes eating.

“Excuse me, why are you eating my bed?” After a second of consideration, you decided simply asking would be the best and quickest way to get an answer. Surprisingly, the mare looks up, and pauses in her eating to look you over. After a moment, she points to the door.

“Because the couch tastes like butt. Come on, do you really expect me to eat that?” While the entire situation was insane, you couldn’t deny that if you had to choose between eating the bed and the sofa, you would have chosen the bed. Especially since the couch was used, at least 30 years old, and had never been washed. Vaguely, you wonder why it hadn’t stunk up the room yet. Shaking your head, you realise Rainbow Dash has gone back to eating your sheets. If you didn’t hurry, she might actually start on your bed.

“Look, if you’re hungry I can order takeout or something, I kinda need that for, well, sleeping.” Once more, the mare raises her head at your words, and you notice the irritated glance as she folds her wings, and finishes another slice of your sheet. Swallowing, Rainbow Dash points to the bed as she begins to speak.

“You can if you want, but I have to eat the bed. See, I woke up here. And that means I have to eat your bed. You can keep the mattress and the wooden frame. I’ve never liked the crust.” Rainbow Dash cut off another slice of the sheets, and placed it in her mouth. Well, at least most of your bed will be safe, but those were your favorite sheets…

“Why does you waking up there mean you have to eat my bed?” Your mouth provides the words despite the fact your brain is having trouble keeping up. After finishing off the sheets, Rainbow Dash yawns, and falls backward onto the bed. You wonder if she’s going to sleep another night. Should you lay out another ‘meal’?

“You don’t know? Jeez and here Twilight said you were some weird scientist geek who knows a lot about anatomy.” Rainbow Dash paused just long enough to let her words sink in, and you scratch the back of your head. Turning around, you decide to sip your drink instead. What better way to hide your embarrassment over your first visitor finding ‘those’.

“Alright fine, I’ll tell ya. S’perfectly simple. Pegasi eat our beds after we wake up in the mornings. Why do you think we live on clouds? They’re a part of our natural diet. Fluttershy doesn’t eat them as often as most, but she doesn’t have to take care of her body like I do, as an up and coming Wonderbolt.” Rainbow Dash sat up, and you imagine her eating a cloud like she did your sheets.

“Well, my bed wasn’t made out of clouds…” Wondering what the fabric would do to her body, your first thought is concern it might make her sick. However, Rainbow Dash just brushes it off, and steals your drink, gulping it down. You pout, that was your last one. Not only that, you’re certain she has already raided your fridge.

“Listen, whatever your name is.” Rainbow Dash starts talking, and you blink.

“Uh, it’s-” Sadly, you are cut off before you can even utter a single syllable.

“Yeah yeah whatever hey you said something about takeout? I’m starving.” Rainbow Dash grins, and you mentally sigh. Of course she remembered that, you pull out a menu from the drawer, thankful that the pizza joint delivered. After getting it snatched out of your hand, you reach for a pen and paper, knowing Rainbow Dash is likely going to want a lot of food. Why was it your job to feed them now?

“I’ll have this, and this, and this, oh and that too.” Rainbow Dash pointed to the items on the menu, and you quickly write them down. Thankfully, they were both cheap, and items you were going to order anyway. Making a silent note to hide half for yourself, you watch as Rainbow Dash goes back to slouching.

“Why are you back anyway? I assumed you would only visit once.” You shuddered, knowing that if one pony could return, it was likely others could. And considering how some of them had treated your room, that was an experience you were in no rush to repeat.

“Twilight told me to come back and apologise for ‘breaking the dimensional anchor that is keeping the world from spiraling into a trans dimensional something something end of the world something yada’. Egghead stuff basically.” You blink at Rainbow Dash’s words, wondering what you should be concerned more about; the fact your bed was apparently some sort of ‘dimensional anchor’, the fact Rainbow Dash had broken it, or that she had tossed the words ‘end of the world’ around like it wasn’t a big deal.

“So let me get this straight. Twilight sent you back, to apologise, and you decided to eat my bed.” Your eye twitches slightly as you watch Rainbow Dash glance to you.

“Yeah, so?” Rainbow Dash raises an eyebrow, watching you curiously.

Turning, you head out to order the pizza. In the end, considering the potential torment these ponies could bring, you silently wondered if the end of the world would be something you’d welcome.

Twilight Sparkle's Bed Is On Your Bed (defender2222)

Twilight Sparkle's Bed is on Your Bed
defender2222

It starts with a ‘krum’.

Not crumb or a krump or a krumkrumkrummykrum even the Drumstrang Seeker Viktor Krum. No, just ‘krum’ that comes from your bedroom.

You’ve never heard of a sound quite like that come from your bedroom before; in fact, you are quite sure you’ve never heard a sound that sounded like ‘krum!’ before. You didn’t even realize there was a sound that sounded like ‘krum’. They certainly hadn’t mentioned it in college during your ‘Weird Sounds You Hear In Your Bedroom’ Class. But there it was, just seconds ago, a ‘krum’. From your bedroom. How odd.

As you walk to your bedroom you begin to think of what you might find there. For most assuredly there must be something in there. What else made the ‘krum’ sound? Yes, yes you are sure that something new is in your bedroom. You’ve always wondered what it would be like to open the door to your bedroom and find something unexpected. It would add a dash of excitement and wonder to your otherwise rather dull existence! Suddenly your steps quicken and you are excited, dreaming of what might lie just beyond the door. It may be a new friend or someone offering to take you on an adventure! A wondrous one at that! Oh, you are so excited now at the thought. Who might be in your bedroom waiting for you? What fun new things might they introduce you to? You must find out, right now!

But just as quickly as the excitement comes, you slow, your steps becoming softer and more careful. It could be something bad. Something terrible. Your hand stops, lying upon the doorknob. A horrid beast could be waiting to gobble you up. A monster that will seek to end your life in the worst possible way. It could even be Little Mick Robins, the escaped gangster that they were reporting about on the news. He could be waiting for you to happily skip into your room and then, when it is too late to go back, too late to return to the safety of your living room, he will punch you and call you ‘smelly’.

That would be horrible.

“No!” you say to yourself. “I will be brave! I will face whatever is in my bedroom! I will begin to use contractions! I mean… I’ll begin using contractions!” Your shoulders square, hips thrust out, your feet turned slightly inward (you really should get a doctor to look at that), you throw open the door and march inside!

And there it is. Twilight Sparkle’s bed… on your bed. Crushing your bed, actually.

Many thoughts run through your head at the sight of this. The first is ‘I didn’t think a bed crushing another bed would make a ‘krum’ sound. A ‘baboom!’ or a ‘cracracracracrunch!’ or even a ‘fraaaamuuu!’ would be expected. But ‘krum’? That doesn’t make any sense! Beds don’t go ‘krum’.’

Your second thought is to wonder if this will ruin your chances of getting your security deposit back.

Your third thought is about how this could have happened. Never mind that somehow a large oak bed with a blue comforter (covered in suns and yellow moons… but no hearts, stars, and horseshoes, clovers and blue moons; pots of gold and rainbows and the red balloons) has just suddenly appeared and smashed your bed into little pieces. No, the more pressing question is how did a fictional character’s bed end up on your bed? Did a portal open up and drop it there? Is this some sort of forgotten plague? You don’t remember it going Locust, Frogs and Beds; that’s something you’d remember! Did the bed fairies finally answer one of your letters? No, that’s silly… you know that the last bed fairy died in captivity in 1973.

Your fourth thought is ‘Wow… that’s a really nice bed!’. And it is. Solid frame, top of the line mattress, silk sheets with a 3000 thread count!

When Princess Celestia sets up a home for her most faithful student she doesn’t skimp when it comes to the bed! It’s larger than your bed and looks much more comfortable. Truly this is a bed fit for a king… or a purple pony but they are basically equal to kings… you’re pretty sure the Pony piece in Chess moves like a king.

Your fifth thought is ‘I have a lot of thoughts’.

Your sixth is again about the word ‘krum’. Truly it was not the sound that Twilight’s bed should have made as it crushed yours. It is the type of sound that a bad author would come up with and only belatedly realize that it doesn’t work but it was too late to change now so he was forced to roll with it.

The seventh thought is one of sadness and despair. Your poor, poor bed. Here you are, so focused on the new bed that you’ve completely forgotten about the old. But there it lies, reduced to kindling. You kneel down and weep bitter tears. Your bed deserved better. It should not have ended this way. You’ve enjoyed so many good times together… it was loyal and provided you with such a wonderful rest, day in and day out, never complaining, not once! It stood there and did its duty! It was there for you when you were tired or sick or just didn’t feel like doing anything. You knew every spring and every stitch. Truly, it was the bed for you. You and it had gone through such wonderful times and as you pick up a piece of your poor broken bed you think back to all the moments you spent together Moments like the night before when you had that dream about Fluttershy wearing socks and you began to ram your-

Hmmm.

Perhaps it is good your bed is dead. Dead beds tell no tales.

You lie down on Twilight’s bed and smile. “Yes,” you say, “this will work nicely. You will be my new bed.”

And that’s when Little Mick Robins, who’d been hiding in your closet, leaps out and punches you in the stomach.

“Smelly!” he taunts, running away.

Lyra Heartstrings is in Your Bed, Trying To Sleep Like a Human (HudsonHawk)

Lyra Heartstrings is in Your Bed, Trying to Sleep Like a Human
HudsonHawk

Your bed is like a warm, toasty cinnamon bun. You don’t want to get up. You just want to lay in it for the rest of the day like a butterfly in a warm cocoon. For the first time in a long, long time, you’ve gotten a Monday off. No customers asking where the bathrooms are when the large sign that says RESTROOM with the stick figure man and woman is right behind them. No annoying bosses asking you about sales quotas and obvious crap. No questioning whether drowning yourself in your cereal bowl would have been a viable alternative to a stint in retail hell. Just blessed peace and quiet.

You’ll take the phone off the hook and keep your cell phone turned off as insurance that you stay out of retail hell for the day. You’ll head to Panda Express, get your fried rice and two spring rolls, and pass the fortune cookie off to some other poor bastard and hope he gets this curse. Maybe then the ponies will stop winding up in your bed every Monday night. But first, another hour of shuteye. You close your eyes and roll over...

...and your arm hits something fuzzy. Strange, you haven’t had a stuffed animal since you were twelve. You missed Buddy, your stuffed Pound Puppy…

It hits. Oh… God… please not now…

You open your eyes. Staring back at you is a light green unicorn. Her mane is a mix of white and a bright mint color. She’s staring at you with big gold eyes, an excited smile on her face.

“Hi there, human!” She says, sweetly.

“AAAAAHHAHHHAHAHAHAHHAHAHHHHAHAHHAAAHHHH!!!!!!!” You say in reply.

In retrospect, an incredibly girly scream was not the greatest way to break the ice, but any rational thought was overtaken by shock. You were starting to get used to the intruders that showed up every Monday night and on occasion Tuesday, but they usually came in the evening. When you've just woken up... that's a first.

You leap out of bed, wide awake from shock. Since you dragged the blankets off in your haste to get away, you get a full look at the newest visitor to your bed. Her tail is the same two-color motif as her mane, and the mark on her hips appears to be a harp. But that’s not the strange part. Instead of laying like a dog or, of course, a horse, she’s laying on her back, front and back legs stretched out. It looked… oddly human… and oddly adorable.

“Is screaming a normal human greeting?” The unicorn asks, undaunted. “Let me try!” She then unleashes an ear-splitting shriek that comes close to shattering your window and any glass in a five-mile radius. Thankfully, your apartment is soundproof, otherwise you’d have the neighbors over wondering why you were torturing a chihuahua.

“What the hell are you doing here… and why so early?” You ask in shock and annoyance.

“Trying to sleep.” She replies innocently. “By the way, why does your mattress smell like a fireplace?”

You give up. You’ll never know why they keep showing up. Knowing your luck, they wouldn’t stop until you’d been driven to a psychiatrist after you’ve tried to prove their existence to someone and been involuntarily committed. You don't know what would be worse: telling a shrink about the ponies that show up every week or the time you lost a bet and wound up in a Bo Peep costume singing "I Feel Pretty" to a crowd in the local bar.

You turn away, take a few deep breaths, calm down, and turn back. There she is, still laying on your bed like a human. She has opened her muzzle for another ear-piercing shriek when you start waving frantically for her to stop, her assault on your eardrums still fresh in your mind.

“Don’t you want me to greet you?” The pony asks.

“No… well yes… but… that’s not how we greet each other.” You reply.

“How do you greet each other then?”

“We just say hello. Hello… what’s your name?”

“Lyra! Lyra Heartstrings!” Lyra extends a hoof, which you shake tentatively.

“Hello… what’s your name?” Lyra asks. You tell her your name.

“Well, Lyra… why are you stretched out like that?” You ask. “I thought ponies slept… well… like ponies?”

“I’m trying the human method.” Lyra replies. “I sit like you guys do back home, so I’m trying out how you sleep.”

“Humans exist there?” You ask.

“They did, once, at least according to myth. They’re so fascinating…” She squees. “OMIGOSHOMIGOSHOMIGOSH I CAN’T BELIEVE I’M TALKING TO A REAL LIVE HUMAN!” Another squee. “I have so much I want to know about your species!”

You drift into thought. Okay… she hasn’t tried to set anything on fire, hasn’t drunk Oliver Reed under the table, and hasn’t sent your bed to another dimension. Just to be safe, you check your bathroom. Thank God, the bathroom is intact. After all the time you spent cleaning up after Sonata’s taco-induced gastrointestinal symphony, and the cost of disposal and replacement for your old toilet, it damn well better STAY intact.

She seems nice. You think. Humor her for a while and see what happens.

“What do you want to know?” You ask. She pats the spot next to her.

“Could you lay by me?” She asks. “I want to get the human method absolutely right.”

You hesitate, then figure “What the hell?” You oblige her. As you shuffle around, you can feel Lyra shifting in your bed, a perfect imitation of you. When you move, she moves. You settle for a position on your side.

“So… what do you want to know?” You ask. You feel her front legs wrap around your midsection. You feel her nuzzle your back, cuddling you like you would your old Pound Puppy, rubbing her hooves over your hands like they were the most interesting things in the world.

“Do humans like to be cuddled like ponies do?” She asks.

“It depends.” You reply, both unnerved and flattered that a talking pony is using you as an oversized teddy bear. “Some like to be touched, others not.”

“Why?”

“I dont know. I don’t know everything about my species.”

“Why not?”

“I’m not really a people person.”

“Why?”

“People annoy me more often than not.”

“Why?”

You knew where this was going. You knew a kid like this in the third grade who would incessantly ask “Why?” to you about stuff until you considered seeing if was possible to hang yourself with the string on your mittens just to get away from it. You decided to change tack and start asking the questions.

“Why are you cuddling me?” You ask.

“I’ve never touched a human before.” She replies, dreamily. “I wanted to make sure you were real.”

“Why?’

“Ponies back home think I’m crazy for believing in humans. Especially my roommate.”

“Why?”

“Because humans there are a myth, silly! I told you that.”

She pauses.

“Do you have a mare- er, ‘girl’ friend?” She asks

Huh?

“Why do you ask that?” You say, a tad unnerved.

“Just curious.” She replies.

You decide to give her the benefit of the doubt. “She broke up with me a while ago, so no, I dont. Why do you ask?” You dread the answer.

You hear a little squee and her legs tighten their grasp. This is starting to throw up a few red flags.

“Can… can I be your girlfriend?” She asks softly.

Your brain goes into full blown red alert. HOLY CRAP! TIME OUT! PUMP THE BRAKES! CLOSE THE SHOPS! LOCK UP THE PETTING ZOO!

“Uh, Lyra…” You begin, very unnerved. “...there’s a small problem with that.”

“What?” She asks. A green aura envelops you. You involuntarily turn around and look into Lyra’s sad face.

“We’re two different species, Lyra.” You reply. “I barely know you, anyway.”

“Why does that matter?” There were tears forming in the corners of her gold eyes.

“Well… here…being in that type of relationship with… your species… is really frowned upon.” You reply, your heart melting at the sight.

“Why?” She asks, sadly.

“Because ponies here aren’t like you, Lyra.” You reply. “They can’t speak and they don’t really think. They can’t really consent to a relationship. That’s called beastiality, and it’s illegal.”

“But I can think! I can speak! We can be together…”

You cut her off. “Why are you so desperate to be with a human?”

She looks down at the foot of the bed, embarrassed. “Nopony wants anything to do with me.” She starts. “Like I told you, they think I’m crazy for believing, and I’m so lonely… please..."

It clicks. Nobody wants to date her because she’s seen as crazy. She meets you, you’re nice to her, minus screaming in her face, and… the poor mare’s put you on a pedestal. Any annoyance at her questioning, her showing up, her cuddling… it vanishes with that realization. You pull Lyra into a hug, and she sobs into your shoulder.

“Hey. I don’t want that kind of relationship.” You start. “That doesn’t mean I can’t be your friend.”

Lyra perks up. “Really? You’d be my friend?” She says, sniffling, a bit of the sadness leaving her. You dry her eyes with a tissue.

“Of course. You seem like a very nice mare. I’d be your friend. Would you be mine?”

She beamed. “OF COURSE!” She hugged you, this time a little tighter. “Thank you…” She says, the sadness gone.

“You’re welcome.” You think for a moment. “You know, what if I got you something that would prove humans exist?”

She beamed again. “Really? Like what?”

“I… don’t know... “ You get up. “Wait a minute. I’ll be back.”

You leave your bedroom and head for the living room. You check a cabinet of VHS tapes, looking for one that you could afford to get rid of. One with a photo cover would be a bonus: she couldn’t be accused of drawing it herself just to make proof. You settle on a bad comedy movie you haven’t watched in a while: “Getting Even With Dad.” You don’t even know why it’s here, it just is. You bring the tape back to a waiting Lyra.

“Do you guys have VCRs in Equestria?” You ask.

“Yes.” She replies. “Why?”

“This is a human movie. With all the people in it, you have irrefutable proof that humans exist.”

Lyra seems to lose the ability to breathe for a moment, then lets out a loud squee. She glomps onto you.

“THANKYOUTHANKYOUTHANKYOUTHANKYOU!” She says, hugging you with a crushing grip. She takes the tape with magic and stuffs it into… her coat?

“How do you do that?” You ask.

“Don’t humans have pockets too?” She asks.

“No…” You start as she yawns.

“Never mind. I’m tired. I’m going to sleep for a little bit.”

“Good idea.” You climb in beside her.

“Can I cuddle you again?” She asks, batting her eyes. You melt again.

“All right, but no funny business.” You say. She and you get into the position you were in earlier: on your sides, her front legs around your midsection, her nuzzling your back like she would a teddy bear.

“Is it okay if I take one of your books, too?” She asks.

“What books?” You ask back.

“One of the ones you have under the mattress here. The ones with the females with no clothes? It’d actually show ponies that humans aren’t so different. They don’t like wearing clothes either, judging from the pictures. I don’t know why you keep them under the mattress, though. It feels so uncomfortable…”

You stare ahead in shock. You let out a grunt in the affirmative. As Lyra happily uses her magic to retrieve a Playboy from under the mattress, your mind drifts again...

Mental note… You think. When she leaves, find a new place to keep your porno mags... someplace where equine eyes cannot see them...

Spike is in Your Bed, Eating Your Doritos (Anonymoose)

Spike is in Your Bed, Eating Your Doritos
Anonymoose

Your hand hovers warily over the doorknob to your modest apartment. You’ve had a long day at work, dealing with obnoxious and irate customers.

Every Monday for the past few months you have been visited by creatures from another realm. It seems absurd, like something you might read in a bad sci-fi zine, or a two-dollar paperback.

But your visitors are nothing like the scaled creatures from Zevron Four, or the green skinned babes from Mars.

No, your visitors had to be ponies.

Pressing your ear to the door, you hear the loud sound of crunching. With luck, it wouldn’t be Vinyl again, noshing on your extra-cheese Doritos.

Please don’t let it be Vinyl again!

You cautiously open the door to your apartment, and step through.

In the corner of your apartment, sitting on your recycled bed (you still can’t believe that guy was going to just dump it on the verge, it still had years worth of life in it, and only a few unsightly, unidentifiable stains), is a small purple dragon.

“Sup,” the little guy says to you.

“Uhh, hi?” you reply, unsure what else to say.

“Wow, Twilight was right, you are tall… name’s Spike,” he says as he shovels another claw-full of extra-cheese Doritos into his maw.

You seriously hope that he brought those Doritos along with him, rather than the more likely scenario of him having raided them from your meagre supplies.

“I raided these corn chips from your cupboard, that cool?”

You resist the urge to bring your palm to your forehead.

“Yeah, that’s cool,” you reply, not really caring if your insincerity is obvious or not. “So, what are you doing here?”

Spike scratches his scaly chin with a cheese-dust covered claw, and hums.

“Some big problem in Equestria you need me to solve?” you ask.

The dragon looks away, and sticks a claw into his green-ear-flap-thing and gives it a good scratch.

“Let me guess, love troubles that you just have to talk to someone about?” you say as you throw your hands up in the air.

“Nah,” Spike replies.

“Nah?”

“Yeah… I mean, nah. But yeah, to the nah.”

“So…?”

“Eh,” the little dragon says with a shrug. “Just wanted to get out of there for a bit. Twilight said you seemed pretty interesting, and I found these magazines she brought—”

“I ONLY READ THEM FOR THE ARTICLES!” you yelp.

“Yeah, sure, ‘the articles’.” Spike sniggers. “Relax, dude, I’ve got a few magazines under my basket Twilight doesn’t know about as well.”

Spike picks up the remote to the TV, and mashes a few buttons. After a bit of playing, he finds the ‘on’ button, and the TV comes to life.

“Oh, awesome!” the little dragon cheers. “You guys have hoofball, too! Wanna watch the game?”

“Just… let me get a beer first,” you say as you walk towards the kitchen.

“Hey, bring me back one two!” Spike calls back over his shoulder. “Oh come on, that play was horseapples!”

“Aren’t you a little young to be drinking beer?” you call back as you open your fridge. “I mean, you are a baby dragon after all.”

“Uuuuuuuuuuugh, don’t you start that, too,” Spike moans. “I get that back home all the time. ‘Spike, you’re just a baby dragon, you can’t stay up past nine.’ ‘Spike, you’re just a baby dragon, you shouldn’t be saving Empires from ancient evils.’ Blah blah blah. I’ll tell you, I’ve been drinking two hundred year old brandy with Princess Celestia since I was six… I can handle a few mid-strengths.”

You shake your head, and grab two beers, hoping it won’t come back and bite you on the ass.

“Catch,” you say, as you toss a can across to the dragon.

“Cheers,” he replies, before cracking it open and pounding it down.

“Jeez, I know you drink hundred year old brandy, or whatever it was, but do you want to slow it down?” you ask the little dragon.

“Meh,” he shrugs in reply. “You wouldn’t happen to have any poison joke, would you?”

“Any… wait, what?”

“NEVER MIND!” the dragon says as he crams another clawful of Doritos into his mouth.

“I mean, seriously,” the little dragon slurs at me. “Look at me, Ima dragon… why wouldn’t she want a piece of this?”

You look down at the dragon, who is easily a foot and a half shorter than the other ponies that have visited you so far. Logistically speaking, how would he even—

“Man, I gotta take a wicked whiz, I’ll be back.”

You sit in silence, watching the last of the game, trying to ignore the sound of the drunken little dragon pissing—hopefully—in your toilet. Around you sits maybe twenty odd empty cans, most of which you can’t actually claim responsibility for. You certainly admire the little dragon’s alcohol tolerance. A flush later, and you hear him staggering out again.

“Hey, you up for another round?” he calls out as he stumbles into your kitchen. “I *hic* am gunna grab another.”

“Uhh, yeah, sure,” you call out.

You hear the sound of your fridge door open, then a loud “woosh” sound.

“No no no no no!” you hear the little dragon yelp in panic.

“What’s happening in there?” you ask as you get to your feet and make your way to the kitchen.

“Uhhh, don’t come in here,” the little dragon calls out as your round the corner. When you enter the kitchen, he is standing there with a fire extinguisher in claw, and the smouldering remains of twisted metal and plastic next to him, crackling with a green magical fire.

“Uhh, dude, you weren’t too attached to your fridge, were you? ” the dragon asked, “I mean, it looked pretty new.”

Doctor Hooves Has Crashed A Blue Box On Your Bed (shockwave7669)

Doctor Hooves Has Crashed A Blue Box On Your Bed
shockwave7669

Mondays.

You sigh as you walk home through the crowd. Mondays are like the evil part of life, with endless work you just don't want to do, but if you don't, you'll go to bed hungry. Along with the fact that the other people out there are in pretty much the same mood, You usually don't get a very nice day.

And now there's one more thing to pile on top of that mountain: ponies. About a few months ago, ponies, other pony-like creatures and a human with a crazy hair color has been visiting you, usually on Mondays. Some visits are nice, some are downright insane, but they all have one thing in common: they all seem to appear on your bed. You don't exactly know why, but you do know there's something about that bed you don't know...

The moment you see your house you groan. You had thought maybe that this week the ponies decided to not come, but your hopes are thrown against a wall and crushed to nothingness as you stare at the smoke emitting from the big hole on your house. You then proceed to run as fast as your darned suit and heavy briefcase can allow you towards your house. As you run, you subconscious mind immediately thinks: Well, this is going to cost a lot.

When you reach your house, the smell of the smoke is even stronger, and reluctantly hold your nose and step inside. (Your subconscious mind says: are you crazy? You'll die!) Fortunately, the smoke is just emitting from one room, and it is actually very light, which is possibly why the alarms didn't go blaring and the firemen aren't surrounding your house with giant 40 pound hoses filled with water. As you approach your bedroom, the sudden nervousness hits your gut like a truck. What in the world happened? Is something on fire? You shudder as your remember the "fire" incidents.

By the time you actually gain the courage to open the door, most of the smoke has cleared. You take a step in, automatically looking at your bed... and what was on top of it.

The blue box somehow didn't do anything to the bed. That meant that the bed was special (hooray, you have a special bed!) or that the blue box somehow managed to fell a roof but do no harm to the bed. Either choice was equally confusing.

But, as you just stare at the blue box, a door opens and out steps... a pony. It looked liked that this Monday was no different.
The pony was brown, and had spiky dark hair. He had a hourglass on his flank, and had blue eyes. As he stepped from the box, he immediately looked confused.

"Uh, where am I?" He spoke in a very distinct British accent, which surprised you because ponies didn't speak in British accents since Britain was on Earth, and ponies came from... Equestria? Wherever they came from. But then again, this is a pony that came out of a BLUE BOX (now that you look closely, it looks like a police call box) that crashed through YOUR ROOF and SOMEHOW, the bed managed to survive!

"Hello?" The pony snapped you out of your thoughts.

"Yeah?"

"Uh, might I ask, which galaxy, planet, and star are we located in?" The question was so unexpected that you just stood there for a couple seconds before coming to your wits and responding with: "We're in the Milky Way, orbiting the sun, and we live on Earth." You start thinking that maybe, just maybe that this pony isn't actually from Equestria. So you says something that can possibly confirm your suspicions: "Where did you come from?"

"Well, I now live in Equestria, but I came from Gallifrey."

Huh. This was interesting.

"So, if you're from Gallifrey, then what are you and what is your name?"

"Well, I'm a time lord, and that blue box over there is the TARDIS: Time And Relative Dimension In Space. And finally, my name is the Doctor."

This confused you, because you're not sure if your ears and that accent deceived you, or his name was actually the Doctor. You decide to just call him Doctor Hooves, because somehow, he reminds you of a show you watched when you were a kid, that you can't quite remember...
"Ahhhh, so you must be a human, what's your name? Oh wait, a second... let's see there, ah! There it is!" You watch as Dr. Hooves rummages through his... TARDIS and pulls out a... whatever it is. It looks like a children's toy. Anyway, he points it at you, and strangely enough, a green light and a weird sound comes from the... pointer-stick-thingy. After a few awkward moments, Dr. Hooves stores the stick away, and nods in understanding. While all of this was happening, a question has been nagging you.

"So, if you're a time lord, then how come you look like a pony?"

"Ah, well, I was regenerating, and then suddenly I'm a pony! You know time can be like that, wibbly wobbly timey... wimey... Anyway, when i landed my TARDIS, it travels through space and time, mind you, I was in a land called Equestria." You blink. This has got to be a weirder Monday than usual, not only is he a pony, but he also is a... time pony... Meanwhile, Dr. Hooves was examining the room and checking the TARDIS.

"Hmm, wooden desk, soft chair, my, a wonderful bed! Very smooth! Oh wait, I'm getting off track here!" He ran into the TARDIS . "Everything is fine and running... except one thing.... Oh, why can't you run? Don't talk to me like that! Oh, alright, alright." He then stepped outside to face me. "Uh, do you mind if I stay for one night?"

You just nod, since having ponies sleep over on Mondays have become a regular thing now.

Later that night, you are awoken by a snore. You turn to see Dr. Hooves snoring as loudly as the thunder itself. Kind of reminds you of yourself while sleeping. You smile, and just before you close your eyes again, you finally remember what show it was. But that thought didn't last, as you were already into slumber again.

Author's Notes:

Now continued!
The Doctor, Assistant, You, and Wibbly Wobbly Timey Wimey Stuff

Davenport Sells You A Bed (Alaborn)

Davenport Sells You a Bed
Alaborn

You sigh as you work your keys free from your pocket. You try not to drop the three heavy bags from the grocery store as you fight to get the key to turn. The landlord keeps saying he’s going to fix the lock, but you know how that goes.

Your bags include bread, muffins, and a variety of vegetables. There are some spices as well, but you don’t know if you’re going to be able to make dinner. Every Monday, you come home and find somepony in your bed. Maybe they’ll be able to help you in the kitchen. You’re not much of a cook.

Maybe you should have bought red meat instead. Anything to stop these incursions.

You open the door, and see that nopony will be found in your bed. That’s because the pony is already waiting for you in the living room. He’s a tan earth pony stallion with a combed brown mane. You don’t immediately recognize him, but on the blue vest he wears over his collared white shirt, he has a nametag.

Davenport.

And with a cutie mark of a quill and a sofa, you remember him.

“A good evening to you, sir. I hear you’re in need of a new bed,” Davenport says.

“Yes. My bed has been physically abused, set on fire, sent to another dimension, and cursed.” So much has happened to your bed, you can’t keep it straight. And no amount of detergent can get that horse smell out of your sheets.

“Well, have I got a deal for you!” Davenport says.

You drop your bags. Dinner will have to wait until you can convince this pony that you don’t need a sofa. “I thought you only sold quills and sofas,” you say.

“What if I told you that I have a sofa that also works as a bed?”

“You mean a sofa bed?” you say.

“Not just a sofa bed. It’s the height of Equestrian comfort technology. Sir, let me introduce you to your new bed.”

Davenport heads to your bedroom. It figures he knows the way there, since he probably appeared there earlier. You follow him.

You gape. Your bed is gone. So are your pillows, and your sheets. And your newest collection of … specialized periodicals. You really should have stored them somewhere else.

In its place is a sofa, still wrapped in plastic. The back and seat are one large surface, with the fabric dotted with those fabric buttons that probably have a name, but you never studied interior design. It looks adjustable, like the back of the sofa could be lowered to make a flat surface.

“This, good sir, is what we call a….”

“Futon,” you interrupt.

“Why, yes. How did you know?” Davenport asks.

That summer job was a great opportunity, but it was in another city. Too far to commute. But one of your college friends said he’d put you up. “We don’t have a lot of space, but we have a place for you to sleep,” he said.

That place was a futon. The cushions were simultaneously uncomfortably hard while not giving your back any support. You tossed and turned every night. Every morning you dragged yourself to that job like you were the walking dead. The Starbucks employees knew you by name after four days.

You realize that Davenport is looking at you. That’s right, he asked a question. “Let’s just say that futons are not the height of Earth comfort technology.” That title probably belongs to memory foam mattresses. Or maybe that mattress with the comfort numbers. Whatever that is.

“Give it a try,” Davenport says.

You sit down on the futon. It’s actually pretty comfortable. But it’s lacking the nice springs of your mattress.

Wait. Where is your mattress? Where is your bed?

“What did you do with my bed?” you ask Davenport.

“Removal of your old furniture is a standard service provided with each purchase from Quills and Sofas,” Davenport says. “With each sofa purchase, I should say. Now, I do have an assortment of quills if you’re in need.”

“No, thanks,” you say. It’s probably best not to mention how ballpoint pens are dirt cheap and a heck of a lot more convenient. You think. You haven’t used a quill pen, but movies always made them look like a pain to use.

And then you realized you got distracted again. “But I didn’t buy anything yet,” you say.

“I’m confident that you’ll be making a purchase today,” Davenport says.

Remembering the condition of your old bed, you realize he’s right. You have to replace it. You’re pretty sure your old bed is radioactive by now.

You might as well get the new bed. You figure you have three weeks, tops, before something else destroys it. And your old bed will probably reappear through a dimensional portal.

“Great!” Davenport says. “That will be 249 bits.”

That’s actually quite the bargain, you think, until you remember that he said bits. If bits really were made from gold, then 249 bits would be enough to pay off your remaining college loans, with enough left over to buy a new bed.

You would buy a memory foam mattress and put it on top of a sleep number mattress. Like a boss.

“Look, I don’t know if they told you, but humans don’t have bits.” They. You really don’t know who they are, the ones that started this. You have some choice words for them if you ever see them. And a few physical gestures.

So, bits. Humans do have bits, but the bits you’re thinking of would probably be some kind of fetish gear in Equestria. Best not to think about that right now. Especially when the pony in the room is Davenport.

“So, do you take cash?” you say, pulling out your wallet. You show him your paper currency.

“I don’t know anypony who would take worthless paper for such a high quality futon,” Davenport says.

“MasterCard?”

“I don’t know what that is.”

“Discover?”

“Sorry, sir. Quills and Sofas doesn’t take the Discover card.”

Figures.

You sigh and put your wallet away. “Maybe you can ask Princess Twilight Sparkle to pay for it.” She’s always been helpful, and she probably has some kind of royal stipend, right? Besides, she owes you.

“Don’t worry, sir. I’m happy to set up a tab for my repeat customers,” Davenport says helpfully.

You smile a fake smile.

You really don’t want to be a repeat customer.

King Sombra Is In Your Bed, Turning It Into Crystals (JumpingShinyFrogs)

King Sombra Is In Your Bed, Turning It Into Crystals
JusmpingShinyFrogs

You've had an even worse Monday than usual. Between bitchy customers and crowded subways, as well a strange incident involving baked goods (suffice it to say, you'll never look at apple pies the same way again), all you want to do is just go home and flop down on your bed, whether there's a pony in it or not. All you can really hope for at this point is that it's not a changeling queen or a pyromaniac and perhaps is somepony cuddly.

You push open the door to your apartment and listen for a moment. No sounds stick out. Tentatively, you go to the kitchen and open the fridge. Aside from a few bottles of vodka you had to buy to cope with the pony influx, nothing particularly interesting sticks out. You grab a bottle of vodka and fill a shot glass. You walk to your bedroom, glass in hand, preparing to knock it back just in case.

You push open your bedroom door slowly, strangely curious to see just who's in your bed today. Surprisingly, nopony seems to be there. You walk the whole way into your room. Still nothing. Your bed is still a crumpled mess from when you woke up this morning, but that's normal. It actually looks inviting. You set down the shot glass and cautiously approach the bed, half expecting Discord or someone like that to pop out of nowhere and give you a heart attack.

When nothing happens, you breathe a sigh of relief. You stride over to the bed with renewed confidence and literally belly flop onto it.

Only to smack your face on a hard surface. You lift yourself off the bed and get a better look at it. While it looked normal from the door, now you can see the gleam of a shiny, crystalline surface that now forms your bed.

"Oh no," you groan as you realise what this means. The pony of the night is either Cadence or...

"Grargh!" growls Sombra, emerging from your bathroom, which is leaking a purple and green smoke. You can see the black crystal spires he's conjured in there, piercing the pipes and causing your sink to spray water all over the slick now-crystal surface of your bathroom furniture. He strides over to your bed and hops onto it, examining the crystals he's created.

"Um, hi," you say, carefully getting off the bed and making moves towards the door.

"You're tarnishing my crystals," says Sombra, in a guttural and deep voice. He seems to take unhealthy pleasure in the idea of your bed being turned into crystals. Still, you see this as an opportunity. You scramble to your feet.

"You're right. Why don't you just take the crystals off of my bed and leave? I'm sure there's better crystals for you somewhere that isn't here," you offer. "Maybe you could even lead the rest of the ponies to wherever that is."

"No, I will fix these crystals that you ruined, and then I will punish you," he says, glaring at you the whole time. You gulp, this can't end well.

Sombra lights his horn with a sickly mist of purple and green. The mist surrounds your bed, and suddenly the crystal of the bed starts to sparkle vibrantly.

"There," he says, "I have fixed what you broke. Now my crystals are beautiful again."

You breathe a slight sigh of relief. "So you're not going to punish me?"

"I'm feeling generous so no." He picks up a pair of jeans off the floor and examines it, before crystallising them. A pair of socks, a jacket and a pair of underwear follow, until every item of clothing on your floor is crystallised. Next he levitates your Playboy magazines off of the floor and crystallises them too. Soon your whole bedroom is crystals.

"You've provided me with so many pretty objects to make even prettier, that I'll let you indulge in a bit of entertainment," says Sombra when he's finished. The implications of that statement are terrifying, especially given that your week old laundry is considered 'pretty'.

His horn lights again. Suddenly, your room is a very different place. It seems to have no ceiling. You're at the bottom of a huge crystal staircase. At the very top, is your bed, still crystallised, and Sombra snuggled into the sheets of it. He peeks his head over the edge.

"You can have fun climbing my crystal stairs!" he exclaims as gleefully as a crystal-obsessed tyrant can. "Stairs and crystals," he remarks, "the best things in the world."

You turn around to the door, to see that the shot glass is still where you left it. You grab it as you leave.

"You can have the bed. I'm sleeping on the couch."

Button Mash Is In Your Bed, Pissing Off Hasbro (Ponyswamp)

Button Mash Is In Your Bed, Pissing Off Hasbro
Ponyswamp

Your day was relatively good, all things considered. The customers at your work weren’t as utterly horrible as they usually are, and your superiors didn’t screw you over to a highly noticeable degree.

The way home was clear and unobstructed by the usual morons. As you walk through the door, you mentally prepare yourself for yet another pony to enter your bedroom and change your day, for better or for worse.

Today, there is half an argument emanating from your bedroom, which you cautiously listen to as you go to pour yourself a glass of water.

You begin to decipher words in the argument, which you assume is over a phone, as you down your drink. You hear “pissed”, as well as “legal” and “jam”.

Suddenly, a loud explosion sound comes from your room, and, begrudgingly, you decide that you ought to find out the cause.

Upon entering your seemingly undestroyed room (you’ve seen too much to assume it isn’t secretly destroyed), you discover a small brown pony with a two-tone mane and tail, chatting on the phone and playing video games.

Seeing the small pony’s current form of entertainment, you dismiss the explosion as a virtual one, and set off on studying the small creature, who has yet to notice you.

Unlike most of the others, this one has nothing on his flank, which means something you don’t really care about right now. He (well, you assume he’s a he) is wearing a propeller beanie, of all things. Also, he is talking on the phone.

Well, he was. Now he’s really just cackling madly while someone on the other side yells something you can’t quite make out. You sneak a peek at the game he’s playing, and it’s one of the more violent ones you own.

Judging by the shrillness of the pony’s voice, it’s clear he’s a child, and as the closest thing to a responsible adult in his vicinity, you decide that the game is too mature for the pony currently laughing like a frequent flyer at the funny farm on your bed.

You switch off your system, which elicits a yell from the pony on your bed, who discards the phone to the other side of the bed.

“The hay, man!” the pony cried shrilly. “I’d nearly beaten my high score!”

You stare at him blankly. “That game doesn’t have high scores.”

He looks genuinely embarrassed. “Well… I was keeping track myself!”

“You were?”

He grins widely, which is frankly adorable. “Yep! I had a K/D of 42.333, a max killstreak of 57, and an impressive total of 27 360° noscopes!”

You continue to stare at him blankly. “So, what, you’re the MLG pony?”

He also keeps up his facial expression, still grinning widely. “Yep! My name is Button Mash! I’m eight years old, and I like video games! I live in Ponyville, with my mom, my dad, and my brother! I don’t have a cutie mark yet, but I don’t care much about that.”

You are filled with a sense of unidentifiable dread at those words.

You decide to change the subject. “So, who was on the phone? They sounded pretty pissed.”

Button dropped the controller and started doing what you assume is a celebratory dance. He’s a pony, so it’s sort of weird.

“Hasbro legal team! Hasbro legal team!” the pony chanted excitedly. It was sort of confusing.

“Wait, wait. Like, Hasbro the toy company?”

Button nodded comically. “I don’t know why, but they hate me and this dude named Jam, or something like that. Now I’m here, and I thought I might as well call them and say ‘in your face’!”

You scratch the back of your head for no reason whatsoever. “How in the world do you know about them hating you?”

He shrugs. “I googled myself.”

You blink. “How do you even know how to use a computer?”

Button’s jaw drops. “I have a K/D of 42.333! Of course I can work a computer! I can easily internet!”

“You can internet?”

“Yes.”

“Internet isn’t a verb.”

“I know that.”

“Then why-”

Suddenly, you hear a knock on your front door. Since you’re not expecting any guests, you glance at Button for an explanation.

He shrugs. “Maybe it’s the pizza I ordered.”

You sigh. “How did you order a pizza?”

“I just came to an alternate dimension, googled myself, called the Hasbro legal team, and got a KD of 42.333, and you’re asking me how I ordered a pizza?”

You just look at him. “Touché.”

The knocking continues on your door, and you slowly back away from Button, not once taking your eyes off of him until you leave your bedroom.

You walk to the front door, wondering who on earth it could be. You peek through the peephole, and then look away. You can’t remember seeing anything.

Upon opening the door, however, you discover a group of no more than fifteen or so finely dressed men with sunglasses.

The one closest to the door holds up a badge. “Agent Hollister, of the Hasbro legal department.”

You stand there for a few seconds, taking that in. Then you gesture at him and put on a look of utter confusion.

“You’re a legal team! Why on earth are you suddenly the Men in Black?”

Agent Hollister holds up a hand, as well as a sheet of paper, which he begins to read from. “Sir or madam, you are charged with possession of copyrighted material. The aforementioned copyrighted material is charged with unlawful existence.

“The minimum penalty for possession of copyrighted material is a C&D letter for your current illegal activities involving our material. The maximum penalty is a C&D letter forbidding you from existence.

“The penalty for unlawful existence is forcibly returning the culprit to their former duties. In the case of one ‘Button Mash’, these duties include: an appearance in a two second segment. The culprit is also given a demerit point on their profile, reducing royalty payments for their appearances in copyrighted Hasbro material.

“Should you have any complaints or objections in relation to our charges, you may state them now.”

You just stand there stupidly. Agent Hollister smiles. “Excellent.” He and the other fourteen or so agents somehow pass through the door frame without touching you at all.

You sort of just stand there for a couple seconds, just trying to take in what just happened. A child’s scream from your bedroom snaps you from your stupor, and you rush to the source.

Button Mash is still on your bed, somehow shooting laser beams from your game controller at the Hasbro agents.

“You!” he yells at you. “You were supposed to stop them from getting to me!”

“We never made that deal!” you shout, but Button doesn’t seem to care, as he tosses you your spare controller.

He rushes to the TV, dodging lawyers at every turn. “Follow me!” he screams, shortly before actually leaping into your TV screen. And going through it. Like, not in the ‘smash your TV to bits’ through it.

Still not seeing much sense in this, you follow Button into your TV.

And once on the other side, you discover that Button Mash, the naive little colt, has set up your arena in which you will fight the Hasbro lawyers: Minecraft.

You look furiously at the colt. “Are you serious? I had things like Call of Duty and Mass Effect, and you choose the place where we have to literally build our own weapons!?”

Button gets right up in your face. “Yes! This is the only game in your collection where the lawyers have to take on their true form!”

Your eyes start darting around frantically. “Their true form?”

Button nods. “None of your other games had the programming to force it. Minecraft is the bane of lawyers!”

You look at him. “Well, where are they?”

Button points behind you, and you turn around. There it is, about three feet from where you stand: a pond filled to the brim with fifteen or so squids wearing business suits.

You look to Button. “Huh.”

And the two of you punched squids long into the night.

Later…

Button took you back to your room after thoroughly murdering all the lawyers. You asked him how he was coping with having the blood of fifteen or so people on his hooves, and he replied with “They’re not people. They’re lawyers.” You frankly found it hard to argue with that.

Now, Button is playing video games with you. And, as little as you want to admit it, he’s beating you.

“Oh yeah! Take that, loser!”

You scrunch up your face. “I still don’t understand how you got to level 50 while I was at work.”

Button grinned. “MLG.”

There was a knock at the door. You both looked at each other.

“Can the controllers still shoot lasers?”

“Yep.”

You nodded, and snuck up to the door. You looked through the peephole, and again saw nothing. You’re not falling for that one again, and you fling open the door and start mashing buttons, sending lasers off into the night.

Luckily, the grey pegasus mare with a mailbag was hovering above your door, or she’d have been fried. You stopped shooting lasers, feeling silly.

“Sorry about that.” you muttered quietly.

She chuckled, and landed on your doorstep. “That’s alright, it happens more often than you think!”

She hands you an envelope. “Enjoy your mail!” she says cheerily, before flying away.

And here you are just trying not to feel bad for staring at her crossed eyes.
Button pops his head into the room as you close the door. “Is the coast clear?”

You nod, and open the letter.

Dear Sir or Madam,
We must, regretfully, commend you on your having conquered our lawyers. We know they are no easy foes, and defeating them must have taken a great deal of skill, or otherwise a large dosage of excellent luck.

As per the Equestrian Agreement of 2009, any entity that kills, subdues, or otherwise thwarts a legal team sent on them are free of all charges included in the letter of prosecution. We would like to congratulate you on your mastery of the legal system.

Yours truly, The Hasbro Corporation

P.S, check your closet.

Gulping, you walk to your closet, and slowly open the door.

Agent Hollister, crouching in the corner, grins (and it was a very sinister grin) and holds up an object that resembles a metal pen.

“Smile.” Then the flash.

A Chorus of Lyras Has Invaded Your Bedroom (FanOfMostEverything)

Fuck Mondays. Fuck them with the dull, rusty pizza cutter that sliced your wholly unsatisfying dinner. (You made sure to face away from the Panda Express while you ate. The lo mein still beckoned and taunted you by turns.) Monday means unwanted, often highly destructive guests who you really didn’t want to deal with.

Still, deal with them you must, apparently. As you open your front door, you mutter, “Come out, come out, whoever you are.”

You decide it’s best to get it over with and head straight for your bedroom. You note that the door’s shut. It hadn’t been when you left. You also hear a feminine voice on the other side of the door. Wonderful, this one talks to herself. In a way totally different from your comment upon arriving home. That was witty commentary on the sad state of your life. The pony is the one who’s crazy.

You pause to silently weep for your dwindling sanity. As you do, you realize that one voice just talked over another one. Then a few more chime in.

Your gut fills with dread where it doesn’t hold crappy pizza. There’s more than one of them. That can’t be good.

You grab the doorknob, only to find it locked. It’s one of those push-button locks that can be opened with a wire hanger. If you were to grab one from the coat closet, you could open it in less than a minute. And yet, you hesitate. You try not to think about why several ponies would lock the door to your bedroom behind them, and as with anything you try not to think about, several images immediately come to mind.

“Just a moment, sir.” Thankfully, the voice on the other side of the door jolts you out of your horrific revery.

The bottom of the door glows gold, and you reflect on how jaded you’ve become. Once, seeing actual magic would’ve been a thing of wonder. Now it’s just another part of this weekly aggravation. You’ve seen it far too many times to feel any fascination.

A unicorn mare steps through the gap under the door, moving like a reflection in a funhouse mirror, expanding from less than an inch tall to crotch height. As she returns to her usual size, you recognize her as Lyra.

Okay, you haven’t seen that one before.

Lyra holds herself much more seriously than you’d expect, straight-backed and looking you in the eye. Not a trace of recognition there. “I wouldn’t go in there if I were you, sir,” she says.

“Why?” you ask, before the visions can come back.

She looks away and paws at the carpet with a forehoof. “There’s been a… mishap.”

You groan. Of course there has. Last time was entirely too peaceful. She had to make up for it. At least nothing is on fire… as far as you know. “What did you do, Lyra?"

She blinks. “I take it we’ve met?”

“What?” You shake your head, trying to make sense of this. Does she have amnesia or something? “Of course we have! It was like the most fulfilling moment of your life!”

She sighs. “This is actually part of the mishap. You may have met me, but I’ve never met you.”

There’s really only one response to that. “What.”

“This will be tricky to explain,” she says. “Assume we never met. What can you tell me about myself?”

You have no idea where she’s going with this, but you might as well humor her. However, you don’t recall her ever actually doing anything in the show, so you don’t have a lot to work with. “You live in Ponyville."

She nods. “Go on.”

Harp cutie mark. "You’re a musician?” That seems like a safe bet.

“At times,” she says, wearing a smug little smile.

You scowl at her. “I am in no mood for enigmatic pony bullshit, okay? Just get to the point.”

“Sorry.” To her credit, she really does seem apologetic, ears folded, eyes pointed at the floor. “In any case, beyond that, you don’t have a lot of information, right?” She hums to herself ”This is my first time meeting you. I should probably introduce myself. Nice to meet you. I’m Lyra. Lyra Heartstrings.”

You blink and shake your head. “Why did that sound… green?”

“That happens sometimes. In any case…” She trails off, gaze drifting to one side as she thinks. “Okay, this is going to be almost completely wrong, but you won’t understand anything more accurate without several advanced degrees in subjects that don’t apply to your laws of physics. Basically, the cosmos itself is as unsure as you are when it comes to the question ‘Who is Lyra?’ Thus, you didn’t get just one answer to it. You got eight.”

You narrow your eyes. “What did I just say about enigmatic pony bullshit?”

“Oh.” She shifts her weight from side to side. “Sorry again. I’m trying to explain some pretty arcane concepts, in several senses of the word. I’ll try to keep the enigmatic horseapple content low. Shortest, simplest version? There are seven other mes in your bedroom at the moment.”

“Seven,” you echo. You hadn't made an estimate or anything, but just the idea of that many ponies at once…

Lyra nods, showing no regard or consideration for your moment of soul-consuming horror. “Seven. The Lady of Winter, Hoodie McNavelgaze, and I are working on getting us back. The Bearer of Loyalty is keeping the other four entertained.”

You blink. You understood less than half of that. “What?”

She either shrugs or does a shallow push-up. “Well, we can’t all go by ‘Lyra.’ That would be horribly confusing."

"I... guess that makes sense," you say with a slow nod.

"Besides, we all agreed on the nicknames." She smiles. "I’m Agent L.”

This still isn't telling you why you can't go in your bedroom, but if you try the direct approach, she’ll probably go on an even weirder tangent. “So," you ask, "why aren’t those other four helping?”

“Two reasons. One, they don’t have experience with the time-space magic involved. Frankly, three out of eight’s a pretty incredible ratio for that kind of thing.”

You frown. “Star Swirl said it was a curse.” Well, you think he did. All the mind magic made that whole day kind of muzzy.

Her mouth hangs open for a moment. “Star Swirl? The Bearded?”

You cross your arms. “Are there any others?”

She nods. “Quite a few, actually.”

“Oh. Huh." You weren't expecting that. "Then yes, Star Swirl the Bearded.”

“You know, that may actually explain some of what we're dealing with in there.” She puts a hoof to her chin. “Did he do anything to the bed?”

That much you remember. “Banished it.”

She smirks. “Yeah, that tends to be his default solution in a lot of timelines. How’d it get unbanished?”

“Clover the Clever was still on it when he banished it.”

Lyra groans. “Fantastic. One of those Star Swirls. Still, that explains a lot.” She shoves her head back under the door—a gap, you might add, that is still maybe an inch wide. “Star Swirl messed with it!”

The answer comes in deadpan triplicate. “Of course he did.” Ugh, you hadn't noticed they were all the same voice until now. Creepy with a capital everything.

The spokes-Lyra pulls her head out of the crack and faces you again. Also creepy, though less so. After an awkward few seconds, you ask, “So, you said there were two reasons why the rest of you aren’t helping?”

She nods. “Right. Number two is that out of the four that the Bearer's keeping busy, three would smother you with questions and one would smother you with one of the pillows.”

You take a step back. “What?”

“Yeah, a lot of me are anthropophiles.” She gives a nervous laugh that is far too cute for this situation.

“Not that," you say. "The part about the one who’d want to smother me with a pillow.”

She sucks air through her teeth. “Well, I just said that for the sake of parallel structure. Truth is, she’d probably just try to gore you.”

You become very aware of where Lyra's horn would be pointed if she charged you. You take another step back and squeak out, “I’m in favor of leaving her alone.”

“I thought you would be.” Lyra sighs. “She’s probably the worst off, and that’s taking Hoodie into account. Bad experience with humans. Trust me, you do not want to go in there.”

Well, there’s your answer. You shrug. “It’s not that much trouble. Ponies go back by the next day.”

She perks up, ears erect, eyes wide. “Do they, now?”

“Yeah, so I don’t—” Your sentence dies as she shoves her head back under the door. You’re almost getting used to her doing that. Almost.

Through the door, you hear her say, “He says ponies go back in a roughly 24-hour timeframe! Focus on figuring out what disrupted the waveform collapse.” Then she pulls her head back out from under the door and turns back to you. “Sorry, you were saying?”

“How did you do that?” you cry. Again, almost used to it.

She rolls her eyes. “Magic. Duh.”

You glare at her. “Seriously?”

She opens her mouth, but shakes her head before saying, “Sorry. As I said, I have experience with time-space magic. It’s even my special talent.”

“But that’s a harp,” you point out. You feel like a moron the moment you hear yourself.

She doesn't seem to mind. In fact, she grins. “Haven’t you ever heard of string theory?”

Your bury your face in your hands and groan. Bad enough that ponies have burned your possessions, controlled your mind, and drunk your booze. Now they’re trying to pun you to death.

“Besides,” she adds, “if we don’t fix this, there are good odds that the problem’s only going to get worse. Imagine getting a dozen Rainbow Dashes in the same room. Twenty Pinkie Pies. Fifty Discords.”

You shudder. One of each had been more than enough “Okay, point made. I don’t suppose you’d be able to stop ponies from coming at all?” Might as well check.

“Well…" She considers this for a bit, muttering things like "along the rho vector" and "account for the Hugs field." Finally, she says, "Theoretically, yes, but that would take months at best. Even if the anomaly allowed us to stay that long, those would be months you’d need to tiptoe around Wicks.”

You furrow your brow. “Wicks?”

Her ears droop as she looks at the door. “Worst Case Scenario. W C S. Wicks.”

“Oh. Right.” You're not sure what happened to that one, but you do feel a little bad for her. Heck, she even agreed to that nickname.

"Yeah, it's either circumspection or circumcision."

Well, that ruined the moment. "Yes, thank you, I got that." You sigh. “And that’s not taking the room and board for eight unicorns into account.”

She gives a little gasp. “You’d feed us?”

You shrug. “I couldn’t just let you starve.”

"Wow, your psych profile never—" She whips her forehooves over her mouth.

You scowl and kneel down, trying to loom as menacingly as you can. "My what now?"

She backs away, a massive fake grin on her face. "I should really go back and see how the others are doing." She should have run out of room by now, but instead her body's compressing itself to fit under the door.

Like Hell you're going to let this one go. She probably made up the sob story just to keep you out of whatever she's up to. As her head warps itself through the gap, you stick yours in right behind it.

You're not sure what you were expecting—maybe a squeezing pressure or something—but you don’t feel anything. Instead, the space under the door stretches up as you approach it, forming a gold-glowing, pony-high archway. The view on the other side is so distorted that it’s just blotches of color.

You push forward a few more inches, where you can see everything clearly. Lyra's staring at you, eyes wide with surprise. Two unicorns are next to the bed, identical to her save that one’s in a ratty-looking hooded sweatshirt. There's... something above the bed. You can't make out what, and just looking at it is giving you a headache.

You move your attention to the group of Lyras in one corner, all looking over at the commotion. Eight eyes lock onto you. Six pupils dilate, while two shrink to pinpricks.

The room goes quiet enough that you can hear them whisper.

"Tiny nose."

"Brownish hair."

"Tannish skin."

A fourfold shout, one far more furious than the others, breaks the calm:

You pull back, staggering away as your brain struggles with the abrupt transition in and out of the warped space. The glow fades out just before several bodies slam against the bedroom door. Hooves scrape against it, voices shout incoherently, and the tinkling-bell sound of magic rises to near-deafening levels.

You hide behind your couch.

After a small eternity, you hear Lyra's voice again. "Well, I hope you're proud of yourself."

You stay behind the couch. Entirely out of prudence, of course. "Is it safe?" Entirely. Out. Of prudence.

"The Lady of Winter's also darn good at electromancy. The four of them are stunned."

You risk a peek. She glowers back, mane in disarray and a bruise already forming along her jaw. Still, her horn isn't lit, so she's probably not going to fire some doom spell at you.

"Um..." You ease your way into view as you grope for something to say. "Sorry?"

She rolls her eyes. "Just be glad that I don't want every Equestria ever disgorging its contents into this universe."

"Thank you?" you try.

There’s that weird quadrupedal shrug again. "If nothing else, you've given me one heck of a water cooler story."

Seaponies Are Inside Your Bed. Inside It. It's A Waterbed. (Humanoid)

Seaponies are in your bed. Inside it. It's a waterbed.

It's been another long, long day at work. It's a funny thing. You used to sit at home and dread going to your job. But lately you've been sitting in your cubicle at work, dreading coming home. And you've promised yourself that if you find ponies in your apartment one more time, you're going to call Animal Control.

But now you've just walked the twenty blocks from the bus stop. You've just come home, locked and deadbolted the front door, and trudged into the kitchen to make a sandwich. You are, to your great annoyance, all out of peanut butter, and the only thing left in the cupboard is a loaf of rye bread and a can of sardines. You mutter under your breath and construct a rather smelly sandwich.

The TV fails to distract you, and you go into your bedroom. You put down your sandwich and sit down on the edge of the bed, almost falling over onto your back as the mattress sloshes back and forth behind you. “Waugh!” you yell as you regain your balance.

You recall now that you bought a waterbed, in the hopes that crazy ponies would be less able to set it on fire or otherwise demolish it. It’s certainly a change. That, and it’s also singing.

Wait a minute. Why is it singing? You can hear faint voices coming, seemingly, out of the mattress itself. Is there a speaker underneath it? You can’t make out the words but you can definitely hear music coming from the mattress.

You poke the sloshing mattress firmly with the tip of your index finger, and you are rewarded with a faint, distant giggle.

“Who's there?”

“Shoo bee doo! Shoo shoo bee doo!”

“What.”

Suddenly your bedroom is illuminated by blinding, flashing colored lights from all directions. “Shoo bee doo! Shoo shoo bee doo!”

Your waterbed's mattress splits open, gushing hundreds of gallons of water all over your apartment's floors, flooding your bedroom and kitchen. At least a dozen very strange, vaguely pony-ish creatures come pouring out of it to form a circle around you, hovering in midair.

And they're performing a musical number, in the flooded ruins of your bedroom. “Call upon the Sea-Ponies, when you're in distress!” They resemble sea-horse versions of your previous adorable yet bizarre pony visitors.

You are agog. You stagger backwards and collapse into your still-intact beanbag chair, covering your face with your hands. “What is all this? Why are you doing this to me?”

There is a long awkward pause, which stretches a while. You look up, to see a pink, yellow-maned creature floating about four feet off the ground, looking at you with an expression of concern.

“Are you in distress?”

“Now I am, sure.”

“Well, you can send an S-O-S and--”

“And what? Can you clean up the flood damage? My landlord's going to evict me for this.”

“Sure.” She starts singing again. “We're the helpful-as-can be ponies--”

“Stop that. Stop singing. Also, why are you in my apartment?”

She extends a bundle of paper towards you with one of her forefins—a bundle of paper you're pretty sure she didn't have five seconds ago. It's marked 'Script.' You begin leafing through it.

INT. GRUBBY APARTMENT ENTRANCE – DAY

YOU wearily trudge through the door, locking it behind you. YOU survey the room for a moment, then walk into the kitchen.

Where's the peanut butter? Dammit! I thought I still

had half a jar left.

YOU search through the kitchen cabinets, finding only a loaf of bread and a can of sardines. You make a sandwich, mumbling irritably.

Mumble mumble grr. Rhubarb rhubarb mumble mumble grr.

Dammit.

At a remove of several conceptual levels, you stare at your adorable pink visitor, who is still floating inexplicably in the air, and hand her back the script, your hands shaking. “What is all this? Is my life being written by Philip K. Dick now?”

“You're not in distress, or anything like that, now, are you, sweetie?” she asks, tossing the script over her shoulder and hitting the fourth wall with it.

“Stop that. Also, how are you doing that?”

“Doing what?”

“That... that levitation thing. You're just floating there in midair with no visible means of support.”

“I'll have you know--”

“This isn't going to be a pun about your acting contract, or an undergarment with wires in it, is it?”

“...how'd you know?”

“You're not the first ponies to visit me.”

“oh.”

“You're not even the first ponies to destroy my bed.”

“oh.”

“You're the first ones to flood my apartment, though.”

You look up to see her wearing a manic grin, with an enormous foam rubber hand with extended finger stuck over one of her forefins, with “#1” printed on both sides in enormous letters.

You facepalm again.

“Seriously. Does reality just warp itself to your whims in your presence, or something?”

“Well, duh. We're toons.”

Several other sea-ponies fly into your room and begin singing. “Toon bee doo! Toon toon bee doo!”

“That explains... well, no, actually, it doesn't.”

“Toon union rules supersede other applicable laws, such as laws of nature.”

“I had to ask.”

“You did.”

“And... since one of you has already eaten my dinner,” you say, noting the empty plate floating across the room and the delicate, ladylike burp from one of the backup singers, “will you at least help me clean up the mess?”

“You can hardly expect seaponies to resist sardine sandwiches. They have both alimentary and alliterative appeal.”

“Stop changing the subject.”

“Well, okay.”

The flying seaponies busy themselves magically conjuring the water out of your apartment's flooring and reassemble the ruptured waterbed. As one by one they dive back into it, your irritation recedes somewhat.

“One last thing,” says the pink one.

“Yes?”

“Could you chlorinate this thing once in a while? I don't want to criticize a gracious host, but...”

You smile. “Sure thing.” You wonder how much pool chlorine would be required to be an effective seapony repellent.

You are In Twilight Sparkle's Bed (TheGypsyBard)

You Are In Twilight Sparkle's Bed
TheGypsyBard

I’m… not quite sure how to take this situation.

Somehow, someway, in a weird, inconceivable twist of pure irony, you have landed smack dab in the middle of Twilight Sparkle’s bed. No, not metaphorically, either. You were about to clock out of your stupid job and head home, dreading what pony you would find there this time, and suddenly the ground disappeared and your head became your butt. Then you hit her bed face-first, which still hurt like hell, even on a bed.

Now you are just trying to make sense of what happened. You look around the room, throwing aside your bafflement so you can attempt to rationalize the present issue. Based on what you know of the show, this is indeed Twilight Sparkle’s bedroom. Not many other ponies have books piled up in the shape of a throne with quills attached to the top with alternating parchment rolls like some pseudo-Iron Throne.

Then a thought occurs to you.

I don’t have to go to work anymore.

Holy. Shit.

You practically spring out of the bed, dancing wildly with your arms flailing erratically at your sides, stepping in furious sequence at irregular intervals in unpredictable patterns. After about half a minute of utter tomfoolery, you stop, fall face-first into the bed once more.

I’m also stuck in a world full of ponies… great…

Dreading the inevitable concourse of facing the mass of equines, you feel content to simply wallow in your self-pity, reflecting on life. Then you just wallow, because thinking is both boring and tedious. Actually, scratch that, you just plain exist in the confines of what could be considered the bed for the next hour or so.

. That is right about the time that a certain purple unicorn pushes her way in-

“Twilight, are you up here? Hello?”

The small green and purple reptile steps out from behind the large oaken door, stopping as soon as his eyes met with your’s. He looks surprised at first, then curious.

“Uh… have you seen Twilight?”

“...No. You’re not even the slight bit curious what I’m doing in her bed?”

“I’ve seen stranger. Tell her I went to the market if she comes back.” And with that, he retreated back outside from whence he came, leaving you feeling even more befuddled than before, unable to grasp the importance of his unexpected visit this strange creature that lives in Equestia. His true purpose might never be known, it seems.

Not one to waste a golden opporti- nope, couldn’t do it with a straight face. You got bored sitting there doing nothing, so you decided to poke through her shit. After the precarious task of pulling yourself out of the comfortable bed, you set to the task of searching each and every nook and cranny that could possibly hide secret bonus points from you.

Stepping over to an armoire set against one wall, you pull open both doors, seeing what amounts to a normal clothing storage compartment. Then you wonder why ponies have this many clothes in the first place, when all they do is walk around naked. Must be a universal- or interdimensional- woman thing you conclude.

Finding nothing else of any true importance inside, you shut it and turn around to search the rest of the room. Describing the act of invasion of privacy is boring, so I won’t do it. Suffice to say, the worst you find is a small trinket with red and black designs and silver accents, looking like a depiction of one of the alicorn princesses, perhaps.

Pocketing that find, you move to the window now, simply gazing out over the town to take in where you have been dropped into. Ponies mill about in abject normalcy, doing whatever it is ponies do. Probably acting as background characters for the important ones. You can see the most ponies towards where you suspect the market is, so that must be true.

How am I going to survive this nightmare?

Probably just like how you survived chili night at Uncle Dan’s. That was a fun night. Anyway, getting back on track-

Hold on, how did you know about Uncle Dan? And who are you?

Oh dear, it seems you have somehow gained semi-omniscience, enough to shatter the fourth wall of the story. Your head cocks to the side as your confusion spreads to your features, looking around for the voice seemingly narrating everything you do.

This is weird, weirder than ponies inexplicably finding their way into my bedroom every day you speak with your mind, the narrator already voicing your thoughts before you could utter a word. This makes you double take, even more lost than ever.

Ok, wise guy, how about you help me get back to Earth, huh? You beg with the utmost scorn, dismissing the narrator as a voice inside your cracked mindscape. You turn your head and spit on the flooring of the bedroom, cracking your knuckles and doing a ballerina twirl, trying to throw the Narrator off track unsuccessfully.

Then you trip and fall and die.

Immediately following this statement, you nearly accomplish just that, jumping onto the bed as if it would protect you from the loss of sentient life. Even as these words are written down with keyboard and fingers, you relax visibly, clutching your now racing heart as you realiz death is still yet to come.

Alright, enough of this crap. Why does it sound like I’m in some dumb story being told to others? Why can’t I find my way out of here? Indeed, every time you attempted to head for the exit to the room, you somehow lost sight of it, or otherwise failed at the task. Walking with newfound tenacity, you run towards the wall of the room, stopping to look upward at the ceiling.

Now you’re talking in present tense. you would utter with vocal cords of iron, shaking the very air around your space as your voice permeates its resistant waves.

That doesn’t make sense, and you changed tense again. Doth thou seeketh a challenge in thine own home? Speak naught these ill conceived words lest ye be wrought before the ire of thy patron gods.

See, now you just sound like Ye Olde English. Plus you just spoke directly at me. You lose the ability to think and fall into a state of permanent death.Thanks to the days of winter, you earned enough experience to boast a second life, returning without any prior damage.

Ok, seriously, enough. This game or whatever it is has been completely worn dry. I just want to go home, deal with whatever monster might be lurking in my bedroom, and sleep.

There is nothing but a deep silence for many minutes, not even your own voice able to shatter the quiet discontent. WIth a whistle and a rush of hot air, you find yourself in the alley outside your apartment complex, blinking your eyes as you try to think why your head aches so, and you have a paranoid feeling of being watched.

“Ugh..” you say to yourself aloud, “I really need to get a decent night’s rest.. these ponies are going to be the death of me.” WIth that valid statement birthed, you open the door and walk inside the gloomy hovel, preparing yourself for the next challenge that awaits you inside.

King Sombra Is Smoking In Your Bed (Hoopy McGee)

King Sombra is smoking in your bed.
Hoopy McGee

You’re barely through the front door of your apartment when you see it: smoke, curling up lazily into the hallway from underneath your closed bedroom door. In an instant, pure fury solidifies in you. You drop your packages and stomp across the floor, heedless of the noise you’re making for your downstairs neighbors. This is it. You’ve had it. Enough is finally enough.

Your first stop is in the kitchen. You fling open the doors to the cupboard under the sink and grab the portable fire extinguisher you bought after Vinyl Scratch’s first appearance, and then you stomp towards the bedroom door, stoking your rage as you go.

The rage feels good. You are striding along the top of Mount Righteous Fury, and you are understandably high on the feeling. It is way past time to deal with this ridiculous pony problem, you decide.

“That’s it!” you roar as you approach the bedroom, pulling the safety tab off of the fire extinguisher as you go. “I’ve had it with you ponies!” You stop and put your hand on the door. Even angry, you’re not stupid enough to open a door if there seems to be a fire on the other side. You’ve seen the movie Backdraft.

The door is cool to the touch, meaning that the fire is at least not burning out of control yet. You turn the handle and push the door open while shouting, “Vinyl, if you’ve set fire to my bedsheets again, I’m gonna…”

You trail off, staring in shock at your bedroom. Black smoke obscures everything, going from one wall to the other. But, you realize, there’s no smell of anything burning. Just inky black smoke, looking like oily shadows churning in your bedroom. That’s when you realize that there is no smell… or, at least, not the smell of burning. There is some kind of funk coming out of your room, though. It smells like concentrated gym socks.

A pair of eyes open. Eyes of unspeakable horror, red irised with glowing green scleras. What looks like violet fire streams from the eyes, giving it a look of pure evil and making your guts feel like they’re filled with ice water. The wickedly sharp, pulsing red horn in between and slightly above those eyes doesn’t help you feel any better.

When the eyes focus on you, you feel yourself falling off the top of Mount Righteous Fury and tumbling straight down into the Icy Ravine of Oh-God-I’m-Going-To-Wet-Myself. It’s like the eyes somehow absorbed all your fury, because you can feel the hate emanating from them.

You attempt to say something disarming, something along the lines of, “Oh, pardon me. I didn’t mean to interrupt. Please, go on about your business while I leave and go rent a hotel room in another state.” Instead, all you manage is a weak-sounding “Urk…” noise, your Adam’s apple bobbing as you try to force words out of your too-dry throat.

The smoke growls. You don’t know how, you don’t know why, but it growls, and you’re vaguely aware of the knuckles on your left hand going white as you hold the fire extinguisher in a deathgrip. But that’s not the worst of it, oh no. The worst is when a voice, a guttural and hateful voice, speaks.

“Human!” the voice roars.

“Eep!” you manage to reply.

“Die!” the red-and-green-eyed monster replies as it rushes towards you.

You’re not even aware of bringing up the fire extinguisher, and you certainly don’t recall sending any orders to press the trigger. And yet, a fine yellow powder somehow shoots out of the end of it, hitting the thing right in what is presumably its face.

The thing stops, staring at you. You stare back. There’s a whole lot of staring going on. And then the smoke-cloud-thing rears back, starts blinking furiously and begins screaming.

“Yargh! You got that right in my eyes! What the blazes is wrong with you?!” the thing roars.

“Uh…” is your witty comeback.

“Ah! Aaaagh! I can’t see… I can’t see! What was that?!”

“Fire ‘stingsher,” you mumble, holding it out as if by way of explanation. You’re feeling a little out of your element. This is no surprise, as you have very little experience in talking to sentient, evil clouds of smoke.

“Well, why did you spray it in my eyes?!”

You honestly consider that for a moment. “You rushed me while screaming ‘Die!’, remember? Seemed like the right thing to do at the time.”

The cloud creature ignores your rational explanation.

“What’s in that? Could I go blind?” Now the rumbling voice is starting to go panicky as it starts blinking rapidly while crying tears of green fire. “Oh, crystal shards! I’m going to go blind, aren’t I?”

For some reason, you start to feel a little bad. As if there weren’t a giant smoke monster with evil eyes and an extremely pointy horn in your bedroom.

“Hold on, I’ll read the label.”

“Well, hurry! Please!” the smoke monster pleads. The green of its eyes is now a pulsating bloodshot red. This does not improve their appearance at all.

“Right, right… okay, ‘aim away from face’.” You snort. “No duh. Okay, what to do in case of accidental contact… Oh.”

“‘Oh’?” the smoke-thing replies. “What do you mean, ‘oh’?!” You hear an alarming sniffling sound coming from the bedroom. “Am… am I going to die?”

“Uhh… Hmm. Nah. Looks like you’ll probably be fine if we just rinse your eyes out with water for fifteen minutes.”

The sniffling continues for a moment, then slowly dies off. “...oh,” the smoke thing says. “Well, could we do that? Because, no lie, this burns like an ifrit’s hemorrhoids.”

Well, isn’t that a lovely image? you think to yourself. Out loud, you say, “Well, I don’t know…”

“I’m in pain, here!”

“Yeah, but you did sort of invade my bedroom.”

“Well… yes, but—”

“And you did rush at me like you were gonna try and eat my face off, or something.”

“I was… uh... just playing.”

You consider it for a while as the smoke-thing blinks and whines at you. Your shoulders slump as you give in. You simply can’t abide having someone suffering while not doing something to help.

“Alright, fine. Come on, let’s get you in the shower.” A thought occurs to you, then. “Uh. You’re not going to wash down the drain or anything, are you?”

“What? Oh, yes. One moment,” the creature replies. Then the smoke contracts, although it occurs to you that ‘coagulates’ might be a better description. It forms itself into the body of a black-maned grey unicorn wearing some sort of metal headdress and neck piece, with a red cape across its back.

“Wait, you’re a pony?” You blink, pieces suddenly clicking into place. “Oh! You’re that guy, um… King... Somber?”

“Sombra!” the unicorn snaps, still blinking and crying green, fiery tears which sizzle when they fall on your carpet. “You know me?”

“Uh, sort of?” You shrug, deciding it’s best not to mention how forgettable you thought his appearance was.

“Ah. My fame precedes me, then!” Sombra says. He walks forward, only to smack horn-first with your wall. “Curses!”

“Let’s get you into that shower,” you say.

You lead the occasionally-whimpering dark-magic-using monster unicorn through your apartment hallway to the bathroom. You turn on the shower while Sombra removes all the bits of metal plating and his cape. You manage to stifle a snort of laughter at the sight; without all that junk he was wearing, he just looks like a bad OC.

Sombra steps into your shower and lets the water rush over his face, blinking and sighing in contentment. You decide to leave him there and go open a window or two in your bedroom, to let it air out.

It occurs to you, while Sombra is rinsing the extinguisher powder out of his eyes, that you now have an evil unicorn in your shower. Unicorns, amongst other things, can levitate items. You decide that it may be a good idea to hide anything sharp and pointy, and spend a few minutes hiding your kitchen knives and assorted cutlery in the freezer, where only an idiot would look for them.

Then you wait, while Sombra uses up all the hot water for your apartment complex. After a few minutes, you decide that it may be a good idea to come up with a distraction. To that end, you head to the living room, fire up Youtube on your TV-connected laptop, and start looking through documentaries.

You hear the shower turn off just as you find one that might do the trick. A moment later, King Sombra’s voice echoes through your apartment.

“Human scum!” he roars. “Where are you?”

“Out here,” you call back.

Sombra’s hooves stomp closer as you sit in your armchair, trying to look relaxed. This is a very difficult thing to do when a murderous unicorn monster is growling and marching closer to you.

“Human! We have unfinished business, you and I!” Sombra says as he comes into view.

“How are the eyes?” you ask.

That puts Sombra off of his paces. His eyes, still red-rimmed, blink a few times in confusion. “Uh. Quite well, actually. Thank you.” He shakes his head and clears his throat. “As I was saying, we have unfinished—”

You take this opportunity to lift up the fire extinguisher, which you had sitting on the floor next to you, and place it in your lap. Sombra eyes it warily.

“I’m sorry,” you say, with your hand on the trigger. “I didn’t mean to cut you off. You were saying?”

“I, uh… was saying, ‘what a nice home you have’!”

Sombra flashes a pathetically fake fang-filled smile. You nod graciously.

“Thanks. By the way, I think I found something you might be interested in.” You gesture towards the couch. “Please, have a seat.”

Sombra eyes you warily as he steps cautiously past you. His eyes keep flicking towards the fire extinguisher, then back to you. Then he looks over at the TV and freezes.

The documentary is called “Into The Lost Crystal Caves.” You hit play.

“Ahhh…” Sombra says, sighing in quiet satisfaction as he reclines on my sofa. “Crystallllllsssss…”

You know, it turns out that when he’s not trying to murder you, King Sombra is a pretty chill guy.

Roseluck Sobers Up In Your Bed (Marcibel)

Roseluck Sobers up in Your Bed
Marcibel

Your phone's alarm awakens you, with the same assertive ignorance to your need of sleep and your outlook on life that you are beginning to just not care anymore that it does every morning. Of course you need to get up; you have a job that gives you money to live. Granted, you hate every aspect of the job—the people, the work, the place. If the zombie apocalypse came tomorrow, you wouldn't hesistate to put down any of your infected co-workers, whose hunger for brains would remind you that you are the only one with a mind at that place.

Your hand shoots out to quiet the damnable thing, worming through the mountain of soiled tissues and your most recent purchase—your new (and only) Playboy magazine—and the alarm finally goes away.

For a moment, you lie there, basking in the comfort of your slightly new, completely uncharred bed. People say sleeping in the nude is one of the most comfortable things in the world, and doing so in this bed, your life felt a little bit better. You may not have intended to sleep in such a way, but sleeping naked, letting everything hang out, helped to relax your mood.

Though not by much.

And it was then that a certain scent stained your nose—some ass had vomitted on the floor on the other side of the bed. You are certain that it wasn't you; you don't have any of the effects of a hangover, and you never drank (too much) on a Monday night.

Something moves in your bed, and you almost ruin your new sheets with a brown streak. You immediately shoot up to a sitting position, your blankets falling down to just your waist. Your eyes take in the shape of a pony, and your hands react to this surprise by grabbing a pillow and placing it over your groin. Sure, these ponies are always naked and probably wouldn't notice, but you have standards and don't want to take a roll of those dice in case one of them starts to get a bit extra friendly—especially when Dick Army is standing at attention every morning. You may be going to hell, but that doesn't mean that you should lengthen that list Saint Peter has at those pearly gates.

The pony—female if the curves of her rump pointing to you (as they always seem to be) and past experiences with the others taught you anything—was lying half-on, half-off your bed. Her coat was a pale yellow, which most (including your ex-girlfriend) might recognize as the color of the inside of a banana, while your mind quickly goes back to a phrase you've used before: "watered down piss." Honestly, if you gave any care for your mental health, you'd have yourself checked out and find what's wrong with you. But for now, you decide to shrug, and point to your crappy life.

Pony, right. Well, unlike some of the others you've had the displeasure of meeting, this one has neither wings nor a horn, like that one musician a while back. Her hair was bobbed, frizzled, and in a combination of a strange reddish-purple and a dark pink, and a rosebud adorned her shapely flank—not that you would use the word "shapely" to describe it; you were just saying. Along with the scent of vomit pouring up from the floor, the smells of a liquor cabinet and rose water practically radiated from the pony. But the oddest thing about her is that she is wearing red-and-pink-striped socks that climbed up all four of her slender legs.

What's next? A mint-green one in khakis and a foam finger?

She groans, a sign that you take as her awakening. This is the first time any of them has appeared during the night or unconscious, and you are thankful that she's at least alive. That would make for a fun day: having to toss some pony D.O.A. into the ocean. At least you'd be able to call off work, providing the excuse that your pony had died.

"Ugh…never gonna hang out with Berry Punch ever again," she mutters to herself and you notice a puddle of pony drool collecting on your blankets. Great, I have to do laundry. Then, with as much of a mind as your brain-dead colleagues, she rolls off the bed, landing with a hard thump onto her left side and shaking the entire room. Certainly the Noise Nazi next door is on his way right now to complain. Whatever. That doesn't matter; what does is that there is a hungover pony on your floor. She may be hurt, but after having one that stole your collection of decent reading material and another that tried to give your bed a viking funeral on land, you just don't rightly care anymore.

You might as well get things jump-started; you clear your throat, which catches her attention. She hazily looks around for a moment before her gaze drifts over to you. Her green eyes were incredibly blood-shot, and they would otherwise be gorgeous (for a pony) if they weren't so riddled with sickness and regret. When her eyes meets yours, they double in size.

"Oh, um, hi?"

"Hello, and welcome to Hell," you say, even though you're beginning to believe Hell would be a lot like Paradise City compared to this life. You continue, "My name is"—you shrug just as you're about to introduce yourself—"not important." You didn't tell the others your name, so why give this one the pleasure (or burden, you really aren't sure anymore). "So what's yours?" You glance at the mark on her flank. "Axl?"

She gives you a look of confusion that would've been adorable if the situation was different. "What? No, the name's Roseluck, or Rose for short."

Yeah, that makes sense. Good thing, too; I don't any dicks other than my own in here.

Rose sits up and rubs her eyes. "Where am I anyway?"

"My house."

She gives off a short, dry laugh, and mutters, "Thanks." Rose gives her hooves a weird look; she must've just realized her odd apparel. "Why am I wearing socks?!"

Again, you shrug, which you really should stop doing since your shoulders are starting to hurt at not giving a damn. "Maybe it's your fetish? I don't know. Look, do I need to stay home to take care of you?"

Rose gives you a worried look. "And what do mean by 'take care?'"

"Not what you're thinking."

"Fair enough," she says and lays her head back on your carpet floor. Rose makes a noise that sounds like a gross whinny, and mumbles something that sounds like, "Buck me."

You feel a tad bit of empathy for the poor mare, having gone through the same headaches, the same incoherent speech, and the same crappy "friends" that only seemed interested in getting your sorry ass drunk just so they could turn your face into a mural of a big black bukkake. And to think that was pinnacle of your existence.

You sigh, and snatch your phone off your nightstand. Your fingers hammered against a few keys, simply telling your bosses that Rose is sick and you need to take care of her. (For a moment, you struggle to hold back the impulse to add the initials F.O. to the text.) They don't ask too many questions (Thank God!), so they won't respond. You toss the phone back onto the nightstand, which makes something of a loud bang. Rose starts at the noise, and you realize she must have found your rough carpet floor comfortable enough to have fallen asleep.

Suddenly, it occurs to you that you still only have a comforter and a pillow providing protection to President Johnson, and now with this pony no longer an unconscious heap on your bed, but a sickly mess upon your floor conveniently facing the only safe exit, there is almost nothing keeping you from completely exposing yourself.

"Ahem!" you cough, once again getting her attention. "Can you roll over and not look this way for a minute?"

"Why?"

"Because, I'm naked," you answer. You're certain that she's way too hungover to jump anything, but you still have your standards.

"So?" Rose says, her forehead contorting itself in confusion.

"Well, I don't know about your kind's manners, but here on Earth, it's rude to point at people, with fingers or else."

Her brow twists more. "I'm a pony," she merely states.

"Doesn't matter. Do you present yourself to every pony that walks through your door?"

"Um, present…?"

You promptly face-palm—clueless, this one is. It becomes obvious that she's not going to be rolling over, and you grab another pillow. You slip out from under the comforter, with President Johnson's fluffly Secret Service members out front like a shield, and walk backwards through your bedroom door—at least you would've if the door was actually open. Instead, the door knob slams into your lower back, your head bangs against the hard wood, and you openly let out a curse not intended for the little kiddies.

This definitely catches Rose's attention. Her red and green eyes fly open and look at you, and you instinctively tighten the grip on the pillows, realizing what you must do.

You have to sacrifice one of the pillows, so you'll have a free hand to open the door.

You impulsively toss the pillow in your right hand at the mare, hitting her square in the face and causing her to flinch while you make your mad dash out of the room. You slam the door, and breathe a sigh of relief before heading to the bathroom. You only take a step toward the bathroom doorway when an epiphany strikes you in the head: you completely forgot to grab clothes.

"Motherfu—"

Half an hour later, you are fully showered, but the fact that you are wearing week-old jeans over three-day-old underwear negates your cleanliness. Your pride (and with it, a totally rational distaste for exposing yourself with these sapient, possibly insane ponies) is one of the few things you truly value in this world, and you would be damned if you're going to let Little Miss November Rain—or any of them, for that matter—take even a peek at you in your birthday suit in exchange for some clean underwear.

Also, you're pretty sure you're out of clean underwear anyway.

You quickly stuff your face with some generic toaster pastries, which taste like cardboard dipped in sewer and filled with edible, strawberry-flavored KY Jelly that somehow had gone terribly bad, before going back to check on Rose. You open the door just enough to get a view and peer inside. She had moved from the floor to your bed, and is now lying on her back and stuffed under the covers. Her hooves were pressed against her head, as if they were trying to clench at her hair, and her eyes were screwed shut.

You walk in, and mutter something about her making herself at home. Rose notices you, prying her eyes open into a wince, and her nose twitches a couple times as she sniffs the air.

"You smell like plot," she says. Damn pony olfactory abilities, you think.

"Well, pardon me for stenching up my own home. Last I checked, you were the one trespassing."

She shamefully looks away, preferring to examine your closet. "Sorry," she whispers.

You open the nightstand's drawer, and pull out a bottle of asprin. Your bathroom doesn't have a proper medicine cabinet, so pills of all colors and sorts you keep in the drawer in your nightstand. It's not like you have any kids running around, consuming anything that resembles M&M's, and if you really wanted to forget your troubles, you know you'll always have the Captain and Sam Adams to help you with that.

The cap pops off, the bottle rattles, and three tiny pills fall into your hand. You offer them to the mare, along with a "Here, take these."

Rose looks at you suspiciously. "If those are roofies, you're stupid."

Great, these ponies have date rape. That's always fun to know.

"They're asprin," you tell her, and for proof you show her the now-empty bottle. She scans the label and holds out her hoof for the pills. You oblige, looking on with some sort of amazement as the pills stay in her hoof until they are popped into her mouth. She swallows them with ease without anything to help wash them down. She rolls over onto her right side, facing you, and offers a grateful smile before she closes her eyes.

Within a minute, Rose is asleep, and you find yourself watching her (like a creep), the rise and fall of her barrel, the occasional twitch of an ear. Then you notice that she's drooling on your pillow.

Looks like I'm going to have to burn my pillow now. Your eyes then slide over to the vomit on the floor. Someone somewhere must really hate me, or I'm just the favorite doll of some insane god. You look back at Rose, who's still fast asleep, and an idea pops into your head.

You take soft, swift steps around your bed and over to a desk you almost never use. Dust covers just about every nook and cranny of it, and the only roughly clean part is the handle of the drawer holding the pens. You pull open that particular drawer and quietly rummage through it. Your search isn't long, and your hand holds a black permanent marker as it withdraws from the clutter. You glide over to Rose, marker in hand, and pull off the cap.

With a gentle and somewhat skilled hand, you draw the first of many throbbing tools on the mare's right cheek.

Knighty's Redecorated Your Bed And Now Everypony's Pissed (Dash The Stampede)

Knighty's Redecorated Your Bed And Now Everypony's Pissed
Dash The StampedeYou stumble into your house, shambling for the fridge like the mindless, consumerism-controlled zombie you are, dredging the depths of the appliance for your nightly brew. Cracking the can, you revel in the refreshing taste of the piss-poor quality beer - the only thing your paycheck can snag you, unfortunately - and make your way for the bedroom.

Approaching the door, you hear what sounds like a sitcom coming from behind your door, a menagerie of voices filling the hall with sounds of wonderment and disgust alike. Stopping, you wonder if you left your television on, before a posh voice rings out true, sending warning bells through your mind - not again!

"It's positively garish! Who in their right mind would mix that shade of green with black?" You hear the voice - a female's - muse, a round of murmurs of agreement starts up, another, more brash voice taking the reins of the conversation.

"This is definitely. Not. Cool. Now I have to actually organize my books?! And where's my Daring Do banner?!"

"Well, I...um...like the pillows?.."

You groan, realizing the occupants now - the same who've been plaguing you for the past weeks - as you glance at the calendar. Figures. Monday nights always bring bad news. "Ooh! Ooh! I can put these stickers on the shelves! Hey! This one has my face on it!" You hear the grating, bubbly voice of Pinkie ring true with a sigh. Wondering what misfortune has befallen your bed now, you ease the door open - and meet with something that shatters your expectations, if they ever existed at all.

Your bed - if you can even call it such anymore- is twice the size it was when you left. Size wasn't a problem, no, but the veritable wall of bookshelves surrounding it was - as were the obnoxiously-bright icon stickers Pinkie Pie was currently slathering all over them. On your left sat Rarity, her mouth covered by her hooves in shock, eyes darting over the covers - now a delightfully ugly shade of black and green. Her hooves waved the heat off her face, and she acknowledged your entrance with a choked "urk!"

Twilight was digging through the shelves, pulling out the numerous books that had suddenly appeared there, many with titles you'd never seen before - Don't Give Up!, Higher Senses, The Swooty Bell Adventures - and categorizing them by length, author, word count, the number of vowels in the first twenty pages, and page width, respectively. Dash was trying to find a comfortable spot to nap on the 'bed', the streamlined edges tapering so as to prevent an even laying surface. Thus, any attempt to get comfortable met with a desperate struggle to realign oneself, ending with a miserable - but ultimately workable - flop. She could only compromise, making do by sprawling off the edges, her torso hanging across the bed's width. The pillows had shrunk - now half the usual size, and a small tag noted the size reduction for 'compatibility and ease of use.' The pillows had a small logo on them, a white cloud with a falling rainbow, and one pillow even displayed the words '502 Error', though you couldn't figure out why. Each part of the 'bed' you examined held a similar tag to the pillows, with the line 'Designed and coded by knighty - © 2011-2015' on the back. You drop the pillows with a defeated sigh - you can't do much else, this is your bed now, and whining won't change anything...Now if these damned ponies would get the same hint!

Frowning, you groan, pushing Rainbow off your bed and shutting the new bookshelves on your 'bed'. Flopping down on the uneven bed, you struggle for purchase, before grasping the all-too-small pillows and make what little cushioning you can for your head. As you drift off to sleep, a solitary phrase hovers around your mind. The niggling thought spews from your mouth in an unrestrained bout of glory and finesse: "Bed's a bed, you sperglords."

Everypony Wants Your Bed (Shachza)

Everypony Wants Your Bed
Shachza

Just another ordinary day. At least you hope it is. You got up relatively on time and didn't have to rush too much. Your bed, thankfully, stayed an otherwise unoccupied bed long enough for you to get some shuteye.

Work was work, lunch was lunch, clocking out was... Well, after the last while you'd come to dread the drive home just a little bit. It's not that you hated leaving work; it's just that you'd grown very wary of what you might find at home waiting for you.

So when you pulled up out front of your homely little place you were hardly surprised, yet still so incredibly dismayed, to find a line of small colorful equines stretching ten-long out your front door. One of your neighbors was on his stoop and stood as you got out of your car, dread building inside you as you tried and failed to imagine just why there were so many ponies at your house today.

"Hey! You gotta' keep your ponies on leashes, y'know!"

You wave him off, eyes still warily scanning the impatiently waiting equines.

"Leashes?" A mint green unicorn up near the door fires back. Lyra, your work-addled brain manages to note. "Leashes?! What do you think we are... um... Mister? You are a mister, right?"

A miniature shouting war erupts between your neighbor and several now irate ponies. You, on the other hand, who has become somewhat inured to the weirdness of it all, simply make for your front door. The source of this new situation was not going to be found out here, after all.

But as you approach your front steps a turquoise pegasus with mane and tail in multiple shades of orange moves to block you.

"Hey, bub, where do you think you're going? If you want in, get in line!" Her wings rustle as she stares you down.

Not good, but you weren't about to be dissuaded. "This is my house!"

"Oh, yeah? I don't see your name on it!"

"You see that mailbox? You see it?" She peers past you without letting you out of her sight. "That's my name, right there! This is my house."

Her fiery orange eyes narrow. "Hey, we're all paying good bits here," a chorus of soft agreements rises up from the rest of the line, "so prove it, or get in line."

You splutter for a moment, trying to decide whether hitting her would be worth it. She looks kind of built, like a racer, with clean muscle lines running across most of her lean frame. Probably not worth the pain. And looking back across the rest of the line... Yeah, ten to one, not counting who else might be inside, it definitely wasn't worth it. Plus, she was a girl after all.

And there was another way in.

There are thankfully no ponies around the back. Good. And your key works like a charm. Perfect. You stomp through the rear entry, around your kitchen table, down the hall, but stop dead at the doorway to the living room.

True to the outside, there were more ponies. The stairs boasted a neat wall of them leading up and out of sight. You could guess where they were all going, though not why. And in your poor living area there were more, though not in any line. The couch boasted a large pearly white winged unicorn with a pastel astral mane and tail, and your dead grandfather's favorite recliner held a similar horse-thing, but in shades of blue with stars in its…

Oh, it’s Luna again. She’s arranged somewhat uncomfortably across the seat and raised footrest - and area far too small for her. You would have waved had you been in a better mood.

On the floor in front of the TV were half a dozen more non-pegacorn ponies lounging around your carpet and likely shedding hair everywhere. You'd probably have to vacuum the whole place, ceilings and all, after this.

Even the corners held a pony or two. And all of them were chatting amicably like your living room was the most normal place to hang out. In fact, like your living room was a particularly happening place to hang out.

"What the hell is going on here?!"

All the various conversations cut off just like that, dozens of brightly-colored eyes homing in on you. That might not have been the best of ideas but you were quickly reaching the point of no longer caring.

The white horse-icorn gracefully slides off the couch onto her hooves, smiling gently at you. "Ah. We here," she indicated the gathering in the living area with a forehoof, "are simply enjoying the ambience and the company. The ponies there," her forehoof swung toward the stairs and the line of equine, "are waiting to access the most delightful bed. And who might you be?"

"The owner of this house," you growl.

"The owner? Oh dear." A look of consternation crosses her features as her magenta eyes drift up toward where your stairs passed beyond the ceiling. "Well, it is nice to meet you. I am Princess Celestia and on behalf of my little-"

"Stuff it. I don't care." You barge your way past the now speechless princess and head straight through the crowd, one destination seared into your thoughts. The gasps from the other ponies don't bother you one whit.

Maybe you could just burn your bed and get a sleeping bag. No, the one white unicorn - was her name ‘Shades?’ - proved that fire wouldn't work.

The ponies at the bottom of the stairs step back as you approach. Apparently you'd perfected your death glower somewhere between sane real life and this pony-infested mess. The ones on the stairs don't have the luxury of seeing you coming. A prim-looking gray and black plain pony indignantly protests as you shove past, which alerts the blue and darker blue unicorn stallion (okay, you were getting better at identifying their sexes) ahead of her, and which, in turn, makes the blue and rainbow pegasus in front of them both...

Oh, it’s Rainbow Dash. Again. Yay.

"What's the big deal!" She awkwardly turns around, hind hooves two steps higher than her fores. Strangely, the persian blue pegasus mare with spiky cerulean and white hair just upstairs from her takes a moment to enjoy the view. "You can't just cut in front of ponies like that!"

"Yeah!" Comes a chorus from behind you.

"You gotta' wait in line if you want the bed, mister!" Another chorus echoes agreement from downstairs. A lone, patient voice is also arguing - somewhat futilely - for understanding.

"It's my bed, and I'll use it whenever I damned well want to!"

Rainbow blinks her magenta eyes but her face hardens almost immediately. "Oh, yeah? I don't think so! We're paying good bits for this!"

She steps down one stair, forcing you one backward. It's a bad situation - she aggressive and on the higher ground - and despite your anger you know it. But just as you're considering how you might be able to outfight a pegasus, and whether you even should - because she's a girl, you know - the blue unicorn next to you steps into her recently vacated spot. Like clockwork the rest of the line moves up.

"Hey! That's my spot!"

"You stepped out of the line," deadpans the unicorn.

"What?! No! I'm defending the line from, um, whatever this thing here is!" She zips into the air on furious wings, hovering with her nose an inch from his. "You give me my spot back!"

Hah! Serves her right! The distraction is all you need to turn sideways and slip past. You will not be denied!

"No! I'm not going to miss out again on another awesome thing because I got stuck in the back of the line again! Now give me my spot back!"

Ahhhh. ‘Glorious payback,’ you think to yourself, grinning evilly as you crest the stairs.

At the top, in the hallway, you find two more ponies at the end of the line with a desk blocking off the rest of the hall. On it there is one of those silly old-timey cash registers - the ones that go 'ding!' - and behind that are two more unicorns. Both are tall, pale yellow, and wearing straw hats, striped vests, and bow ties. And two of the biggest shi... smarmy grins you've ever seen.

Oh, these two must be real pieces of work. And they're blocking your hallway. For some reason there aren't any other ponies between you and them anymore.

"Greetings friend!" Exclaims one.

"And salutations!" Equally exclaims the other.

"He's Flim."

"And he's Flam."

"And together, we're-," they go stereo on you.

But you're not having it. "About to get a free, mandatory ticket on the next flight down those stairs unless you tell me just what you think you're doing in my house, in my hall, and with my bed!"

The left on gulps. The right one opens his mouth. "Well, you see, sir. We heard of this wonderful place."

And lefty continues. "This amazingly wonderful location."

"That everypony was raving about!"

"And we thought to ourselves..."

"Brother. This sounds like the deal of the century!"

"So we-"

"You're charging ponies for use of my bed." The blandness of your tone is so unnervingly bland it makes the two unicorns involuntary shudder.

"Well... it is an amazing bed."

"Stupendously wonderful."

"Perfect for all sorts of leisur-"

"No. My house. My bed. Get out." You finger directs them downstairs and toward a small crowd of worried pony faces.

For a moment the two just stare at you with wide eyes. Then you do something with yours and the two are gone. Hopefully you can later remember just what you did to make them flee your presence so satisfyingly.

The register lifts off, surrounded by a green halo, and makes to follow after them.

"Nope. My house, my cash!"

It's actually not that hard to grab the thing. And with it tucked safely under your arm you make your way around the desk and to your bedroom door. This is it. The moment of truth. You never bothered asking exactly what the ponies might have been doing in there. It's a bedroom so that really narrows the options. Sleeping and snu snu are the most likely culprits. When you hear a soft feminine giggle from behind the door your blood runs cold. Nobody giggles like that in their sleep!

You crack the door.

"Moooo..."

What the...?! You thrust the door wide, smashing it satisfyingly against the wall and making the massive lump under your covers jerk mightily. For a long moment you just stand and stare in shock. The lump is huge! Yes, there are definitely multiple ponies under there.

The lump wiggles, shifting and twisting, and shortly a head pops out of one side. It's pink - very pink - with a long horn and flowing purple, magenta, and gold mane with a cute little curl at the end. She's like every little girl's princess pony dream made flesh. Judging by the look of her, considering the fun she's apparently having, she’s probably saturated your mattress with glitter. Your bed... This time it's definitely getting the flamethrower once you find one. eBay still sells them, right?

"Oh, hello! Is it your turn already?" She says to you, waving as recognition of you dawns.

Your house is just packed with familiar ponies. But that’s not going to stop you. "Yes. My bed. Get out."

"Certainly. Twilight, dear, it's time to go."

Another head extricates itself, this time a lavender unicorn with straight dark blue mane with streaks of violet and rose in it. "Darn. I really missed this."

"Oh, God, what were you doing in there?!" Not that you really wanted to know. It was just the kind of things people asked in this situation.

"Oh, we were playing barnyard animals!" The pink one cheerfully explains. Correction, your bed will be dropped in a vat of acid and then burned. You were certain that was both possible and a perfectly logical reaction to this situation.

"Twilight and I used to do this every time I would foalsit her. Snuggling under the covers to play this game or that."

She turns out to be another unicorn with wings. Where they heck do they keep coming from? Your covers fly their way off your bed under the power of her pale blue aura. But underneath isn't a mess better suited for some adult-rated sexy horror show. Instead a cheap plastic barnyard complete with smattering of brightly colored animals lies strewn across your mattress. Cows, chickens, pigs...

Even a horse figurine. Why?! Your brain does not compute.

"Well, whatever you do, I hope you enjoy yourself!" Says the lavender one as she leaves.

"It was nice meeting you!" Calls the other.

The door shuts and your room is yours again. Your sanctum is whole. Your retreat is secure. And heck, the pink one even remade your bed in the process. Maybe she wasn't so bad.

Nah. She was still a pony.

You drop the register unceremoniously in a corner - you'll check your winnings later - and flop across your bed, doing your best to hug it. It's just not possible to do more than grasp the opposite edges of the mattress and squeeze, but it's the thought that counts. And right now you love your bed. Your bed. You'll never let it go again.

Heck, it was pretty comfortable. Maybe even unearthly so. Hopefully that wasn’t a side effect of whatever that clever pony had been worried about. And after the day you'd had, a nap actually sounded pretty good. You'd worry about the ponies later.

Then, faintly and from downstairs, "step right up, everypony! You too can sleep in the most wondrous, amazing, stupendous, and mind-bogglingly comfortable bed. Straight from exotic hyoomunland - and with an actual hyoomun too - for only fifty bits!"

The CMC Tries To Get Your Bed Tattooed On Their Flanks (gabrek)

The CMC Tries to Get Your Bed Tattooed on Their Flanks
gabrek

You know it’s going to be a long night.

After leaving the store around 7 (a good two hours past your scheduled shift), you begin the long trek home. Your sluggish pace doesn’t exactly eat up the blocks, but what are you rushing home to anyway?

A bed full of ponies, that’s what. No thanks. You’ve witnessed that bed stained, burned, desecrated, banished, replaced and replaced again, deluged in cuteness and even criticized by some jerk with a jerk name that never had the decency to even show her face… all by these miserably cute, deceptively naïve creatures.

You sigh. Never mind that your bed was once your sanctuary in a world gone mad long before your arrival; never mind the 10’x10’ space that was once your sole block of privacy. Ponies just had to, inexplicably, ruin it all, and even hiding at your parents’ house had failed to prevent their intrusion.

Shoes faithfully plodding one step at a time towards your destination, you are so lost in thought that you almost step out into the road in front of the rapidly advancing piece of furniture rolling towards you.

Some stray instinct triggers in your brain and you stop, just in time, and as your heart begins to hammer in your chest as your bed zips by down the road towards the docks, a trio of fillies valiantly attempting to control the momentum of the out of control sleeping arrangement.
You begin to run after it. What else do you do in that situation, after all? Stop to think, consider how this is oddly reminiscent of how ponies are driving your entire life downhill, not just this piece of furniture?

No. You aren’t that out of shape- walking a dozen miles or so five times a week during the course of your shifts has kept the Panda Express from settling too aggressively around your belly, and you can sprint just fast enough to start gaining on the runaway bed.

The fillies cheer as their impromptu vehicle hits the final slope towards the docks (your town must have been made with a cheesy action movie in mind) and begins to accelerate; fortunately, its mass prevents it from gaining speed as quickly as your rapidly pumping legs do. You actually begin to find hope that you’ll be able to catch up to the runaway trundle- though you have no idea what to do then- when the patrol car pulls out from the local Dunkin’ Donuts and is promptly T-boned by your cot.

The fillies go flying, a la Team Rocket, flanks bare as ever, as you slam into the headboard at full bore, knocking the wind out of you and sending you sprawling to the pavement. As your eyes begin to uncross and your lungs start regaining function, you find yourself staring up at the rather irate visage of a police officer covered in steaming latte.

It’s going to be a long night.

Maud Pie Is Rocking Your Bed (Spirit Shift)

Maud Pie Is Rocking Your Bed
Spirit Shift

You sigh as you take the first steps onto your street. Already you begin to lament over another crappy day filled with the mundane yet maddening stress of working with your annoying co-workers and suicidal, thought-provoking— Stopping with one foot forward, you pause as sudden realization crashes into you.

Today actually wasn’t that bad. The store you work at had a slow day with not so many people entering, and the ones who did weren't bad enough to provoke your more… mature-rated thoughts. Not to mention, your more annoying co-workers seemed to have finally got it into their thick heads not to bother you today. The weekend shift workers even left something resembling a manageable sales floor. That was… unexpected, to say the least.

However, this wasn’t what made you stop. What made you stop was the nagging question; “If today wasn’t as bad as it usually is… why am I still annoyed?” You continue to walk towards your place as the persistent thought dominates your mind. You begin to wonder if recent events have had something to do with your now deeply ingrained sense of pessimism.

“Your job sucks.” That’s usually been the bottom line. Something that you’ve always believed. You swore at least twenty times that you would find something different, but you know how those promises usually turn out.

“Mondays are the worst.” Another irrefutable fact of life. Nothing good ever happens on a Monday. This fact has even been supported by something that’s rapidly becoming a pattern.

There was no way you’d ever get all of the pony hair out of your bed.

Speaking of which: “Something is waiting for you in your bed and you probably won’t like it.” Now where did this fact originate from? It might have had something to do with you ending most of your recent nights cleaning your room of beer bottles, finding new places to hide your porn magazines, fighting off the urge to succumb to the dark voices in your head, and worst of all… cleaning out whatever the hell happened to your bathroom.

You shudder, knowing that you’ll never look at a taco the same way again.

With a determined look, you finally decide that you will break this pattern. You’re determined that you won’t let this day end on a bad note. You decide to have at least some hope that whatever god up there has finally decided to give you a break. Today’s been a good day. You can and will deal with whatever’s on, under, or in your bed. “This Monday will be different!” you shout to the sky. “This I swear!”

Slamming open your door, the first thoughts to pass through your head are ways to clean up a murder scene. You glance toward your kitchen and debate using the various sharp tools located within. You briefly consider going to such lengths as grabbing your neighbor’s tools and shifting the blame. Though, you quickly shrug it off and decide to hold such thoughts until you find out exactly what kind of creature has entered your domicile this time.

Considering the state of the outside of your house, it must be some kind of large monster or terrifyingly muscle-bound pony. You briefly wonder if such a pony exists. If it does then you certainly haven't met one. Nope. None at all and you hope that you never do.

With all the anger of a temper tantruming child, you grab the knob of your door and open it with slightly less force than when you slammed your front door open. That said, it still caused quite the ding in your wall.

It was just as your feared, but not what you expected. There was indeed a pony in your bed, but it wasn't some muscle-bound pony that looked like they could lift weights with their chin. Rather, it was a normal-looking one, female, if recent experience served true. In fact if it weren't for those other ponies that showed up, you’d probably be wondering if male ponies even existed. But that was neither here nor there.

Pony or not, your wrath would not be stifled. You stare into her blank teal eyes... at least you think they’re teal, you were never good with specific shades of colors. She stares back, not even slightly afraid or surprised by the clear anger on your face. “Grr,” you growl.

Finally, she acknowledges that something is wrong. “Is something wrong?” she asks, though her tone makes you believe that she’s only asking out of courtesy.

“Gee, what made you think that?” you hiss.

She shrugs. “You’re making weird faces.”

You take a deep breath in an attempt to control your emotions. The dark voices grow louder and you realize that your wrath probably isn't worth turning into a monster. After a few seconds of mental debate, you decide to proceed as usual. “And you are?”

“I’m Maud,” she states. Her voice reminds you of your old math teacher, in that she would somehow speak with absolutely no emotion in her voice. Rubbing two rocks together would somehow produce more tone.

“And... why are you here?” you ask, following the routine.

She shrugs once again. You rub your temples and glance back up. The more you look at her, or rather, the scene behind her, the more your wrath returns. So instead, you decide to get right to the point. “Maud… why is there a giant rock in my room?” you ask in the most calm way possible.

Maud glances down at the rock she’s sitting on. The large boulder sat in a particularly familiar spot. And if you were to guess, the scattered pillows and pieces of broken wood littering the ground would probably provide a pretty big hint on why the spot was familiar. So much for the bed being special.

“It was a present,” she finally answers.

Her response surprises you and forces you to raise an eyebrow. “A present?” you ask skeptically. She nods. “Why did you give me a rock as a present?”

“Your old bed was too soft and I assumed that you did not like it.”

“And why did you assume that?” you deadpan.

“I’ve been here for three days and you did not once come to sleep on this bed.”

That one causes you to reel back in surprise. “You’ve been here since Friday?!” you ask, and she nods again. Thinking back, you do realize that you haven’t been up here as much lately. But you attribute that to recent unpleasant experiences that mostly involved cotton candy. At some point, you simply decided to sleep on the couch every night. But to not notice that she’s been here the entire weekend? She must’ve been a freaking ninja pony. Do those exist?

“But why a rock?” you finally ask.

“I thought about it and I realized that this bed must have been uncomfortable. I examined your couch while you were gone and appreciated the rough, rock-like surface.” She gently rubbed the rock she sat on. “This was my conclusion.”

It was true. Your couch sucked. Sometimes you wondered if it sucked on purpose. It was a gift from your ex in hopes that you guys could still be on good terms. Anyway, while you couldn’t argue about the density of the couch, you still stared at her in disbelief. “Where did you even get a rock that size?”

“Found it. There were many rocks, but this one was the biggest. I thought you’d like it.”

You try to be angry, you really do. But her seemingly pure intentions somehow manage to sooth your wrath. Lucky equine. Coughing awkwardly and totally not blushing, you say, “While I appreciate your intentions, I do have one other problem.”

She stares at you expectantly.

You take a deep calming breath and continue. “Why in the world did you feel it necessary to completely fill my yard with rocks?!”

She stares at you in confusion. “I’m not following.”

You nod and walk towards her. Climbing up on top of the rock, you gesture out through the gigantic hole in the wall to the yard itself. You’ve seen rock gardens before and you know what they look like. Outside was a literal ocean of rocks; not a single blade of grass stuck out from beneath the earth.

She hums in realization. She turns and you can barely make out what seems to be a faint reddish tint on her normally grey coat. “I got carried away when I was playing camouflage with Boulder today.”

You turn to her with confused look. Then you glance down at the large rock beneath you. “How do you play hide and seek with this big ass thing?”

She shakes her head. “No, this isn’t Boulder.” She reaches into her… dress? She pulls out a dark grey rock that’s a mere fraction of the size of the one you're sitting on.

You stare at it in shock and refuse to believe even for a second that she was able to find that small thing amongst the sea of earth outside. “I don’t believe for a second that you were able to find that,” you say flatly.

She looks at you with the same blank stare, only this time you swear that she’s glaring at you. “Is that a challenge?” Before you can answer, she turns and tosses the small rock out into the yard. If it could still be called that. You turn just in time to not see where the rock lands.

Slack-jawed, you crane your head back to her. “Challenge accepted,” she says. Once again not waiting for a response, she hops out of the room and down to the ground.

You gaze down in bewilderment as she stares at each and every rock. Though she wasn’t without variety. Every so often she would sniff or even lick a particular rock.

Some dead chivalrous part of your mind suggests that you help her, but the rest of your mind flips it off. “Forget this, I need a drink,” you finally decide. “Maybe if I get drunk enough I’ll forget all of this and end the day on a high note.” You leave the room and pray that whatever pony shows up next somehow fixes this.

The Cutie Mark Crusaders are in your bed (and you're ignoring them) (Budget Player Cadet)

The Cutie Mark Crusaders are in your bed (and you're ignoring them)
Budget Player Cadet

Mondays.

Mondays.

Mo-o-o-o-ndays.

You roll the word around in your head until it becomes as meaningless as the chaos ruining what was formerly known as your life. The chaos that the various unbidden weekly guests have wreaked upon you, your room, your sanity, and your furniture.

You haven't even made it out of the parking garage, and at this point, you're afraid to even go. You couldn't even bring yourself to relinquish the steering wheel. You considered spending time at a friend's house before realizing that due to you telling them about these events, all of your friends consider you psychotically unstable and had stopped dealing with you. Fair-weather friends. You briefly wish that they would share in your suffering. Maybe selling your house and leaving it to the next guy to deal with.

Murder! Now there's an option! Maybe if they started coming back as comfortable leather chairs, the ponies would consider not demolishing, setting fire to, or otherwise ruining your bed! Yes, that does sound like fun! You'd have to learn a thing or two about tanning hides, but it would be so worthwhile to imagine the look on that smug princess's face when her subjects started coming back as fancy upholstery!

...Hmm. Maybe there was something to the whole "psychotically unstable" thing.

You slowly turn the key in your apartment, and opening the door, you could already hear it. A loud crashing sound coming from the bedroom. You sigh. Presumably a pony doing something to your bed.

Luckily, you came prepared.

Ten minutes later, the crashing had faded from your mind completely. The bottle of vodka on the coffee table is about half-empty, and so is the large, ice-filled glass in front of you.

You hear voices from your bedroom.

"Damn it, Scoots, watch where you're driving that thing!"

"Sorry, Sweetie Belle! At least I managed to miss you!"

"Yeah, but last time I was here that same thing broke, and he seemed really upset about it."

A third high-pitched voice pipes up. "Yikes, I reckon I can try'n fix it..."

You roll your eyes. Whatever they were doing to your room, you didn't need to know. Or care. You are at peace.

Another loud crack awakens you from your stupor, but you shake yourself and pour yourself another glass.

"Oh wow, Sweetie, how did you manage that?"

"I don't know!"

Shake 'em off, pay them no mind; soon enough they will be gone.

You take another slug from the glass, reflecting on your life. Aside from the insanity on monday, things are going pretty decently. Your job pays well, and the boss was eyeing you for a promotion before you started showing up a shambling zombie on Tuesdays... Think happy thoughts.

*Sip*

You don't have a girlfriend, mostly because you can't take anyone home because there's constantly something on fire, or broken, or ruined, or you're out of food, because ponies keep on...

Happy thoughts.

*Sip*

HAPPY. THOUGHTS.

Noticing your glass is empty, you take a slug straight from the bottle.

You have good friends. Or had, because now they all think you're crazy.

Another loud crash, this time with the distinctive sound of glass. You know that the only thing it could have been was your computer monitor or your windows.

Oh to hell with this.

"Applebloom, how the hay did you manage to snap the mattress in half?"

You take another shot from the bottle, and then another. You feel ready to start crying. Confound these ponies, you think to yourself, they drive me to drink.

"Hey girls, look, nudie mags!"

NOPE.

You stagger up from the couch, eyes bugging out, as you stumble towards your room, trying to shield the innocent eyes of children from your smut. After all, having children read through your porn is a horrifying prospect. You then hear words that make it even more horrifying.

"Let's burn them!"

You shamble as best as you can over to the door and slam it open, revealing three small fillies in inexplicable pilgrim outfits warming their hooves around a fire made out of your last remaining joy. In unison, they cry out, "Cutie-Mark Crusaders Book Burners! Yay!"

You pause, and then stagger off to the kitchen. Maybe, just maybe, it's not too late to learn how to work leather.

The Cutie Mark Crusaders Try to Make Your Bed (sbloom85)

The Cutie Mark Crusaders Try to Make Your Bed
by sbloom85

Another horrible Monday was nearing its end. More so than it usually was. The Chinese restaurant had a grease fire and is under repair and your colleagues decided to go AWOL, leaving you alone to deal with the worst of the worst. You collapse on your sofa, praying that ponies haven't invaded your home today.

“Hey! It won't fit if you do it like that!” A high-pitched voice squeaked.

But then again, the universe does hate you for some reason. You throw your head back and try stifling the tears.

“How would you know how to make a bed? You sleep in a bag in the clubhouse.” A second voice said, this one had a more southern accent.

“Not every night.” A third, young and raspy voice said.

That's it. You had to find out what the heck was going on. You get off your couch and head to your room. To your horror, you find not one, but three ponies on your bed, a white unicorn with a pink and purple mane, an orange pegasus with a shorter, deeper shade of purple mane, and a yellow one with a red mane and a ribbon. You look around your room and find that everything had been taken off, even the pillowcases were taken off.

Your eyes finally found their way to three young ponies, standing on top of your bed, smiling. The kind of smile that one would make knowing they were in trouble and wanted to look as adorable as possible to get out of trouble. “Alright. Explain yourselves.”

The orange one whimpered. “I have a sleeping bag in the clubhouse and I sleep there a lot.”

The yellow one scoffed. “Just about every night. I worry about you sometimes, Scootaloo.”

Scootaloo raised an eyebrow in confusion. “Sometimes?”

You shake your head as the trio continue bickering among themselves. “No!” That got their attention. “Explain that!” You shouted, pointing a finger at your naked bed.

The yellow one chuckled. “Oh, this! We accidentally undid the sheets. Don't you worry though, the Cutie Mark Crusaders will fix it up.” She said with a very confident tone. “Won't we, girls?”

The others let out affirming grunts and nodded.

“CUTIE MARK CRUSADER BED MAKERS! YAY!”

The force emitted from their combined shout knock you on your ass. Before you could protest the crime they're committing to your bed, they were already hard at work making it.

“Apple Bloom, you tug on one side of this sheet.” The white filly said to one friend before she turns to Scootaloo. “Scoots, you tug the other side, I'll use my magic to pull it to the other end.”

You grit your teeth as the trio start working with the fitted sheet. The set cost you a lot of money and you pray that it doesn't tear. You close your eyes and whimper.

“We did it, Sweetie Belle!” Apple Bloom shouted with pride.

You open your eyes and see that the fitted sheet was whole and covered the bed. You let out a sigh of relief.

The trio huddle together on top of the bed. “Alright, Crusaders.” Apple Bloom says. “We've got another sheet, a blanket and two pillows. Sweetie Belle, you work on the pillows, Scootaloo and I will get the other sheet, then we can work on the blanket together.”

Sweetie Belle and Scootaloo nod and Sweetie starts on the pillows. No way it could be this easy.

As if on cue, the fitted sheet spontaneously combusts. The three fillies start panicking and run around like chickens with their heads cut off.

You consider allowing the fire to spread, to put an end to your torment, but you pick yourself up and make a beeline to the fire extinguisher. You bring it back to the bedroom and put the fire out.

Once it's over, you drop to your knees and start crying. Your insurance premiums were going to skyrocket because of these ponies. Fires, floods, tears in the fabric of the universe... they probably don't cover that last one.

The trio walk up to you with tear-filled eyes. “We're sorry, mister.”

If your rage was measured in scoville units, it'd rival the infamous ghost chili. The fillies give you a hug that acted like lactic acid to soothe your anger.

Apple Bloom smiled. “We'll buy ya a new bed. Better than the last one!”

You shake your head. “It's not the bed I'm worried about.” You point to the undamaged bed. “It's the sheets I'm worried about.”

The three looked at each other, clearly thinking about how to replace the sheets, then Sweetie Belle jumped excitedly. “Ooh! I'll have my sister make you new sheets.”

Scootaloo raised an eyebrow. “Your sister is a clothing designer.”

Sweetie Belle nodded. “Yes, but she also makes bed sheets, but for some reason, she doesn't sell them.”

Apple Bloom shrugged. “We'll do that, but first, we need to figure out how to get out of here.”

Scootaloo grinned. “So we're having a slumber party?” The others nodded. “Alright!”

Your stupor passes when you feel your stomach grumble. You glance to the trio and sigh. “Who's hungry?” You doubted Sweetie Belle's sister would make the sheets, but if she did, the least you could do was take care of these little four-legged demons.

Celestia Finds A Child In Her Bed (Paton Pendeng)

Role-Reversal! Celestia finds a Child in her Bed!
By Paton Pendeng

Whilst a human dealt with his problem of finding colorful cartoon equines in his bed every Monday, a pony of Equestria was about to find herself in a similar situation.

The cool evening air was crisp, and the sun had long since its ascension dipped over the horizon, relenting the sky over to the night and stars. The hour seemed to stretch beyond the rules of time as Celestia trotted down through the halls of her castle. Gone was her elegant stride and perfect poise, and in it’s place was a casual slouch and a flounce in her step.

It had really been a long day, and the alicorn should know how long it truly was. She was awake at the first sign of daylight and was awake even long after the sun disappeared below the horizon. To summarize her daily schedule, she would work on bureaucratic forms and paperwork before being interrupted to hold daily court by a different maid and/or servant each day. It wouldn’t be a big deal if she had made more than a scratch in the seemingly endless pile of forms.

Holding daily court meant only one thing: sitting on a throne and listening to ponies and their endless griefs and troubles. Some were reasonable, but not enough to make the day less aggravating. Sure, Celestia loved her subjects and would do anything to help them, but there was a fine line between being sympathetic and being a living punching bag. Who knew that anypony, anyone, could be so petty. Taxes are too high, the schools are not good enough, my property is facing the west side of the castle, but I want to see the east side. Celestia tried to find a job that could be worse than hers, and nearly succeeded. Customer Service came close to her job, but it had one benefit: the workers could quit their job.The white alicorn was stuck with the job of eternal leader and private punching bags.

After daily court came the horrible externality that came with her forced occupation: listening to her bosses. While it was indeed true that the alicorn was in fact the ruler of Equestria, she had to still be ordered around, or as the royal cabinet put it, “suggest to her the correct course of action.” If they meant by correct course of action to listen to a bunch of old ponies quarrel about the government's state of peace, then yes. The royal cabinet definitely was giving it’s fair share of advice.

After the meaningless debate of hot air and fumes, Celestia had free time. She was free to do whatever she wanted, and what she really, really wanted to do was to take all the annoying paperwork still unfinished and throw it into the great roaring flames of the sun. Sadly, that would mean that she had officially gone off the deep end, and needed to step down from her rule. However, it wouldn’t be that simple. First her cabinet would vote to kick her out, but then the citizens of Equestria would go against them and demand her back into office, to which she would do reluctantly out of the pity and annoyance by her little ponies. In other words, nothing would happen except the stack of bureaucratic nonsense would somehow find a way to grow exponentially since the previous day.

The alicorn trudged along the long corridors of the castle. She had only just recently finished the infuriating paperwork, and had been very rained by the task. The thought of doing it all again made Celestia not in the mood for anything at all. Well, that was half-true. If there was one thing she wanted more than anything right now, and the only real perk of her job, it was her super sized bed made from the finest and softest down of the near extinct Roc plucked by tender-loving earth ponies who know how not to disturb the fanciful creatures, and the fluffiest of any cloud imaginable crafted carefully by only the most skilled cloud-shaper pegasi, which were reinforced by the strongest and most durable spells casted by the most well-learned unicorns in the subject.

Yes, her bed was probably the finest in the world. How else would anyone expect her to get anything close to her achievements of the day if she slept on a bargain brand mattress? It would be impossible.

The alicorn quickly walked into her room, casting what little magic she had to illuminate it in a soft glow. Her golden slippers and tiara were the first to come off, and thrown across the wide expanse of a room. Next was her golden torc, which was also similarly flung across the room. She then cast her eyes to look upon the heavenly circular mattress.

Everything was absolutely perfect, except one small thing lying beneath the covers and sleeping peacefully. Celestia grimaced, as if she had thrown her etiquette across the room with her royal garb. She crept around the edge of the bed to better observe the uninvited guest.

She nearly groaned in confusion and despair. There was a human. Yes, she knew of humans due to her students latest “research” into them from using a dimension hopping spell stolen from her sister. While normally Celestia would be very concerned of how this human made it into Equestria in the first place, she found herself placing it on the back-burners for the moment. Celestia freely admitted that she was selfish and a bit greedy sometimes. Heck, she nearly blasted Pinkie Pie for devouring her cupcake of choice and nearly did it again before Celestia had any more of the scrumptious looking dessert.

Truthfully, she was going to wake this human up and ask what the big idea was before she took notice of something that her investigative mentality screamed from the back of her mind. The human was… smaller than what Twilight had described and frankly, a bit more cute as well. The only way to describe her facial features was with the word innocent. From her golden locks of hair to her small form being dwarfed by the massive comforter of the bed.

Quickly adding up the variables in her head, Celestia made a quick revelation. The human was a human foal. Her once annoyed and hot tempered was forcefully doused by her sense of good. If she told off the human, she would be no better than a domestically violent pony. Her rationale quickly began to convince her to let the human sleep in the bed. If she woke her up, then that would be something to really push her over the edge. Plus, she only took up a small portion of the mattress, and Celestia didn’t exactly fill the mattress up either. If she was just careful enough she could probably slip under the covers on the other side and fall asleep as well.

Her plan came crashing down upon her quite harshly as the girl beneath the covers stirred.

Panicking, and becoming very frustrated, Celestia bashed her skull upon the floor only once to vent her anger. The child would be one of two things: 1.) she would be frightened and begin to ask where her mom and dad were before crying loud enough for the guards to hear, become curious and barge in unannounced causing a whole new mess of problems for her to deal with on absolutely no rest whatsoever. 2.) The child would believe to be in a dream and tear-ass through all of Equestria and causing a mess which Celestia has to clean up.

Celestia’s hoof slapped her, bring her back to some semblance of her senses. She could make this work. If she could handle adults being childish for half the day, then by Faust she could handle a child. Her posture fixed itself, and persona of false serenity overtook the alicorn as she smiled softly at the child.

The human child sat up in bed and rubbed the sleep from her eyes. Normally, Celestia’s emotional shield would hardly become nicked by such an action, but the child’s hair had obtained a wild cowlick that defied gravity in a crescent shape. That was the first crack at her shield, and the next came from the little groans of sleep that coupled with the eye-rubbing. Her shield was definitely fractured by this display.

What brought it crumbling down was the child’s sleepy-headed, half-lidded gaze that, when completing the barrage of cuteness, was aimed in the general direction of the door.

“Hnnnnnggg…” Celestia thought to herself, biting back the feeling in her stomach. “Note to self: schedule an appointment for the doctor for testing of diabetes.”

The sleepy little girl looked around as the sleep was blinked from her eyes. She did not sream or shout as Celestia first predicted.

“Good morning, young one,” Celestia greeted softly. Her facade was still going from sheer willpower. She knew exactly how to act, and prided herself in maintaining it in whatever situation she found herself in.

The little girl leaned forward, looking directly at Celestia with an unreadable expression. Celestia fought back the instinct to lean back and simply sat down. She didn’t fear the child. As the little girl leaned closer, to examine her Celestia assumed, a small hand rose from the mattress.

Then, tentatively, the little girl gently reached out to Celestia, and poked her muzzle. Celestia could’ve sworn that she heard a “boop” sound as she did it.

With a look of confusion spreading across her face, the little girl leaned back.

“Am I dreaming?” she asked with the most precious voice Celestia ever heard. However, upon registering the word dream, Celestia’s mind went into panic. Should she divulge the secrets of her world or deal with the rampaging child of doom?

“Why?” the alicorn asked diplomatically. She could already guess the answer, but she wanted to hear it from the child. “Why would you think this is a dream?”

In response, the girl leaned to her side, looking passed the alicorn and out the window. “It’s nighttime, and you said good morning,” the child answered.

… okay, so Celestia might be in a little over her head here.

“Very… astute…” Celestia replied in a broken voice.

“What’s a stoot?” the little girl asked. “Is it like a sneeze and a toot?”

“Ehh…” Celestia, could feel sweat beads gather around her forehead. “No… Astute means to… um… to make a very good observation.” She knew that the actual meaning would be out of the girl’s vocabulary.

“What’s observation?” the little girl asked without missing a beat.

“Well…” Celestia could see where this was going and knew how to nip it in the butt. “It means to look at something and know something about it. Like, you are sitting in my bed. That is an observation.”

The little girl looked down at the comforter for a moment and then to the rest of the bed. “... It’s really big…”

“Yes it is,” Celestia sighed. “Now, I think that you should go to sleep. After all, it is very dark.”

“But…” the girl began in a small voice. “But I just woke up, and you said it was morning, and... “ The little girl pushed some of the blankets off her her, revealing dark blue pajamas with faux-gold lace. “I’m not sleepy.”

Celestia shuddered. Did she even know how cute she was or was she a really good actor?

“Well… why we both sleep in if it is morning…” Celestia reasoned. “And maybe you should tell me what helps you to get to sleep so that we can sleep?”

The child looked up in thought, placing a small hand, partially obscured by a sleeve, up to her chin. Celestia was now more certain than ever that she had diabetes. “... Mommy used to sing me lullabies…”

“I don’t sing,” Celestia stated flatly. She had actually meant that she refused to sing at this hour of the night. Thankfully, the girl did not see the deadpan expression upon Celestia’s facial features.

“Well… Daddy sometimes gets me some warm milk… and then tucks me in and I go to sleep!” the little girls finished with a smile.

“Okay…” Celestia said with uncertainty. “I’ll see what I can do…” While Celestia could contact the kitchens with a single note, to request a single glass of warmed milk would be strange enough without the added room-service order. Nevertheless, Celestia made over to a small table, jotted down a quick order and sent it on its way.

“While that’s on its way,” Celestia began regretfully, but did not show any of it to the little girl behind her. “What shall we do?”

Meanwhile, in the kitchens, a single chef sat with a bored expression. He was the night chef and while cooking was a passion, he found the nights dull and boring. Luna was a very good and benevolent diner, but always seemed to order the same thing.

Suddenly, there was the sound of a fire crackling to life. The chef lackadaisically reached out with his magic and retrieved the message from his handmade brick oven. It didn’t take too long to read the order over, but he got stuck on the sender. It was from princess Celestia. THE Princess Celestia. He never had a chance to make something for her.

Alas, if only she ordered something more--

“...Zatz eet!!!” the inspired chef cried out to the empty kitchen.

“... and that’s how babies are born,” the little girl finished.

“... fascinating,” Celestia gasped with a horror stricken gaze. A sharp knock upon her door brought her out of her trance. She quickly walked over to the door, leaving the girl very curious.

When Celestia saw the child beginning to escape the bed, she alll b ut nearly jumped at her.

“N-now, you stay in bed,” Celestia said with a nervous and cheerful demeanor.

“Why?” the girl asked.

“I’ll tell you after I answer the door,” Celestia said after managing to tuck in the unexpected visitor. When she did manage to get the door open, she only opened it a crack.

“My finest greetingz to you, Princezz of ze Dawn,” said a stallion in an outrageous accent.

“Oh… hello,” Celestia greeted. She was caught off guard by the formality of the chef. “You’re not… Sunny Side-up…”

“No,” the chef replied with confidence. “However, it is my duty to create the most finest food for my Princesses, be it dawn or dusk. Ven I received you note, I immediately threw myself into the throngs of my passions.”

“Er…” Celestia didn’t exactly follow what he meant.

“True, it was a… simple request, but I would not give simplicity to my fair princezz. One tall Glazz of wam meelk. After a few momentz of thinkink…” a small silver platter, with a tall glass of milk floated into view. “I knew what troubled you. Cannot sleep?”

“Yes…” Celestia sighed. “You could say that…”

“Aha! Zen you shall enjoy zis masterpiece of Collation de Minuit.”

“... I”m sorry… um… what?” Celestia asked with a sigh. Of course she would get the dramatic one.

“Zis iz no simply store-bought grocery dairy boiled in a pot. Zis iz my cure for the common insomniac! Ze milk iz steeped and was straight from ze heartlandz of Stalliongrad. After zat, I added some zugar, honey, and just a dash of nutmeg-”

“Thank-you,” Celestia interrupted taking the tall glass off the platter. “I”m sorry, but… I really need to sleep.”

“But of course.” The chef bowed respectfully before the princess shut the door. Well, at least he had done something today...

“One glass of warm milk,” Celestia said cheerfully. She brought the cup over to the little girl who took it straight from the alicorns magic.

She took a small sip… and then another… then, she began to drink the entire glass. By the time she was finished, her eyes were glazed over as Celestia saw what could have possibly caused the alicorn to have a heart attack. She had a milk mustache.

“Are you tired?” Celestia asked in a knowing tone. She gently took the glass from her and placed it upon a table while the girl nodded slightly.

“Well, I guess it’s bedtime then…” Celestia said softly while her mind cheered for joy. She gently moved the girl over and slipped under the covers of the bed. The girl soon followed suit, an Celestia finally felt like it was a grand success… until she began to dim the lights in the room.

“No, no, no!” a small, frightened voice cried. Celestia sighed as the room lit up. Her facade had fallen away, and she was displaying her annoyance in full. She turned to the child with the intention of telling her to suck it up.

...And then she saw the little girl’s expression. Her eyes were watery and her bottom lip quivered ever so slightly.

“I’m scared of the dark…” she stated with a wavering voice. “I’m sorry…”

Celestia’s fury lasted for about a full minute before she let out a big sigh. With a face like that, she couldn’t stay mad. Luckily, Celestia had been in a similar situation. Luna, ironically, was once afraid of the dark as well.

“Alright then…” Celestia’s horn lit up as the room slowly dimmed to half power. “Is this okay?”

The little girl nodded while sinking into the bed covers.

“And this?” Celetia said as she reduced the light another increment. “Is this-”

“No!” the little girl said with a furious shake of her head. Celestia shifted her jaw. This was going to be a tough one.

“Come here…” Celestia sighed, reaching out a hoof to pull the little one up to her chest. Surprisingly, the little girl did not recoil, and actually rested her head against Celestia. The alicorn could feel that her face was a little damp

“Are you feeling better?” she asked softly.

“... I can hear your heartbeat…” The little girl said with a low voice.

For some reason, Celestia felt a warm, fuzzy feeling in her chest when she said that. It may have been that she was holding the girl like a mother would with a foal, or perhaps it was her sleep deprived mind making her hallucinate. Rather than groaning and dying of violent diabetes, she smiled ever so slightly in happiness.

“How would like to hear a story before you sleep?” Celestia asked softly.

“... okay…” the little girl said with a very tired nod.

Celestia’s horn lit up as she made herself more comfortable in the bed, still holding onto the child. The room dimmed imperceptibly, but the little one did not protest.

It suddenly occurred to Celestia that she could’ve used her magic to induce the girl to sleep all this time. Then, she suddenly remembered that she herself outlawed that sort of magic a long, long time ago. After Starswirl’s fiasco, she was forced to do it, or live with the memory of that bearded stallion turning Equestria into a giant experiment. He had no moral standards whatsoever…

“Once upon a time…” she began as her horn lit up. Her magic swirled about and took on a series of colors. Soon, they began to take on a new shape of two near identical equines. “There were two pony sisters…”

Celestia awoke instinctively. It was time to raise the sun. She left her mattress’ warmth and walked over to the window. Concentrating on the eastern horizon, her horn flared for a brief moment. Soon, the night sky began to turn dark shade of purple that was quickly brightening. Her horn flicked off just as the sun peeked over the horizon.

With a lost expression, Celestia looked over to her bed to find that the child was gone. Whatever force that brought her here must have taken her back. Celestia tried to sigh in relief, but found she could not do it. As strangely as it sounded, she felt more well rested than she could ever recall.

Perhaps that, during her night of playing mother, she found that she lacked something in her life. She never really wanted a spouse, but she never actually turned the idea of a foal away.

Maybe one day, when she finds herself with a job better suited for her, she might consider having one.

“Princess?” a shrill and chipper voice called with a short series of knocks. “It’s time to start the day! Rise and shine!”

She suddenly remembered that her desk would be stacked high with bureaucratic nonsense, and that there would be a long line of ponies demanding her attention. If she was extra lucky, her council would want to discuss the gryphon empire’s new aggressive approach to exporting services.

… Well, it was a nice thought anyways...

Shining Armor Is Commanding Your Bed (Sage Probo)

Shining Armor is commanding your bed
Sage Probo

It was a lovely Monday evening, a bit cold but not to chilly. A little dark but not downright night. And the best part was you just got home from almost getting fired by your I-can-be-an-asshole-too-if-I-want-to-boss for being fashionably late. Fashionably late as in you were late by almost half the day.

It wasn't even your fault, it was somebody else's this time. You mean, come on, how would you know that a behemoth of a truck was out to destroy your car for no good reason other than: It looked like junk so I thought I could make it through without harming my paint job doing so.

To make matters worse, the only bus stop close to you was literally 30 minutes away from your current position back then, AND the bus was passed you by as you were standing there, looking at the wreckage that was once your most priced possession (on a side note, you were incredibly happy that that piece of scrapped metal that was draining your saves faster than any pony that tended to destroy your mobiliar at home could do was obliberated).

So, with a heavy sigh of defeat, you open the door to your messy apartment, dropped your bag on the chair near the entrance door and went straight to the kitchen to get some cold beer. God, you need a beer now more than ever, or the time Spike visited you and drank you under the table so fast you could've sworn he cheated. By the time you went to the living room, you could hear a very, very, very loud voice from the direction of where your bedroom was.

By now, hearing something from your bedroom wasn't that new, with your bed being a trans-dimensional anchor and all that stuff. Sluggerish, you make your way upstairs to find out who was dropping by this time. You stop in front of your bedroomdoor, and the voice was loud. Really loud, and it seemed it was shouting orders to something. Standing there, you close your eyes to listen to the voice and try to recognize it. And boy you do. Snapping your eyes open, you slam the door open and…

… stared in disbelief of what you saw.

All your stuff has been moved towards the wall to create space, and your bed was marching on its legpoles to the voice of the pony standing at the sides. It marches straight, made a 180 degree turn, marched back, did some turns and stood still in place.

"GOOD WORK, SOLDIER! I WILL MAKE THE BEST GUARD BED OUT OF YOU THAT ANY OTHER BED IN THIS REALM HAD EVER SEEN!" the pony shouted at my still standing bed.

Said pony turned out to be none other than Shining Armor, no, PRINCE Shining Armor, husband of Princess Cadence and co-ruler of the Crystal Empire.

"Dafu* are you doing with my bed, dude?" was all you managed to say.

Shining looked at you and furrowed his brows, and walked over to you. "Is this ragged, poor excuse of a bed yours?" he asked you once he was close. You simply nod. "Not good, not good at all. What if changelings come into your home trying to tell you they were magical beds and steal your love?"

You… were kind of stunned. Because that happened quite some time ago, besides the love stealing thingy. "And how, pray tell, is a bed going to defend me against another bed? Breaking the legs off? Ripping the bedsheets apart? Talking back?" you asked back.

"You sound like you have experienced such an attack before." Shining replied, at which you again simply nod. "If you already had such an encounter, then there is only one thing left to do. And that is to let let your bed die in pieces because it failed its duty to protect you." With that, he charged his horn and set your bed on fire. And all you could do was standing there, watching your bed writhe in agony (and how this was possible in the first place would surely break your mind). Also, what was it with ponies and setting your stuff on fire?

After the flames died down, you turned to the pony, and he only said: "Wanna draft a new bed who does a better job guarding you?"

Opal's In The Mattress And We Can't Get Her Out. (Estee)

Opal's In The Mattress And We Can't Get Her Out
Estee

Meanwhile, in another bedroom, some distance into a possible future...

The bed was vibrating.

Actually... upon closer inspection, it was really just a single corner channeling the low-level thrum, and there was just enough there to register. (There had been more than a little hunting involved in pinning down the source.) But if anyone or anypony were touching that section, they would pick up the vibration, along with the sound which was creating it: a soft, lulling vibration of casual superiority.

In essence, the bed was purring to itself. Smugly.

Rarity sighed. "I fail to understand why you would even have a boxspring mattress."

"I like the back support," the tall redhead offered.

Rarity's horn poked into the relevant corner, working in from the side. The mattress yielded just enough for the protrusion to not reach the concealed feline in any way. "And I have a well-known fondness for gems. However, contrary to popular rumor and that one particular piece of rather regrettable artwork, I do not spend any of my time sleeping within them, which I believe would produce the same comfort result as this particular mattress. Oh, Opal, do come out..."

The purr became only slightly louder, but considerably more smug.

"Artwork?" the redhead carefully inquired.

"Spike," Rarity explained as she trotted around the perimeter of the bed, head awkwardly lowered and angled to the point where she could just barely peek under the edge of the trailing sheets. "Crayon, in fact, but once one takes care to discount the waxy look, actually rather skilled. Unfortunately, he composed it during his gallery phase. Twilight had allowed him a corner of the library for display, and... well, let us simply say there are certain ponies who do not understand when to let things go. Ironically, mostly those who insist that any observers forget their own errors before such occur. Now, where did she get in...?"

The redhead sighed, carefully knelt down (because bending was out of the question), ran a long-fingered hand along the mattress' lower outer edge, feeling for rips. The initial effort didn't last long. "And..." Awkwardly, "How did he draw you?"

"Pardon?"

The awkwardness wasn't exactly diminishing. "The position."

The unicorn went back to the original relevant corner. There was more horn prodding, all of which produced a total lack of cat. "I fail to see why it matters -- but he had me sleeping within them. And I do not mean curled up inside a particularly large and hollow specimen. Partially within the pile, partially without. I was also surrounded by some degree of fine art and sculpture, or what I imagine was meant to represent such when confined to an eight-color palette. Along with elegant furniture and what I believe might have been a rock crystal window from the Hall Of Legends." Not without pride, "Rather involved and detailed an effort, especially when you consider his age..."

The redhead winced, and hoped Rarity hadn't seen it.

This particular hope was in vain. "And that look was because...?"

There was no good way to put it, and so she didn't even try. "A dragon... who's already shown that as he grows up, there's a chance he's going to become more and more possessive... drew you as part of a hoard?"

For a moment, the purring was the only sound left in the room.

"You do realize," Rarity sighed, "that I will be unable to prevent myself from thinking about that for the rest of this day."

The answering "Sorry," was weak, but sincere.

"And most likely all of the night."

"...you asked..."

"That I did," Rarity acknowledged. "One would think I would have learned better..."

Fingers worked on one side. Horn and sharp blue eyes (which now held a light touch of fret) checked another. The purring got louder.

It was a fine mattress, really. Tall. Solid, if somewhat overly so for a certain unicorn's theoretical lack of comfort. The padding was plush, outer edges solid, sidewall construction built to last. But not so for the bottom, which was simply a stretched sheet of fabric, one which sagged ever so slightly at one corner under Opal's weight. And like most boxsprings, the mattress was mostly hollow. Oh, there were internal springs aplenty, but they were well-spaced, presenting more than sufficient travelways for a cat with a knack for getting away from her pony, generally in the ways which would create the most stress.

"Here," Rarity eventually announced. "This is where she got in."

The redhead briefly straightened, came around to the unicorn's position and knelt down next to her. The right hand slipped under the side hang and probed near where the horn currently rested. She sighed. "Torn."

Rarity brought her head up enough to nod. "Just enough for a determined cat to get through."

"Or even Opal." More probing. "I'm surprised it isn't a lot bigger..."

"There's less to her than you might suspect on sight," Rarity admitted. "On contact, she's mostly fluff."

The purring developed a discontent note.

"And ego," Rarity added.

This produced a tremor of growl.

"Well," Rarity said. "We know how she got in. How do you propose we get her out?"

"Can't you just -- push your field into the mattress? You know where she is, so once you surround and grab her, you can just pull her out..."

"No," Rarity crossly declared. "Differentiation, dear -- once she's inside the mattress, for purposes of movement magic, she's effectively a part of it. And blind probing through a narrow gap, well on the other side -- I need to see her, at least at the start." With open doubt, "If you're willing to let me poke a rather significant hole into the sidewall...?"

"I'd rather not compromise the integrity there," the redhead admitted. "The bottom's already ripped, but..." More thought. "So -- just lift the entire mattress, tilt it towards that one corner, let her --" which was the point when she first became aware of the hard stare. "-- slide... out...?"

Several rather hard tail flicks passed, and none without notice.

"Yes," Rarity eventually said. "I shall be sure to do that. Immediately after I finish my current round of magical experimentation, send a scroll off to the Princess concerning a lesson I have recently learned about friendship, freshen the stripe in my bangs, and have a few words with my little brother concerning what is and is not appropriate artwork for a dragon of his age -- or did you have me confused with somepony else? I could make your bed. The sheets would be rather orderly, decidedly even, and much more artistic than you ever seem to arrange in the mornings, when you can be bothered to tidy up after your rather restless nightscape voyages at all. I could even slightly raise a single corner at a time in order to tuck things properly, which is something that a sapient with hands seems oddly incapable of doing. But the entire mattress at once..."

"...sorry."

"You are aware that a certain librarian does not represent the default standard for my species? And that boxsprings possess a considerable amount of raw mass?"

"Sorry."

"Also, claws."

"I said I was sorry."

"I might as well ask you to spread your arms wide, grasp a corner, and try to dead-lift the entire thing from there while using your torso as a brace, which I already suspect would be complicated by those --"

This time, the hard stare came back the other way.

"-- I apologize," Rarity sighed, and her tail returned to its default loft.

"You're stressed," the redhead immediately accepted.

"Yes, but that does not give me the right to take it out on you. So what of your own abilities?"

Wryly, "Let's pretend you didn't say that."

"...agreed. Very well. Perhaps something more... mundane..."

Slipping a bit of the cat's favorite food into the rip was easy. Getting Opal to fall for the lure was impossible. The hidden feline never shifted a paw, and the ongoing purr briefly seemed to develop a bit of chuckle.

After a while, Rarity jumped up to the top of the mattress and, once she'd carefully peeled back and folded the sheets, spent some time bouncing up and down over Opal's chosen corner, in the hopes that noise and vibration would chase the cat out. (The redhead refused to try it, mostly due to the bouncing.) This did produce a triad of results. The cat briefly moved to another corner, returning to her standard position at the moment her pony stopped. Rarity wound up collapsing across the upper surface and stayed there panting for a good five minutes, exhaustedly wondering where Pinkie found the energy to even do that all the time. And elaborate complaints about the firmness of that upper surface were registered with the most local possible office. Repeatedly.

Pouring water over the top in the hopes that it would soak through and chase out the cat... that initially resulted in a sodden upper layer, followed by a tiny drip into the interior. Opal shifted just enough to remain dry, and kept doing so until the floorboards threatened to warp.

They cajoled. They shouted. The words 'puss-puss' were used with increasing malice.

And Opal purred.

The two females sat on the floor, near the current choice of vibrating corner. The human refused to put her back directly against it for the same reason the equine wouldn't get her tail too close: claws could poke out. Also, soaked mattress contacting fabric or fur. Neither prospect seemed particularly pleasant.

"How about... something she's afraid of?" Rarity proposed. "Put it within the mattress to chase her out?"

"She swallowed the spider to catch the fly," the redhead sighed. "I don't know why she swallowed the fly..." She spotted the unicorn's confusion. "Cultural reference, Rarity. Using a future problem to solve a current problem usually just doubles your trouble. Besides, it's Opal. What would she be afraid of?"

"There is a standard solution in Ponyville for such issues -- but with her and Angel, it's usually a no-contest, no-contact draw," Rarity admitted. "I feel they are each reluctant to test the other, just in case one came out on the losing end. They would likely just wind up camping out together. As you said -- double the trouble."

A nod. "Wait for her to get hungry?"

Opal stood up, quickly moved to the rip, snatched up the food, then returned to her post.

The redhead groaned. "To need a litter pan?"

"She will pick another corner," Rarity sighed. "With all the future issues that implies. So. Here we are. Each among the arguable multiple apex species of our respective worlds. Both currently being utterly defeated by a ten-pound whirlwind of fur and attitude."

It was hard to argue, and so neither did.

"Well," Rarity finally proposed, "It could be worse."

"How?"

"My sister could be here. With her friends. And upon seeing our predicament, they would immediately inquire as to whether there was a potential mark involved in getting cats out of mattresses." In the dark tones of weary experience, "Now, presuming we somehow managed to mutually stop them before the entire bedroom was lost, they would sulk out of the premises, collectively convinced that we had kept them from their destinies, as they had gained no chance to fail at this too. But as the concept of Cutie Mark Crusaders Cat Extractors --" a long pause, followed by a very sarcastic "-- yay, had not yet been truly tested, they would feel the need to confirm their lack of appropriate talent via the usual disaster. In this case, I imagine this would involve the, shall we say, aggressive borrowing of every cat in Ponyville, followed by smuggling them -- against their will -- into a full assortment of mattresses, regardless of feline desire to cooperate, type of mattress, and whether the topside of those mattresses were occupied or not. Add in Flitter's eventual apocalyptic reaction to the 'borrowing' of her kitten, and I believe your imagination can take it from there. Oh, and please consider the resulting vision as my token revenge for the dragon hoard."

The two females let that horror wash over them for a while, although the quadruped did so from the midst of a guarded smile.

"Maybe it's time to let you poke that hole now," the redhead finally said. "How much sighting room would you need?"

"Just a pupil's worth," Rarity admitted. "Or a little more, since I would be reluctant to get an eyelid too close at first. But it would be so hard to repair that additional damage. The bottom is easy to sew, but the sidewall..."

The unicorn blinked.

"You agree to allow some degree of additional damage, yes?" Rarity asked. "Just to make that clear."

"Sure," the redhead agreed. "We're already at soaked and sodden and hoof-bounced, so --"

Rarity trotted around to the point of initial rip, got her rib cage and barrel tight against the floor, then lowered her head. The horn was carefully and very awkwardly angled.

A tilt to the right. The sound of fabric tearing.

"Rarity, what are you --"

"Oh, dear," came the response, along with the sound of some very awkward shifting. "Oh, this will be a bother... a pony is simply not designed to scoot across a surface this way, no matter what my sister might think... You know, of all the things she has not tested for her mark..."

More tearing. The redhead, who was somewhat more designed for that general category of movement (although not the unicorn's current position), was forced to scoot away from approaching hindquarters.

Opal yowled. This was followed by an angry hiss, and a sudden shift of sheets showed where the cat had thrown her weight across the length of the bed. The redhead heard claws lash out, strike the intruder -- but Rarity had her head tilted out of range. All the cat could ineffectively slash at was unbreakable, unscratchable, unlit horn.

"The bottom," Rarity grunted, shifting another foot and slicing that much more of the edge, "at least for where you have room to rest, Opal, is simply a stretched-out sheet, with no other support offered. None at all."

The feline retreated to every available corner in turn. Claws scrabbled at the narrow metal rails which formed anchor points for the springs, failed to find enough space to hold her body up. The bed was pushed away from the wall, and more fabric was sliced free.

"She cannot stand," Rarity hissed, "where there is no floor..."

The cloth fell. So did the cat.

After a moment, an angry ten-pound ball of fluff and attitude strode out from under the bed, hissed at each member of an apex species in turn, then lofted her tail and departed from the room, already locked into pretending none of it had ever happened. Human and equine watched her go.

"Well," Rarity sighed. "And now... now, I think, to put it back. Your needle and thread?"

"Sorry?" the human said again while fully aware that during most talks with ponies, the word was becoming a significant part of her vocabulary.

"Well," Rarity said, now peering under the bed again, entirely focused on the upcoming repair job, "clearly you own both, and in great quantities. I am led to understand that among your own species, your physical construction is, how does one put this, a decidedly low-probability one, which means that even if you did not personally create any portion of your upper-body wardrobe and simply ordered all your clothing custom-made to your locally-unique dimensions, you would still be likely to spend some time repairing it. Frankly, any designer would recognize that those would be rubbing against your garments from the inside and... thus wear them out... all... the faster..."

The unicorn, rapidly-intensifying blush rushing through her coat, finally glanced up to see the redhead silently holding out a needle and six different spools.

"Sorry," Rarity eventually said, once the blush had said everything else.

Which produced a sigh. "Just... it's okay, Rarity. We'll just stitch it up and call it solved."

But the unicorn was staring at the spools. "I... oh dear, oh bother, oh no..."

"What?"

"The colors! With this fabric? Darling, you have nothing here which will not clash! I refuse to do the job with such shoddy materials! It will be total and full hue coordination or it will be nothing, and I assure you, it will not be nothing!"

"Rarity," the redhead wearily said, "it's the underside of a bed. No one and nopony is going to see it, and if Opal doesn't try again, the only animals to get a look are going to be dust bunnies..."

But the designer would hear none of it. "Grab a scarf. We are going shopping. Cerulean, I think... perhaps with a suggestion of waves within the stitching..."

A sigh. "Fine."

"It shouldn't take more than an hour to pick out the appropriate color," Rarity assured her.

"Okay," the redhead mostly surrendered.

"Plus half that to settle upon a price."

"I -- all right," went what was very nearly the last of the resistance.

"And while we are out, we will see what we can do about potentially upgrading your sweater --" The unicorn frowned. "Wait."

"What?"

"With your hair? That scarf?"

And well away from them, unseen, unheard, and with no intention of moving any time ever, a purring Opal carefully settled herself into the absolute unreachable back of the linen closet.

There Must Be A Pony In Your Bed (Captain Moneybags)

There Must Be A Pony In Your Bed!

Captain Moneybags

You sigh wearily as you enter your home. Today had been working hell.

The customers weren’t even the worst part. Alright, no less than seven customers came to get their refunds for an unpackaged item without a receipt, all before your lunch break, and the second half of your shift was even worse, but they weren’t the worst part.

The worst part wasn’t even when you arrived for a snack at the Panda Express, where you had the luck of running into your slightly more handsome, slightly sharper dressed, and slightly more successful colleague. Careful observation and planning from your end had kept these confrontations to a minimum, but it had happened just today. Your colleague cut in front of you in line, was the day’s 1000th customer, and got his meal, which was slightly larger than yours, for a slightly lower price.

Oh, and then he invited, read: forced, you to sit next to him, and spent the rest of the meal bragging about every single aspect of his life that was slightly better than yours. That is to say, all of it.

No, the worst part of the day had yet to come.

Mondays. Can’t live with ‘em, Could totally live without ‘em. It’s a shame you can’t.

You see, Monday is the day that one of many ponies visits your house, or more specifically, your bed. This pony then proceeds to demolish something, make an, often hurtful, remark directed to you, and then the chapter ends and the week begins.

You just can’t wait to see what joys today’s pony brings to you.

You sigh wearily as you enter your home. Time to find the intruder.

Your gaze immediately moves to your fridge, a popular target for the little equines. And if you didn’t say it! The door was opened ever-so-slightly! And inside… Aha! Out of milk! You might’ve used the last this morning, but you might not have, in which case today’s pony had an affinity for milk! Pumpkin and Pound Cake, perhaps?

You continue your search to your bedroom. Wait, no, let’s check the room next to it first. The bathroom. You found nothing burned, used, and/or demolished in the kitchen, so it might be in there. You slowly push the door, peeking into the bathroom to find… Nothing. The bathroom is exactly as you had left it. Spic and span, with a pile of empty paper rolls you meant to throw out in the corner. With that out of your way, there’s only one place left to go.

The bedroom.

You mentally prepare yourself for what horrors might await you inside, taking a deep breath, and leaning your ear against the door to listen.

Nothing.

The pony is either aware of your presence and was doing something they knew you wouldn’t like, or they’re silent by themselves. Big Macintosh? Applebloom?

You finally push the door open, and head into what was once your bedroom. And it apparently still is your bedroom. You can’t help but feel slightly surprised as you look around your pristine room. Everything is in place. A quick glance confirms a certain pile of gentleman’s literature is still there, and still completely intact. Okay, so maybe it’s not a ready pony today. Maybe it’s a hidey pony! In a swift motion, you let yourself fall to your stomach, and keep under your bed. Last time you couldn’t find a pony on your bed, it was under. And, surely enough, a large, ominous shadow is hiding under your bed. Probably Fluttershy or something. Your crawl over, and stick your arm under your bed in attempt to lure today’s pony out of its hiding spot.

“Come on, little pony! You’re only making this hard for both of us! I won’t eat you!”

Your hand hits something soft. Something big, and fluffy. Something cold.

You grip it, and, with a strong pull, yank it out from under your bed. You stand up and look down on your victim.

You were expecting a pony.

This thing isn’t even round.

Well, at least you know where your pillow was this morning.

But this solves nothing! There is still a tiny horse at large in your home! And you will find it!

You look under your covers. No ponies.

You look in your closet. No ponies.

You look under your desk. A whole lot of garbage. No ponies.

You grunt in frustration. Is there a pony whose special talent is hiding? What would their cutie mark look like? You dismiss the thought in favour of your search. Everywhere you look. Everywhere.

A small hour later, you look at what was once your bedroom. Everything is turned over, tossed around opened, closed again and opened again. Nothing with hooves in sight, let alone a pastel-coloured pony.

But that isn’t right! There has to be a pony in this room! It’s Monday! You continue your search, although fruitlessly, even as your patience runs out and your vigour increases. Heck, you’re searching so hard, you nearly knock over your favourite lamp!

You search and search and search some more, but there’s not a single pony to be found. Nor is there any other Equestrian creature. In fact, by now you’re pretty sure you and your Corner Fungus are the only living creatures in your house.

You give up. You groan in disappointment as you trudge towards your TV, sit down, and try turning it on.

After a few minutes of the Black Screen Show, the realization finally hits you.

It’s stopped!

You’re finally free! No more ponies! No more burning stuff, no more new kitchen appliances, no more sleepless nights! From this day, every day will be work, home, sleep, work! Every day! Including Monday! You decide this calls for celebration, and head to your kitchen to get yourself a glass, and your finest hard drink.

Poof.

You barely hear the sound of your glass shattering on the floor over the sound of something else shattering on your bedroom floor.

You barely hear the sound of the bottle falling into the sink over the sound of purple hooves on wooden floor.

“Sorry I’m late, there was a delay on my end. Oh, and sorry about the lamp. It was kind of tacky anyway, so it doesn’t matter that much, right?”

The Cutie Mark Crusaders Redecorate Your Bedroom (Charelzzz)

The Cutie Mark Crusaders Destroy Redecorate Your Bedroom
Charelzzz

Another day at work, dealing with unreasonable managers, uncaring coworkers and insane customers. Your boss calls you back in for two hours of inventorying after you punch out. “Don’t punch back in; I’m not authorized to authorize unauthorized overtime. But I need you to inventory stock room three. Don’t worry, I’ll take care of you next week,” he says with a wink of his beady little eye, the word “LIAR” glowing red on his sweaty forehead in 124 point comic sans. You shrug, long having accepted that expecting justice in this world is a sucker’s game.

Five and a half hours later, you are hunched over the steering wheel of your 1985 Hyundai Excel, your eyes barely focused due to an excess of sprocket counting, on a street that is blessedly deserted, as all other commuters, including your boss, have all since had their dinners and gone to bed. Your cheap apartment beckons as you wedge your miserable Korean rustmobile into a microspace accidentally left between two high-end SUVs. You make the long climb to your walkup, briefly stopping at the 99th step to curse the ghost of Harriet Stratemeyer Adams, as usual, and there it is… your door.

The door is all that stands between you and blessed unconsciousness; the experience of oblivion, wrapped in the arms of Morpheus in your bed. You are sure that nothing else bad can happen to you today as you wrestle with the old lock. It finally gives way to your insistent twistings with a click that sounds like the gates of paradise opening before you. Bed… bed… bed… the word blazes in your mind as you stagger into the closet you call a living room.

Then you hear a crash from behind the door your bedroom. Oh no. Not tonight.

The muffled voice of a female youth calls out, indistinctly as though the speaker had her mouth full of something. A feeling, a unique combination of dread, anger and exhaustion which you have come to call drenghaustion, fills you as you take a tentative step to the door.

A second voice, even squeakier and more muffled than the first, responds. Two ponies? What have I done to deserve this? The faces of ex-girlfriends flash through your mind. Even so…

Then you hear a third voice, strong and distinct. “No cutie marks yet, girls! I thought for sure we’d get ‘em this time!”

By all the little gods of inexplicable bruises and disposable feminine products! It can’t be! Not… not...

You bang your shin against the coffee table, knocking a slice of stale Domino’s pizza to land on the floor with a clang, but the nerves anxiously sending pain signals to your brain are unable to break through the storm of panic that has overloaded your mind. You reach for the doorknob, and steel yourself for the worst as you turn and pull.

You are not prepared. You could not be. No human could be. Not for the Cutie Mark Crusaders in the midst of a Cutie Mark Quest.

You enter the room and notice that walls have been painted, apparently at random, in verdigris, purple and olive. The quality of the brush work, leaving behind patches of the original pale yellow, with blending, buildup, streaks and drippings makes the result look like something a color-blind Jackson Pollack could have produced at the height of his vomit period. The rug will have to be burned and you’d shiver from the breeze permitted by the busted window if not for the warmth of the rage building up in your viscera.

Your end tables have been glued together at an odd angle in an apparent attempt to remedy your lack of a dresser. Your eyes track upward to note that the priceless collection of dog-eared early ‘80s rock band posters is nowhere to be seen, replaced instead with a poster of a rainbow-colored thunderbolt, a painting of what appears to be a red apple and some white construction paper where glue and purple glitter has been used to produce the awkward semblance of a unicorn. You now have frilly pink valences above your broken window, which manage somehow to clash with the nightmare randomness of the wall. The glow-in-the-dark stars that had faithfully mapped the constellations on your ceiling have been arranged into a smiley face.

“Ahem.” The peeping of a pony throat clearing calls your attention to the authors of this atrocity.

A pale yellow earth pony filly with her red mane in a big pink bow drops the pathetic remains of a pillow case from her mouth and looks at you with impossibly large eyes, causing your pancreas to start cramping due to a sudden massive excess of blood sugar

An orange pegasus filly with a short plum mane, perched on the bent up corner of a mattress, turns her enormous glistening adorableness projectors on you, assaulting your nervous system with cuteness rays.

You instinctively shift your eyes away from the sources of so much unfiltered sweetness, but it is a mistake, for your eyes land on a white unicorn filly as she levitates a bottle of glue and several splinters of what were once a headboard above her fluffy purple mane, and her green eyes are so full of pure saccharine that the only thing that prevents you from immediately regurgitating the leftover burrito you found in the fridge and stole from a nameless co-worker is your absolute paralysis as you realize that the shards, shreds and slivers that are piled between the trio is all that remains the reason for your existence; your bed.

“We’re sorry, mister.” The unicorn filly makes a moue as she eyes the shattered bed with distaste.

“We’ve made beds before and there weren’t never this kind of problem!” The earth pony filly’s ears droop in shame.

“I guess human beds are just REALLY different from Equestrian beds!” The pegasus frowns at the wreckage and then shrugs.

“No Cutie Mark Crusader human bed making cutie marks for us,” say the three in mournful unison.

Applebloom looks sideways at the other two. “It didn’t work out any better than the interior decorating.”

Scootaloo nods mutely as Sweetie Belle shakes her head. “Yeah, and that’s kind of hard to believe!”

Your left eyelid is the first thing to be released from the rigor of your shock and horror. You know this, because it starts to twitch.

“Hey, are you OK, mister?” Sweetie Belle cocks her head, which is proportioned for maximum cuteness, as spittle starts to appear on your lips.

“Your face is getting kind of red.” Scootaloo regards you, worry showing in her weaponized cuteness projectors.

“Yeah, that ain’t a nice kind of apple red neither, more like a got your flank paddled by Granny Smith for stealing pies from the windowsill kind of red.” Applebloom takes a few tentative steps towards you, concern in her innocent features. “Say, are you sick?”

Your twitching intensifies.

The three crusaders looked at one another, joy and hope lighting their features as they shout, “Cutie Mark Crusaders Human Paramedics!”

Your drenghaustion is quickly replaced with icy terror as visions of your tender body rendered into a state similar to that of your bedroom fill your mind’s eye. You manage to gain enough control over your body to start to violently shake your head, and you start to make strangled “Nnnnnnnnnn!” sounds.

“Nnnnn… naeglaria fowleri? Have you been swimming near industrial outlet pipes?” says Sweetie Belle with fascination.

“Nnnnn… nail fungus?” Applebloom sticks out her tongue. “If that’s anything like hoof fungus, I don’t know if I want to touch you. Maybe we could just amputate?” Sweetie Belle smiles as she starts to scrounge around for scissors.

“Nnnnn… now? Now! He wants medical attention NOW guys!” Scootaloo’s wings are almost buzzing as she jumps up and down in excitement.

“NO!” Your brain goes into survival mode and gets control of your panicked body. “No! No, no, no!” you cry, looking at the disappointed fillies. “What. Have. You. Done?”

“Oh, well we were just trying to make your bed, and decorate your room up nice, like we said. Weren’t you listening?” Sweetie Belle looks at you with annoyance.

“How did you manage to destroy my bed!?” You are now genuinely curious as well as terrified, angry, and exhausted. “And you made so many small pieces out of it! Look, you broke a screw in two!” You pick up the thick corner fastener which has been sheared in twain. “How could so much destructive force exist in three small pony bodies!?” You gesture expansively, encompassing the superfund site that had once been your cosy little bedroom.

“So that’s the thanks we get for trying to do you a favor?” Scootaloo regards you indignantly as Sweetie Belle frowns, looking for the scissors with renewed vigor.

“Hold on girls, he has a raht to be upset. We did sort of mess up his place a little.” Applebloom looks at a bedpost-shaped hole in the wall. “We should make it up to him somehow. Ah know! Cutie Mark Crusaders plumbing cutie marks!” The other two look at her as though she just had the best idea in the world.

“Stop!” you shout, visions of flood and destruction filling your aching eyes. “No plumbing! No cooking! No carpet cleaning! No nothing! Just get out so I can start cleaning up the wreckage! Or maybe I’ll just burn the apartment building down!”

“Oh, but we can’t go anywhere yet! We just have to get our cutie marks!” Applebloom looks at you with pleading in her diabetes-inducing eyes.

“Yes please, we just have to get our cutie marks! We can’t stay blank flanks forever!” Scootaloo’s Mark Four Cuteblasters brim with unshed tears.

Sweetie Belle’s angelic lower lip starts to quiver. “Oh, come on, please, mister? We promise to do our best!” Their combined appeal is irresistible. Maybe they could sort your comic book collection? No! File your taxes? No! Demolition? Perhaps, but possibly redundant after this.

Then an idea comes to you. A brilliant idea. A brilliant, evil idea.

The three fillies back up towards a corner of what remains of your bedroom. “Your smile is like, seriously creepy, mister,” Scootaloo says, worry in her voice.

“Oh, I know what you can do to help me,” you say in your Grinchiest voice. “You’re going to be great! Now, here’s what we’ll do…”

Fifteen minutes later, they’re piling out of your car. They stand together on the sidewalk under the night sky and cry out, “Cutie Mark Crusaders sprocket stock clerks!” You unlock the door and usher them in.

“Now, work really hard, kids! I’m going to go home and catch some sleep. Just remember that you have to be done and out of here before seven AM when Mister Slobbington opens up!”

“You got it, mister, and thanks!” Applebloom smiles at you and bounces down the hall to the stock room with her friends. You drive home, grab a spare pillow and blanket, and get on the couch. As you close your eyes, you think you hear a crashing sound well off in the distance. You sleep the sleep of the just.

Ahuizotl Is In Your Bed, Mistaking It For An Ancient Artifact (Nyerguds)

Ahuizotl Is In Your Bed, Mistaking It For An Ancient Artifact
Nyerguds

Another Monday, another pony.

Or, at least, that's what you've come to expect by now. Dreading the inevitable insanity, you put your key into the lock, twist it, and enter your apartment.

You eye the door to your bedroom and sigh. Sure, you could delay it, but... what's the use? Eventually, you'll have to go in there anyway.

You consider locking the bedroom from the outside and sleeping on the couch, so that, just this once, you would not have to deal with another one of these insane creatures. There should be a key to that door somewhere. Probably in some drawer, lost under a bunch of cutlery. More likely, however, it's somewhere in the pile of dirty laundry inside the offending room.

You decide to give up and stop stalling, and open the door.

You look at the bed. You blink. You look around in the room, and see no one. You look at the bed, and blink again.

This is... your bed! Your old bed! Not Davenport's futon, not the ill-fated waterbed, not the second-hand one you bought after Rainbow's crash, not Twilight Sparkle's bed... this is the very same bed that Vinyl tried to set on fire, that Star Swirl (The Bearded!) banished to another dimension, and that, last you remembered, either got crushed by Rainbow Dash or by Twilight Sparkle's bed. Your memory's a bit fuzzy on that one. You distinctly remember both happening... somehow. And then there was a pony – or was that a man?– in a black suit holding up a pen and...

You violently shake your head to clear away the conflicting mess of memories, and move on to the important part; checking if the stuff under your bed is back as well! Just as you kneel down, though, you remember more. Ponies under the bed. Your heart sinks. Just when you dared to think that everything might've been back to normal, you realize that looking under the bed will just inevitably reveal the actual location where Tonight's Trespasser will be hiding.

Because of this, you are totally surprised when a bluish-purple monkey thing jumps out of your closet and pins you on the bed, growling.

"Daring Do! This time you will not keep me from my treasure! I have travelled time and space itself to..."

The blue creature blinks. Your right eye twitches.

"What in Kokapetl's name are you?" the blue thing asks, visibly surprised. You now see it is clearly not a monkey; last you checked, monkeys generally don’t have long wolf-like jaws filled with sharp canine teeth.

"Could ask you the same thing," you finally manage to say. "It's usually ponies trespassing on my property."

"Aha!" the blue jackal-monkey-thing says. "You are the Guardian of the Temple! But I have already thwarted your deadly and malodorous traps with my skill and intellect!"

You notice a pair of underpants hanging around the thing's neck. "Let me guess. You got stuck in my pile of dirty laundry."

The blue thing glares at you. "Ah, but it was worth it! For, see!" The thing's long tail, which somehow ends in a hand, dangles something in front of your eyes. "I retrieved the key you had cleverly hidden in there! Though I have yet to find what treasures it will unlock."

"Oh. Great. You found my bedroom key," you mumble, snatching the thing out of the tail-hand. "Congratulations, you passed the test and defeated the Great Guardian! Could you please get off now?"

"Oh. Um. Very well!” the creature said, moving back to give you some breathing space. “I am Ahuizotl, raider of tombs and collector of ancient magical artifacts! And now, I lay claim to this one!" He points at your bed.

You try your hardest not to facepalm, and fail. "Really?" you ask as you lower your hand. "This bed was banished to an eldritch dimension by Star Swirl the Bearded. Heck, as far as I know, it was destroyed. Twice. And turned into crystal. And yet it turned back up here today, right as rain! Now, what do you think that means?"

Ahuizotl crouches down and looks at the bed, frowning. "A puzzle!" He looks up at you. "It... has to be replaced by a bed of equal weight?"

You blink. "Huh. You might be on to something." You glance at the bed. "Tell you what. If you manage to bring me a bed of the same weight... nah, scratch that. The same size... and, um, degree of comfort, you can have it."

Ahuizotl grins. "Hah! Wonderful! What can you tell me about this artifact? Is it... potent?"

You shrug, walk over to your desk chair and plop down on it. "I'm fairly sure Star Swirl said it was a world-ending, um, universe anchor, or something." You think about that for a bit. Maybe it were the Lyras who said that. Or Twilight? Well, whatever the case, if this Azhowee-dude got it back to the pony universe before it went off, then maybe that'd finally solve your problems. You try to feel at least a little bad about maybe destroying the pony universe, but honestly, you fail spectacularly.

"Just what I need!" Ahuizotl exclaims enthusiastically. Then his eyes narrow. "Wait. You are merely 'fairly sure'? Are you not the artifact's Guardian?"

You decide to play along. "Hey, it's one of these... um, genie-like things, you know?” You honestly don’t know if you’re talking out of your ass, or if this is actually spot on. “I never asked for this. Got saddled with it, can't get rid of it. So if you can get it off my hands, be my guest." You throw him a sharp look. "But! You have to get me a new bed first! One that fits in the same space!" In all honesty, you're just stressing that because you can't afford a bigger apartment, and the bedroom is kinda cramped as it is.

"Does that mean you have to come... with the bed? Like the genies?"

"Hell no!" you say, really hoping it is true. You vaguely remember some of these ponies claiming that the curse was not on the bed but on you, but at this moment, you're just hoping those claims were wrong. "Now get on with it! Complete the Quest! Get this thing out of my sigh—"

"You won’t get away with this!" a new voice suddenly yells. A brown copy of Rainbow Dash wearing a pith helmet shoots out from under your bed and tackles the blue dude.

"Daring Do!" Ahuizotl yells as he jumps back to evade her.

You roll your eyes. "Of course she was under the bed," you mumble to yourself. As the two start fighting, you slowly get up from your chair and inch towards the door. You briefly wonder if you should get the fire extinguisher again. It did wonders on Sombra, but in all honesty, the powder gave you quite a mess to clean up afterwards.

Just as you find the doorknob behind your back and start twisting it, Ahuizotl tackles Daring Do, and the pair is thrown onto the bed. "Hey!" you yell at them. "Careful with the be—"

A bright blue flash blinds you. As you recover from the coloured spots in your vision, you find that the two are nowhere to be found.

"Dammit," you mumble to yourself. "I was this close to getting rid of it!"

Princess Celestia Declares Your Bed To Be The Last Hope Of The Universe (General Liberator)

Princess Celestia Declares Your Bed To Be The Last Hope Of The Universe
General Liberator

There is quite a social stigma regarding Mondays.

Namely, an unbridled hatred from the general populace toward Mondays.

Though there are several reasons behind the discrimination toward that particular day of the week, there is one reason more than any other.

Picture yourself napping in school, in that one class that everyone hates or just plain doesn’t care for, catching up on some Z’s without a care in the world or a single regard for the money that your parents are blowing on your lazy, ungrateful ass.

In a metaphorical sense, we shall call this sleepy time “the weekend.”

And if the sleepy time is the weekend, then Monday is the mean old hag of a nun who comes and smacks you over the head with a steel ruler.

So basically, everyone hated Monday because it signaled the end of the sacred weekend, a time for rest, relaxation, and getting plastered to the point where your inebriated brain tells you that making out with your equally drunken sister-in-law is a good idea.

Other than getting punched in the face by your loving older brother, good times.

Right up until the squad of cops led by Officer Monday busts down the door and start tackling the ones who weren’t fast enough. And then you get tazered in the neck for “resisting” arrest, in the form of flipping them off and calling them a bunch of dirty pigs.

So putting aside the completely unnecessary and frankly horrible attempts at what are supposed to be helpful metaphors, the main bullet point is that everyone hates Mondays.

As you turn the key and enter into your home, you sincerely doubt that there is a single soul in the world that hates Mondays more than you do.

Garfield can suck it. You think to yourself.

Although you hate it for the same reason that everyone else does (doubly so because of the terrible job with the equally terrible pay that you must return to), it is also because, for the past few months, you have been subject to something every single Monday that most people would deem scientifically impossible. Something that you had only ever dreamed of, but now truly wished that it was just a dream.

Something that, for some reason you have yet to discover, seems to be drawn to your bed.

Ponies.

Sure, it was really cool at first. I mean it is every fan’s dream to see living, breathing talking ponies in the flesh. To have a conversation with them and maybe even a bit of cuddling if you’re lucky. You couldn’t deny that, at one point, you were thrilled with the prospect of living ponies just appearing in your home.

Of course, that was back when you still had your original bed.

And a full collection of porn.

And your original fridge.

And half the goddamn kitchen for that matter.

When the online forums gave all their two cents about what it would be like to meet a pony for real, they probably never stopped to consider just how much it would cost.

For you, it cost approximately eight grand.

In other words, for a college dropout working a crappy job, too fucking much.

You close the door behind you before kicking off your shoes in your usual unorderly fashion. A few steps into the foyer and you stop, closing your eyes and focusing your hearing on the rest of the house.

Silence.

Good sign. You think as you make your way toward the hallway. But I won’t start celebrating just yet.

You stop in front the door to your room, once again taking a moment to listen for any unwanted noises. When your ears are once again met with silence, you hesitantly reach a hand up and grasp the door handle. Taking a deep breath, you turn the knob to open the door, stepping into your room to find…

…nothing.

Your eyes first fall upon your bed (Bed number 3 or 4 to be exact. You’ve lost count) to see that it is, to your surprise and utter delight, completely empty. There are no scorch marks, stray pony hairs, strewn bits of tacos or anything else to indicate any presence besides your own.

It’s in the same exact messy, unmade fashion you had left if in this morning.

Before giving a sigh of relief, you stop yourself. Not a second thought was given before you briskly walk over and get down on your knees. Another deep breath is inhaled before you bend over and look under the bed to see…

…nothing.

…well, save for the box containing your (INCOMPLETE!) Playboy collection.

A smile actually manages to find its way to your face, and just as quickly leaves as you rise to your feet and stare at the bed. To any other person on the Earth (save for that crazed hobo on the corner who was convinced that bed/futons would herald the apocalypse), it seemed like a completely ordinary bed.

But you (and the batshit insane hobo) knew better.

You give no hesitation before raising a fist and punching the center of the bed with all of your strength. A large burst of dust particles fly up, but other than that nothing happens.

You give a nod, satisfied that your bed is neither sentient nor a shape shifting Queen in disguise.

The thoughts of relief are soon gone once more as you turn towards the other side of the room. There stands the door to your closet, left a crack open as it had been this morning.

Taking one final over dramatic breath, you stride across the room, pull open to door to gaze upon…

…the usual pile of miscellaneous shit that inhabits your closet.

After quickly leafing through the pile and looking the closet top to bottom, you are relieved that there are no ponies, celebrities, or Daedric Princes hiding within.

The next few minutes go by as you give a once-over of the remaining rooms of your humble abode. After a thorough search of the kitchen, the (still rather rank) bathroom, and the other various places, you find out something that you can’t help but give a gigantic sigh of relief toward.

Your home is completely pony-free.

For the first time in several months, it seems that you will have a quiet, uneventful Monday evening.

Without paying it a second thought, you strode into the living room and practically collapse onto the couch. Even something as simple as that made you feel like you were truly a winner.

Although you are a bit tired, you decide that some mind-numbing TV would do wonders to you. Namely in the form of purging any thoughts of ponies from your mind.

With a click, the set comes on, revealing that you are in the news section. You don’t pay it much thought as you start leafing through the channels.

“-it’s hard to believe what we are seeing here! The sheer scale of the destruction-“

*click*

“-half of Paris is almost completely engulfed by flames, and more continue to-“

*click*

“-as beasts of unknown origin swarmed across the English countryside, killing everyone who they came into contact-“

*click*

“-the death toll out of Asia is staggering, estimated to be in the hundreds of millions and continuing to-“

*click*

“-the President just a few minutes ago declared a national state of emergency. Martial law is officially in effect and-“

*click*

“-IS NOT A TEST. PROCEED TO THE NEAREST CIVILIAN EVACUATION CENTER FOR-“

*click*

“-it is, as one bystander put it, the End of Days.”

*click*

“Welcome back to…Wheel…of…FORTUNE!”

A smile crosses your lips as you set the remote down and begin watching. Although it was an older show, there was just something about seeing a bunch of low class people winning nice things that warmed your heart.

And hope that, someday, maybe it could be you.

The theme song began as the host, the man with the million dollar smile, steps out onto the stage, waving to the cheering audience. The song dies down as does the loud crowd, allowing him to begin.

“Hello, and welcome to Wheel of Fortune!” He says cheerfully with that award winning smile. “Tonight we have a very special show for you, our guest being all the way from-“

“HOLY SHIT!” Someone in the background screams.

The host turns around just as a huge, downright demonic looking black creature enters the camera’s field of view. Many women in the audience scream as the creature opens its mouth, revealing a massive maw of razor sharp teeth. The host doesn’t even have time to react as the creature lunges downward, closing its maw over his head before-

*BEEEEEEEEP*

A long tone sounds as the feed is suddenly lost, revealing the weird rainbow across the TV screen.

You blink a few times before frowning.

God, the things that networks will do for viewers…

You grumble and shake your head before shutting the set off and putting the remote down, no longer in the mood for TV. Perhaps now would be the appropriate time to call it a night. A nice long, peaceful sleep in your bed, undisturbed by ponies or other weird happenings.

With a stretch and a yawn you lazily make your way toward your room, only to stop partly down the hall.

By voices.

From your room.

For what had to be the twentieth Monday in a row, you let out an angry sigh.

Getting really tired of this shit.

You reach your door, intending to finally go all out on whichever four legged menace decided to pay you an impromptu visit this time. You decide right then and there this will be one of the greatest angry rants in history, one that would bring a tear of pride to the eye of Trevor Phillips.

You turn the knob, omitting the dramatic breath, and push the door open.

Now, there are two things that gave you pause.

One was that there is not one pony in your room, but several. Every single bearer of the Elements of Harmony to be exact. Pinkie appears to be on the ground rocking back in forth in a fetal position, twitching every now and then. Rarity and Fluttershy are doing their best to comfort her.

And two…

…the others are all talking to Princess Celestia.

Celestia herself is pretty much how would have pictured her. She is taller than you by at least a head, making you feel a little small. Her ethereal mane and shining white coat certainly do justice to her name, giving her quite the divine appearance.

At the moment, you could give two shits less.

All you know at that moment was that you are quite possibly gonna be the first human in history to cuss out a pony princess, so you have to make it good.

Just before you began your rant, however, you catch the last snippets of their conversation.

“-but why here?” Twilight asks with an uncertain expression. “Why would the answer appear here of all places?”

“The universe works in strange ways, my little ponies.” Celestia says in a regal tone. “Sometime we cannot question it. We can only adapt.”

“But why this guy?” Rainbow frowns. “Experience has shown me that he’s nopony special. If anything he’s a little-“

“Ahem.” You clear your throat loudly.

Several of them jump slightly before turning to you, Rainbow adapting a rather sheepish smile. Celestia, upon seeing you, gives a sigh of relief.

“Oh, thank goodness you’re here.” She says. “We were beginning to worry that you had been lost in the pandemonium outside.”

“Twitcha, twitcha, TWITCHA!” The straight-maned Pinkie says deliriously as she let off a few violent twitches, Fluttershy whispering to her and stroking her back soothingly.

Now at that point any normal person may ask what she meant by that. They may ask why they were all there in the first place with worried looks on their faces. They may even ask why dear little Pinkie Pie at the moment looked like an escaped asylum patient.

Several months of your home being invaded by uninvited colorful bastards made you anything but “normal.”

“Lovely.” You say with an eye roll. “Now get out. All of you.”

Several of them blink a few times in confusion, not really understanding why the sudden hostility had been directed at them. The first one who responded was probably the last one you expected.

“Hey!” Rainbow flies up in front of you and narrows her eyes. “Why do you have to be such a jerk?”

You say nothing, instead opting for a look that practically screamed “Are you fucking kidding me?” Doubly so because it is Rainbow of all ponies that’s questioning why you’re so irritated.

Celestia clears her throat before speaking. “I understand that you may be confused why we are here, so allow me to explain. A few weeks ago we discovered an ancient ruin in our world where we found a-“

“Don’t care.” You interject, pointing to the door behind you. “Tired now. Want sleep. Get out.”

“Please listen.” Celestia says in an almost pleading fashion. “A new enemy has appeared, one that threatens all that we hold dear to our hearts.”

“Wow, did you come up with that plot by yourself?” You say in mock awe. “Go talk to Michael Bay if ya wanna write a crappy screenplay.”

Twilight frowns. “Can’t you be reasonable and take this seriously for just a few minutes?”

“Any ounce of reason and seriousness in me left a few months ago. Speaking of which…” You fix her with a knowing look. “…I trust your studies on human ‘anatomy’ are going well?”

Twilight’s frown disappears, replaced by a light blush. “I-I…er…w-well…”

“I want my mags back.” You say casually before stepping aside and motioning to the door. “As for the rest of you, kindly get the hell out of my life and never come back.”

This time it’s Applejack who steps forward. “Listen sugarcube, Ah don’t know what’s got ya in such a sourpuss, but we ain’t leavin’ till ya hear us out.”

You maintain eye contact for a few moments before smiling and chuckling in a rather disturbing fashion. “Alright. Screw this.”

You reach into your pocket and pull out your cell phone.

“Looks like it’s time for Plan B.”

You bring the dial up and type in “911” on the display. For far too long now had the issue with ponies been solely your issue. Now it was time to make it someone’s else’s issue as well.

Maybe there would be an interdimensional incident, leading to a long war between humanity and ponykind. Maybe you would be locked up for the rest of your life due to your frequent “exposure” to the ponies, doomed to spend the rest of your days in a padded cell within a government facility with a straightjacket and a thorzine drip.

At that point, so long as you got some goddamn peace and quiet for at least one more night, you didn’t care.

Smile still present on your face while the ponies all look at each other with cocked eyebrows, you bring the ringing phone up to your ear.

Ringing…

…ringing…

…ringing…

*click*

*BOOOP BOP BEEEP*

“We’re sorry, your call cannot be completed as dialed.”

Your smile disappears and you blink a few times.

“You may hang up, or press 1 for more-“

*BOP*

You pull the phone away from your head and look at the screen, only to see that your signal had been completely lost.

It’s at that point that the cogs in your head begin to turn. It’s partly because, despite your network not being the most reliable source, you always got service in your house. The main point, however, was the fact that dialing 911 should not have gotten you an incomplete call.

You look between the ponies and the phone a few times before voicing your confusion in the typical fashion that you would.

“Da fuck is goin’ on?”

Celestia opens her mouth to say something, but gets promptly cut off.

*Rumble*

Your eyes go wide as the ground beneath your feet shakes, a slight tremor rocking the entire block. The nervous looks on all the ponies’ faces intensify, with Pinkie’s eyes going wide.

“TWITCHA TWITCHA!” She shouts before Fluttershy and Rarity practically pin her down to the ground to stop her spastic movements.

Celestia lets out a heavy sigh before locking eyes with you.

“We don’t have much time, so let me give the short version. We need you to-“

*CRASH*

Once again, Celestia is cut off. This time by a shape crashing in through the window to your room and making all the occupants (yourself included) jump at least three feet in the air. You look up to see, to your surprise, a familiar pony donned in battered, blue battle armor.

“Tia, have you made progress?” Luna asks as she telekinetically removes her helmet, revealing quite a few scratches and bruises on her face. “The battle across the Void goes ill, and our time grows short.”

“In a moment, Luna.” Celestia says, clearly getting annoyed at being interrupted. “I was just about to tell the human here about the-“

*CRASH*

Once again, Celestia was cut off. This time the crasher came in from above, going clear through the ceiling and landing on the floor, creating a small crater in the wood underneath. It is yet another figure you recognize, wearing a red bandana around his forehead and a pair of camouflaged khaki pants.

“OH YEAH!” Discord yells, a look of glee in his eyes. “Now this is my kinda party!” He dusts himself off a little. “Things are getting kinda hairy out there, Celly. Even for me.”

“Discord, what are you doing here?” Luna demands. “You’re supposed to be in South America helping the armies there!”

“Oh peshaw.” Discord waves a paw at her. “Theoden’s forces are more than capable of handling themselves.”

“You left them alone?!” Luna shouts.

“Nonsense.” Discord says matter-of-factly. “I left them with the ‘Ride Of The Rohirrim’ playing in the background.” He floats lazily in the air. “They should be fine.”

“Even with epic background music, our enemy’s forces are without limit.” Celestia turns to Luna. “What is the situation in Australia?”

“MechaSteveIrwin has been deployed to the front lines alongside the Aussie Lumberjack Commando divisions, so their defenses should hold for the time being.” Luna looks down at the ground. “Though I know not how Shining Armor fares in Asia.”

“You’re sure? You haven’t heard anything?! Nothing?!” Twilight steps forward, her eyes wide and biting her bottom lip. “But what if they’ve already been overwhelmed?! What if-“

“Hush now, Twilight.” Celestia says in a calming tone. “No need to worry. Shining is fighting alongside the SamuraiSpartan special forces. He will be safe.”

“Except they didn’t have time to test out their Mjolnir XIV armor.” Luna says with a distant look. “Hopefully Dr. Mobius’ Robo-scorpions will help to turn to tide.”

“Remind me to give kudos to the good doctor when this is all over.” Discord floats down and lands back on the floor. “A very clever idea, and coming from me, that means something!”

“Assuming we survive the ensuing battle.” Celestia says as she turns back to you. “But first we need-“ She stops as she gets a good look at your face. “Um…are you ok?”

You don’t answer.

Your mind really didn’t have time to recover, between a cute yet badass looking moon princess crashing through your window and a chaos god pulling a Kool-Aid man straight through your roof. For anyone anywhere, it would be quite a strange experience, difficult to wrap one’s head around.

For you, it was somewhere between MechaSteveIrwin and Robo-scorpions that you brain decided enough was enough before promptly shutting down.

“Uh…human? You still with us?” Discord floats in front of you and waves a paw in front of your face, but you continue to stare forward with glazed over eyes and a slightly agape mouth. “I think we broke him.”

Luna cocks an eyebrow before turning to her sister. “Didn’t you explain the situation to him?”

“Oh, I would have loved to…” Celestia says in a mock cheerful tone before glaring at Luna and Discord. “…but I kept getting cut off.”

“Sarcasm is very unbecoming of you, Tia.” Discord says as he checks the ammunition reserves on his mind controlling squid launcher. “Try to leave the witty remarks and randomness to me.”

“Well never the less, we need to human’s help for what is to come.” Luna says as she turns to the still dumbfounded you. “Any ideas how to make him come around?”

Nopony had time to offer before the one to claim she had a solution did so.

“No worries, I got this.” Rainbow Dash flies over and stares at your bed with a mischievous smile before speaking in a loud yet fake tone. “Oh gee, this bed sure looks tasty. I wonder if the human would mind if I had just a little-“

“NOOOOO!”

With all the grace of a man awakening from an exorcism, you snap out of your stupor and lunge forward, knocking Rainbow aside before jumping on your bed. Still on all fours you then turn around, a feral look in your eyes before hissing and snarling horribly, clawing at the air threateningly to keep any ponies away from your bed.

They all stare at you with cocked eyebrows and slightly agape mouths. The one who commented first was probably the last they expected.

“Wow…” The ponies and Discord all turn toward the source to see Pinkie Pie, now apparently recovered from her Pinkie Sense overload, looking at you with a look of disappointment. “And ponies say that I have issues. I mean why would-AHG! TWITCHA!” With that, Pinkie once again collapses, her body shaking violently.

Celestia frowns before looking back at you. “Alright human, now I need your attention, so listen clos-“

“Raaarh!” You, still lost in your primal territorial instincts, continue to claw at the air while lightly foaming at the mouth.

Once again, the one with the “solution” does so. Rainbow Dash flies forward, deftly dodging your attempted swipes at her. She then raises a hoof…

*SMACK*

…and brings it across your face hard.

You give a yelp of pain before finally coming to, raising a hand to rub the sore spot on your cheek.

“Thanks.” You say plainly to Rainbow.

“You’re welcome.” Rainbow says just as plainly.

“Alright human, our time is now extremely short.” Celestia says, drawing your attention. “Would you like the short version, or the short short version?”

Although you would like nothing more than for this madness to end, you can’t deny that everything that happened over the last few minutes has sparked your curiosity. You give a heavy sigh before answering.

“Short version.”

“Basically, an incredibly powerful yet malevolent force was awakened from an eons long slumber, and now the sheer power of that Evil is tearing the very fabric of reality apart.” Celestia explains. “There are battles waging all across the multiverse, with heroes on both sides of this war that transcends time and space itself. Worlds are now being connected to each other, with the forces of good traversing across them to aid others who need their help.”

You blink a few times before promptly deciding to just play along for the time being.

“Continue.”

“Although there are many portals and battlefields, the epicenter for these events is here, on your planet.” Celestia takes a breath. “And we have determined this is because the Chosen One, the one with the power to destroy the Evil and save all of reality, is here in this world.”

You gaze falls rather flat, afraid of where this was going.

“So…” You begin with a rather tired tone. “…I’m the Chosen One?”

Celestia blinks a few times before cracking a slight smile. “No, you’re not.”

Before you could give a sigh of relief, she finishes.

“But you are sitting on it.”

You stare at her rather blankly for a few moments before turning your gaze down to see the thing that you were still atop.

Your bed.

“What.” You say.

“I had always wondered why so many of my little ponies had been drawn to this bed…” Celestia said with a thoughtful look. “…but now I finally understand the reason.”

“It’s a bed.” You say plainly.

“It seems that they were all drawn to the hidden light that lingered within your bed, a power that was strong yet gentle.” Celestia continued. “They felt safe near it, were comforted by its presence even if they did not know why.”

“It’s a bed.” You repeat.

“And now the time has come for that power to be put to use.” A look of sheer determination appears in Celestia’s eyes. “For the bed to use said power in what would be the final battle between good and evil, for the most basic right of all living things.” Her eyes are practically glowing with righteous fire. “The right to live.”

“It’s. A. Mother. Fucking. Bed.” You say before shaking your head.

“I understand that you are confused by all of this, as it must be a lot to absorb in such a short time.” Celestia looked you dead in the eyes. “But your fate is now tied to that of your bed. Your strength will give it strength to do what must be done, so that all of creation will continue on.”

“No, seriously. I just bought the goddamn thing last week!” You shout. “I’ll even show you the receipt!”

Before Celestia can say anything more, the bed vibrates slightly. With you still on top, it begins to rise upward until it is at least five feet off the ground. You and the others all stare wide eyed at the anomaly.

“What...how…” You look up to see that there are no horns glowing, and even Discord himself looked shocked at what was happening.

“Your bed has reacted to your presence, and now its powers are awakening!” Celestia explains. “It is time.”

“Time for what?” You squeak.

“Time for you and your bed to save the universe.”

You open your mouth to speak, but stop as a gentle hum starts to emanate from beneath you. The bed begins to glow with a heavenly light as your grip the sheets, a tear running down your cheek for all the wrong reasons.

“It’s not fair…” You whimper.

“The time has come!” Celestia shouts over the growing hum of power. “Go now! Help your bed fulfill its destiny! Only you two can undo these events that have been set in motion!”

The glow reaches its apex, the entire room lighting up like Times Square on New Years.

“Go!” Celestia calls. “And bring back the hope of creation!”

“But I just wanted to get some sleeEEEEEEEEEP!”

You give a loud shriek as the bed suddenly lunches forward, flying toward your wall. You instinctively duck down behind the headboard as the wall is destroyed, your bed leaving your home and flying into the sky. After a few long moments you hesitantly rise up to see what was happening.

You immediately wished you hadn’t.

True, it was partly because you were several hundred feet in the air on top of a flying bed.

But it was mainly because of what was happening around you.

The entire city seems to be in a state of pure pandemonium. You can see fires and gigantic plumes of smoke rising from several directions, especially from the sky rises of the downtown area. They sky overhead is a gigantic swirling, dark maelstrom of energy with lightning streaking between the evil-looking clouds.

You and your bed aren’t the only ones in the air. Quite far from it as a matter of fact.

You let out a loud yelp as an F-22 zooms right above the bed, the fighter craft flying with a squad of others in the direction of the downtown area. Down below there are some Apache gunships strafing over the neighborhoods, spewing both rockets and bullets into the streets below.

In the streets you could see thousands, no, hundreds of thousands of figures all fighting, bullets and bright bolts of energy flying between them. The sound of battle filled your ears wherever you turned them, truly a fight for the ages that no words could do justice to.

You merely let your head fall down on your pillow.

“Why does this shit keep happening to me?” You mumble through a face full of pillow.

“Anht zagatir nas!” A voice over a loudspeaker yells. “Na Adan Atum!”

You blink a few times before raising your head to the side to see a quartet of very familiar looking blue and gold crafts flying alongside your bed.

“En Taro Tassadar, great one!” One of the Protoss pilots greets over the loudspeaker. “Our lives are yours for the fight!”

“I don’t…” You shake your head in disbelief. “I can’t even…”

“Have no fear, sidekick of the Chosen One!” The Protoss Phoenix pilot reassures. “We will fight for the survival of all creation!”

“I don’t even want to be here!” You scream. “I just wanted to…wait...” You blink a few times. “What the hell do you mean ‘sidekick’? To a frickin’ bed?! Why-“

“We too late for the party?”

You turn to the other side of the bed to see even more fliers coming alongside. Your eyes fall first upon the trio of pegasi in blue and yellow flight suits, goggles over their eyes. Beyond that are the two human’s flying next to them, one wearing a tight green suit with goggles and the other a red and blue suit with a cape.

“Don’t worry, human!” Spitfire calls out. “We got your back!”

“As do we.” Superman says. “We will let nothing stand in our way!”

“The League fights by your side.” The Green Lantern says raising a fist with his ring glowing. “Justice will be upheld!”

You open your mouth to retort, but promptly shut it. It seemed at that point that questioning anything happening would do nothing more than hurt your brain even further.

And so shut up you did. Even as the squad of Protoss fighters broke off to engage a giant flying taco. Even as you passed over a Mark-3 Jaeger fighting the Colossal Titan. Even as Superman and Green Lantern had to go aide Morgan Freeman in his battle against the Ginyu Force.

You were too tired to question anything anymore.

“Up ahead!” Soarin called out. “We’ve got trouble!”

“Wha?” You say as you peek over the headboard.

The maelstrom above began to churn even more violently, the dark clouds getting darker and the arches of lightning intensifying. A pillar of dark energy shoots down out of the eye of the storm, the entire battle seeming to cease as every pair of eyes looks upward at the newcomer.

The pillar of light disappears, revealing the Great Evil that had at last decided to show itself.

Your eyes widen.

“A FUCKING FUTON?!”

Indeed, flying before the entirety of the world with dark energy swirling around it, is a black leather futon. Arches of purple lightning shoot out of it, giving off an aura of pure evil in its greatest form.

You shake your head in disbelief.

“That crazy ass hobo was right…” You mutter.

“This is as far as we can go!” Calls Spitfire. “We’re not match for that thing, but your bed is!”

“It’s up to the two of you now!” Soarin commented. “Go kick some leather!”

“But what the hell am I even supposed to doOOOOAHHHHH!”

Your bed suddenly lurches forward, the glow around its frame once again returning. The futon does the same, the swirling energies around it intensifying as it does so.

The entire world seems to slow down as your bed and the futon zoom toward each other. The futon begins to cackle and glow a dark purple color, while a righteous light almost completely engulfs your bed. The sheer amount of power from the two entities continues to grow even further as they prepare for the final strike that would determine the fate of all of reality.

Meanwhile, you just cower behind the glowing headboard, nearly on the verge of pissing your pants.

Just before the distance is finally closed and the bed and futon smash into each other, a single thought crosses your head.

All this because of a goddamn fortune cookie.

The bed and futon collide, and your entire world is consumed in a bright, blinding light.

*BEEP*

“Gooooood moooorning, my always faithful listeners. And what a lovely Tuesday morning it is, the sun out and the temperature at a comfortable 73 degrees.”

The slightly distorted voice is the first thing you hear as you begin to stir, opening your eyes up lazily. You blink a few times to clear the haze of sleep from your vision before groggily getting up to look around.

You find yourself lying on your bed, which happens to be back in your room. You first look toward the window to see that it is not broken, and then the ceiling to see no hole from where the mad god has crashed through.

“…Wall Street opened up on a good note today, with many of the stocks up from yesterday.”

You look down at the source of the voice to see your clock radio, which read 7:00. After a little more effort than you would have cared for, you manage to stretch out and stand up before moving to the window.

The scene outside is a surprisingly beautiful day, with the sun cresting over the horizon the signal the start of said day. The skies are clear and people are walking up and down the streets in the typical fashion for the beginning of the workday.

You furrow your brow before looking down at the ground.

It was…a dream?

You give a heavy sigh before shaking your head lightly.

I really need to stop eating old leftover Thai food before bed.

You turn around and begin to walk toward your door before something catches your eye. Namely something on your bed.

You turn toward it to see a new feature: a brilliant golden sash stretched around the mattress. It is etched with diamonds and emeralds studded together to proudly depict a single sentence:

“Savior Of The Universe.”

You blink a few times before making your way towards the door, immediately thinking of the several bottles of hard liquor in your cabinet.

Tonight seems like the perfect night to try to break your shot record.

You Completely Fail To Notice Applejack Is In Your Bed (Bugsydor)

You Completely Fail to Notice that Applejack is in your Bed
Bugsydor

It's been a long day at work, even for a Monday. Some would argue that there is no other kind of workday, but you know better. The days may all be longer than you'd like, but experience has taught you that some days are just especially soul-sucking. Some would also argue that it's no longer Monday, as it is well-past midnight, but those turdsickles can go hang. Anyone who's played Majora's Mask knows the next day doesn't start until 6AM.

You idly wonder as you trudge through your front door whether there are any churches that still burn people for practicing necromancy, and whether you could covertly tip them off about your boss's eerie ability to siphon the life from his employees and leave them as shambling shells. Then you realize that you'd want no part in the religious/legal battle that would entail, even if you would enjoy seeing how your nemeses reacted to holy water.

You consume a bag of chips for dinner on your way through your kitchen, unwilling to consider doing anything more complicated in the name of sustenance. Working the closing shift in addition to the shift you were actually supposed to be working has left you a bit less vital and lively than usual. You really hope you don't wake up as a zombie.

As you use the last sparks of your energy to ascend the stairs to your room, you remember it's still kinda Monday. The phrase "Monday night, pony night" used to have a much happier meaning for you before those four-legged fiends started stealing your sleep box; now the phrase just fills you with dread. Sometimes you wonder how you can still stand to watch that show.

"Meh," you mutter, "it's already 2AM. Maybe this week's guest star has already come and gone, and I'll only have to clean up the aftermath like that one time with Ms. Harshwords complaining about the Ponylympics or whatever it was."

Sweet Mercy, you're tired.

You open your door and, seeing nothing amiss in the dim glow of your stairway nightlights, flop unceremoniously onto your bed.

"Oof," says your pillow.

You don't even bat an eye. It'd hardly be the strangest thing that parts of your bed have said when you wished to sleep like the dead. It's not even the strangest thing it's told you while you were wide awake, if you count that one time it got replaced with a magical talking bed that felt oddly like chitin.

A thought strikes you (at an oblique angle, as you are mostly asleep), and you prod your oddly loquacious pillow with a closed fist. Yep, it's warm and fluffy, but kinda firm. Just like a pillow should be. It smells a little funny, like sweat, pony, and funk, but so does most of the other stuff in your room.

"Hey, ya danged varmint!" your pillow grumbles sleepily in your ears. "I am tired as a dog from working the fields all day, an' I don't need none of that nonsense from no...body."

Yep, nothing out of the ordinary at all

"Shoosh. You're a pillow, and good pillows don't talk," you reply as you snuggle deeper into your bed and your mildly abnormally talkative pillow.

"But you... I... Aww, what the hay. It's not even the weirdest thing that's happened this month."

'Nope, not by a longshot,' you think as you begin your night's final descent into unconsciousness.

"Well, as long as ya don't drool too much," your pillow says with a yawn. "G'night, Mister Human."

"Good night, pillow. Now shoosh."

Despite the soul-grinding grind of work today, tonight has gone fairly well. Nothing's on fire, nobody is trying to murder you, and the state of your bed is more-or-less as you remember it.

And best of all, absolutely nopony at all has come to steal your sweet, sweet slumber.

A Self-Insert Is In Your Bed (warewolves)

A Self Insert Is In Your Bed
warewolves

You dump your bills on the floor, heaving a sigh as you close your eyes. Your brain didn’t want to admit it, but you knew what day it was. Sure, normally a Monday was always a terrible day, the end of a wonderful weekend of peace and potato chips. However, there was an even bigger reason why you were dreading today.

You wonder how many would call you insane for saying you are worried about your bed. At the very least, they might try to make lewd jokes about it. Your lip curls up in distaste, there were some things you just didn’t joke about. Unless you were drunk, in which case all bets were off.

Opening the door to your room, you are forced to consider the fact this pony was unlike any you had seen. It was a red and black Alicorn, and its butt had a picture of the universe, at least from what you recognised, on its flank. At the moment the alicorn was smoking a cigarette while somehow texting into a phone. As your eyes met, the pony gives a smirk.

“Hey, I’m Gary, but you can call me Stue-d, stud. I stuttered a bit there.” This ‘Gary’ sits up, tossing the cigarette onto your table, leaving burn marks. You silently mourn it, knowing those kinds of marks never came out, and said a lot about you, who owned the room. Picking up the cigarette in disgust, you toss it into the bin, and turn to Gary.

“Listen, Gary-” Unsurprisingly, he cut you off as he leapt into the air to hover slightly above you. Secretly, you wonder if that was due to you being taller, and him feeling ‘less’ because of it. Shaking your head, you force yourself to focus. It didn’t matter who was bigger. Well, you wouldn’t deny it wasn’t a bad thing either.

“Listen, I’m a human who just became the seventh element and I’m currently looking for the other elements so I can convince them I’m a good guy despite the fact I grew up in the Everfree but am apparently a human.”

Wait, what?

Forcing your brain to disregard everything you heard, and decide to just focus on what Gary was asking for. At the very least, he hadn’t done any harm beyond marking your furniture. Silently you mourned the fact your standards had lowered so much a mark was considered a good outcome.

“You just missed them, take the thingymabob to the dealio and you can find them.” You decide to just make something up, knowing if this pony was smart, he would instantly recognize it from the bored expression and obvious missing words.

“Of course!” And so, Gary Stue/d grabbed your computer, and smashed it into your bed, creating a purple portal. You watch as he gives a single wave, and jumps into it. As it vanishes, you fall to the ground, tears coming down your eyes as you begin to pull at your hair, staring toward the ceiling.

“My computer!”

“Nooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooe!”

Gilda is Hogging Your Bed, and Eating Your Chicken (theRedBrony)

Gilda is Hogging Your Bed, and Eating Your Chicken
TheRedBrony

The work day is over and done with, finally! The crazy lady that came in right before closing time had done a number on your patience. Why the heck did she think you could sell her something to detect wiretaps and bugs? It's not even that kind of store! Customers, you have found, are unfathomably stupid. Whatever, home is the goal now. Home, and food.

A feeling of longing fills your heart as you pass by Panda Express on your way home from work. Dinner tonight will be something… less. That bucket of fried chicken in your refrigerator is about to spoil. A neighbor unceremoniously bequeathed it upon you, probably left over from some party you weren't invited to. So you'd better eat it before it goes bad.

Keys in hand, standing at your front doorstep, you begin to wonder if you have another 'special' houseguest. Seems they only appear on Monday nights… who knows why? Today being a Wednesday, odds are pretty good that your house is devoid of any ponies paranormally passing through dimensions. No headaches and a good night's sleep sound nice for a change. But… on the other hand… you had to admit that the random appearances of ponies in your bed have actually added a little spice to your life. A little bit of the unexpected. Sure, some of them were headache – ok, a lot of them – but a few were kind of pleasant guests.

Despite it being a Wednesday, you decide to err on the side of caution, and as soon as the front door is open, you shout into the darkness of your home, "Is anypony home?"

Half-expecting an answer, seconds pass with no reply. But as you take off your coat and click the front door closed, it becomes clear that someone has the TV on in your bedroom. Upon reaching the apex of the stairs, you find the door to your bedroom slightly ajar. You decide to knock first to announce your presence, but enter without waiting for a reply.

It is your bedroom, after all.

What you see in your bed is a lot to take in. The sleek, toned body of a lioness. Feathered wings to match. Enormous wings, spread wide, as if soaring in flight. A coat of golden brown borders against stark white feathers. Purple tinged crest feathers hang above a golden beak, sharp and hooked, the beak of a bird of prey.

What you are seeing is none other than Gilda What-the-heck-is-her-last-name.

Yet for what might've been a majestic sight, you can't help but scoff. She's splayed out on her back, slouching up against the headboard, her wings drooping off either side of the mattress, her tufted tail hanging lazily off the side, she's munching on a chicken leg held in one hand, her other arm is wrapped around the KFC bucket – that was supposed your dinner. Gilda is the living poster child for griffon couch potatoes, it seems.

She's watching TV, too. A soccer match – of all things – on the Spanish channel.

Gilda barely turns her head away from the screen to regard you. "What're you lookin' at, sasquatch?"

You take some offense to the term, and you can't help but reply with a comeback. "Sasquatch? Who're you calling sasquatch, birdbrain?"

"I'm callin' you sasquatch, monkey-ears," she casually replies, not taking her eyes away from the soccer match this time.

That last one gets a little chuckle out of you, so you decide to play along. "Bird-cat."

"Pointy-nose."

"Beak-face!"

In the blink of an eye, you find yourself nose-to-beak with your houseguest, who seems to have a very firm grasp of your shirt collar. "What did you call me?!"

"Whoa, nothing! Nothing! Hey, I didn't mean it!"

Snarling and practically steaming at the ears, she says nothing, only staring you down.

You… are about to piss yourself. "Easy, now," you shakily try to reassure her. "Really, I didn't mean anything, I swear."

Looking no more pleased than before, she suddenly releases her grasp on your shirt and lazily climbs back onto the comfortable bed.

Running your hand across the upper part of your shirt… a bunch of finger-sized holes become apparent. A small sigh of annoyance escapes you. Gilda just ruined a work shirt.

"Your water tastes like crap, by the way," your bed-hogging guest off-handedly remarks, briefly pointing a taloned thumb in the direction of the now-empty water glass on the nightstand.

You cringe at the sight of the crusty ring around the inside, where the water level once was. "I… think that water has been sitting there for a couple of weeks."

Gilda slowly turns and glares daggers at you, while a frown of sheer disgust curls upon her little birdy lips at the edges of her beak.

"I'll uh… just get you a fresh glass of water."

Before you make it out the door, she calls back to you, "Water is for dweebs, ya got anything for grown-ups?"

You turn a quick 180 degrees on your heel. A naughty smile creeps upon your face. "I think I got some cider buried somewhere in the fridge."

She agrees with a slight nod. Having already raided your new refrigerator for the chicken – just about the only thing in there, honestly – you're a bit surprised Gilda didn't find your stash hiding in the produce drawer at the bottom. Moments later you graciously hand a cold one to your houseguest. Quicker than you can say 'twist-off bottle caps,' Gilda uses the side of her beak like a bottle opener, and spits the cap across the room.

You can't help but stare, slightly horrified at the prospect of what that beak might be capable of if its owner wasn't in a particularly happy mood.

"What?" She flippantly asks.

"Uh… they're actually those twist-off caps..." You go ahead and twist the bottle cap off with a firm grasp of your hand. As with every time you do this, you briefly think of your estranged older brother who's too much of a wimp to twist off his beer bottle caps with his bare hands.

"Huh." She observes before taking a swig from her bottle.

You pull up a chair and sit next to the bed. Your bed. Which she is hogging. With that giant wingspan of hers.

A slight rumble comes from your belly. Your stomach making its demands audible, apparently. Immediately your eyes lock onto the bucket of greasy meaty sustenance, which is firmly clutched by a particular griffon who happens to be occupying your bed.

Gilda eyeballs you. Then the bucket you're looking at. She glances back and forth between you and the bucket several times, looking none too pleased about your ogling of the food she's obviously staked a claim on. But she soon heaves a loud, overdone sigh of annoyance, and unceremoniously shoves the paper bucket in your direction.

You thank her – although you're not sure why – and dig through the scraps and bones for an edible chunk of bird meat to consume. A chicken wing – that was spared the ravenous beak of Gilda – is your prize.

As you dig in, the TV voice announces that a goal has been scored. He continues announcing it for several seconds. You begin to wonder what that man's lung capacity must be to enable him to shout the word 'GOL!' for almost a minute straight without a breath.

Gilda, meanwhile, shifts around on the bed, looking uncomfortable all of a sudden. She accidentally slaps you with one of her primary feathers as she repositions herself. She doesn't seem to notice. Or care. "Your bed's all lumpy, dude."

"No it's not," you state as a matter of fact. It's a fairly new mattress, even if it is slightly charred. Couple years old, maybe? And a pretty expensive mattress too. Despite all the self-inflicted sleep deprivation, you are familiar with the importance of a good night's sleep.

"Sh'yeah it is! Trust me, dude. Griffons are super sensitive to stuff like this. Bed lumps, I mean. Ever heard that story about the princess and the pea?"

"Uh…"

"Yeah. Griffon princess. So let me guess: you never flip the mattress over, do you?"

"Well…" You think back. On the rare occasion that you actually change out the sheets on your bed, you're generally too exhausted from doing laundry and other such back-breaking chores to be bothered to wrestle with your mattress. So, she had a point. "I guess not."

"Yeah. I knew it. You need a new mattress, dude."

"Gilda, are you trying to sell me a mattress?"

"No, no. I just, uh, know someone who can hook you up. Yeah, that's it." She has a terrible poker face. In fact, you find her dorky bird-smile a little amusing.

"Wait a minute. Are you a mattress salesman? Saleswoman? Salespony- griffon? -bird? …cat???"

"Bird. It's salesbird, numb-nuts," she answers. "And yeah… I am." She looks away and runs her hand over her crest feathers, as though nervous.

"Are you seriously trying to sell me a mattress? I live in… like, a different dimension or something. How did you think you'd to deliver a mattress here?"

Gilda heaves a sigh. "I dunno! I'm desperate, alright?"

"Wha- you're that desperate? You transcended reality itself just to try to sell somebody a mattress?"

"What? No. I just figured, you know, since I was here I might as well try to score a sale… ok, yeah. That does sound stupid."

"Why would you even… I just… don't. Seriously, why?"

"I work on commission, alright? The cheapskates who own the shop don't pay me anything if I don't reel in at least a couple of suckers a month! Do you know how many ponies actually buy mattresses? I mean, yeah, sure, they go bad eventually. But every five or ten years ain't often enough for the poor bird who's gotta sell 'em!"

Gilda has a valid point. "Yeah," you admit, "I'm in retail myself. I have friends who were in mattress sales. Keyword 'were.' They all quit and got better jobs pretty fast. It's a crappy line of work, or so I hear."

"No kidding! Doesn't help that I'm a griffon in a pony town and ponies are specist snobs."

"And uh, what town might that be?" You slyly ask.

"Some dump called Vanhoover."

"Really? Now how'd you end up there?"

Gilda chuckles a bit and takes a swig from her cider bottle. "Funny story actually…"

The soccer match eventually turned into a Spanish soap opera that neither of you could follow. A pair of empty bottles turned into a pile. And a bucket of fried chicken is now a bucket of scraps. Gilda regaled you with various misadventures of hers, and you shared your tales of life as a sales rep with her. She even tucked in one of her enormous wings and let you sit on the bed next to her.

Sadly, the hour is late, and you have work tomorrow.

"I think maybe we should hit the hay."

"Yeah, I'm beat." Gilda points the clicker at the TV and turns it off.

Hopeful that you might reclaim the gentle embrace of your own bed for a good night's sleep, you playfully insinuate that Gilda would be very comfortable sleeping on the couch downstairs.

"Or…" she says. "Maybe we could share the bed."

Suspicious of her intentions, you say, "I dunno…"

"What do ya say?" Gilda rolls onto her side, facing you with one arm holding up her head. Those bedroom eyes catch you by surprise. "Maybe you and me could share… a little more than just the bed." She slowly runs the smooth side of a talon from your collar down your chest. "If you catch my drift, monkey man."

What the heck do you say? You've never really thought about Gilda that way! What do you do? Do you just roll with the punches? Should you be the gentleman and politely decline? You're too drunk to think about crap like this!

Suddenly, a large padded paw presses against your hip. That paw shoves you off the bed. You roll onto the floor, landing painfully on top of a pile of empty cider bottles and that KFC bucket. Gilda laughs.

Well, more like a cackle, anyway.

"Ha ha! Like I'd fool around with a sasquatch nerd like you. You can sleep on the couch."

"But… I… you… I thought we…? Hey! I thought you said my mattress was lumpy!"

"I lied."

Queen Chrysalis Drains Your Bed of Its Love (nioniosbbbb)

Queen Chrysalis Drains Your Bed Of Its Love
nioniosbbbb

You knew there were humans with strange abilities. While scouring the Internet you had found there was a human that never slept. You found out there was a living human magnet, and another had eaten a whole plane within a year.

But you doubt there is another human that is a living pony magnet.

Oh yes! Once every week like clockwork at least one pony, or pony-related, creature pops up in your bed. Each with a different reason for being there, each being more ridiculous than the one before. You really wondered why you bothered trying to dispute the universe for why it was sending ponies to your bed.

Each day you wondered if it was going to be the day that someone, or somepony appeared. Chaos gods had tried to help you get rid of this nonsensical curse, you were sure that some jackass had found it fun to curse you, and had failed.

Heck, the universe teased you each time with the timing: you were practically expecting those ponies each Monday now, and the universe knew you were expecting them. So the universe awaited for the moments that you weren’t expecting them, to fulfil your expectations of expecting them!

The universe’s brilliance truly knew no bounds.

So when you heard the drawn-out hissing-like sound from your bed, you prepared yourself accordingly. No, you didn’t get the broom and cower down like a wuss, ready to do a Tarzan scream while charging at your intruder, no… you did something better. You sighed, stretched yourself, wore your best “BRING IT ON UNIVERSE!” face and begun strutting down the hallway. You opened the door to your room and then…

The universe never ceased to amaze you, didn’t it? You didn’t know what your expectations were, but in comparison to your weekly quota of weirdness… the universe had filled it. On your bed was one of the most unsettling sights ever.

Queen Chrysalis.

You knew it was her because you spent too much time on the Internet, and it was inevitable to crash upon “that” show. You also did a little bit of research after the first few pony visits.

Dumbfounded, you checked again.

Teal-black equine with insectoid wings and fangs? CHECK!

She’s like a motherflipping insect vampire, said your brain.

Green chitin upon her midsection? CHECK!

“Well if it was any lower she wouldn’t need a chastity belt, alright!”

More holes than swiss cheese? CHECK!

“Does the wind whistles around her when she flies?”

…

Well that was it, you were doomed. Your days were done, get ready to cry! Why? You weren’t sure, maybe having the pony equivalent of the Queen of Blades from Starcraft wasn’t that bad…

OH WHO WERE YOU KIDDING THIS WAS THE END OF DAYS!!!

During your crazy inner rambling, you were looking at her sucking a pink cloud of energy from your bed. Your porn was lying all over the bed, you swore you had hidden it better this time, as she did the same thing to them too. Well, knowing Queen Chrysalis, it wouldn’t surprise you if she was a natural porn detector.

“Are you going to gawk there, or are you going to come closer?” What in the blazes of Dante’s Inferno? Did she have a third eye or something?

“Wha… you know what? Fine! Let’s just get this over with... “ you said, resigning to your cursed fate. You moved some of the magazines aside and jumped on the bed, falling to your back. Maybe she wouldn’t be that bad if she was talking and all, perhaps if you kept her that way you would be fine. You launched your shoes at the wall using all of your strength in a lazy attempt to express your frustration.

The universe really doesn’t like you. It took its sweet time to teach you how Karma works. Like homing missiles, one of your shoes bounced back and fell on your face. The Queen of the changelings didn’t waste time to drop what she was doing and laugh at you.

“Bless you human, you make me laugh! AHHAHAHAHA! Aaaaah… I really needed that. Pffft.”

You sighed as you dropped the shoe next to the bed.

“Weren’t you a bed some weeks ago?” You said in rebuttal, hoping to turn the conversation to her own embarrassing shenanigans.

“Guess I was… hmmm,” she sighed in resignation. “Well, these books aren’t doing it, nor did the data I gathered from the bed tell me anything.”

You smell trouble. “About what?” You asked. You doubted you wanted to know the answer.

“About what love is.” She stated simply.

Your brain imploded. A changeling, a creature that sucks love, happiness and joy, doesn’t know what love is! You rose from your bed, followed by the weird look she gave you.
“Where are you going?”

You found the spot. A white paper on a wall titled “homeopathic therapy”. You read the instructions.

Step 1: Bang your head on this spot. There was a large circle around step 1.

Step 2: Repeat until problems gone.

Step 3: Profit.

You banged your head around in the rhythm of

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xhrBDcQq2DM

Half a minute later you returned to your spot, the Queen having not moved from her position, looks at you quizzically.

“What in Proteus the Overfather did you do that for?”

Now, you could comment on how the Queen just used a Greek shapeshifter god in her last sentence, but the fact that she had asked the weirdest question in all of history overshadowed that.

“Well you know how the bees and the flowers…”

“I am not asking about reproduction. What? With all this porn right here you think I am a clueless baby? No I’m not asking about sex, or lust. I am talking about love… REAL love.” She had a demanding tone, and you doubted you had a lot of choice. Curious as you were, you asked.

“Well no offense, but seeing as you are supposed to be a creature that absorbs love, I have to wonder why you don’t know. More importantly why do you even ask?” This caught her off guard, and you saw the slightest tone shift in her facial expression.

“Well since Crystal Candybutt shoved me out of her home, I’m exiled from my own country and home planet…” she paused a bit, closing her eyes “... I want to go back. So Miss Moonbutt Mc Fartsalot, and her sister Princess Bangangarang were so generous, I got a second chance to achieve all that. If I learn what love is that is, which by the looks of it is proving to be harder than finding a piece of hay within a needlestack.”

“Uuuh… don’t you mean a needle within a haystack?” you tried correcting her.

“No.” Suddenly the mental image of what she said before got visualized within your brain. YIKES!

This was certainly proving to be an interesting conversation. You were willing to bet she would leave if she received a satisfactory answer. So you tried to remember your first relationship.

“Love starts from the smallest excuses…” you remembered the first ‘I love you’ slap you got in high school. It wasn’t long before that ignited a series of contests between you and your first love. You also remembered the play Romeo and Juliet.

The things we do for love...

“It’s something temporary, fragile, something you fight for. It’s worth it… most of the time. But all in all it’s something that at times begins as friendship.”

“By Metis the Wise, not this again!” Now she was the one standing up and banging her head on the paper.

“I beg you pardon?”

“Look human it’s not that I don’t know about friendship and that jazz, but have you seen what the ponies do with their friends? Their incessant singing? I mean I sing as well, but not all the time! Once they start there’s no end to it! One pony can get a whole town singing, it’s like it’s embedded in their magic or something! By the ancients I am a Queen not some kind of doll to play with!” She started breathing quicker.

“What if that’s the only way? What if I end up doing this all day just to survive? I can’t play pretend forever! I’m going to break! And if I do I lose it all!”

“Don’t you think you’re overreacting?” Boy, she was really getting paranoid.

“Overreacting? You don’t have a clue what you’re saying, do you? Have you seen Pinkie Pie?”

“I… uhm… yea… she passed down here some weeks before you and...” Before you had a chance to continue she did.

“Then you know what I’m talking about! She doesn’t just do this to you! She does that everyday! Every hour! I don’t know what party spirit she has in her, but her energy is infinite! Once she didn’t sleep for a whole week to cheer up a whole town! It’s unnatural! That’s not all! She’s getting apprentices and colleagues! Like that Cheese Sandwich guy!” You were willing to bet he wasn’t cheesier than her. You chuckle as Queen Swisslegs bolts up, and checks every entrance quicker than you can say “Mac and cheese”.

She was walking left and right. “This is infectious! Okay, I want to know what love is, but I don’t wanna turn into a puppet, smiling all the time!”

“If it bugs you so much you don’t have to…” her head turned 180 degrees as she struck you with a gaze like lightning, gritting her fangs.

“Sorry bad pun. I guess what I want to say is you don’t have to be friends with everypony. Hey besides… you wanna go home right? The least you could do is make a compromise! You said it yourself you sing a bit. Thought I heard you last time when you were a bed. Heh… you bedded me.” The hoof came crushing down upon your face as the sentence ended. It’s a good thing she stopped there.

“Guess… guess I can try right?” she retracted her hoof as she started calming down.

“Well so long as you don’t go sucking beds. That would suck… I mean not that being in love doesn’t suck most of the time, but you don’t want to s…” Another thunderous gaze. You backed off and raised your hands surrendering.

“Okay okay! I’m just trying to help here that’s all! Afterall you asked right? I mean you’re being a bit honest about it. You’re in the right direction.”

There are a few moments of silence before she decided to break it.

“Well this was a pleasant visit, not really, but I’m going now. Oh… I don’t have a problem with bodily fluids but for the sake of your hygiene you miiiiight want to get your bed cleaned a bit.” she said with a snicker. You blushed immediately looking left and right.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” You said in an instant.

“Oh? You don’t?” She giggled and her eyes glowed a bit as they started illuminating the bed like spotlights. No you’d seen enough police series and movies to know how they trace rapists and all, and you recognize instantly the blue glow that Luminol makes as Chrysalis closes the lights.

“Suuuuure you don’t. See you later big boy.”

Flim and Flam are Trying to Sell You Your Bed, Which is Definitely Not a Changeling (whizzball1)

Flim and Flam are Trying to Sell You Your Bed, Which is Definitely Not a Changeling
whizzball1

You yawned slowly as you stuck your head out of your car idling at an intersection. Today had been an especially long-feeling day at work, with some very insufferable customers that seemed to have been upset by the loss of small everyday objects (and not-so-small objects, like chairs). You shook your head at the coincidences.

But now was not the time to think about that; it would just make you more stressed out. Heaven knows the troubles with the ponies

Oh, great, it was Monday again. Joy. You wondered who would show up this time. Or maybe you would be lucky and your bed would be untouched.

Like that would ever happen.

You decided to look at the sunset, but then the light turned green, so you moved forward, and, lucky you, the sunset was obscured by multiple tall buildings.[1] You sighed and continued forward, making your way back home.

[1]: In retrospect, you knew that would happen. But the prospect of looking at what was probably a beautiful sunset distracted you.[2]

[2]: It was not actually beautiful, but you would forever (meaning “until the next day”) regret not seeing it, thinking that it was in fact quite beautiful. Life isn’t fair.

You unlocked the door sluggishly and entered the house, seeing nothing out of place--no odd sounds, smells, or objects strewn about. Maybe you would be okay.

You walked over to your room and squeezed your eyes shut, opening the door and poking your head in. You took a whiff to see if it smelled like ponies. It certainly smelled… Clean, clean like fresh metal. You tentatively opened your eyes, to see your room, completely normal.

Except for the lack of bed.

You rubbed your eyes. Still no bed. You scowled and turned around, stomping back to the kitchen to see two tall, thin unicorns that you had somehow missed standing in front of the table.[3] And they were holding your bed in their magic.

[3]: A simple spell to divert your attention and to make their non-entrance more dramatic, obviously.

“Why do you have my bed?” you asked, deadpan. You don’t have the mental processes to be surprised.[4]

“Weeeeell,” the one with a moustache (Flam, you remembered[5]) began, with instrumental music fading in. “He’s Flim-”

“No,” you interrupted. “I know who you are. Answer my question. Why do you have my bed?”

“Prudent question,” Flim replied, smiling shiftily. “But this bed is not, in fact, your bed.” You frowned. It certainly looked like your bed. You took another whiff, and then you reached out a hand to touch your bed. It was your bed.

[4]: Despite having the mental processes to ask why they have your bed, to remember what their names are, and to recognise that the bed is in fact your bed.

[5]: You had one day seen which pony was which on a website, and it had just stuck. Now it was useful, you saw.

Before you could open your mouth to reply, Flam interrupted you. “It may look exactly like your bed, smell exactly like your bed, and feel exactly like your bed, but it is not, in fact, your bed, good sir.” You deadpanned harder than you had before (if that was even possible).

“Stay a while and listen,” Flim continued, noticing your sceptical look.

“This is not your bed, because your ‘real’ bed--”

“--the one you have been sleeping on, is…”

They each put on a bit of a scared face, for dramatic flair. “A changeling.”

You frowned. “My bed’s been a changeling before, but she left a long time ago.” Seriously, why were they so desperately trying to sell you what was clearly your own bed? But you didn’t have the mental processes to be assertive about your own bed at the moment[6], so you decided to roll with it.

[6]: Despite having the mental processes to remember which pony was which, remember that your bed had been a changeling, be sceptical about these two ponies (you only recognised their names, not what they did), and wonder why they were trying to sell you your bed.

They were surprised you even knew what a changeling was. But, being the sleazy, slick businessmen- businessponies? Businessstallions? Businesscolts? Whatever--they just rolled with it. “Well, it just so happens that it is a changeling, again!” Flam replied, without hesitating.

“Changelings are very dangerous, but we successfully--”

“--and bravely--” Flam added, smiling innocently.

“--got rid of the changeling, before remaking your bed.” They both pointed toward the bed they currently levitated, the one that was exactly like your bed.

You said nothing for a minute or two, thinking about their story. “So,” you began, having assembled a coherent summarisation. “You somehow found out that my bed was a changeling, bravely defeated it, remembered exactly what my bed looked like, smelled like, and felt like, and then exactly replicated it, all within today.”

They hesitated and nodded nervously.

You paused. “I believe you.” You did not have the mental processes to realise that the story was quite obviously extremely fake[7], which left them very relieved.[8] “So, how much for the bed?”

[7]: Despite having the mental processes to assemble the story in the first place.

[8]: They later wondered why they had not stopped to think of a better story than the one which was clearly one of the worst they’d ever told.

“So, how much for the bed?”

“500 bits,” they said, simultaneously.

“We’ll throw in this assortment of various objects for another 250 bits!” They levitated up a group of many random objects that you vaguely, almost incoherently remembered matched the objects that the raging customers had lost. It didn’t last long enough in your mind to make a difference, though.

“When you say bits, do you mean those gold bits?” you asked, remembering the joyous day you had where you were introduced to 100 coins of solid gold.

“Just the ones,” they replied.

That wasn’t good. Maybe they knew about and took cash? “You take cash?” you asked, hopefully.

“Cash?” Flim asked, confused. Darn.

“Then I don’t have the money. I probably don’t even have the money for one of those items.” You didn’t have the mental processes to lie.[9] “Why didn’t you bring those to someone who looked richer? Why would you sell them to me?”

[9]: Despite having the mental processes to remember that bits were made of gold, offer cash as an alternative, and notice that they could have brought their stuff to someone richer.

“We felt drawn to this house, you know,” Flam replied, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. Probably the curse on your bed.

“When we wanted to sell the items. And lucky for you, we discovered that your bed was a changeling!” Flim finished.

It was at this point that the bed suddenly flashed green and turned into a lamp, which fell out of the brothers’ telekinetic grip and then turned into a cat before it hit the ground, landing gracefully onto the ground and then scampering back to your bedroom.

You moved enough to the side to see it disappear into your room and turn into your bed again with a flash.

“It’s actually a changeling?” the brothers exclaimed, horrified.

Suddenly, it clicked, and your mental processes returned in full strength. “Wait. What do you mean ‘it’s actually a changeling. Didn’t you “bravely” get rid of my bed? Isn’t this a totally new bed?”

“Oh, um, of course,” Flim quickly began, trying to rectify the situation. “We were just… Surprised that this new bed we created was also a changeling!”

“But if you created it, how could it be a changeling?”

“Oh, well, we didn’t create it, you know,” Flam added, but you stopped him, holding up your hand.

“I’ve heard enough. It’s obvious that you just stole my bed and tried to make some quick money off of it by trying to sell it back to me.” Your mental processes began to fade away again. “But I’m too tired to deal with you, and I have my bed back, so goodbye.”

You left the dumbfounded salesponies back in your kitchen and stomped back to your room, flopping on the bed despite the fact that it was actually a changeling, and then instantly drifted off to sleep.

As you slept, Chrysalis wondered what had possessed her to become your bed again.

Flash Sentry Is Guarding Your Bed (Half Dime)

Flash Sentry is Guarding Your Bed
Half Dime You’re fishing your keys from your pocket when you first hear it: a phantasmal moan, from somewhere deep inside the apartment.

Yep. It’s Monday. It wouldn’t be Monday if some pony hadn’t taken over the apartment. Some pony would be waiting for you – probably in your bed – sifting through your personals, causing property damage, or worse . . .

Your hand hovers over the doorknob. You could easily leave. You could spend the night at a friend’s, or get a hotel, or . . . No, this is ridiculous. This is your home; this is your kingdom; they’re in your domain. Still, you cautiously ease the door open. “Hello…?”

There’s no answer, just another phantasmal moan and a powerful grunt.

“Hello? Any pony?” you call again. Look at you – you’ve spent so much time around these ponies, you’re starting to imitate their language. Who (outside of your friend Nicholas, who’s crazy as bat spit) says any pony?

You venture deeper into the apartment.

“Who goes there?” someone shouts.

You whirl around. A teenage boy, who can’t be more than eighteen, is stationed outside your bedroom. He’s wearing a bizarre mix of gold plated body armor and normal American clothing. The guitar case he’s usually holding has been replaced with a double-edged sword. Even though he’s not dressed the way he’s usually portrayed, you still recognize that off-white Caucasian skin, that bright blue hair, and that arrogant smile.

“Flash Sentry?” It doesn’t make any sense. With the exceptions of Sonata Dusk and your ex-girlfriend, no human has ever gotten into your house before. Especially not one that looks so disinterested. Most the people/ponies that break into your house are engaged in something; Flash just looks bored.

“Are you the current tenant of this residence?” he asks.

“Yes.” You have no idea where this is going.

“By order of Princess Mi Amore Cadenza, this room has been deemed unusable.” He hands you an official looking document which you proceed to ignore. “This room will hereby remain off-limits until such time it is deemed appropriate for recreational use.”

You sigh. For some reason, you almost expect this. “How long will that take?”

He shifts his weight slightly. He looks almost . . . nervous? “I’m not at liberty to say.”

Suddenly, you’re panicking. “What have you done to my bed?”

“What?”

“Lit it on fire? Bombed it? Turned it into a revenue generating tourist attraction?”

“What? No.”

“What, then?” You can only begin to guess.

“I’m not at liberty to say,” he repeats.

“So you do know?”

“Of course I know. Everything’s fine.”

You stare at him blankly. “That’s making a lot of assumptions.”

“No it isn’t. I personally guarantee that your bed will be fully operational within the hour.” He said that last part unnecessarily loudly. There’s a slight scuffling noise from behind the bedroom door, and you swear you hear voices talking in a hushed whisper.

“Okay, that’s it.” You push past Flash Sentry, reaching for the doorknob with your right hand.

He draws his sword. It makes a horrible grating sound as it’s unsheathed, metal rubbing against metal. “Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to stand down.”

“Do you know what I’ve been through these past few months?” you ask. You don’t know much about Flash Sentry – no one does – but he seems like a nice guy. Maybe he’ll be sympathetic if you keep talking. “My refrigerator has been melted by two pyromaniacs. My bed turned out to be a changeling queen –”

That catches his attention. His sword lowers a couple of inches. “Queen Chrysalis? What was she doing here?”

“Oh, you know, the usual: pretending to be a magical talking bed.”

“What?” He starts thinking. You can practically see the gears turning in his head. “Why would she . . .”

Now’s your chance; you lunge for the doorknob, but Flash is too fast. He knocks your hand away with the flat of his blade, twisting his blade around your arm. Something strikes you hard in the chest – the butt of his sword – and you crumple to the ground. “The princess of the Crystal Empire has asked me to guard this door,” he says.

“Princess Cadence? I’m sure she won’t mind if I –”

“Oh, she’ll mind all right. She’s in there with Captain Armor.”

“Captain Armor? You mean Shining Armor? As in her...” It was as though you just put on glasses. Everything suddenly became clear. Princess Cadence, Shining Armor, the bedroom, the guard, the moaning . . . “Oh,” was all you could think to say.

. . . “Yeah,” Flash says.

Standing, you walk away, muttering to yourself, “Newlyweds.”

Author's Notes:

Rainbow Dash Makes Your Bed Run Red (gabrek)

Rainbow Dash Makes Your Bed Run Red
gabrek

You gape at the sight before you.

It’s been a long day- Mondays always are, especially after you have to “volunteer” for weekend shifts. Those horrible, ironic weekend shifts that never score you Monday off- Wednesday or Friday maybe, but never Monday. The one day you actually need to try and figure out how your life has fallen- plummeted?- neigh, rocketed out of control.

Your eye twitches as you realize the ponification in your own thoughts. The little bastards are getting into your head. By getting into your bed. And your porn. And lighting it on fire. Replacing it with crystals, futons, cotton candy, sentient versions of itself, and their own beds. Spilling tacos and whiskey and discipline and cereal all over your once sacred sheets, crushing and displacing and banishing and partying with the damned thing, only to leave no real evidence of their passing aside from demolished appliances, ruined laundry and charred nudie mags. They’d even somehow managed to destroy your beloved vehicle- despite being nowhere near it at the time- and landed you a night in jail when they used it as a vehicle against the establishment.

Your renter’s insurance premium rivals the military budgets of small nations.

It wouldn't be so bad if they’d just somehow manage to permanently destroy the damn thing, but every few weeks it reappears in perfect condition as though nothing had happened to it. Nothing aside from the dander and stench and hair and emotional instability of that particular week’s new pony visitor, of course.

After the cuteness and novelty wore off on the first night, you were able to tolerate them. As the weeks turned to months, delight morphed quickly into annoyance and began the long trek towards becoming full-fledged hatred. Things have gotten to the point where you occasionally indulge in fantasies of colorful leather throw pillows… but the sight before you makes you sick for even thinking of such dark things.

A small hole has been torn through the wall below your bedroom window, through which a thick, brilliantly red substance trickles, accompanied by the sounds of unhinged laughter, machinery working, and the occasional sickening sound of tearing and crunching.

You stand unable to process the sight before you for a few moments, taking in the horror (from the bedroom- of course it’s from the bedroom) before the red stained cerulean back and wings brush against the window with a peal of cackling, leaving a splash of color across the panes and bringing you back to reality- or at least, what your psychiatrist assures you is your own perception of reality. Horrible realization makes you sprint up the street towards your complex. Sharp, acidic scents burn your nose even before your lungs begin to protest, and as you pass the front yard a burst of green liquid sprays from your kitchen window.

You scream as you slam into the wall besides the stairs- it’s in your eyes and it burns worse than “tear-free” shampoo. After several seconds of futilely trying to rub the substance from your eyes, you scream again as you realize it’s gotten into your mouth. You spit, you gag, and you scream a third time as you realize that it’s really, really spicy.

The encounter brings you to your knees, retching and gasping over the sidewalk now decorated with the remains of the joy you purchased at Panda Express. Sure, you’d given up on the place after the first fortune cookie, but with the way the universe was acting, it wasn’t unreasonable to hope a fortune reading “Your bed is safe from all equines” would pop up in the next one. Besides, their honey walnut shrimp is delicious.

Not so good on the way back up, you realize, as part of your mind notices the orange stream pouring from another new hole into the flowerbeds.

You stagger up the two flights of stairs, careful not to wipe at your face again with your sleeve, which seems to be glowing with that potent green substance. Fumbling with your keys, you finally manage to open the front door, only to be met with a blast of smoke. It’s surprisingly cool, and begins to form a thin layer of fog around your feet as you step into your living room, the sight of which is enough to make any insurance adjuster stagger with horror.

The carpet is completely covered with an inch thick layer of a purple gel, swirled in with blue in the kitchen and the yellow which is almost pouring out of nook that leads to your bathroom. You idly consider taking your shoes off as you always do, but are afraid of what these other colors could do to your feet. You look up and around and choke back a sob of terror to see that your home is now completely unrecognizable.
Through the clouds of mixed mist and smoke, you can tell that every scrap of furniture is completely gone, replaced by makeshift tubes and gaskets, apparently repurposed out of everything from your couch to the pipes once connected to your brand new stove. The fridge lays splayed open at an awkward angle, pouring out the haze like a smoke machine on steroids, and your toilet is inexplicably piped onto one of the counters, its lid bubbling and twitching as it processes some mystery material.

More disturbing than the property damage are the thin sheets of material hanging from every available surface. Ragged pieces of multi-colored coverings, soaked and dripping with colored ooze. You gag again and quickly lean on your knees to vomit after you see the sunflower emblazoned on one small torn chunk died periwinkle, dangling from what was once your favorite lamp.

A sudden high pitched whine is cut off by a resonating gurgle as a surge of red hits your bedroom door, causing it to bulge slightly before bursting off of its hinges with a small tide of crimson and a bout of horse, feminine cursing.

You curse quietly yourself as you realize that you did it again, and despite the overwhelming panic and fear in your gut begin to move quietly towards your bedroom door. A cheerful yellow happy face beams at you from its position nailed above your hallway light switch; the random but familiar collection of vegetables marked on another unfortunate piece is vigilant from the ceiling as you creep towards the mare that you now recognize as Rainbow Dash.

You have seen her before; clumsy, but so confident and bold… as she hovers in a freakishly business like position with her back towards your doorway, you can’t say that those qualities aren’t still there. Something has changed though; maybe it’s the intensity of her gaze around the unrecognizable, red stained remains of your bedroom, or the way she kicks as the small pile of thin, splintered objects strewn across your comforter, or the twisted grin she has as she manipulates the bizarre machine that churns away in the clouds built up over your bed. You can’t put your finger on it… until the red streaked mare turns, locking your eyes with hers and with a wide smile, whispers just one word.

“Perfect.”

You shout with panic, and turn to flee. It’s like you know nothing about her speed, strength and agility, her military training- survival instincts only know to send you running with a scream. It is futile. Dash’s cannons are wrapped around your waist in an instant, and you stumble headlong into the sickening yellow goop in your hallway that again manages to find its way into your mouth. You spit, gasp and sputter all at the same time, simultaneously trying to scream and process the toxically spicy substance as you feel yourself being dragged by the feet back towards your bedroom.

You come to your senses enough to try to fight back, though there’s little you can do on your belly except kick and thrash wildly. You feel a shoe dislodge and hear it strike a wooden surface; your feet fail to connect with the insane pony behind you, though she loses her grip as your other shoe slips off.

You keep flailing around in the yellow ooze for a moment before you realize that you’re not being dragged anymore. You blink, once, twice, as your senses recover just enough to hear the tomboy speaking to you.

“Hey. You okay?”

More blinking. It’s either shock and disbelief, or that colorful crap in your eyes again.

You finally settle on a succinct summary of events with which to question the pony.

“What in the hell are you doing to my house?!”

“Oh. That. Heh. Well, I got zapped here- AGAIN- and I was really bored, and for some reason you don’t have any snacks or drinks anywhere… so while I was looking I saw your house was really, really boring.”

You blink again.

“Seriously, like- not awesome AT ALL. So I figured I’d paint it for ya!”

…

“Yeah. But you don’t have any paint either! So I built this to extract the spectra from all your boring old clothes and chairs and stuff!”

“That explains… nothing, really, but I WAS wondering why pieces of my boxer shorts and oven mitts were stapled around my hallway…”

“Yep, gotta let them dry! And now your whole house is about 20% cooler!”

You groan at the overused catchphrase as the mare turns back to the machine and begins stuffing your shoes into it, causing the grinding and tearing noises you heard before.

“All thanks to the good ol’ rainbow factory! ‘Where not a single sole gets through!’”

You palm your face- HARD. Maybe it’ll just be the crazy jackal-monkey thing again next week…

M. A. Larson Is Ruined Your Bed (Anonymoose)

M. A. Larson Is Ruined Your Bed
Anonymoose

What horrible fate awaits me tonight? you wonder.

Every Monday, you come home from a (usually) terrible day at work, to find some pony, or pony like creature, on your bed… doing all manner of speakable and unspeakable things.

Almost always, it involves the destruction of your property.

Maybe it would be easier if you just moved away. Ran and never came back.

No. That would never work. The whole ‘off the grid’ thing didn’t seem too appealing, especially if you had to filter your urine to drink.

No, you will open your door, find out who ever (or is that pony-ever, or who-pony? They seem to do weird things with those kinds of words) is on your bed, deal with them, and go to work tomorrow morning, trashed from lack of sleep and sanity.

Again.

You open the door to your apartment, and decide to brave what ever equine horror has come through tonight. You stroll purposefully across the room, and swing wide your bedroom door.

There is nopony on your bed. Oh, look at that, you are so used to this, you are now thinking in ‘nopony’s’ rather than ‘nobody’s’.

But yes, indeed, there is nopony on your bed.

Because your bed isn’t even here.

Elsewhere…

You sit alone in a field of stars.

You would be terrified at this strange turn of events, if it wasn’t for the fact you were a simple bed.

A white alicorn shimmers into existence, trotting towards you with a smile on her muzzle.

Her smile is so serene, that it would wipe all fear from your heart… if it wasn’t for the fact you are a bed, and can’t feel fear.

The alicorn nuzzles the hard wood of your bedhead, and smiles beatifically at you.

You are still a bed.

She turns her head away and closes her eyes… and begins to sing.

“You’ve come, such a long long way… and I slept on you, that very first day…”

Comparative Biology In Your Bed (Brumby_Run)

Comparative Biology In Your Bed
Brumby_Run

You have had a very bad day. To be completely honest, it has been a bad couple of months. Every Monday, for longer than you have cared to remember, something completely weird and disturbing has occurred. In your bed. For all these strange and alarming circumstances, you just know that today is going to be particularly bad.

Not that you can recall much of the events of this specific Monday. That is probably due to the fact that it is six in the evening, and your hangover from the bender you were on over the weekend is just kicking up to eleven.

You are standing, or more accurately swaying, at the cursed door to your cursed bedroom. Inside, your cursed bed will have something lying on it. If they aren't cursed, or cursing your bed, they may curse at you. They might even be taking notes about what they see in cursive writing. It's enough to trigger a string of expletives from your mouth.

You can hear them breathing. Even with the door closed the faint sounds of respiration drift through. Best get this over with, you think to yourself. With a false sense of bravado, you fling the door open.

On your bed there is a lump under your covers. Whatever it is rolls over to look at you. A shock of white feathers greets you. Whatever it is also has a pair of eyes, and a hooked yellow beak. A pair of limbs slip out from under the covers (Legs or arms? You are not sure). They end in a set of talons that look dangerously sharp.

“Hi there sasquatch. It’s about time you showed up,” Gilda (does-she-even-have-a-last-name) the Griffon says. “Hurry up, and lets get started.”

“Get what started?” you ask with a sense of dread.

“Sex dummy. Why else would I be in your bed?”

“You have no idea about what has happened in that bed over the past weeks. I’m not prepared to assume anything anymore.” Yes, that sense of dread was totally justified. “Besides, last time you were eating my bucket of chicken and watching TV.”

“Whatever dunkoff,” she replies indifferently. “Less talk, more action.”

“And they say romance is dead,” you mutter.

“Come here and take me, you glorious hunk of monkey meat,” she says in a sarcastic tone. “Is that enough foreplay, or do you want my star sign as well?”

“Look, I’m a man of the world,” you say. “I’ve seen nature documentaries. I’ve been to zoos. What specific courtship ritual are you hoping for?” That sense of dread is getting stronger.

“Cartwheeling!” she exclaims excitedly.

“Cartwheeling,” you state flatly. “Where two hawks fly at each other above a cliff, lock talons, then try to get the deed done before their spiraling plummet smashes them into the rocks below?”

“Exactly that, only about a hundred times more awesome.”

You twist your head to look over your shoulder. First your left, then your right. With your examination complete you say, “I don’t have wings.”

“So what?” Gilda asks. “Nothing heightens the post-coital rush like seeing your lover’s corpse splattered at the base of a cliff.”

You sit down on at the foot of your bed. With some trepidation you ask, “What’s in it for me?”

“You will get to meet your gods while mellowed out from experiencing the ultimate sexual ecstasy.”

“Most human gods tend to frown on sexual ecstasy at the best of times,” you reply. “Achieving it with a mythological creature of a completely different species, or two, is more than most of them can stand.”

“Wow, you lot have uptight gods. Mythological creatures of a completely different species make for awesome bragging rights where I’m from,” she says. “Why else would I be trying to bag a dweeb like you?”

“Whatever,” you brush off the insult. “Cartwheeling is not going to happen.”

“Fine. We’ll do the boring mammal thing. On the ground.”

“I’m a man of the world,” you watch as Gilda rolls her eyes. “I’ve seen nature documentaries. I’ve been to zoos. The first thing a lioness does after they finish is to turn around and savagely attack the male.”

“Oh, come on!” she yells. “Nothing like a bit of afterplay to get the blood pumping.”

“I’ll ask again, what’s in it for me?”

“If you staunch the bleeding in time, it probably won’t be fatal,” she says unhelpfully.

Time to try a different tactic, you tell yourself. “If you knew the truth, you probably wouldn’t want to have sex with any human.”

“You lot seem to be pretty boring at it. But there is nothing you’ve said that counts as a deal breaker for me.”

“I’m a man of the world...”

“If you mention nature documentaries or zoos again,” Gilda says, “I’ll skip the sex and go straight to the mauling.”

“It’s a matter of size,” you hurriedly state. “Specifically the difference in scale between humans and lions. I’m going to assume griffons are similar. Human anatomy is... I mean, comparatively speaking... Err...”

“Awww, the dunderhead is feeling inadequate,” she coos. “It’s not the size of the boat, but the motion of the ocean.”

“I’m actually worried that I might hurt you, maybe even tear something...”

You lean back, one hand sliding under the covers to support you. Your bed seem slimy-er than you remember. With your other hand, you reach across your body and throw back the covers. It takes a moment to process what you are seeing.

Gilda’s body is sprawled over your sheets in a very cat like fashion. The third thing you notice is all the fur she has shed. The second thing would be the feathers that have molted. But first and foremost...

“You’ve drenched my bed in lioness love lotion!” you shout in a wounded tone.

“Technically I’m a griffoness, but I guess the result is the same,” she says. “I’m in estrus man! I’ve got no control over that.”

You stare at her. In time, the look you are giving her morphs into a glare. You are only half a second from a glower when she cracks.

“Okay, I may have indulged in a little self-pleasure while I was waiting for you,” she confesses. “Things kind of got a bit out of control. My libdo is one wild ride when I’m in heat. And you left a bunch of skin mags around. What else is a bi griffon to do, left here all alone.” She grins. You didn’t know it was possible for something with a beak to grin. “I could argue that this is your fault.”

That is the statement that pushes you over the edge. You facepalm. It’s a hard facepalm. Emphatic. The only problem with it is that instead of a good, hard slap, all you get is a dull ‘splort.’ That’s because until a second ago your hand was resting in a pool of an almost unmentionable bodily fluid. Along with the liquid, your face is now covered in shed fur, and one feather tickling your lower left eyelid. You have never felt more unclean in your whole life.

“Shower!” you exclaim. “I’m going to have a shower. Please be gone when I get out.”

As you step into your bathroom, a talon reaches out to prop open the door. Gilda has followed you, and is standing in the doorway, staring at you.

“What?” you ask.

“You’ve made a pretty bold claim,” she says. “One I don’t believe for a second. The only way I am leaving here is if I’ve had sex, or I don’t want to have sex. Either way, I’m going to see you naked.”

You sigh. There is no way out of this. You peel off your shirt and toss it over the griffon. You wince as it lands on your soiled bed. You make eye contact with Gilda as you unhook your belt, and undo your fly. With a pause for dramatic effect, or just a hope you won’t have to do this, you drag your trousers and underwear down to reveal what your last girlfriend called her ‘greatest disappointment.’ A verbal barb that stings to this day.

“Yeah, that’s pretty big,” she says as she scrutinizes you. “It would be a stretch, but if you were gentle...”

“It’s flaccid,” you interupt.

“It gets bigger?” her voice cracks, squeaking slightly. “Okay, I’ll admit that when it comes to sex, I’m a sadist. That doesn’t make me a masochist.” She tilts her head to look you in the eye. “You keep that thing away from me.”

“Gladly.” Her last sentence was the best one you’ve heard all day.

You watch as she turns and walks back to the bedroom. The most satisfying sight is the way her tail is protectively covering her anatomy. She untucks one corner of your sheet, and peers underneath.

“Err... Dude? You don’t have a mattress protector?” she asks. “You know this has already soaked through. I’ll tell you what I’ll do. If you buy a replacement mattress from me, I’ll throw in a protector for 40% off.”

“Are you seriously trying to sell me a mattress again?”

“Can’t blame a griffon for trying,” she mutters.

“Just go home,” you say as you swing the bathroom door shut.

“Eh, maybe next time then!” you hear her call through the door. There is a flash of blue light from the crack underneath. Hopefully you’ll be alone now.

You set the temperature to just below scalding and get into the shower. As much as you would like to just stand there until the hot water runs out, you still have a disgusting mess on your bed to clean. You have to leave enough hot water to do a load of laundry. Time to get out and deal with it.

You look down as you shut off the water and notice you are still wearing your socks. It’s been that kind of day.

Steve Magnet Finds Your Bed Seriously Lacking in Style (libertydude)

Steve Magnet Finds Your Bed Seriously Lacking in Style
libertydude

Huh.

Well, that’s something you don’t see every day.

For a moment, you’re dumbstruck. You can’t believe what you’re seeing: Twilight Sparkle, Princess of Friendship, in your bed! You can’t move, you’re barely breathing, and your mind has gone blank.

Well, blanker than usual, but you get the point.

Your thoughts come back though, and with a vengeance. Of course, a quadrillion questions are falling through your head. Questions like:

How is she here?

What is she doing?

Equestria actually exists?

What is she reading?

Should I tell her I peed in that cup this morning?

Some of these questions were more important than others.

Then, the urge to speak comes. You open your mouth, no doubt to say something totally not stupid, but nothing comes out. You have been robbed of your voice by the sheer surprise this creature has caused.

You try again. Nothing.

Again. Nothing.

Come on, come on. You can do this. You’ve talked to girls plenty of times before. It’s easy-peasy!

It’s just…

Just not as easy to say it when it’s the mare of your dreams you’re trying to talk to.

You scrunch your eyes closed and grit your teeth. No way, you’re not serious! You don’t mean what you’re saying! You can’t fall in love with a magical horse! That’s really damn creepy and against most major world religions!

And yet…

You gaze at her, bottle still in hand. Her body, while small, looked very petite and fit for a pony. Her lavender coat gleamed a little in the light, as did her violet eyes. Her horn shimmered a little every once in a while to help her turn the pages of the magazine. She looks so…

Don’t say it.

So…

Don’t you dare.

So…

There’s no going back once you say it.

…so beautiful.

By now, it’s over. Maybe somewhere in the deep, dark corners of your mind, you’re telling yourself how bad of an idea it is, but you don’t care. For too long, you’ve been working at a crappy job, living at a crappy house, next to crappy neighbors. Your friends never seem to be around, and when you’re not working yourself to the bone, you’re wasting it watching reality TV or eating overrated Chinese food. This world is nothing but a disappointment for you.

But her…she’s everything a person would want. She’s kind, she’s smart, she’s just…amazing.

Amazing. The furthest thing possible from a disappointment.

For the past 3 years, you had thought that she was merely a strange fantasy, a whimsical imagining that would never be a part of the material world you live in. After all, she was just a character in a show back then. You had thrown away any thoughts of being together and had tried hard, oh so hard, to find someone to love in this world. But besides the occasional fling or 3 month relationship, you never could find that special someone. Maybe it was your fault or theirs, but the result was always the same: loneliness.

But now, you’re special somepony is here, for real. She is no fantasy now; she exists just as much as you do. And she’s right here waiting for you, right where the person you love is always supposed to be when you go to sleep at night.

To make a long story short, the universe really wants you to have mind-blowing sex with this horse.

You drop the bottle in your hand, letting it fall to the floor and splashing what little content was left on the carpeted floor. You take off running towards the bed and outstretch your arms. In 2 seconds flat, you connect with the mare, grabbing her as tightly as possible. Oh, how soft she feels! Her fur as soft as a bunny’s, and her mane as smooth as silk. You begin kissing her everywhere; mane, coat, nose, it didn’t matter. All that mattered was that she was yours now.

“Oh Twilight!” you say, trying to fight through the tears of joy that streamed down your face. “You’re the one for me! I’ll never leave your side! Please, oh please love me back!”

For a second, she doesn’t say anything. Understandable, given the circumstances. You were speechless just a minute ago, trying to absorb all of this. It’s hard to accept a love that’s given as passionately as this. I mean, she obviously expected you (she was in your bed, after all), but maybe not at this level of emotional intensity.

But you don’t need words to know she loved you back. To know that she’d never leave your side. To know that-

“That all sounds lovely, my friend, but could you please stop making out with my moustache?”

Your eyes go wide. That’s not Twilight’s voice. You look down at what you’re hugging, and it’s not Twilight. It looks like a giant orange ferret with multiple sclerosis.

You let go of the strange object and fall to the floor. You land with a THUMP on your back. As you roll to your stomach, you look around the room. For a moment, you think somebody has laced it with a giant purple water slide. It loops all around the room, effortlessly flowing along the walls and even spilling over a little into the center. Even in the dim light, the body gleamed and shone.

You get to your feet with a start and look back at your bed. Twilight was no longer there, if she ever was. Instead, something…else is in her place.

Something… reptilian.

Something… big.

Something… fabulous.

The creature’s chin has small purple beard on it; not long, but just thick enough that the chin can’t be seen. His snout is long, and a few teeth protrude from his mouth. His ears look like fish fins, and not too far below his face, a small pair of arms reside. Below these, the long tubing that laced around the room connected with the creature’s arms and head.

But all of this nothing compared to this creature’s hair. My God, has such decadent work of art ever been present on a head? The creature’s orange locks flow down his back, almost all the way to his arms. Despite its length, it somehow manages to stick up in the air several feet at the top of the head.

The moustache that accompanies the ‘do is as equally impressive. Being long enough to rival an entire table is admirable, but the fact it is combed perfectly is just as good. It is done in a walrus style, drooping down from the creature’s upper lip in a manner that makes him look like one of those old generals from the American Civil War.

As you stand, staring at the majestic beauty that is this creature’s hair, he pays no attention to you. Annoyance is clearly plastered on his face as he tries to adjust his moustache. Your tears of joy have gotten it soggy and your hugging has ruffled it up.

“Um…” you say, still not fully comprehending the situation. After all, besides the surprise this creature had just given you, you’re also slightly drunk. “…S-Sorry?”

“You better be!” the creature says with an effeminate, though still male, voice. “This took 2 hours to groom to perfection!” With that, he finally stops fiddling with his lip warmer and gives you a look over. “Hmph,” he says, clear distaste on his face and in his voice. “And here I thought you would at least have good taste in the clothes department.”

“What? Wait, hold on,” you say as you wave your hands around the room. “Who are you?”

“Steven P. Magnet is my name!” the creature says with a beaming smile. “And looking absolutely stunning is my game!”

“I’ll say,” you say, still transfixed by the Mufasa hairdo that lies upon Steven’s dome. “I haven’t seen hair that good since when I saw ‘Zoolander’.”

“Is that so? Then why, pray tell, were you trying to destroy such beauty?” his face turning back to annoyance.

“Well, er, sorry. I thought you were… someone else.” Your eyes turn away for a brief moment. It was only about now that you begin to realize the weight of what had just happened. You had finally accepted the love you knew was true in your heart. You had acted on it, throwing away the inhibitions that you had forced upon yourself in order to conform with society’s written standards of man’s proper relationship with equines. You had opened your heart to let your one true love know how you felt.

And for your trouble, you were this close to having sex with a flamboyant metrosexual snake.

The universe must hate you.

“Someone else, like Princess Twilight?” Steve says with a sly grin. You look back at him nervously. “Oh, don’t look so peeved, buddy. I don’t blame you for having such feelings for her.” His eyes close and he smiles as he thinks aloud. “With a hair color and flank like that, a pony could be busy for hours with her…”

“Ah, no offense, Mr. Magnet,” you say quickly. As much as you appreciated him approving of your love choice, you weren’t as appreciative of the thought of him thinking dirty thoughts out in the open, let alone in your bed. “But I have to ask… what are you, and why are you in my room?”

“Ah, excellent question!” he says as the front of his body slithers toward the center of the room. “And an excellent question deserves an excellent answer! I am what you would call a ‘sea serpent’, and I’m here on an important mission from Equestria!”

“Equestria?”

“That’s right!”

“What mission?”

“I’m glad you asked! After all, it involves you!”

“Wait, what?”

“Yes! I need your help in order to accomplish my mission!”

“Um…okay…”

“Yes! I need you to do something very important!”

“Liiiiiike?”

“I need you…” His voice is softer at this point.

“Yes?” Your voice grows a noticeable annoyed tint to it.

“to…”

“WHAT?!” you yell.

“…change your bed sheets!”

“…………………….”

For a while, the crickets outside were the only things to be heard. They were singing awfully nice tonight; it was only 60 degrees out, after all. That’s prime chirping weather, since it gives the crickets a lovely beat of about one chirp a second. It doesn’t work as well on hot nights, as that causes them to chirp faster and render the listener unable to take in the chirps as fully as on cooler nights.

But this isn’t what you were thinking about. Oh no, YOU are more interested in finding a way to castrate this slithering fiend who had just torn apart your heart, invaded your room, and basically ruined whatever sense of self-worth you had been feeling before.

Because you’re really boring like that.

“You traveled…all the way from Equestria…to tell me…I need new bedsheets?” The words are hard to choke out; the rage has rendered you unable to form the words easily.

“Yes sirree!” the serpent chirps, seemingly unaware of the growing sense of anger within you. “I came here through a conveniently placed magical portal and waited around here all day for you to come home. After all, I couldn’t let this…” He motions toward the bed. “…go unfixed. I mean, by Sweet Celestia’s mane, how old are these things?”

With that, he slides over to the bed and pokes at the sheets. They are plain brown and still cover the whole bed, but he is right to be confused by the age. The color is faded enough by multiple washings and is perforated with numerous holes. Calling them rags is an insult to rags.

“I mean, were these things made around the time Nightmare Moon was banished? Sheesh…” he continues.

“Bedsheets…” you more or less mutter.

“Yes, bedsheets! Please keep up, friend! It’s hard being extremely fabulous all the time!” He slithers over to the drawer that sits on the opposite wall from the bed and opens the drawers. “Now, I’m sure you’ve got suitable replacements for that eyesore somewhere in here…”

“Bedsheets…” you repeat.

“Yes, yes, bedsheets! We’re already sure about that!” he exclaims as he throws various clothes out of their drawers. “Well, fiddlesticks! It looks like you don’t have any extra bedsheets. Huh.” He sits back and scratches his head, befuddled by this development.

“Bed sheets…”

“Why do you keep saying that?”

“You came here…for bed sheets…”

“Yes, I know. Why are you reminding me?”

“Because… I thought you were Twilight Sparkle.”

“I thought we talked about that-“ It is now that he looks at you in the eyes. Your eyes, filled with rage, regret, hate, sadness. But most of all, filled with love. The love you would never get because Twilight Sparkle didn’t know you and never would know you. The love you thought you had just a few minutes ago, but was now lost forever.

He can see all of that in your eyes, and instantly, he knows what he should do.

“I’m…I’m sorry about that,” he says, sympathy dripping from his voice. “I didn’t know that she was that big of a deal for you. If I knew that you were that enamored with anypony, I probably wouldn’t have come.” He closes his eyes and shakes his head. “It would have been easier for you to never know about Equestria’s existence. And now I’ve ruined that chance.”

As you look at him, you aren’t sure what you want to do. On the one hand, biting off his tail and cutting off his hair would be greatly satisfying. That, or pulling off his moustache, hair by hair, until he was crying for Jesus Christ Pony to take him to Pony Heaven. Or Serpent Heaven, or whatever they believe over there.

But looking at him now…he had just wanted to help you. Granted, it was with the most mundane of all possible things you would actually need help with, but still. No harm was meant towards you; hell, if anything, it was all your fault.

After all, who the hell mistakes a giant purple snake for a pony princess?

“That’s…that’s alright,” you manage to get out. “I’m just… just not in a right state of mind.”

“I can see that. Perhaps I should come another time.”

“Yeah…” is all you can manage to get out.

“Um… well, until next time, friend,” he says, putting out one of his hands. You stare at it for a moment, then take it with your hand, purely out of reflex. He grasps you back and shakes it firmly. Then, with a quick little huff, he makes his way towards your window. As he opens it, he turns back towards you.

“Then again, I could just not come again, if you’d like.”

“That’d probably be best,” you say, looking towards the ground. “I really don’t want to nearly have sex with you again.”

“And just…” he says, turning back towards you. “…what does that mean?” By the tone in his voice, he sounds offended.

“Uh…” You are caught off guard by his sudden offense.

“Are you saying that I, Steven Magnet, am not attractive?” He begins to slide his way slowly back toward you, anger on his face.

“What? No! I mean… Yes! I mean-”

“WELL, WHAT DO YOU MEAN?!” he screams. He was right up in your face now. You can feel his breath on you, hot like a furnace. His eyes have daggers in them and they are pointed directly at you. He is waiting, daring you to say something stupid.

And who are you not to deliver?

“I mean… that I’m not the kind of person who has sex with snakes.”

His eyes subside, and his breathing relaxes a little.

“It’s nothing against you personally, but I just can’t get into snakes in a sexual manner.”

At this, he smiles.

“I can accept that answer.”

And then, faster than lightning, he punches you in the balls.

“And you can accept this appreciation of your honesty.”

You tumble to the floor in a heap, gasping for air. The lower half of your body implodes on itself, scrunching the legs all the way to your chest. Your hands go down to the Holy Land, desperately checking to make sure you aren’t castrated. You’re not, but you can’t exactly feel your manliness, either.

Steve’s face returns to the indignant look he had earlier and he slithers back toward the window. He begins to slither out it, but once outside, he turns back towards you. He leans inside and opens his mouth.

“I tried to be nice to you. Tried to calmly tell you how horrible your bed sheets are. I even apologized for YOUR mistake. I mean, really? You thought I was Princess Twilight? Are you drunk, or do you really get laid so little that you need to think of having sex with a horse to get through the day?”

Your attempt to reply is defeated by the cracked nuts between your legs, and only comes out as a “Fcud…”

“Well, I’ll tell you this. I don’t know what the culture around the human world is, but there is no worse insult in Equestria than to tell someone that you would never have sex with them! For that, you can say goodbye to me forever. Enjoy your crappy bedsheets!” With that, he closes the window and disappears out of view. Though he is not visible, you think you can hear him exclaiming things down in the distance. Things like “Good riddance!” or “Fashion Trash” or worst of all, “Not Even Remotely Attractive”.

Eventually, his voice fades away and you can’t hear him anymore. The pain between your legs, however, is not fading. In fact, it seems to hurt more and more as time goes on. So you decide you will just lay down there on the floor, you and your great balls of fire, until morning comes. It’ll be Tuesday tomorrow, but you might just skip work. As dickish as your managers are, even they will understand absence due to testicular assault.

You take it back: The universe doesn’t hate you; it really hates you.

And your nuts.

“Ohhhhhhh…” you moan. You don’t know how long you’ve been asleep, but it certainly feels like it has been awhile. But even after a long sleep, your nuts still felt like someone had played a drum solo on them.

“Dear, are you alright?”

That voice. You know that voice. It seems like a million years since you’ve heard it, yet you know you only heard it a few hours ago.

“Twi-twilight?”

“Yes, honey. I’m here. What’s wrong?”

For a split second, you open your eyes. You see your room is the same as when you fell asleep. Same carpeted floor, same bed, same window. Your eyes close again, overwhelmed by the light.

Only…this isn’t the room.

Wait, how does that work? This is your room, but it isn’t? And why is Twilight calling you “dear” and “honey”? Have you finally snapped? Are you still drunk, or hallucinating, or what? Did Steve’s ‘Fist of Fury to the Baby Batter Brewshop’ send you into a coma?

Come on, you know the answer.

“Honey, can you hear me?”

It starts with a d, and it rhymes with stream.

“Please answer me, sweetie. You’re scaring me.”

You do it when you’re sleeping…

“Wake up, damn it!” you hear as a deafening slap comes across your face. Your eyes shoot open, and the pain you feel across your cheek is more real than you’d like it to be. Your eyes see the room again, only…this is your room. It’s not both your room and not your room, it’s just…your room.

Your room. Inside the castle of Friendship. The one you’ve lived in since you’ve been married. The one you shared with Twilight Sparkle.

Oh right. You were married to Twilight Sparkle. How did you forget that?

You turn to your left, and there she is. Even now, as she looks at you panicked and breathing hard, she still looks as beautiful as the day you had met her. How long ago was that? Oh, it didn’t matter. What did matter was that she looked like she was about to hit you again.

“Oh, thank Celestia!” she said as jumped on you, wrapping you in a hug not even Discord could escape. You are knocked to your back with her on top of you, close to the edge of the bed where you were lying. “I thought you were having a nightmare!”

For a moment, you can’t speak. How is this possible? A few moments ago, you were some nobody in the human world, with a lame job and a lamer life. Now, you’re a prince, living in a castle, and with the most beautiful mare a stallion could ask for. A nobody to a somepony.

No. No, no, no. You were always like this. You were always a pony, you were always living in Equestria, and you were always the love of Twilight’s life. Well, except for that one blue-haired punk who she had a crush on for a while, but that doesn’t count. At least, in a spiritual sense.

Ah, but why did you think you were a human? You know the answer. Just one word….

“Dream,” you say into Twilight’s ear, still wrapped in her Eternity Hug. “Just a dream.”

Ah, good. At least the stupidity of your human self hasn’t crossed over into this world.

“Just a dream,” Twilight consoled. She loosened her grasp and leaned back, looking you in the face. She gives you a smile now. Not a ‘normal’ smile like most other ponies give each other, but a ‘Twilight’ smile. The smile only she could give and only you could receive. The smile that said, “I love you beyond anything in this world, and I know you think the same of me”.

It was the smile that also said, “Tell me what was going on or I’ll slap you again.”

“Oh man…” you say, rubbing your eyes with your hooves. “What a dream that was.”

“Oh?” she says, leaning back in towards your face. Now she’s sitting right on your stomach, and her face is an inch away from yours. “Care to elaborate?”

“I don’t know…” you say. “Care to tell me why you slapped me on the face?”

“I had to wake you up!” she said, half-anxiously, half-exasperatedly. “You were twisting and squirming a lot and I got really worried and I thought ‘Oh no, he’s going to get a nightmare and go crazy and start eating pinecones and all those other things crazy ponies do” so I tried punching you in your testicles but you didn’t quite wake up then so I slapped you in the face because Star Swirl’s medical guide says that you need to slap ponies in another sensitive spot in order for the pain to be offset by-“ By now, you have stuck your hoof into your wife’s mouth.

“I love you, Twi, but calm down.” You take away your hoof and she takes a few deep breaths.

“I know, I know, sorry.” She sighs at this. “Sorry about your, er… stallion-hood.”

“That’s alright, Twi,” you say. You lean your face towards hers and give her a quick peck on the cheek. “Thanks anyway.” She looks down at you, eyebrows arched as high as possible.

“Is that it?”

“Is that what?” you say innocently. “I thanked you for waking me up.”

“Not that! When did you get so courteous in your displays of affection? We aren’t out among the general populace now! You can be a bit more… passionate.”

“Oh. Umm… alright.” You lean back up and give her a quick kiss on the lips. Her eyes roll higher than the heavens.

“Oh for Celestia’s sake!” She grabs your head with both hooves and pulls it in tightly toward her. Your lips meet hers and she presses them as hard as she can. She twists your head a little, adding a little variety in the angle of the smooching. After a few seconds, you finally separate, if only because you were both running out of air.

“Oh, that kind of kissing! Please be more specific next time, dear!”

Not even a split-second later, a barrage of pillows meets your face. Guided by your wife’s expertise telekinetic magic, they pound you until you submit.

“Nopony likes a smart alek,” Twilight says as she rolls off of you onto her side of the bed. Despite the language, you can still see a smirk on her face as she slides off your belly.

“Then how do you explain our marriage?” The explanation consists of a bop on your nose, which the Princess quickly gives.

“All joking aside, what was up with you?” She looks at you with genuine concern, and without all the playfulness that was present the past few minutes.

“I don’t know. I was having a dream…”

“More like a nightmare. I’ve never seen a pony act the way you were acting outside of nightmares.”

“But… I’m not entirely sure it was a nightmare.”

“Was it unpleasant?”

“Well, yes, but-“

“Were you happy in it?”

“Not exactly, but-“

“Did it cause you significant distress to be in that lucid state?”

“A bit, yeah, but-“

“Then it’s a nightmare.”

“I don’t know…”

“Listen, honey,” she says, putting her hoof on yours. “I know you may just think it was an unpleasant dream, but please believe me when I say that nightmares are serious. They’ve been known to drive ponies mad, even just a few of them. I’d feel a lot better if we got somepony to look at you. Like…” Her eyes lit up like a Christmas tree. “Like Princess Luna! She’s coming by here tomorrow for brunch with Princess Celestia, and I’m sure she’d be more than happy to look at you. She absolutely adores those games of chess you play with her!”

“I don’t know, Twi…” As much as you enjoy Luna’s company, the idea of her analyzing your dreams with Freudian over interpretation was somewhat unnerving. She’d probably say the snake was an internal representation of his relationship with his father, and that the babymaker bash was a fear of castration...or something like that. But even more frightening was that she may try to cheat and learn how you do your chess moves. And if there was something nopony wanted to lose in Equestria, it was the ability to outsmart a Princess.

“Please, honey. If not for you, just do it for me.” You begin to protest, but then she does it.

The Face.

The one thing that nopony can resist, especially you.

The Face is an old technique her friend Rarity taught her years ago; although it was originally only meant to help convince stallions to pay for the bills on dates, Twilight had found it to be very effective in helping convince her male friends to do many… other things. And, being her husband, you were probably the bestest of her male friends, and therefore, often got the Face before those various… things.

Describing The Face is a lot like describing a house: It seems simple, but it actually takes a lot of effort to fully paint a picture. Basically, her chin quivers, her eyes go as wide as a puppy’s, and her lips pucker in a way only a true seductress can pucker them. The resulting combination results in a face not even Stoic the Stallion could resist, and not even Star Swirl could understand in decades of research.

“Oh, alright Twi,” you say, barely putting up a fight. “I’ll talk to Luna tomorrow.”

“Thanks, honey,” she says. She leans in and gives you a quick peck on the cheek. “I know you may find it trivial, but I just really don’t want anything bad to happen to you.”

“I understand, Smartypants.” She blushes a little at this. Though she had once had a toy with that name, it had gotten worn beyond repair a few years ago and had been banished to the basement of the castle. However, you had learned about her years ago and had decided that would be your pet name for Twilight. She claimed that it was ‘demeaning’ or ‘silly’, but she blushed every time you said it. She loved it, but that pride of being a princess was too much for her to say it aloud.

“Now, before you go to sleep...” you say as she starts to crawl under the sheets. “What if I need a cuddle buddy in order to properly sleep?”

“Cuddle...buddy?” she says, looking both confused and amused.

“Yeah, a cuddle buddy. You know, that special somepony who’ll make sure I don’t get too antsy while I'm sleeping.”

“Is that right?” She’s got a sly smile now.

“Oh yes, dear. After all…” You return her smile with yours. “...Star Swirl’s guide did say that after a traumatic event, a pony might need another pony to lie next to them and provide comfort…”

“Yeah, when they were suffering from hypothermia!”

“Well, you did leave the window open, and it’s getting kind of chilly....”

“Fine,” she says with mock exasperation. “I’ll help you stay warm, dear.” At this, she crawls toward you under the sheets. Opening your forelegs, you allow her to snuggle right onto your chest and put her forelegs across your body. She rubs her face in your chest as you adjust your head on the pillow.

“Mmm…” she moans. “...You’re pretty warm.”

“See? It’s already working.”

“I’ll say,” she says with a yawn. “The presence of two equine lifeforms is already causing a drop in our basal metabolic rate…” You shake your head.

“Only you could make falling asleep so dorky, Twilight.”

“SKRONK!” Twilight replied.

“Heh. Already fast asleep.” You lean down and kiss her on the head. “Goodnight, Twilight.”

“SKRONK!” she says again.

“You know, I’m starting to wonder how I even get to dream in the first place with this racket.”

“SKRONK!”

“Oh well,” you say with a shrug. You reach over with your right hoof and turn off the lamp that had been the sole light source for the room. You’re soon in pitch blackness, with only the wind from the windows and the snores of your wife making any sort of noise. You lay back on your pillow, careful not to disturb your wife’s head as you adjust yourself. But eventually, you’re flat on your back and in a good position.

As you lay there, feeling the minutes pass by before sleep inevitably retakes you, your mind wanders back to the dream. Twilight was right; it probably was nothing. Knowing what nightmares usually consist of, it was indeed a fairly tame nightmare, if it even was one. It had been uncomfortable, at least.

Ah, but who cares? The dream was over, and soon another (hopefully more pleasant) dream would take its place. Maybe one where you were relaxing on a beach on Horseback Lake. Or maybe one where you could fly, just like Twilight. Flying over the land, peering down at every pony and creature. Able to instantly travel to any town and city to have whatever adventure one could have in Equestria.

Or maybe one where your balls didn’t feel like they’d been washed in Satan’s bidet.

Yeah. That’d be a nice dream.

“SKRONK!”

A Nightmare Spirit is your Bed (Appletank)

A Nightmare Spirit is your Bed
Appletank

You slowly opened your eyes at the bright light streaming in from the window. It wasn’t daylight savings, so clearly it was already several hours past your normal. You force yourself to move your head and noticed you never set an alarm. You were contemplating calling in sick when your eyes glanced at your calendar and noticed it was a holiday.

Huh.

That’s nice. Perhaps this day wouldn’t be as bad as - oh, right.

Ponies. Goddammit. Oh dear, Monday has barely started and you’re already expecting them. Must be a new record. In a few months, your first word is going to be “Damn ponies” instead of “Damn Mondays.”

You groaned as your stomach reminded you that you are not a plant, and cannot run off of solar power. Welp, might as well make the most of your extra free day.

You kicked off the covers and stumble off it to start your early morning routine. Clothes, brushing your teeth, washing your face, etc.

After that, you went into your kitchen and looked inside the (somewhat charred) fridge. There wasn’t that much inside. Ponies tended to get home before you did, and they always seemed to forget that this was your home. And proceeded to steal your food.

Perhaps locks would be a good investment. No, that might not be obvious enough. Earth ponies might just kick it off, thinking that you forgot to unlock it. For them.

Yeah, no.

Giant locks then, and multiple signs pointing out that this was your house, your fridge, and most importantly, your house, dammit. Might put it down on the list of things to buy.

You decided upon a bit of leftover Panda and a fruit. You stare blankly at it. You don’t really recall buying just one peach. You sniffed it. Smelled fine. You left the leftovers on your table and brought the peach to a cutting board.

Pulling out a knife, you cut the peach in half.

OH GOD NOT AGAIN

You licked the juices off the blade. Tasted normal.

OWWWWW

You bit the peach. It tasted like a peach. Probably is a ... hmm. There’s a very slight tingle that reminds you of ... “Magic,” you snarled, biting savagely into the peach. You tossed the peach core into the trash while you finish off the rest, idly noting a sprout starting to grow out of it almost immediately. You weren’t exactly sure how many times that would work, but free food was always something worth researching. You finished off the leftovers and dump the trash for the rapidly growing miniature peach tree and walked off to investigate your bedroom.

You took a deep breath and opened the door. You sniffed the air. Yup, there definitely was a slight tingle now. Now that you thought about it, you realized that you never actually saw how these ponies appear. Do they just appear? Do they slowly fade in like the teleporters in Star Trek? Was there a big flash of light? Do they fall through a portal?

Was that big black splotch on your bed yesterday?

You move towards the bed and knelt. At this range, you could easily see that somehow, the fibers that made up your blankets had turned pitch black. You carefully poked it with a finger and ... yup. Magic. You stood back up. This investigation requires, “... Food.”

Several minutes later, you managed to find some bread and made a sandwich. You pulled up a fold out chair and sat in front of your bed, staring at it. You turned your computer to face you as you waited to see what would happen to your bed. As it turns out, not much.

The big black splotch did get bigger though.

Since this was a Monday you weren’t taking any chances. Noon passed, and nearly the entire bed was black. The headboard also seemed to be a bit bluer.

Curious.

You waited some more.

“Bluh?” You jerked awake. Watching a bed for hours on end was pretty damn boring. Who da thunk? You looked down at the bottle in your grip. A few hours earlier, you had decided that getting tipsy was a reasonable path of action when expecting another pony invasion.

You looked back at the bed in the dimming light. The bed was noticeably smaller, and the headboard was definitely waving in an invisible breeze now. You took another sip from your bottle.

Pop!

What?

Right before your eyes, the bed shrunk into itself, leaving a small, smoky blob with ethereal hair the color of a stormy night sky. It darted to the window, tiny eyes peering out. “Is this still Equestria?” you heard it mutter, apparently not noticing you. “Am I truly free of that accursed place?”

“Probably,” you said as the shadow spun in surprise, its woah slitted eyes widening. “My bed is apparently a portal, and ponies from that place keep ending up here.” Annnd now it darted into the shadows underneath the window, shivering in fear. Never knew you were that scary.

“Who... who are you?!” it squeaked.

You gestured to the room. “This is my house. I live here. I would like to know why you’re here.”

“Sorry!” it squeaked. Slight glimmers of light formed on the edges of its eyes.

You sighed. “Its fine. I’m not angry. In fact, you’re one of the most polite visitors I’ve had all ... “ You thought for a moment. “Actually, there weren’t any. Yay for that, I guess.” You waved at the ground beside you. “Come, come. Sit. You hungry? I got a peach.” Turns out, it did regenerate new peaches. Nifty.

I HATE ALL OF YOU. F███ YOU, YOU, AND ESPECIALLY THAT ███████ PEACH DEFILING P█████ P███ OF S███!

Pretty tasty, too.

The cloud slowly floated over and joined me. I handed the peach over to it, who gratefully accepted it and M█████F████! consumed it (somehow) with gusto.

“So... uh, I never got your name.”

“I ... I don’t have a name.” It curled up, rolling the peach core between its tendrils. “I’m just a Nightmare spirit. Nopony likes things like me.”

“Aww, don’t be like that., you said, attempting to pat its head but failing. “I’ll call you ... Melodia. How does that sound?”

She smiled (you think) “Melodia... I like it. Thank you.”

“No problem. So. From the sounds of it, you’re on the run?”

She nodded. Or bobbed. “I ... think the Elements were after me.”

“Well, unless they all appear at once, which pretty much never happens, and they were all looking for you at that moment, you should be pretty safe here. Do you need a place to hide?”

“Um...” Melodia blushed. “Can I ... room in with you? In your head? I promise I won’t break anything,” she added quickly. “Its just that light and me don’t go together very well.”

“Huh,” you said. “Can’t get any worse. Besides, sounds interesting. What do I need to do?”

“Nothing, just don’t push me out, ok?” She floated up at you, and you had to resist recoiling as she surrounded your face and ... disappeared?

“Hello?” you asked.

“Hi!”

You jerked in your seat. “Whoa, that’s weird,” you said. poking your head.

“Sorry! I’ll stop - “

“Pff, its fine,” you said, standing up. “I have a pretty high tolerance for weirdness. (In fact, the first one who apologized and actually meant it) I just heard some stories, and want to see if I look any different.”

You walk to your bathroom and ... woah, sparkly hair. Slitted eyes. And you haven’t even turned on the bathroom light. You could get used to this. Other people though ...

”Do you want me to tone it down a bit?

“You can hear my thoughts?”

”Just the surface ones. I promise not to dig into your memories.”

“Sure.” You felt her focus, and the magic slowly pulls back. You also felt a little heavier, clumsier. “Huh. Did you give me a power boost?”

”Y-yeah. Its an all around increase to your strength.”

“Pretty cool. There’s no one home but us, so you don’t have to hold back for now.”

She giggled. “Thanks. Haven’t heard nice things in so long ... ”

“No problem,” you said, noting how easier it was to jump higher. “We’re pretty much roommates now. Any nifty tricks you got up your sleeve?”

”Well ... I can teach you magic.”

“....Sweeeet.”

aaaaaAAAAHHHH! WHY WON’T I DIE, DAMMIT? STUPID TREE. YOU MAKE MY LIFE SHIT.

One week later

And what a week it was. Between the two of you, you were able to stave off the normally crushing boredom and/or shitty customers. Even if there was nothing overt she could do, like pranking someone, having someone who wasn’t an asshole to talk to made the shift pass by like a blur instead of going backwards in time. Melodia also could pop into your dreams with ease, allowing you to pretty much lucid dream whenever the hell you wanted.

And magic? You never knew how you could have gone for so long without it. Half the time you found that you didn’t need a car anymore. With a bit of audio/video illusions, you made a bicycle look and sound like a motorcycle, and with magic greatly enhancing your muscles, pedal fast enough to keep up the guise.

A second pair of eyes helped whenever your boss was lurking around the corner ready to spring more “unofficial” work on you. A quick step or a flash of magic, and it was as if you were never there. Want to give you more work? Should’ve asked when you were still on the shift, sucker!

And best of all, aside from all the magical boosts you got, you finally had a friend you could chat with whatever you want. Made your shitty apartment not so empty, contrary to what an onlooker might think. Even the missing bed wasn’t a problem after she morphed from it. She could easily conjure a bed out of magic. So yeah, she was basically hugging you as you slept.

Really nice.

For once, a workday on a Monday wasn’t as bad as the past months. You shot back home pedaling a bike at 50 miles an hour after grabbing to-go from Panda. Melodia helpfully floated it inside your “bike’s compartment,” until you got home. As you skidded to a stop, you noted that your aggressive riding may require you to buy new brakes and tires soon.

Oh well, that was for the future. In the meantime, you locked it up, dispelled the illusion (making sure no one was watching, of course) and walked into your apartment. You grabbed a peach from the tree still growing from the trashcan,

AAARRGGGGGGHHHH

and slid into your battered table for dinner. You didn’t have any plans, so you simply enjoyed the rest of the day with your headmate, watching TV or browsing the internet.

At the end of the day, the two of you agreed to sleep, and you happily flopped into the air before the bed was even constructed.

“Hey, be careful!” she said. ”I don’t want to accidentally drop you.”

“I’m not afraid of that,” you said happily. “I trust your skills.”

You felt her smile. ”Oh, t-thank-”

A flash of light at the bottom of your bed cut her off and derailed your train of thought. A stab of horror went through your veins. You forgot today was pony day, and you didn’t remind Melodia to hide the magic that was visibly leaking out of you.

And what luck, before you could register six mares standing there, you heard “Right there! Hit it!” and was hit by a wall of rainbows. Melodia, NO!

You blink.

Above your head was a curved dome of white. Beneath you was this pink, squishy mass with all these lumps and --

Oh. This was the inside of your skull. Somehow.

Across from you was Melodia, and she was slowly disintegrating before your eyes. Your eyes widen in horror, and you dash to her. Strangely, she wasn’t just a cloud, but standing here as a tall, regal mare. “Melodia!” you shouted. “How are you feeling?” There was just a hint of fear in your voice.

She ignored your question and slowly cupped your cheek with a hoof. “...Thank you for the best week of my life.”

“W-what? Nonsense. There will be plenty of weeks after this. I can get you back, just --”

“Shh,” she said, blocking my mouth. “They got me. Nothing more either of us can do.”

Tears formed on both of you two’s eyes, though yours was full of horror, and hers of happiness.

She leaned into you and wrapped her hooves around your neck even as her lower body faded away. “It’s alright. Most of us just ran around, terrorizing others and living in constant fear. Just being nice for me was all you needed to do. She let out a happy, resigned sigh as she snuggled into your shoulder. “I always wanted to do this,” she whispered into your ear. “Thank you for everything, friend.”

Then the light faded away. Your room greeted your weary eyes with cleanliness. Your laundry was properly folded, the clothes in your closet were in even, straight lines, and even all the junk on your computer table was organized. A quick glance at the floor told you that even that was polished to a shine.

You slowly sat up in your hotel-grade made bed, and never felt lonelier.

The next morning, as you stumbled out of your bedroom feeling worse than a sack of bricks, you stared at the slowly pooling mass of blood coating your floor. With a few sideways steps, you found that it was leaking from the peach tree. Or the former peach tree.

A dried stalk was what was left of the once magic tree, and instead of a peach, a bald, scarred head of a rather pissed off dude hung from the branches by his neck as blood slowly dribbled up his face.

“Kill me,” he whispered.

You decided to call in sick today

Does she survive through a lucky roll of fate, or is she lost forever into the darkness of memory? What do you think?

Author's Notes:

Do you recognize the who that peach is? Well, I ain’t telling you. Its all Obs’s and Blueshift’s fault. Go ask Biscuit if you really want to know.

Any similarities with other people’s plot lines is not entirely coincidental. Sorry.

Pinkamena is Violently Stabbing Your Bed (Maxes Altho)

Pinkamena is Viloently Stabbing Your Bed
Maxes Altho

Monday.

A low point for most, absolute hell for you.

Ever since a small purple horned equine stole your Playboys, you’ve spent every waking Monday not dreading the coming week, but dreading what new pony will be unceremoniously dropped into your bed, and just how much damage said pony will cause.

You’re standing outside your home. Nothing out of the ordinary yet. You insert your key into the lock, send a silent prayer to whatever god, deity, or ancient being of the Abyss that will listen, and enter your house.

You are hit with a wave of warmth as you enter. You investigate, and find your oven working. That considerably lessens what ponies may be in your bed. The Cakes, Bon Bon, Donut Joe, to name a few. You glance into the oven, and see cupcake tins- you didn’t even know you had cupcake tins- full of slowly-rising dough. Okay, must be Pinkie this time. No one loves cupcakes as much as her.

You ready yourself for another night of crazy when something makes you pause. Your cutlery drawer is open, and all of your sharp knives are gone. Now nervous, you ascend the stairs to your bedroom.

You cautiously open the door to your room, and behold a bed’s worst nightmare.

Your pillows have been ripped open, every feather meticulously pinned to your walls. The sheets are hanging in strips from your ceiling fan. Bedsprings and bits of the mattress litter the floor. And there’s a certain pink pony wielding a knife, plunging it over and over into your bed.

Oh shit. This isn’t Pinkie Pie. What gave it away? Oh, it might have been the hair, flat as a board, or the manic look in her eyes, or maybe the apron that says “My Friends Make the Best Cupcakes!”. This is Pinkamena, the fan-made serial killer.

She turns as you stand there, and a spark comes into her eyes. She moves to your desk, and offers you another cupcake tin. “Cupcake? Its bed flavored!”

“Nope. Nope nope nope nope nope.” You back out, giving her the full double-finger salute.

You continue your nope’s as you go down the stairs, through your living room, and out the door.

You don’t stop the nope until you are about a block away from your house. Maybe I should just check into a hotel tonight.

Lyra and Bon Bon Are in Your Bed, and You Need New Sheets (Marcibel)

Lyra and Bon Bon Are in Your Bed, and You Now Need New Sheets
Marcibel

You have always considered yourself a sane man. You keep yourself daily from using a sharpened pencil to make little peepholes to your bosses' brains, from placing a homemade explosive underneath Jerry's desk so he'll have a little surprise when he comes back from kissing the bosses' asses, and from deep-throating the muzzle of a pistol. Gods, the Fates, or whatever the hell your sadistic marionette is, they have pulled you through some nasty crap, and no matter how soiled you may be, you always seem to hang on.

However, that was before those ponies started paying you a visit just about every Monday night (with the occasional week off, which you believe with body and soul is the time they use to plan out what kind of screwed-up stuff happens to you next). Since it all began, you could practically feel the ropes of your sanity slipping away, dying as you experience pony after pony (with a surprise every so often) invade your bed.

And that's another thing—why your bed? Of all the things they could burn, disturb, banish to another realm, why your bed? It's the only place you can get decent peace, falling asleep in the arms of Jack Daniels and Jim Beam (aside from whenever you take the two on the couch and pass out watching Bea Arthur as "Maude" at two in the morning). Why couldn't they have destroyed your workplace—or, better yet, Jerry's bed? But, no! They had come here, and ruin your life!

It eventually comes to the point where you just expect company every time you come home from work. You no longer accept friends coming over on Mondays, and your current relationship is with a collection of magazines gradually growing to its former glory. At least they don't get angry whenever you look at another woman.

It is on such a Monday that you walk inside with the same walk: shoulders slack, dragging your feet, crushed cookie in pocket with some ridiculous "fortune" instead of the green and blue rupees you subconsciously pray for. You toss your bag wherever, and drudge into the kitchen to seek comfort in a Bud since you still haven't restocked your liquor cabinet after last week's "visitor." Honestly, she was more like an alcohol-seeking missile than a pony.

You drink the entire can, and reach inside the fridge to fish out another. Pop, hiss, chug; the pattern repeats twice more until you have a nice buzz, and you move to the bedroom to face whatever hell hath rained upon you. You don't even knock; after all, it is your house. You just barge right in, drinking from the can.

And it was a grave mistake.

Sure, there is a pony in your bed, and she is a familiar one. She is a mint green Unicorn, with short, spearmint green and white hair. Her eyes are closed, and her head rests against the headboard. A blush tickles her cheeks, and suppressed moans and pleasured sighs rolls off the horse tongue hanging out her mouth. You hear some sounds coming from underneath the blanket over her, where a pony-shaped bump is lightly bobbing its head. Little bits of a blue-and-pink tail poke out from underneath the covers.

But it was all a very brief sight; almost as soon as you come in, the Unicorn sits up, her eyes shooting open, and her mouth transforming into a horrified frown. The lump stops immediately, and you do a spit-take like an idiot, wasting good beer.

For a minute, the only things that moved are the hands on a clock on the wall. Horny stares at you with wide eyes, and you give her a glare that practically drills a hole into her brain. Your mouth is the first to decide that it is capable of forming words and thoughts.

"Grla—!"

Or not. Your brain facepalms at your mouth's incompetence, and in lieu of whatever words you were about to make, Lyra starts defending herself.

"I-I'm so sorry! I d-didn't know you were going to be home so early!"

"It's six o'clock! When do you think I was coming home?!" you shout, throwing your arms up and spilling some of your drink on your hand.

"I don't know…seven? We probably would've been exhausted by then."

Dealing with Lyra again is giving you a migraine, and you turn to the lump. "You, clam fan, please come out and tell me that you have more sense than your little piece of taffy here."

There is a slight hesitation as the pony uses his hoof to uncover himself, only to reveal that was it actually a mare instead of a stallion. It isn't until she wipes her beige mouth that the little detail of the pony's gender triggers in your half-drunk mind.

"Y-You're a chick!"

"No, I'm a pony," she deadpans.

You ignore the mare's answer. Your brain is too busy putting two and two together, which takes a minute or two. No wonder you had to attend first grade three times.

"You're a lesbian!" you shout loudly.

She sighs. "A fillyfooler, yes."

You stare blankly at the mare, who turns her head away from your gaze and blushes profoundly. Her hair was a graceful combination of the colors of blueberries and bubblegum, shining in the orange sunlight pouring from the window. Her yellowish coat was darkened from the shadow of the blanket, and the scent of sour apples flowed from her lips.

A set of hooves clapping pull back your drifting mind, and you look to Lyra with her hooves in the air. "Listen, can we have maybe five minutes to finish things?"

"What? Hell no!"

"But I was so close!" she whines, shuffling her back legs.

"No! What is wrong with you? Do you get off on doing it in someone else's bed?"

"Well, yeah," Lyra answers casually, "and it's not just beds. It's also couches, kitchen tables, camping tents…."

"We've even done it on a park bench during the daytime," Bon Bon added. "That was the only other time we've been caught in the act."

Lyra shook her head. "Poor Berry Pinch has never been the same since."

"What about Berry Punch kicking our flanks when she found out what her daughter saw? I didn't even know she could fight like that!"

"Apparently she was in prison in Fillydelphia for about a year before returning to Ponyville."

"Really? What was she in for?"

"I think she stabbed somepony during a fight."

"Remind me again why we're friends with her."

"Were friends with, actually," Lyra corrected, "and probably because we all have different rumors about us, like you being mistaken a changeling, Berry being misconstrued as the town drunk, or me mistaken for a human-hunter." For some reason, she looks at you. "You know, it really hurts ponies' feelings when atrocious gossip like that gets around."

Bon Bon nods. "Yes, just because my voice changes doesn't mean I'm a changeling. In fact, I have a small talent in voice-acting."

"And I have an interest in all sorts of supernatural and other-worldly things; still doesn't mean I get wet whenever I see a finger." Bon Bon donned a coy smile as a small rustle of a hoof moved amongst the sheets, and Lyra's entire body jerked. "Oh, but that hoof, though," she moaned.

Seeing as the train of conversation had not only derailed, but did so in a way that it had jumped onto a whole other set of tracks, you clear your throat as loudly as you can. Both mares look at you, their grins disappearing into frowns.

"First," you say calmly, holding up a finger, "I want all hooves out from under the covers, and tails tucked tightly between your legs. Got it?"

They answer your question by throwing off the cover and revealing all eight hooves, with tails in the place you asked.

"Good, now get out of bed."

They simultaneously climb out of your bed.

"Now, get the hell out of my house."

Bon Bon and Lyra give each other a confused look.

"But it isn't our time yet," Lyra states.

"What the hell are you talking about?" you ask.

"We can't go until it is our time to go," Lyra explains. "Look, I can't really say much more without ruining it, but the bottom line is that we won't be gone until it's time."

"And when will this be?" you ask through clenched teeth.

"At seven."

"Fine. Now go downstairs, and wait for me there," you demand.

Both mares nod and follow your instructions, trotting out of the bedroom and toward the kitchen. You don't even turn; you instead stare at a large stain in the middle of your bed. You begin pulling off the cloth, crumpling it into a ball as you go, and you toss it off to the side.

Great, now I'm going to need new sheets.

You begin to realize just how much "new" stuff you've been needing to buy lately. These ponies are determined to break me, one way or another, aren't they? I've bought a few mattresses, bed sets, windows, house repairs…

A sultry moan from the kitchen bring you back, and you turn to the doorway.

"Son of a bitch," you growl. And just as the words came from your mouth, you feel something flowing from your nose. Two fingers to your upper lip tell you that your nose is bleeding.

Wow, they finally did it. They finally gave me an aneurysm out of sheer stupidity.

And you fall, passing out on the floor.

Author's Notes:

Princess Celestia Tries To Lower The Sun From Your Bed (michaelb958)

Princess Celestia Tries To Lower The Sun From Your Bed
michaelb958

By the time you finish with work, the day is on its way home for the night and you’re tired enough to just go to bed and sleep for a week. Something at the back of your mind tells you that you probably shouldn't, but it does so in such a way that you feel comfortable ignoring it.
You pull into your driveway, feeling so exhausted that, had the identical symptoms been due to alcohol rather than exhaustion, the police car from three blocks ago would have snagged the drunk-driver bust of its career. The house appears to be in its usual state of untidiness, and a pleasant smoky aroma wafts through the air as you move towards the kitchen. You glance down the hallway to your bedroom as you pass: There’s smoke emanating from the door. Nothing unusual there, then.

You step into the kitchen, having decided to listen to the naysaying voice at the back of your mind and not go directly to bed, and make straight for the fridge. You’re just opening a bottle of sweet, beer-y goodness (full-strength after the horrors of today) when the exhausted neuron soup in your head remembers that smoke isn’t a normal thing in a house. It’s the fastest train of thought all afternoon: smoke → fire → danger → damage to bed.

You’re briefly torn over whether to let the bed burn. Something tells you it’s been an unsolvable problem.
In a fit of genius, the neuron soup postulates that fire probably won’t solve it, either, and you’d better do something about it while it’s containable and your house is still intact.

You scramble for the fire extinguisher (how many this year? third? fourth? worse…?) and stupidly prepare to charge into your room. In your defense, you were exhausted. Upon the completion of said charge, you discover that nothing is on fire, and the smoke is emanating from a thoroughly annoyed Princess Celestia.

The naysaying voice drowning in neuron soup gasps out its last words: I told you so!

“Oh yes,” she forces out through gritted teeth. “Twilight told me about you.”

You notice that her horn is glowing brightly enough to rival the sunset. “Exactly what the hell are you trying to do?”

“What is hell?”

“...” >:( “Let me try again. What are you trying to do in my bed?”

“Lower the sun. It is the time for such endeavours. Or so I thought.”

For once, the neuron soup decides on a practical response. “Shouldn’t you be back in Equestria doing that.”

“Lulu will do just fine at that, I assure you. However, I worry about this world. How long has it been day here?”

You consider trying to find a basic astronomy book in what’s left of your collection. “Our sun lowers itself.”
The princess dispenses a look that long experience with pony facial expressions tells you is (heavily armoured) slight disbelief.

“And raises itself too.”

The princess dispenses a look of open disbelief. “How is that possible?”

“Look, you know how the moon works?”

“...Yes?”

“Stay put. Don’t move. Don’t try any funny business. I’m tired of ponies trying funny business.” You drop the unopened fire extinguisher, return to your severely depleted book collection in your living room, and after about two minutes of searching discover a poster of the solar system trying to hide amongst them. It’ll do. Somehow resisting the urge to smother yourself with the poster (you later wished you had; it would have saved you significant trouble), you return to your bedroom, where Princess Statue-lestia doesn’t seem to have moved at all (hallelujah, finally a cooperative one!), to begin your lesson in second-grade astrophysics.

Unrolling the poster, you indicate the moon. “The moon orbits the earth.”

“Orbits?”

You roll your eyes; how could a being named Celestia be so ignorant of celestial mechanics? “Hangs up there in space.”

“Yes, the moon and the sun both do that.” She sounds sarcastic, as if her next sentence would be “would you like a medal?”.

“No, no, not here,” you interrupt. Trying to steamroll any half-baked counter-arguments, you immediately and forcefully continue “here, the earth orbits the sun”.

If Celestia was disbelieving before, she’s now downright incredulous. “The earth is at the center of everything!”

This is an affront to all of your sensibilities; after all, you’re at the center of everything. Everything pony-related, anyway. You decide enough’s enough, and start messing with her. “Yeah, it used to be, but about five hundred years ago that got boring, so we changed it.”
“A being of such power existed? Where and when, pray tell, shall I be able to conference with them?”

She looks hopeful. You almost feel bad for bursting her hope balloon. “They died. Nobody knows where they’re buried.”

In response, the Princess of the Day simmered down, stood, stepped off your bed, and walked over to the “homeopathic therapy” poster.

Step 1: Bang your head on this spot.

It should be noted at this point that banging one’s head into a wall (or desk, whichever was more convenient) was a common pastime of earth ponies and pegasi across the land. The last time Celestia had been that frustrated, she was still a pegasus (pre-ascension), and thus it had worked. Unfortunately, horn ivory tends to get in the way. She ended up destroying the poster, knocking a fair-sized hole in the wall, and getting the tip of her horn stuck halfway through a wooden beam that had been in just the right spot behind the plasterboard.

Step 2: Repeat until problems gone.

This step proved more difficult for the princess - it seemed at this point that attempts to repeat Step 1 would just create more problems.
With Celestia temporarily held captive by her own frustration (and lack of familiarity with accidentally impaling things), you knew just what to do to get your own back on these stupid ponies who kept turning up on your stupid bed. You picked up the fire extinguisher from where you’d dropped it on the way to get the poster, and blasted the Princess of the Day with whatever the hell they put in fire extinguishers.

Step 3: Profit.

That was an expensive fire extinguisher.

Still totally worth it.

Flim and Flam are Trying to Sell Repairs for Your Bed (whizzball1)

Flim and Flam are Trying to Sell Repairs for Your Bed
whizzball1

You rode home with a peculiar sense of serenity for a Monday. Besides the imminent nuisance of the ponies in your bed, today had been rather simple. Not so repetitive that it was tiring, now, but neither were there any irritated customers with you. Some were in a hurry, certainly, but not angry.

So you drove home, not tired, not angry, just calm. And hopefully ready for whatever the ponies threw at you this time. You entered your house, seeing nothing out of place in your kitchen or living room, and no ponies hiding with magic or otherwise, either. All calm.

Spurred on by the wonderful lack of anything out of the ordinary, you strode into your bedroom and immediately tripped over a piece of your headboard. Miraculously, you landed in a circle of the room that was not littered with pieces of your bed.

Wait. Pieces of your bed?

You ignored the fact that Flim and Flam had just levitated the pieces away to save you from a terrible fall and instead focused on the fact that your room was littered in pieces of your bed. There was a notable lack of bed where it should be, instead replaced with more pieces of bed. Also, there was quite a lot of stuffing and some springs scattered about.

Next, you noticed the main source of the stuffing: a white cat who you recognised as Rarity’s, ripping apart your pillows. For some reason there was quite a lot more stuffing scattered about than you had in your pillows. You chalked it up to cats being cats.[1]

[1]: Not to say you didn't like cats. That was just what they did.

Finally, as they stepped out of the closet, you turned your gaze to the two salesponies, who you were unpleasantly acquainted with when they had tried to sell you your bed and did in fact sell your bed. Multiple times. At least they were warm.

“You’re quite lucky we got rid of all those pieces in time to save you from a nasty fall?” Flam, the one with the moustache asked.

“What you are also lucky of is the fact that we found your bed--” Flim continued, pointing to the various pieces of your bed.

“--and we know how to repair it!” Flam took two small pieces of the bed and fused them together. It was clear that they fit. However, rather than thinking about the possibility that your bed could be fixed, you instead allowed yourself to dissolve into an incoherent babbling fool.

Well, you held the last two in dispute.

Your eyes darted around the room faster and faster, taking in the mess that was once your bed. “Pfftblrgle,” you finally let out.

“Yes, it is quite the mess,” Flim responded.

“Ptchlklirgir.” Your incoherent mumbles, you later reflected, did not seem like the normal kind of thing that would escape from someone’s mouth, no matter whether they were incoherent, babbling, a fool, or any combination thereof. You would chalk that up to cats being cats as well, not having the resolve to come up with a better reason.

Finally, you came to your senses and glared at the two ponies. “Let me guess. You destroyed my bed and now you’re trying to sell me repairs for a tonne of money.” That was probably literal, considering the coins were made out of gold. What was a tonne? 2000 kilograms? Okay, maybe not a tonne, but close enough.

The brothers were genuinely shocked by the accusation, and it showed in their faces. They were con artists, and maybe thieves every now and then, but they did not destroy property. “We would never!” Flim exclaimed, nearly indignantly.

“We have no idea who could have done this,” Flam added.

“Well, other than the cat as the culprit for your unfortunate pillows,” Flim finished. They weren’t sure if they could fix those, but they weren’t about to say that out loud.

A blonde-maned, dark orange-coated earth mare with pink earrings stepped out of the closet. “It was I, Mr. the Human,” she said, gruffly.

“Why?!” you asked, your eye twitching. You felt like you recognised how she called you. Something having to do with the Equestria Games.

“Well, Mr. the Human, I arrived here by some mysterious influence not of my knowing. Seeing as I was not going to find out how any time soon, I set to make some good work out of it. Recognising your house and bed, Mr. the Human, I inspected the latter to see if you had improved it since my last inspection.”

Ah, yes. Mrs. Harshwhinny, who had previously reviewed your bed and deemed it entirely unsuitable for hosting the Equestria Games. “While the Savior of the Universe print was an improvement from its last state, it was not any less unsuitable for hosting the Games.

“I decided to increase the area of the bed to judge it from there. However, lacking the presence of any capable unicorns, I resorted to more unconventional methods.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Like?”

“As any rational earth pony would do, I extended my back legs very quickly against the bed, an action colloquially known as bucking, causing it to break apart into many pieces, which then extended the total area covered by the bed to your whole room. However, it was still not nearly large enough, and was in fact less suitable than before.”

There was a silence, and even Opalescence stopped ripping up the pillow. You began to stutter, thoroughly startled by the idiocy of the act. You realised, however, that it was probably the universe twisting what would normally be a more rational mind into… Whatever possessed her to do that.

“Speak clearly, Mr. the Human,” Mrs. Harshwhinny scolded, her disapproving frown turning into a scowl.

You continued to stutter.

Mrs. Harshwhinny’s scowl deepened.

“Beg pardon,” Flim said, to Mrs. Harshwhinny. “We don’t mean to be rude, but that was--”

“--a highly irrational course of action,” Flam finished, waving his hoof dismissively.

“It certainly seemed quite rational,” Mrs. Harshwhinny scoffed, waving her hoof at the mess of debris, before her face fell slightly. “However, in professional retrospect, that action was in fact entirely unsuitable for a potential hoster of the Equestria Games.”

You continued to stutter.

“In order to once again better judge the qualifications of the candidate, I will be acquiring your services, Misters…”

Their eyes lit up. “He’s Flim--”

“He’s Flam--”

“And we’re the world famous Flim Flam brothers!”

“Yes. I will be acquiring your services, Mr. the Brothers.”

“Seriously?” you managed to ask, before returning to your stuttering. Mrs. Harshwhinny ignored you and your entirely unprofessional behaviour.

Flim and Flam repressed a joint roll of the eyes and scrutinised the damage. “Yes, that will be 500 bits.” That was as much as they had charged you for your bed. The rationality was just enough to snap you out of your stupor once you had processed it.

“Then begin, quickly. I will not be kept waiting any longer than is necessary. The bed must be judged.”

Suddenly, Rarity jumped out of the closet, startling everypony. “Wait just one minute!” You realised that she had just come out of the same closet that Mrs. Harshwhinny and the Flim Flam brothers had come out of. And you happened to know that while it was a walk-in closet, it was not very big. At all. Whatsoever.

Upon the realisation that four ponies had been in your closet all at once at some point in time, you immediately began stuttering again, your expression going blank. Opalescence curiously peered into the closet, confused as well from the new development. It was still too small for so many ponies. She, however, being the temperamental cat that she was, was altogether more interested in ripping up pillows endlessly than apparent spatial distortions.

You continued to stutter.

“I, Rarity, will help with this endeavour, free of charge!” Rarity exclaimed, with a flourish of her hoof. “Surely, with my expert skills in style, I will make this bed into the most suitable host of the Equestria Games ever!” And with that, they set to work recreating your bed.

Flim and Flam began reassembling the bed, fusing parts together as Rarity utilised her cat to inexplicably generate more parts. She colour-coordinated the wood and softer parts, while also making the mattress, bedsheets, and pillows much softer. Flim and Flam, with Rarity’s help, made the wood look and feel much smoother, along with making it more fancy and adding a few bells and whistles.

At some point (you didn’t remember exactly when, since you were locked in a stupor), Discord stepped out of the closet as well, providing multiple spatial distortions and other chaotic touches. Finally, by the time they were done, they had somehow converted what was originally a small, mundane bed into a larger, much more comfortable, and very stylish bed that also contained an entire stadium in a slide-out drawer under it.

It apparently also magically produced food, could change colours, provide reading material, and multiple other useful touches. Long story short: It was the best bed you had ever seen.

So, finally, you snapped out of your incoherent state and instead began gawking. After a few more moments, you made a jump for the bed, but Rarity caught you in a telekinetic field, magically switched your clothes into something much cleaner, which she then changed into something much more stylish, before depositing you on the bed.

It was amazing. You, unfortunately, had no other thoughts on the matter, because you were too busy getting your mind blown by the amazingness to be very verbose about it. You rolled around on the bed in a very unprofessional expression of glee, taking in the incredible softness.

“An exemplary production,” Mrs. Harshwhinny said, dryly. She began inspecting the bed, and the ponies (and cat and draconequus) involved in the creation of the bed grew nervous about whether it would be accepted or not. After some minutes, the examiner finally moved away from the bed and looked at each of them.

“I deem this bed… 100% suitable for hosting the Equestria Games!” she exclaimed, professionally. “It is big enough to hold the expected turnout and the different games, contains multiple magical vomitoriums to accommodate the influx, and is fully equipped, magical or otherwise, in all required venues and services.

“However, that was in fact only the entrance exam. Two years of the Equestria Games have been booked already. You will have to apply again at a later date.”

“But I never applied in the first--”

You were professionally ignored and interrupted by Mrs. Harshwhinny, who continued. “Therefore, this bed has no more use.” Before anypony could stop her, she extended her legs quickly against the back of the bed. Rarity shrieked in despair at the imminent destruction of the bed. But the bed did not break.

Instead, the spatial distortions collapsed, causing the stadium and all new mechanisms of the bed to wink out of existence. The bed collapsed back into its original size. You, however, continued to roll around on the bed until you suddenly fell off over an edge that was not supposed to be there.

You stood up and rubbed your head. “What happened?” Your eyes widened as you realised your bed wasn’t large any more. Thankfully, it was still colour-coordinated and just as soft, seeing as you had kept rolling even when the bed had collapsed into itself. “My bed…” You looked up, hopefully. “Could you all--” But they disappeared in a flash. It seems their time was up already. Drat.

Well, at least you had a better bed.

A Red and Black Alicorn OC Has Taken Over Your Bed (moviemaster8510)

A Red and Black Alicorn OC Has Taken Over Your Bed
moviemaster8510

Today couldn’t have gone any better.

With it being as dead at work as it was, your manager found it in his heart to let you off early. To think, you can actually go to bed before 11 tonight and sleep in through the morning! Tomorrow is going to be the best day ever, and all that separated you from it was a good night’s rest on your bed.

However, as you step in through the doors, you find yourself greeted by a most abhorrent sight: A big, black alicorn with really shitty-looking red stripes and a black-and-crimson striped mane was lying on your bed, his poorly-colored legs sprawled out to the corners and not giving you any room for yourself. Not that you would allow this abomination of imagination to be on your bed in the first place.

“Hey!” you shout. “What the hell are you doing in my bed?”

“fuk u faget,” he says. “this iz my bed nao.”

This creature literally sounds like an Xbox Live squeaker (down to the tinny, headset microphone sound), and it’s making your ear’s bleed redder than his mane.

“Shut up and get out of my house!” you demand.

“no, btich,” he screeches once again. “this bed is nao propty of Fangclaw Thundersword. no plebs aloud!”

“That’s it. I’m going to blast your candy-ass once and for all right now!”

You stuck your thumb down and it began to glow red, suddenly blasting out at him and knocking him against your wall. Though clearly disoriented, he rolls onto his hooves and faces you with pure vindication.

“stupid h8er!” he screamed. “i wont be stoped by teh leiks of u! just wach!”

With a glow of his horn and a flash of light, Rainbow Dash appeared beneath him on your bed, looking enamored and gushy.

“o fangclaq,” she moaned. “your 20% kooler than all teh other pone ever and i want to mary u!”

“Dear God!” you scream. “He’s shipping himself with Rainbow Dash and making it so she can’t even English!”

“thts right bby,” he sweetly responded as well as a five-year old kid who’s never seen a woman naked could, “come 2 me.

They began to make out on your bed, their saliva running off their faces and soaking your sheets. As stupid as this alicorn was acting, his plan worked, and you run to the bathroom and empty your dinner from earlier into the toilet.

“No,” you growl. “Nopony makes me throw up in my house and gets away with it.”

Grabbing your phone, you frantically dial and wait for the person on the other line to answer.

“Hello?” he finally asks.

“We have a live one…”

I walk back to my room and kick the door down, sporting a shit-eating grin on my face as both he and the bastardized Rainbow Dash jolt up in shock.

“kwit being a haterz!” Talonfang-or-whatever-the-hell-he-calls-himself barks. “do i need 2 block u?”

“No need to,” you reply, “because the cavalry is here!”

Suddenly, a large metallic hand rips off the entire roof over your room, revealing Optimus Prime on fire, looking down at Rainbow Dash and Thunder F- (you know what, I’m just going to call him the OC) the OC looked up to him with fear.

“You have chosen…” the machine says in a deafening metallic voice, forming a thumbs down with his hand, “…poorly!”

The hand glowed red and decimated the rest of your bedroom, somehow blasting you safely into the upstairs hallway. Getting up and looking at the ruined half of what was your house, you see no sign of your bed among the wreckage.

“Well, looks like I’m not going to bed tonight,” you say acceptingly, “but at least we got rid of that–”

“TAHTS IT!!!1” the OC screams, flying up from out of the wreckage and in between you and Optimus Prime. “YOUR ALL GONG 2 DIEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!”

“No can do, sonny,” an insanely familiar voice.

The OC turned, and before he could even register who was talking to him, a large wooden stick flew out and smacked him square on the forehead beside his horn. Almost as if by magic, the alicorn was rendered lifeless as a black line appeared down his body and fell down into the wreckage. Both you and Optimus turn to face your saviors to see Nicolas Cage in a black jacket and white buttoned shirt and a man with a Latias head in a red shirt and loose tie standing in the street.

You smile back and give them a thumbs up, and with a kindly salute, the two of them begin to walk away, but not before the Latias-headed man snaps his fingers. With a surprisingly muted popping sound, your house and room were back to 100% normal, and your bed had no sign of the OC left on him.

Smiling dreamily, you walk over to your comfy looking bed. The night was still young and tomorrow was still so far away yet. Without even caring that you were still in your dirty work uniform, you fall face-first onto the mattress just below the pillow, already off to sleep.

Derpy Delivers Your Nightstand (Brumby_Run)

Derpy Delivers Your Nightstand
Brumby_Run

Despite the fact that this is yet another Monday, despite your lousy retail job, even despite your local Panda Express being closed for renovations, you are in a fantastic mood. You have had a most carthic weekend.

You spent the two days destroying your bed.

Every tool of destruction you could lay your hand on was brought to bear. A pilfered boxcutter from your employer’s stock room sliced the mattress cover in a most satisfying way. Wire cutters made short work of the springs. An axe worked over the bed frame, but you swapped it for a chainsaw to do the headboard.

You have no idea where the oxyacetylene torch came from, but using it was so much fun.

The end result was that there was no piece larger than a dime left. Your backyard now contains a small pile of rubble, and your bedroom has a bare patch of carpet. The thought brings a smile to your face as you point your Toyota up your driveway.

You ordered a new bed, and it is due to be delivered today.

Bounding up the stairs, you joyfully skip through your door. You have no idea how long it has been since you felt this good. Your smile is causing your face to ache. It’s a nice kind of hurt.

“Delivery!” A distinctly equine voice calls from your bedroom. Your mood shatters instantly.

“No, no, no, no, no,” you mutter. “No ponies. There can’t be ponies. I killed the bed. How can I still have ponies?”

Opening the door a crack, you peer around the doorjam. There she is, a pony. Pegasus wings tucked at her sides. Grey coat and feathers, blond mane and tail. Golden eyes, slightly askew. Bubbles on her flank. A small box at her side.

“Hi,” she calls brightly. “I’ve got a delivery for you.” You are not sure if she is actually looking at you.

“Delivery? I’m not expecting anything from pony-world. You can take it back now. Sorry for the inconvenience.”

“No, I’ve got the nightstand you ordered,” she says.

“I didn’t order a nightstand. I ordered a bed,” you correct her gently. “I ordered it from Amazon.”

“Ah, I see the confusion. You ordered from AmazeCon. It’s run by two brothers back in Equestria.” She waves the delivery docket at you.

“Are you saying that the Flim Flam brothers are running a transdimensional phishing scam?” you ask in disbelief.

“You know the Flim Flam brothers?”

“We’ve met,” you state flatly as you walk into your bedroom.

“Well, I don’t know what the rest of what you said means, but their motto is ‘We’re amazed they haven’t figured out this is a con!’ They sell all sorts of stuff. But you already know that. You bought a nightstand."

"No," you correct, "I ordered a bed. I've got a nightstand."

“You have? Where?” She asks, her head swinging wildly as she scans the room.

“Here.” You kneel down beside the masterpiece of improvised furniture, patting it gently.

“That? I thought it was junk. It looks like junk to me.”

You briefly consider several witty retorts, but dismiss them all. You’re not enough of an arsehole to mock someone’s disability. Or even somepony’s disability. “This collection of up-cycled materials has served me well since my college days,” you proudly state.

“Up-cycled? Isn’t that how Pinkie Pie gets her flying machine off the ground?”

“Err... No. Up-cycling is a bit like recycling, only better. With recycling you get more of the same product. When you up-cycle, you take something old and create something new,” you explain. “It’s a pretty big concept in the Maker community.”

“Something old, to make something new,” she repeats. “So, it was junk, but it’s not anymore?”

“Close enough,” you say, giving up.

“So, what was that stuff before you up-cycled it?” She asks in the tone of a service provider humouring a difficult customer.

“At the bottom are two cinder blocks. They are just to get the height I require. On top of that is a milk crate. The genius part is that it’s resting on its side, allowing easy access to store stuff in it. Finally, on top is a piece of plywood. A level surface for anything I might need to put on a nightstand.” You demonstrate by laying your cellphone next to your alarm clock. “See?”

“Yeah,” she says dubiously. “In any case, I’ve got the real nightstand that you ordered. You can down-cycle that stuff back to junk now.”

“Look, I work retail,” you try to sympathize. “I don’t want to be that kind of customer. But I can assure you, I ordered a bed, not a nightstand.”

“No,” she says confidently. “I’ve already delivered the only bed I had for this run.”

“Ah-ha!” You shout in triumph.

“A very nice woman. Her ordinary bed had been replaced by a magical talking bed, that was in no possible way a changeling queen in disguise. A group of sentient throw pillows later abducted the magical talking bed, and most certainly did not take it back to a changeling hive. She was very appreciative when I showed up with an ordinary box spring.”

“I find that very hard to believe,” you state.

“All I’ve got for you is a nightstand. If you don’t want it, you should take that up with my boss.”

“Look, what I want...” You decide to stand, using your height to intimidate the delivery pony. You brace your weight against your improvised nightstand.

The plywood top-board flips, whacking you in the forehead.

Your alarm clock makes a loud sounding crash as it hits the floor.

Your cellphone makes an expensive sounding crash as it hits the wall.

As you fall back, your left leg kicks your foot against one of the cinder blocks.

This unbalanced the milk crate, causing it to tip and fall on your right ankle.

“Are you okay?” the delivery mare asks.

You take a few seconds to pull out the splinter that the plywood left in the webbing between your thumb and forefinger before answering. “I’ll sign for that nightstand now...”

Princess Cadance and Shining Armor Are On Your Bed (zakueins)

Princess Cadance and Shining Armor Are On Your Bed
zakueins

It’s amazing how even the most shockingly weird things can become mundane with enough exposure.

The past few Mondays have had a variety of technicolor sapient ponies coming through your bedroom, from nerdy researchers to techno pyromaniacs. Throw in the occasional shape-changing love-devouring insect, one adorably cute pegasus, a chorus of humanophile unicorns, and some others. You haven't been having a good time the last few weeks. If it wasn’t for the photos and the burn marks, your therapist would have thrown you into loony bin by now.

Mind you, he’s proposing medication for hallucinations. Despite the physical evidence you’ve been providing and the video, it’s been hard to prove what’s been going on. Even he had to admit that Fluttershy was heart-attack inducingly cute and generated genuine dwaaa! feelings even in his heart. So, coming home after work on Mondays has an air of walking into a pastel-colored minefield. You don’t know what will explode in your face in a puff of glitter next.

You get off the elevator and there’s no sound of screaming or people running for the stairs as you make it to the door. There’s no immediate sounds coming from inside the apartment, the door is cool to the touch, and there isn’t the smell of anything burning. Fortunately, nobody in the apartment building is looking as you check--they already assume you’re starting to go nuts. Keys in the lock, nothing sticky there and the door opens on smoothly oiled hinges. There’s nothing initially that appears to be dangerous or hilarious. Taking a deep breath, you step into the apartment, close the door smoothly, and put your bag down on the kitchen table. The mail is just junk, so it goes right into the recycling without even being read. You pull your shoes off, slip on your slippers near the door, and head towards the bedroom.

That’s when you hear it. Something is making your (very nice, new, and fireproof) mattress bounce. You got all the locks rekeyed when you kicked your girlfriend out six months ago, so it can’t be her. Which means you’ve got a pony.

“More, more! Right there, more!”

“Good girl! You like that don’t you?”

“Yes, sir, I do!”

Or, two. One sounding male and one sounding female.

Very, very hesitantly, you open your bedroom door and...the fodder of years of therapy was just bouncing in bed in front of you.

The sudden arrival of equine visitors caused you to do research into everything horse-related without actually going out to the stables. So, as you watch the white unicorn mounting the pink unicorn/pegasus hybrid, a checklist starts to appear in your brain.

1)Hey, yes, they are anatomically correct, and the nipples are there.
2)Whoever the stallion is that is on top, he’s got great skill with rope bondage. You haven’t seen ropework like that outside of the really high-end Japanese porn videos you got last year.
3)Clearly, the mare on the bottom is usually in charge. The whole crown thing, unless it’s a roleplaying prop, kind of indicates that. So, maybe she likes being bottomed in private.
4)Orgasm response seems to be more like humans than actual horses, if her breathing and the other sounds are making any sense.
5)You realize there’s a reason why they call dildos that big stallions. Therapy is going to have to include dealing with the fact that you will never be that large.
6)They are looking at you now...and they don’t know what’s going on.

So, naturally, you respond appropriately, and slam the bedroom door shut. Your legs give out from under you, and you’re lying against the door, trying to wonder where did my life go wrong and why?

A few moments later, there’s a knock at the bedroom door. “Hey,” a male voice said, “are you okay?”

You take a long, deep breath and say without a trace of irony, “I’m not having the best of evenings right now. Especially seeing two ponies on my bed.”

“We’re very sorry about that,” the female voice replied. “We were so busy, well...the only pony I trust to tie me up is Shining and we don’t get as many chances as we’d like to play…,” and here her voice trailed off.

“You were paying attention to each other and not what was around you,” you reply and take another deep breath. “Are you, well...decent now?”

“Give us a few minutes to clean up,” the male voice, Shining, replies. “Do you have clean sheets?”

The clean sheets are in the closet, and your legs seem to be working well enough to get over there. Opening the door a crack, the white unicorn looks at you and you can see his horn light up. The sheets float out of your hands, and he says, “Thank you, and we’re so sorry.”

There’s more sounds in your bedroom, and a conversation going on at the same time. You can’t help but listen (it is your room after all).

“Let me get all the ropes cleaned up,” the female voice says.

“Cadance,” Shining replies, “I’ll get the ropes, if you get the sheets.”

(Of course she liked those sorts of games, but only if she was in charge. Any time you tried to be in charge, the term “topping from the bottom” was a description, not a phrase.)

“Did you see the expression on his face?” Cadance asks, as you hear your blankets being pulled onto the floor. “Doesn’t matter what species it is, a broken heart is a broken heart. And, I think his is very broken.”

“How can you tell he’s male?”

“Look around the room,” Cadance replies. “Even if the species were different, this room is a stallion’s room.”

A moment’s pause then, “Huh. Some things are universal.”

(She never liked how you decorated your room, and always tried to insist upon adding a “more feminine touch”. Which seemed to be mostly tossing out your stuff and moving in her stuff.)

“Including role-playing games,” Cadence teases.

“Hey, I cut back on my gaming purchases after we got married!” Shining defends himself. You have to smile at that. I like him already, you think.

(She always complained about your purchases, despite your pointing out that two books a month wasn’t equal to a dinner out.)

“I know, dear,” Cadence is clearly pulling the dirty sheets off the bed, and putting on the clean ones. “How is your cleanup going?”
“Pretty well,” Shining replies. “Laundry basket, laundry basket, ah, laundry basket!”

(You were able to save your stuff from getting tossed, even when she tried that one time to just take to the trash before the garbage truck pulled away. It was a month before that last fight, and in hindsight you should have just thrown her out right then and there.)

The sound of a bundle of sheets going in the laundry basket like a flat basketball. “Got the sheets on?” Shining asks.

“Yes, help me with the blankets,” and you can hear the sound of blankets and pillows being replaced on your bed.

(The last fight...God, the last fight you had. You tore into each other like rabid wolverines…)

When did you start crying? You can feel the tears running down your face, and the door opens up under your hand. Shining looks up at you and says, “Are you all right?”

“I’m...not sure,” then a sniff. “It’s just…”

Cadence comes out and looks around the apartment. “Over here,” she says, and leads you to the couch. She helps you with her magic to sit down, and she sits down on the couch beside you, resting her head in your lap. “Was it...us?”

“No, no, it wasn’t that,” and you find the kleenex and blow your nose clear. Drying your eyes. Shining comes over and sits down beside you as well. “You two sound so...happy. And in love.”

“We are,” Cadence replied. “It’s been a long, hard road, but we’re very happy together.”

“I’m jealous,” you reply, and sit back against the couch. Cadence snuggles her head into your belly, and just listens. “Last girlfriend I had...we had a nasty fight at the end. Really bad. What was that song lyric? ‘Somebody’s going to emergency, somebody’s going to jail’? If she hadn’t left, I think one of us was going to jail and one of us was going to the hospital. Or the morgue.”

(“Of course I slept around, you could never satisfy me!” “You said you were tired or weren’t interested for the last few months, every time I asked!” “Because you were boring.”)

“Ouch,” Shining winces beside you.

“Why did you get together in the first place, if it ended so badly?” Cadence asks.

“We just clicked when we first met. We were at a party, and it was like wham, we talked and cuddled the entire night,” you say, considering a spot on the wall. “And, y’know, it felt like she was right, the one. All those cheesy romantic fantasies that you’d never admit to, ever.”

Cadence cuddles herself a bit closer to you. When did the tears begin again? “And, for nine months, I was happy. She moved in, it was like a hole you never knew existed being filled. And, for nine months, it was right. But, I have to look back, and wonder,” you continue, then Cadence puts a hoof on your lips for a second.

“When did she first lie to you? The first lie you can remember?” Cadence asks quietly.

“I asked her what she was up to one day and she told me she was out looking for a job. She was unemployed when I met her, couch surfing with her friends, and I tried to help her find a job so she could help with the bills. The next week, I ran into a friend of mine and he warned me about her. ‘She’s dangerous,’ he told me. ‘I saw her at a coffeeshop, flirting with a guy on the other side of town.’ But, I didn’t believe it, didn’t want to believe it,” your voice trails off again.

She became colder after that, you realized. She only warmed up when she needed something from you. A ride, money, a new dress...you could mark the progress of what she needed by what she was willing to trade. Then, the accident--discovering the card and the gifts she had gotten from other men, as she prepared to make the jump to a higher status boyfriend. That’s when the screaming began, and you grabbed everything of hers and threw it outside, telling her to leave and never come back…

“Buck,” Shining says to the side of you. “That’s just bucking mean.”

“I’ve dealt with a few ponies like that,” Cadence says after a few moments. “You offer them this wonderful gift, you open up your armor and place your bet on the table for love…” She trails off and snuggles into you a bit more. You can feel the tears in your eyes float away as she does something with her magic. There’s a hunk of kleenex at your nose and you can feel it being held on firmly by something. “Blow your nose.”

You blow your nose out, and she tosses the kleenex in the trash. “And, it doesn’t matter how many times somepony says it, or tells you that it wasn’t your fault. You’re still sitting here, wondering what you did wrong, where you went wrong, and why she left you,” Cadence continues. “Do you know what happened to her?”

“Rumors, that she moved in with Boyfriend 2.0 a couple of months ago. You can’t help but hear the rumors,” you sigh. “Not in town still, thank God.”

“A clean break is the best,” Cadence suggests. “May I offer some advice from the Princess of Love?”

Well, at this point, you don’t think your love life can get any worse. So why not? “What sort of advice do you have to offer?”

“Forgive yourself,” Cadence says simply. “You’re carrying a lot of burdens--the would I, or could I, or should I that always seems to happen after a bad breakup. Ponies do that a lot. Do humans keep that kind of guilt?”

“Almost to the exclusion of everything else,” you sigh. “I know I should, but holding onto the pain feels like something worthwhile.”

“Because it’s something other than being empty,” Shining says from other side. “Celestia, I remember being angry for six months because I wanted to feel something that was mine after Queen Chrysalis controlled me for so long.”

“I bounced between depressed and angry,” Cadence admitted. “Depressed because she somehow was able to stop and catch me, angry because I should have been able to do something.”

“You did so something,” Shining replied, putting a hoof on her head. The posture is almost like you putting your hand on her shoulder in comfort. “You helped to save us when you and Twilly escaped from the caverns.”

“Still...I keep feeling every once in a while like I was so useless,” Cadence sighs, and you brush her hair some more.

How in God’s name did you get stuck in a therapy session for PTSD-affected ponies? “You keep putting one foot--or one hoof, in this case--in front of the other. It’s just hard to remember when you’re walking where you’re going or what you’re getting away from,” you admit.

You look around the room a bit and think. “Let’s do something less depressing than talk about this kind of stuff. Movie time, I think.”

“What’s a movie?” Cadence asks.

So, a quick explanation of movies results and you fire up the microwave to make popcorn. You don’t have to explain comic books to them, they know what they are. Turns out that Shining is a fan, and just as much of a nerd and a gamer as you are. You’ve got is a decently large enough TV, a good BluRay player, and a copy of Iron Man to watch tonight. Oh, and a big bowl to share popcorn. You scoot to the side to let Cadence and Shining Armor (you finally learned his full name as you talked about comic books--nerds of the multiverse, unite!) have some together time and the movie starts.

They cringe a bit at the whole first third of the film, especially the scene where Yinsen dies. You have to admit that’s a part that makes you feel sad as well. It’s the scene that comes later, when Tony Stark first fires up the flight setup (without getting doused by Dummy), and the whole assembly of the Mark II suit that makes Shining go “yes!” with a resounding cheer. Especially the whole flight scene. “Pony, I’d love to have a suit like that,” Shining says with a smile.

“Because it would make you a superhero?” Cadence smiles.

“Because,” he smiles back, and cuddles into Cadence, “it would let me fly with you.”

Then, of course, we get to all of other great scenes. The party scene where Cadence comments that, “Tony can’t admit being in love, can he?”

“I think he has a problem with the idea and the words,” you agree. “He’s spent so long without a heart, he doesn’t think he has one.”

“Oh, he has one,” Shining says. “All the great ones have a heart, it’s what makes them great.”

The big fight scenes make them cheer as well, especially the Iron Man vs. Iron Monger one. It’s the last post-credit scene (which you refuse to fast forward through), that makes them smile. “I think I know a pony like that. Minus the eye patch, works for Princess Celestia as her spymaster,” Cadence smiled. “Same scary mien to him, too.”

“Samuel L. Jackson can do scary man in the shadows very well indeed,” you agree.

“I take it that’s a part of a series of movies,” Shining says.

“Yep,” and then you break out in a yawn. “Damn. Listen, I’ve got to get to bed. I can set you up with another movie, as long as you keep the volume down…”

“How late is it?” Cadence asks.

“Damn,” you reply. “Nearly eleven at night.”

“Wow,” Shining nods. You get up and start grabbing sheets and blankets from the closet. “Listen, you two can have the bed for tonight, I’ll take the couch. I know you’ll be gone by tomorrow morning,” and you can suddenly feel yourself floating off of your feet. You watch as Cadence’s horn lights up and she carries you into your own bedroom.

“We aren’t tossing you out of your bed,” Cadence says as she takes you to your bedroom. “I assume you wear something to bed,” as she sets you down.

“I do,” you reply, and “some privacy, please?”

“How do you use the bathroom here?” Shining asks.

“Big white bowl there,” you reply, “handle there to flush,” closing the door behind you.

You hear two ponies going to the bathroom, as you slip on your sweats to sleep tonight. You’re about to suggest the couch when the door opens again and they come in. “I think...would you mind if we shared the bed with you?” Cadence asks.

“Why?” you ask, shocked.

“Nopony should sleep alone if they can help it,” she replies, and climbs into the far end of the bed. You do get into bed, and Shining follows. He pulls the covers over all of you with his magic, and settles into the pillows.

You fall asleep with the warmth of ponies surrounding you.

The next morning, you’re woken by the guillotine chop of your alarm clock from your dreams. The bed is empty of ponies, gone with the morning dew. You can feel the warmth and the weight from where they were, the hairs on the pillows, the sheets moved from bodies there.

Turning the lights on, you can see a sign taped on your bedroom door-written by magic or by hoof, before they left.

Forgive yourself.

You smile, and decide that you should heed this message.

Looking towards the shower, you’re going to face the future.

And, forgive yourself.

It’s going to be a work in progress.

Octavia is Back on Your Bed After a Blow-Up With Vinyl (HudsonHawk)

Octavia is Back on Your Bed After a Blow-Up With Vinyl
HudsonHawk

You trudge into your apartment, tired from another day on the front lines of retail hell. You throw your beige raincoat on the nearby hatstand, showing your work uniform to anyone inside, and there more than likely was. Knowing your luck there was another pony in your house. It’s become so frequent you’ve started setting another place at your dinner table on Mondays and Tuesdays for your interdimensional visitors. You dread the probable property damage, emptied cabinets, destroyed bathroom, or a probable destroyed bed. The 100 gold bits you received from Luna have, however, given you a bit of a cushion against random acts of pony.

However, judging from the silence in your apartment, maybe it’s stopped.

Wait. Maybe it’s a trick. You think. The furry ones make you THINK they’re not coming, then…

You shrug it off. Besides, that's happened once already. Music. I need a little music…

You head for your stereo, turn it on, and hit play. You left your copy of “The Best Of Star Trek: 30th Anniversary Special” in the CD tray when you were getting ready for work. You skip the CD to track eight, slump into your chair, and enjoy…

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eujM5uoo-l0

“That’s… that’s… it’s so beautiful…” A sad yet familiar voice says.

“Yes it is-” You start. Your eyes shoot open and your head whirls toward the source of the sound. There, at the doorway to your bedroom, was a familiar-looking grey pony. You rack your brain trying to recall when you last saw her… BINGO! She showed up right after Fluttershy did.. She looks a lot better than when you last saw her: her mane and tail are neatly combed, her fur is properly groomed, and her teeth are no longer yellow from drinking more whiskey than Nick Nolte on an all-night binge. Also, she’s now wearing a pink bowtie with a white collar, which makes her look absolutely adorable. You now understand why your sister goes ga-ga for Sulley from “Monsters, Inc.” in a tie. Ties make furry creatures more adorable.

Her light purple eyes look much better as well. The bags are gone, which means that she’s been getting more sleep. However, you notice a hint of sadness in them.

“Wait… hold on… Octavia, right?” You ask.

She gave a slight smile. “You remembered…”

Octavia trots over and hugs you with her front hooves. You, reluctantly, do the same. You're surprisingly pleased to see her. Aside from getting rip-roaring drunk, she didn't really do anything: she didn't destroy your bed, try to eat it, take it for a ride down the street or anything like that. She also didn't burn your fridge, eat your food,or destroy your bathroom... you still have scream-yourself-awake nightmares about what Sonata did to your bathroom. She also didn't try to steal your porn, nor would she be able to now, as the strongbox in your closet would make sure of that.

"What are you doing back?" You ask as you remotely turn off the stereo.

"I need a place to stay for the night..." Octavia starts as tears begin to form in her eyes.

"What happened?" You ask as she begins to sob in earnest. As she buries her face in her hooves, you wrap your arms around her and pull her into a comforting hug, rocking her gently. You always had a soft spot for a lady in distress, and despite being a different species, Octavia needs your help.

"It's okay, Octavia." You say. "Just let it out."

A few minutes later, Octavia's sobs subside and you hand her a tissue. She wipes her eyes and begins to relate her story of woe.

"Vinyl and I had a fight. You gave me the confidence to go back and try composing my masterpiece. I proposed meshing my classical style with Vinyl's electro to give Equestria a unique new sound, but Vinyl said our styles were too different to mesh... I lost my temper... I said some things I regret..."

“Like?” You ask.

“...like it doesn’t take much effort to make stuff on a computer…”

You wince.

“...and that it has no soul.”

You wince again.

“So… she kicked me out.”

"And here you are..." You finish.

"I'm here with the bed and person that gave me the answers last time." Octavia said.

“First off, Octavia…” You start. “It takes just as much effort to write and compose a piece of music for the synths as it does to compose music for an orchestra. It’s not how it’s composed or for what medium, you can make music work on a lot of different mediums… it’s the heart and soul you put into it, and judging from how you were last time, you should know that better than anyone. I’m not a musical genius. If it was so easy to make music via computer, I wouldn’t need to work in retail. I could be a musician right now. As much as I hate to admit it, especially after having to replace my goddamned fridge, I think you owe Vinyl one hell of an apology when you get back.”

Octavia hung her head low. “You’re right.”

You lightly stroke her mane. “It takes a big pers- er, pony to admit when she’s wrong. I think you’re one.”

She looked up and smiled. “But… can the styles mix?”

You think for a moment. "Hold on..." You head for your room and retrieve your computer bag, taking it back to the living room. You sit on your couch and set your laptop up on the coffee table. You then pat the seat next to you, motioning for Octavia to hop up next to you. She does as you open up YouTube.

"What's this?" Octavia asks.

"The answer to your problems." You reply. "You want proof that classical and electronic can mix? Here we go..."

You start browsing your favorites, and you find…

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Pe3_bjiypGU#t=61

“This was done by a man named Harold Faltermeyer for a movie called ‘Kuffs.’ It’s a cover of a piece called ‘Ave Maria.’

Octavia lets the electronics hit her ears. She starts to sway to the music/ She starts to absent-mindedly wave a hoof around, as if conducting the London Philharmonic. As she gets used to the tune, she starts to hum along.

“That was gorgeous.” She says as the piece finishes. “It was oddly… haunting…”

“In the movie, it’s played over the scene where the main character’s brother is shot in a church and the subsequent ride to the hospital.” You say. “He dies in surgery…”

“That would be why. And that was a classical piece?”

“Yep.”

“Do you have any more?”

“Sure.” You scroll through again, finding a piece called, fittingly, Octavia…

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QQ9RPTEkQW4

As the cello kicks off the selection, Octavia looks blown away. Her hooves start miming the movements on an imaginary cello. You watch, astonished at her movements. You figure she must be truly something to behold with it. It carries on throughout the whole piece.

“This can’t be electronic… It just can’t…” She starts as the piece ends.

“Not all of it.” You reply. “He scored pieces for the cello and piano. The rest he scored for electronics.”

“It sounds… it’s… so beautiful… it’s like he has a full orchestra.”

“I know. The effect’s almost seamless.”

“If they can do this on computers and make it sound so real… then I really am useless. Why use real instruments if you can make the sounds electronically?”

“Because, Octavia, it’s like why I still collect records. Sure, CDs sound prettier… but there’s nothing like slapping a record on a turntable and starting it up… hearing those pops and hisses… it seems more real… sure, you can get the sound of an instrument electronically, but what really makes it real is the skill of the musician playing it. There’s nothing like the real thing.”

Octavia smiled. “Got another?”

“One more won’t hurt.” You say. You scroll down to another video. “This is one of my favorites.” You say.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EfFd517dZG4

Octavia’s jaw dropped.

“Listen to how the cello starts leading into the synths…” You start. “Listen to how they complement each other…”

“It’s magic…” She finishes. “But… how is she going to hear this?

“Do you have a record player or a CD player?” You ask.

“Both.” She replies.

“Wait here…” You say. You venture over to your CD rack and pluck out a CD, then hand it to Octavia.

“I made a mix CD of my favorite orchestral pieces. The ones I played for you are the first three on the disc.”

Octavia leaps from the couch and hugs you tightly. You return the hug as you hear “Thank you…”

“You’re welcome.” You reply. She hops down.

“Well, I got you for the rest of the night… wanna do anything?” You ask.

“That piece you were listening to when I came in…” She starts. “Can we listen to it again?”

“Don’t see why not.” You turn the stereo back on and set it for track eight. As the music starts…

“Could you pause it for a minute?” Octavia asks. “I need to get something.”

You comply and she rushes back to your room. A few moments later, she came back out with an instrument case. She walks over to the recliner and opens the case, revealing a gorgeous-looking cello. She starts to set it up. This gives you an idea. You head for your coat on the hatstand and rummage around in your pockets until you retrieve a Hohner Blues Harmonica. She looks at you, smiling.

“I thought you weren’t musical.” She says.

“I can’t read or write a note.” You reply. “I learn by ear.”

“Think you can keep up?”

“Try me.”

After she gave the okay, she puts bow to cello as you start up the song. The opening violins are amazingly accompained by Octavia’s skilled hooves on her cello. The sound is heaven to your ears. Then comes the flute solo. You put your harmonica to your lips and start playing to the flute melody...

Octavia stops and watches. She smiles at you, from one musician to another.

And that’s how the rest of the night went. No fires. No wrecked toilets. No theft of porn. No interdimensional travel. No destruction or strangeness of any kind. It was just you and a talented pony, alone in your living room, making beautiful music together.

You hope you get more Mondays like this.

Pumpkin and Pound Cake are in Your Bed, Being Babysitted! (Pickleless)

Pumpkin and Pound Cake are in Your Bed, Being Babysitted!
Pickleless

Pickleless stumbled into his room, slightly drunk. He had just gotten back from swinging on the park swing in a wedding dress at 2 AM. It was a ritual he did every Monday night to clear his thoughts and think of new stories. There were bears and apparently a ghost in the park, but he wasn’t concerned. The bears were scared of him for some reason, and he’s never seen this dead bride who likes to play on the swingset at night. He was little let down, sometimes he wanted the company.

He pulled out his recorder. “Story idea, Rainbow Dash’s son, Raging Faggot, is gay. Rainbow Dash never saw it coming.”

“Buhbuhbaa~,” a baby’s voice burbled.

“Yeah, I don’t think I could make a 1000 word story out of it too,” Pick responded, sitting at his computer chair.

“Ahhbah!” Another voice happily replied.

“Wait a minute.” He froze. “You mean that wasn’t the voices in my head?!?”

Spinning around, he saw two baby foals sitting in his bed.

“Dangit, I usually remember kidnapping little children! I don’t even know what I was planning to do with these two!”

Walking over to his bed, he saw a note next to the foals.

Mr. Pickleless, Thank you again for agreeing to babysit our children, we’ll back in two hours. We didn’t know how to find your place so we had Pinkie drop off the kids.

Mrs. Cake.

“Who the heck has someone watch their kid from 3 AM to 5 AM,” Pick grumbled. “Wait, when did I even agree to watch them?”

”Alright dude, I’ll see you at my place in an hour.” Jolly said.

”Woooooah, you’re not coming to get me? Dude you know how bad my sense of direction is.” Pick responded.

”You’ll be fine bro, I live two blocks down the street.”

*Five minutes later.*

Pickleless was wandering through Ponyville, incredibly drunk, when he came across Sugarcube Corner. Too smashed to tell the difference between one blur from another, he knocked violently on the door.

A yellow stallion opened the door. “Oh, hello! You must be the one we’re interviewing for the babysitting job!” Mr Cake smiled.

Pick vomited all over Mr. Cake, and then fell into the bushes, knocked out cold.

Mr. Cake frowned and rubbed his soaked chin. “Seems legit. OH HONEY BUN! I THINK WE’VE FOUND OUR BABYSITTER!”

“This is why I don’t go anywhere without a map!” Pick scowled.

Pumpkin and Pound giggled as the strange man shook his arms in frustration.

“Well, this is going better than the other times I’ve babysitted. All the other kids I’ve watched always cried the whole time I was there,” Pick mused. “Now what I do I have that you two can play with while I write important fanfics that don’t need to exist?..”

He looked around his room, searching for something child appropriate.

“Let’s see… Ah! There we go. Here kids, this is my knife collection. Kids like to play with sharp objects right? I know I did when I was little.” He handed one knife each to both foals. “Alright, now whoever gets a strike on the other one first receives a treat from Ol Picklebutt. Have fun kids!”

Completely ignoring the kids, Pick went back to writing his fanfic on the computer.

”WE NEVER SHOULD HAVE HELD THAT INTERVENTION FOR HER!” Rarity wailed.

”WRYYYYYYYYYYYY!!!” Fluttershy yelled in a fabulous manner.

“WAHHHH! WAHHHH!” A foal screamed out in the distance.

“Ugh, what now?!?” Pick grumbled.

Looking over, he saw Pound Cake about to stab himself in the eye with his knife.

“Nothing wrong there… Where is that wailing coming fro- OH! I recognize that cry! That’s the sound of a baby that fell into the toilet.”

Pick chuckled, slowly headed towards the bathroom. He saw Pumpkin flailing in the toilet bowl.

“Man, happens all the time...” He shook his head with mirth.

Pulling the filly out of the toilet, he wiped her off with a towel and noticed she looked tired when he walked out of the restroom.

“Awwww, are you sleepy Pumba something?” Pick smiled.

“Gu- gahhh…” Pumpkin weakly cried out.

“Don’t worry, I know just what to do kid. Here’s some of Uncle Pickleless’ forget juice!” He held the bottle of moonshine to Pumpkin’s lips.

The baby fought it for a second before drinking down a couple gulps of hard liquor. After a minute of being rocked back and forth, Pumpkin was sound asleep.

“Works like a charm.” Pick cooed.

Walking back into his room, he saw Pound Cake wailing from a cut wrist.

“Oh Pound, look what you’ve done,” He laughed. “It’s down the lane, not across the street!”

He made the motions with the knife on his own wrist, cutting open his arm.

“Oh, whoops.” Pick watched his arm spasm. “Welp better take care of that, here Pound, play some Five Nights at Freddy’s on my computer while I clean this up.”

Looking around his room. Pick grabbed a newspaper, wrapped it around his arm, and put some duct tape over it.

“Good enough! Okay little guy, let’s see if you need a diaper cha- ooooooo… Someone found my porn folder. Well Pound, you’re like 9 months old right? It’s time we had the talk.”

Pick set Pound on his lap and and put his hand around the foal’s shoulder in a fatherly fashion.

“Boy, sex is a lot like the ocean, I’m drowning in it. Now hold up your hoof, this is called a hive five!” Pick hive fived the confused child.

“Awww, somepony getting a little sleepy?” He smiled at Pound, who was woozy from blood loss. “Okay, let’s change your diaper little guy!”

Pickleless took the baby outside into the cool night air, undid the baby’s diaper, and blasted his backside with a hose.

“All clean!” Pick picked up the unconscious baby and brought it back inside. Looking around for something that could substitute for a diaper, he found more newspaper.

“Man, I have gotten way too good at folding newspaper…”

“We’re back!” Mrs. Cake cheered, walking into Pick’s room.

“Huh?!? Whazzit?..” Pick lifted his sore face from off the floor. “Did I pass out again? Third time today…”

“Awwwww, look at our little angels, sleeping peacefully…” Mrs. Cake cooed towards her unconscious foals on the bed. “Thank you so much for watching them!”

“No problem, glad I could help!”

“Alright, see you same time next week then!” Mrs. Cake winked as she left with the children.

“Wait, if you had Pinkie drop off the kids because you didn’t know how to find the place, then ho-”

He slumped when he heard her leaving through the front door.

“How did she get into my house? The door was locked…”

Author's Notes:

Author’s Comment: If anyone catches the three references I made, you are awesome.

Shining Armor is in Your Bed, Having an Existential Crisis (RetroLord)

Shining Armor is in Your Bed, Having an Existential Crisis
RetroLord

Author’s Note: This chapter does not desire to mock people with existential crises. However, the chapter really wants you to read it!

You finally have had a good day – no, make that a great day – for once.

You managed to get up in the morning without having been kept up all hours by a pony the night before.

You actually weren’t waylaid by “well-wishing” co-workers and overlords at your job, and the customers that asked for your assistance in sales were not hopeless morons for the first time in years (mostly).

Your boss even let you off work early, giving you plenty of time to dine at the Panda Express before returning home. Now all you need is a relaxing evening.

You assure yourself before you leave your car that there won’t be a pony in your bed today. No matter what, there will not be a pony. You will have an awesome day for once.

If there’s not going to be a pony, what will you do tonight? Look for another Internet meme? Click random video links on YouTube? Try to clean up your house?

All these choices sound like pointless work, so you decide to learn something and engage in a mindless activity: learn how to watch pirated movies again since your favorite pirating website was taken down. Oh, and fix your bedroom computer; it’s hasn’t been the same since Clover the Clever mind-controlled you to look at clickbait that was obviously malware.

Three birds with one stone, you think with a grin.

You jump out of your car with a beatific smile on your face, dance up the stairs to your apartment, and rip open the door – almost.

Now your arm hurts because you forgot to turn the handle. Irritated that your carefree attitude has vaporized, you violently push the handle down and slam the door behind you.

Thankfully, the apartment hasn’t changed at all since you left this morning. Your Twilight indicator – your favorite cup you left sitting upside-down on the kitchen counter – is still there. A pile of clothes still is hanging on the side of your laundry basket, reminding you that you’re running out of clothes and that your other two work suits really need to be dry-cleaned.

The suits bring your memory back to the nightmare spirit that you befriended. The week that you and she were together, cleaning your laundry took a matter of seconds (magic!). But Twilight and her friends had killed her. Stop! You admonish yourself. Back to what’s going on now.
Something isn’t right. It’s hard to put your finger on what it is, but there’s still something different about the house.
Well, what is it not? It’s not anything you can see, and you can’t hear anything unusual – no Dontmindthe Orbs giving off a hypnotizing hum, no mattresses burning, no drunken ponies stumbling around – so maybe it’s a smell.

Not that you can smell anything besides burnt refrigerator (compliments of Spike). You’ve since replaced the fridge, but the smell remains, even with the forest of air fresheners you’ve spread on top of it.

Then you realize that trying to remember what the other two of the five senses are is much more involved than simply checking out your bedroom and putting your fears to rest.

Tense, you walk through the kitchen and to your bedroom door, which you closed before you left this morning.

A lot of “what ifs” enter your mind, none of them good. Hoping that Twilight isn’t using your bed as a lab to produce contact explosives, you open the door and go inside, feeling like you’re stepping into pure doom.

What you see leaves you completely thunderstruck, and that’s saying something, considering the events of the past months.

There is no pony in your bedroom.

You freeze from pure ecstasy. It’s too good to be true! The unsettling feeling was the result of a lack of pony! Immediately, you leap onto your computer.

Or rather, where your computer used to be.

Slamming your fist on the table, you curse the (literal) Gary Stu that destroyed your computer just a few weeks ago. It’s hard to keep track of your things, you realize, because ponies seem to enjoy aiding the expediency of the Second Law of Thermodynamics. (Back when you actually were in college, you were trying to be a Master of Physics.)

Which makes you think. Before the ponies, you always thought that your job was the worst part of your life. Home was a safe and secure place where you could unwind with TV, computers, and certain magazines. But now your job seems tame in comparison with the unworldly events that so commonly torture your existence. Maybe that’s why you thought today was good – simply because being home is bad.

“Why?” you shout at the universe. “Why do you have to ruin my life?”

Several hours later, you’ve tried to enjoy yourself with mindless TV shows, with surprising success. You had managed to find a brand new station that only plays anime shows, and everything you’d seen was excellently mind-numbing. You had checked the bedroom multiple times during commercial breaks and found nothing, but you don’t think you’ve got off from the pony plague yet. There has been a pony in your bed every Monday for almost the last year. Why would there be an exception now?

Contented with your day, you leap down the hallway and into the shower. You don’t take your time – the bathroom still smells from Sonata Dusk’s visit. Once again, you start to curse these ponies (plus a dragon and some humans and a dragonequus and a griffon and whatever thing Ahuizotl is) for ruining your home multiple times, but you stop yourself and try to think happy thoughts.

When you finish your shower, you get into bed and try as hard as you can to go to sleep. But you can’t, because you know the voices in your head usually bother you now – plus, the light’s on.

You try to assure yourself that that reasoning makes no sense at all. The voices must be giving you a day of goodwill, like the rest of the universe. And you don’t want to get up to turn the light off.

And indeed, no voices pop into your mind. Relaxed, you finally fall asleep.

A voice shouting a particularly perverse expletive awakens you from your slumber. It takes you a few seconds to realize that the voice was yours, and that you shouted due to four large weights suddenly landing on your groin and torso. Which can only mean…

“Err, sorry. I didn’t know you would be sleeping right under the portal.”

You recognize the voice and your eyes instantly snap open. The first thing you see is your alarm clock, which mockingly displays 11:59.

“The universe hates me,” you mumble through waves of pain.

The second thing you see is Shining Armor stepping off of your body and onto the floor, looking awkward.

“Yeah, I know the feeling,” Shining replies. “But that’s not important right now.”

You struggle to sit up. A fourth of you wants to strangle Shining Armor for hurting you, a fourth of you feels sorry for him (why, you have no idea), and half of you just hurts.

“What do you want?” you ask, trying to resolve your psyche.

“Not much,” Shining says, still looking embarrassed. “Just to apologize and to do something.”

“Do you want to apologize for this time, the last time, or the first time?” You try to sound stern, but inwardly you’re interested. Nopony that’s visited your bed has actually been sorry for making a mess or being a burden.

“Both, actually. I’m sorry for, uh, burning your bed the first time I was here… I was drunk.” He reminds you of the time you tried to explain to your boss that you were tardy to work because you locked your keys inside your car.

“That would explain a lot,” you note caustically. You make a mental note to find out exactly why drunken ponies so often found their way to your bed.

“Yeah.” Shining Armor chuckles nervously. “I also didn’t mean to hurt you just now. So… do you forgive me?”

“Sure.” Was that the sixth time you had had to replace your bed? You had lost count since Rainbow Dash.

Shining sighs in relief and sits on the floor. “Well, now that that’s out of the way, can we talk?”

“Well, it’s midnight…”

“Sorry! I couldn’t come at any other time. So if you don’t want–“

“Hold it; start at the beginning.”

“So I can talk?” Shining pleads, looking hopefully at you. Suddenly, you start to be overwhelmed with the Cuteness Factor.

Trying to be disturbed that you can find adult male ponies cute, you say as sharply as you can, “Go ahead – but make it snappy!”

With any luck, you’ll fall asleep before he finishes.

Well, as soon the pain between your legs subsides.

“Thanks.” The pony flashes you a grin, then takes a deep breath. You have just enough time to wonder what you’re getting yourself into, when –

“It all started a few months ago. I went to visit Twilight, and she was telling me all about you and this other world where you have ‘cars’ and ‘computers’ and things.”

You sigh, not just because Shining Armor started his monologue with a clichéd opening, but because it brings back agonizing memories of the time Twilight incessantly questioned you about how exactly a computer worked. You think you told her “I have no idea” at least a hundred times.

“It sounded interesting. You know I’ve been here a few times already, but this time, I was dying to come here and get away from my depressingly boring duties in the Crystal Empire.”

A guy trying to escape from his abysmal job. You can sympathize with that.

“How is being the prince boring?” you ask against every fiber of your being that tells you to make this pony miserable for hurting you.

“It’s a bunch of depressingly menial jobs that comes with a ridiculous amount of aggrandizement. For example, I get to be ‘Captain of the Royal Guard’.”

The way Shining Armor says his titular title makes you laugh hysterically.

“Yes, they do announce it like that.” Shining growls. “Anyway, I all I do is weekly ‘Royal
Inspections’ where I inspect the corps’ pristine armor to see if they inexplicably acquired damage. Of course, living in a peaceful empire means that they get dinged up all the time.”

“Really?” The instant you say it, you realize you just made yourself sound like a sucker.

“Of course not!” He sounds surprisingly angry. “It’s just…” His voice trails off.

You wait for him to continue, but then realize that the pain in your body has faded to a dull ache.

Enough for you to go back to sleep.

Shining Armor says, “Excuse me for a second. I’ll be right back.” He casts a spell and vanishes in a flash of pink.

Even though you’re glad Shining is gone, you can’t help but be interested as to what he wanted.

After a three-second consideration, you decide finding out is a waste of time.

You’re nearly asleep when you hear a poof and Shining says, “Ok, where was I?”

You sit up with a groan. Clearly, this pony is going nowhere. Fine. It was time to act normally again – normally meaning “with a vitriolic attitude”.

Before you can insult him, he continues, sounding very chipper. “Oh right, the inspections.
Anyway, they really are the dullest things ever. But the rest of my jobs aren’t any more fun.” He doesn’t give you time to get a word in edgewise as he goes on about decorating committees, bureaucracy, and endless celebrations. It makes you want to give the past you the finger for telling Shining Armor to start at the beginning and then asking him why his job was boring.

Finally, he says, “Yeah. That’s about it for my boring jobs. I wanted to come here to get away from them, but I had no idea how to. Then tonight, I got into bed and suddenly, poof! I was here.”

“Very nice,” you say, “but I want to go to sleep. Good night.” With that, you lie down, pull the covers over your head, and close your eyes.

“Oh, don’t worry about being tired. Here, try this.” You hear Shining’s horn turn on, and suddenly your sleepiness simply vanishes.

You poke your head out of the covers. “What did you just do to me?”

“Sleepiless spell.” Shining grins.

“That is an awful pun.”

“Hey, I didn’t come up with it.”

You add “ponies have a spell version of coffee” to your mental list of Things I Have No Desire to Know.

Then, you both remain silent for a few moments. The two of you seem to lack a continuing train of thought.

“So,” you finally say, “what did you want me to do?” Maybe you can appease him and try to get some sleep before work tomorrow.

“Well, I kind of wanted to see your world, talk, and – forget it. I might as well level with you.” He squirms.

“What did you break?” you ask dangerously.

“Huh?”

“What. Did. You. Break.”

“I’m not sure what you mean.”

“Every pony that comes here either breaks, burns, eats, stains, paints, crushes, or otherwise ruins something of mine. So what did you break?”

“Nothing. I only burnt your bed the last time.” You note that he’s “forgetting” the damage caused by his most recent two visits.

You groan. “So what can I do to get you to go away?”

“Listen to me and answer some questions.” He sounds surprisingly desperate.

“Ugh. Whatever.”

“Okay, okay! It’s just…” Shining Armor’s jaw quivers, and to your utter amazement, he begins to cry. “It’s just that I don’t know what the meaning of life is!”

Oh joy. This kind of soul-searching can be very messy, you think, mainly because you never
could bring yourself to explore the question.

“And I need you to tell me how it is in your world.”

“How what is?” You swear under your breath. Shining got you to ask yet another question!

“What the meaning of life is here might be different than in Equestria. I need an answer and nothing in Equestria is satisfying.”

Great. Now he can’t speak clearly, you think. You will be here all night, unless if you make this fast.

“Tell me what they say the meaning of life is in Equestria.”

The pony grins grimly through his tears. “Stupid stuff. I tried everything my friends said – love, friends, parties, books. Even beer.”

You wonder if Spike suggested that one.

“But nothing made me feel happy or content, and then I realized I don’t know why I’m here, and…” His voice is lost in a fresh bout of sobs.

You have an inkling that the meaning of life is less about what you do and more about how you perceive yourself, but that would take too long to explain. Maybe you can just get him addicted to something and go back to sleep.

“Well, here we have the drop on you because the meaning of life is a lot of things. Most people here think the meaning of life is their technology.”

“How so?”

“We have an infinite amount of entertainment, all on” – you grab your phone from beside your bed –“ these.”

“Those little things?”

“These, TV’s, and computers. If we ever start to have an existential crisis like you, we just get on these and the problems all vanish.”

“What’s on these?”

“Libraries of information. Years of videos. Websites where you can communicate endlessly with others. Engrossing games that you can play endlessly. A fan fiction website so big it would take you 355 weeks of straight reading to read all the stories.”

Shining Armor looks completely awed. “Whoa. Can I have one of those things?”

“No. If I showed you these, you would want them back in Equestria, and that wouldn’t solve your problem. Plus, they’re expensive.”

But he looks so disappointed that you have to do something.

“Well, the other thing is eating.” As an afterthought, you add, “Or exercising.” You purposefully leave out drugs, alcohol, and cigarettes mainly because you don’t want to give Shining anything that could ruin life in Equestria (but, the possibility is always getting more and more tempting).

“I tried exercise already,” Shining notes glumly.

“Well, what about eating? Our food here is made to taste good.”

“It’s worth a shot.”

The voices in your head reappear and tell you you’ve got the prince just where you want him. All you need to do now is get him hooked on the food and go back to sleep. This would be an amazing plan, if it were not for one little detail. You’re not tired. So what should you do?

If you give Shining free rein in your home, the universe would dictate that you would wake up to a burned refrigerator.

If you told him that you weren’t serious about food distracting you from the meaning of life, you would be the one burned.

If you try to go back to sleep, you would end up swearing because you couldn’t sleep and you’re sure the situation would be cruelly humorous.

If you try wine… well, powerful magical ponies and drunkenness don’t go together well.

Finally, you (or rather, the voices) hit on something.

With a sly grin, you tell Shining, “Ok. Come with me for as much food as you can eat!”

“Awesome!”

Ten minutes later, both of you are standing in an empty parking lot in front of a low-budget building in the center of town. A sign over the door reads: Bob’s All You-Can-Eat, Open 24/7!

Even though the place looks dingy, you’re sure that it’s also cheap. Far better to spend fifty
dollars or so here than buy a new fridge.

Shining Armor looks around apprehensively. “Are you sure that this is a good idea?” he asks. “I mean, someone might see us and freak out.”

Nonchalantly, you reply, “Well, no one seemed to care when Discord made me float mid-air in the middle of town, when a line of ponies went outside the house and all my neighbor cared about was that they were in the way, when the Cutie Mark Crusaders crashed my bed into a cop car, or when Maud Pie filled my yard with rocks and destroyed my rig. So, yeah. We’ll be fine.”

He gives you a funny look. “I don’t know half of what you said, but if you think it doesn’t matter, it’s fine by me!”

The two of you walk to the door, which looks surprisingly old, considering it looked brand new when you drove past six months ago. Inside, you find a counter just to the right of the door, with a man who you assume is Bob slumped over a cash register, sleeping.

He looks like he’s been taking advantage of his “all you can eat” bargain for a long time.

“Um, hello?” you ask.

The man stays still.

Shining’s horn begins to light up, but you catch what’s going on just in time. “No, no, no!” you shout. “Let me handle this.”

Thankfully, Shining’s magic disappears and Bob begins to stir.

“Huh?” he moans drowsily, “Whozzat?”

“All you can eat for the two of us; how much is it?” you ask.

“$47.85, including tax,” Bob replies mechanically.

You procure your checkbook from your pocket (you did not like the 23.5% interest rate of credit card companies) and begin to write a check.

Shining Armor’s eyes widen. “Wait, so you just write on paper and then it’s worth money?”

Unfortunately, this grabs Bob’s attention.

“Wha – why is there a pony-thing here? No pets allowed.” But he sounds like he’s reading a psychological doctoral thesis.

The prince begins to open his mouth in righteous fury, but you place your non-writing hand in front of (but not on!) his mouth. “Oh, he’s not a pet. You’re just dreaming. Why don’t you go back to sleep?’

“Oh. Okay.” Bob lays his head down on the register and promptly begins to snore. Realizing the sudden hilariousness of the situation, you crack a grin at Shining Armor, who replies in kind.
You finish writing the check and place it next to the sleeping man’s arm. Then the two of you begin to inspect the inside of the store.

The store is completely empty, which is a definite plus. There’s also a surprisingly large amount of seating, considering the size of the parking lot. But to go with the seating is a gigantic buffet. Some of the buffet is closed up, but there’s still plenty of meats, hot foods (you really hope their containers have built-in warmers), a soft-serve ice cream machine, and a salad bar. And to top it off, there’s no mold anywhere!

As you might have expected, seeing leafy greens interests Shining, and he strides over to inspect the salad bar. Before you can stop him, he plunges his head into the lettuce tray and begins to have at it.

“Wait!” you whisper loudly, only half trying not to wake Bob up. “That’s not how you do it!”

And so begins a long night. After you explain to Shining Armor how the buffet works, the two of you grab a plate (actually, Shining grabs several) and you both proceed to place piles of food on them.

The two of you grab a chair, and between bites, Shining begins to talk about life in the Crystal Empire. A bit of annoyed silence later, you think, “To Tartarus with it.” And so you abandon your pony response morals and begin talk back.

An hour or so later, you’ve stuffed yourself, but have actually had a good time with your visiting pony. Between bites, he’s told stories of everything funny, interesting, or ridiculous that’s to be found in the Crystal Empire, whether it’s the time Cadance sleep-teleported into a visitor’s bed, the time he accidentally found out that there was a secret passageway that went throughout the castle and then proceeded to prank the castle staff, or the time a foreign emissary soundly lectured Flash Sentry because he didn’t look exactly like the rest of the castle guard. And meanwhile, Bob has snored soundly.

During this hour, you’ve been flabbergasted by two things. First, that you actually don’t mind your visitor. This is the first pony who has not been either a total douche or a total idiot. Okay, maybe you’re using too much hyperbole. But it’s nice to have somepony that doesn’t want to just talk about music or counsel you for a change. Second, the amount of food Shining Armor has eaten. Throughout the hour, the pony had kept his three plates full of food. It makes you wonder how much Applejack can put away. But seriously, he had a prodigious appetite!

“And then I said, ‘Dear, I know you enjoy working out, but can you please come help me work on the castle decorations?’

“Then she goes, ‘Why is that?’

“And I tell her, ‘Because Flash Sentry seems to be permanently part of them. He’s stuck inside a crystal and can’t get out!’

“Wait, what?” you interject.

Shining Armor laughs. “That’s what she said.”

You have no idea if that double entendre was intentional or not, but you crack up anyways.

“Oh, Shining,” you gasp, “That’s just plain ridiculous.”

“I know, right? But Cadance was able to get him out just fine.”

Cadance’s name sets off your thoughts.

“Why didn’t Cadance help you with your crisis? I mean, with her being your wife and all.”

His expression becomes clouded. “She was kind of the one that caused the problem to begin with.”

You try to ask how, but you notice a pink ball of magic is in your mouth, preventing any air from coming out.

“I’ll tell you when we go back to your house,” he reluctantly sighs.

The two of you place your dirty plates in the appropriate receptacle. But before you leave, Shining gestures to a pot full of barbecued chicken wings.

“What are those called?” he asks innocently. “They were really good.”

You inadvertently jump. Oh –

Back in your house, you flop off your shoes and sit down on the living room couch.

“All right,” you say. “So what’s really going on with you and Cadance?”

You have never seen a pony look more utterly shamed and humiliated by nine simple words.

Shining takes a shaky breath. “You remember how the last time I came to your house, Cadance and I talked to you about your girlfriend that was just cheating on you?”
Suddenly you have a very bad feeling about where this is going.

“Uh-huh.”

“That’s what she did…” Shining breaks down again, and your apartment is filled with sobs.
Your heart breaks a little inside. He didn’t have to finish for you to know what he meant. You feel furious, both at Cadance and yourself. You got mad at him just because he accidentally fell on you and you wanted to sleep instead of helping him. Then you blatantly lied on top of it. Wow. You really are a jerk. And Cadance –

“How could she?” you stutter. “How?”

“I don’t know!” Shining cries.

You want to say something helpful, but your eyes begin to tear up too, and you jump on the floor and give Shining a (manly) hug.

And you sit there with your arms around his neck, and cry together for a long time.

Finally, Shining’s cries and tears fade away, and he says, “Thank you. Thank you so much. There’s no one I can talk to back in Equestria. I mean, I can’t hurt the Crystal Empire’s image.”
You feel a sense of gratitude that Shining would actually cry on your shoulder, and sad too. When you found out about your girlfriend, you didn’t have anyone to cry with. So you bottled up all your bitterness and anger, and it just sat there. Was that bitterness what had caused your dismal outlook on life? Probably.

You realize Shining Armor is waiting for you to say something. “You’re welcome,” you reply.

“Now that that’s out of the way, would you like to watch a movie?” he asks.

“Sure. How about our TV show about the land where you come from?”

A minute later, the oh-so-familiar theme song begins to play. After watching a few episodes in silence, you say, “I guess I should tell you something – it’s only fair.”

“What’s that?”

“I owe you an apology too. Actually, several.”

“What for?”

You sigh. “First, I’m sorry for being a complete douche – err, jerk, for no reason. It was completely uncalled for. Second, I lied to you. Food really isn’t the meaning of life; I was just saying that so you’d go away.”

It hurts him. You can tell it does. But it would have been more hurtful to let the lie fester.

After a moment, he says, “Well, I knew that food wasn’t the meaning of life too. I just wanted a friend to do something with.”

Maybe his crisis came because Cadance had been his meaning of life. And then she let him down in the worst way possible.

“I know I’m not a good friend. But I’m really sorry.”

“Hey, no one’s perfect. I learned that the hard way.”

What? He actually is forgiving you? Then you realize something. What show and what place did these ponies come from? Wasn’t it about friendship? Had you really learned nothing from it?

“I forgive you,” Shining continues. “So… friends?”

“Friends.” You grin.

You continue to watch episodes in silence.

After a while, you say, “You know, I think I have an idea about why Cadance did what she did.”

“Umm… why?”

“Because she might think love is just about making everyone happy.”

“Well, do I look happy to you?”

“You weren’t supposed to find out.” You smile grimly. “Same story every time.”

“Fair enough.”

“But the thing is, I bet she really still loves you. And I bet she’s hurting and sorry too. So you should forgive her.”

“Forgive her? Just like that?”

“Yes, just like that. Otherwise, you’ll always hold that unforgiveness in your heart, and it’ll hurt you badly. Believe me, I know.”

“It’s not going to be that easy.”

“No kidding.”

The conversation drops off and you turn your attention back to the TV screen. Good thing you recorded all the episodes on your TiVo before Alicorn Stu ruined your computer.
Shining Armor turns to you. “This show is surprisingly accurate! How did such a thing come about here?”

“Well, I’m not sure, but I have an idea. Maybe, back in…”

Some hours later, you finally realize the time is 6:49.

You swear. “I have to go to work in less than an hour! I need to get ready to go!”

“Really? That’s a shame.”

“I know. Just come back again sometime, okay?”

“Okay. The portal should take me back in just a few minutes.”

Sooner, you think, as a blue light begins to surround Shining. Simultaneously, the sun peaks over the horizon.

“I hope things work out for you and Cadance.”

“Me too. Thank you for your advice.”

You smile wryly. “Take it with a grain of salt. I’m not a love expert.”

The light becomes brighter, and you can hardly tell what color the pony is.

“Oh, ponyfeathers!” Shining shouts angrily. “I totally forgot about that orb! I was trying to find a safe place to put it, and – “

The light grows unbearable and suddenly vanishes, Shining with it.

“Well, that was odd,” you say to no one in particular. You walk back into the kitchen to make
yourself some breakfast.

You pull you some cereal from the pantry. Well, that was food for thought. What should I do with my life now?

You grab some milk from the fridge. I mean besides be nicer to my visitors and forgive my ex?

You grab your Twilight indicator off the counter and freeze. What the –

Under the mug is a dark purple orb. It reminds you of Sombra’s magic a lot. Whoa. Whoa.
Whoa.

It must be what Shining Armor was talking about. You decide to stash the orb, but you’re sorely tempted to try and take its magic.

Last night, you would have. Not anymore. Also, you have no idea how you would do something like that.

You stick the mug back over the cup and quickly pull it off the counter, turning it over at the same time so that the orb stays inside without you touching it. With cup in hand, you walk outside and down your apartment steps to the one place you know no pony would ever look. To the side of the apartment, there’s a tool shed. You stride to the door, open it, and withdraw a shovel from it.

Then, you walk to a certain spot in your yard and begin to dig. It only takes a few tries to find something hard. A few minutes, and you have unearthed a briefcase. You flip the combination to 7669, and the case opens with a click. Inside is a little talisman that easily fits in your palm, with the head and wings of an alicorn and a bright red gem that’s inset in it. It’s the Alicorn Amulet, which you snagged the time you were teleported to Twilight’s bed. You figure you should probably give it back, but Twilight hasn’t seemed to miss it. Plus, it’s pretty cool-looking.

You dump the orb in the briefcase and close it. You are just about to put it back in the ground when time seems to stand still. As if in slow motion, the briefcase glows red, then disintegrates, revealing a massive glowing red and purple ball of magic. You can’t force yourself to move as a tendril of magic touches your finger, and the magic is sucked into your body.

It feels like – you lack the words to describe the simultaneous feelings of pain, excitement, fear, and joy that’s you’re experiencing. But soon the ball of magic is fully gone and you’re in control of your body again. Remembering what happened the last time you obtained dark magic, you drop everything and run straight back into your house and into the bathroom. What you see makes you inadvertently jump in shock.

Wow. Just – wow. You don’t know where to begin. Whether it’s the curved red and gray horn that’s sprouting out of your head, your red eyes (green corneas too) emitting purple smoke, your fangs (yes, fangs), your darkened skin, and spiky hair – wow. Just wow.
But to be honest, such a development is not a problem. After all, you already know how to use magic. You concentrate, your horn (that might take some getting used to) glows, and your Sombra-esque visage is replaced with that of a man in his thirties.

So what just happened? The only thing you could figure out is that putting two powerful dark magic artifacts together caused their magic to coalesce. Hopefully, the magic won’t have any side effects and you can still –

A gigantic roaring fills your head. Now you are truly powerful, it says. The voices! How and why are they influencing you?

“What do you want?” you ask, not without some fear.

The face you just disguised reappears in the mirror. “To make you happy. I have waited for a long time, but now I finally can help you.”

“How are you controlling me?” you gasp, resuming your regular appearance.

“We’re not. I am you, or have you forgotten?” The other face comes back with a twisted expression that resembles a smile. “I just needed some real power so that I could actually change things for you. Ever since that fool Star Swirl augmented your own dark energy with some real magic, I’ve been trying to help you. But I’ve always been here, a part of you that didn’t want to let those that hurt you get away with it.”

“You said that you wanted to help me. How are you going to do that?”

“Simple. Those ponies that come to your bed are all magical. Simply take their magic and do what you want with them. At work, mind-control your boss and get a raise. Go and make your girlfriend sorry she ever betrayed you.”

You have to admit that such a solution is tempting. But something doesn’t seem right. “What about friends?” you ask.

“Forget friends. You don’t need them. You never did. No matter if it’s your brother, your former roommate, your co-workers, or your ex, you know – and I know – that all your so-called ‘friends’ only really care about themselves.”

“What about Shining Armor?”

“That heartthrob?” The evil you laughs just like a cartoon villain would. “Seriously, you haven’t figured out why he was really here? He told you himself: he was trying to hide the dark magic. And he didn’t tell you until he had no other choice. Some friend he is.”

You have no comeback. He – well, you – has a point. But, there’s something else. Something you’ve forgotten. It’s not friendship, it’s –

You run out of the bathroom. You need your phone and it’s still in your bedroom. Suddenly, you stop dead, but not of your own volition.

“Uh-uh-uh. That’s not a smart idea. You’re just going to hurt yourself more!”

You fight against your mind. “I deserve it.”

Foot over foot, you struggle to your bedroom. Your dark side fights you every step of the way.

Finally, you reach grab the device and dial a number.

“You better hang up now.”

You ignore the voice. The phone rings once.

“For the last time, stop now.” The voice carries a threat.

Or what? You think.

“Or this!” And with that, a wave of hate washes over you. Hate that you didn’t know was possible to feel. Hate against your boss for being a typically annoying jerk. Hate for your false friends that didn’t care one iota about your emotions. Hate against Shining Armor for hiding things from you. Hate against the universe for sending ponies to your bed every week.

But the hate gives you power beyond anything you’ve ever experienced. It completely overwhelms you.

The phone is picked up. “Hello?” your ex-girlfriend says.

Somewhere in the back of your mind, you try to fight back.

Feel this power. You want it. You need it. You sink to your knees. Vaguely, you notice wings are growing from your back.

“Hello.” you manage to mumble into the phone before being brought down with a fresh wave of anger.

This universe could be yours. If you defeat the Bearers of Harmony, Equestria too.

“What!? What do you want?” your ex cries, recognizing your voice.

Power or forgiveness. Which do you choose?

“Not much, but to –“

You! WILL! NOT!

“– say that whether you’re sorry or not, I –“

You can never forgive her. You will never forgive her. She’s not even sorry.

“– forgive – “

You’ll regret this forever!

“– you.”

The voice in your head cusses you out as only you can. This isn’t over! I’m part of you!

You ignore the voice and tap the “end call” button with a hoof. A hoof? Okay…

The voice sighs in disgust. I’ll always be here. You’ll always need me.

And with that, the power, the voice, and the hate dissipate, and it feels like a burden has been lifted off of your shoulders. In a few seconds you’re just a regular guy again.

You sigh in relief. “That was dramatic, alright. But I can’t let that get ahold of me again.”

Suddenly, you know what you have to do. Fix your life, one step at a time. But right now, you need to go to work. You shove your phone back in your pocket and start to walk out of the
bedroom.

The last thing you think before you hit the ground is: I guess these sleepiless spells wear off.

You Are In Your Bed, Hating Mondays (Dusty Sunrise)

You Are In Your Bed, Hating Mondays
Dusty Sunrise

Mondays suck.

You repeat the magic phrase in your mind as you slam open the door of your workplace, a long day of work has been successful in ruining your good mood that morning, you had a good night sleep and a hearty breakfast thanks to the fat check you received that week, there was an emotional crash in between due to your recent escapades with ponies and the even more recent visit with Shining Armor and his sort of mental breakdown. Poor guy, you thinkt to yourself, as you take out your car keys and unlock your car. Recently you had to purchase a new one after all the times these unwanted visitors wrecked your car, you give a long drawn out sigh as you turn on the ignition and listen to the stalled rumble, giving off the impression that your ‘new’ car has seen better days.

The ride home was slow as for some reason every stoplight turned red as soon as you approached, as if telling you, “You are going to have a bad day.” and you believed it, it was Monday after all and Monday is the day when a pony decides to invade the only good part about your home which is your bed, but after replacing our bed a dozen times due to it being lit on fire, covered in alcohol, eaten, and after ponies fornicated on it, you were recently considering just sleeping on the couch, maybe that would end your ponified torment.

Your feet slide lazily toward the front door and you fumble through your keys before finally digging the key into the lock, you freeze as you hear a voice that sounds just like yours.

“Ugh, I hate Mondays!” your voice shouted, you blindly bring a hand to your throat and shrug it off as if it were nothing, you slam the door behind you and yawn, tired of all the constant garbage these people with low mentality rates toss at you as if you were a waste basket, you smile at the comparison as you check every portion of your living room, kitchen and bathroom, a sort of practice you’ve grown accustomed to because of all the reckless ponies that blew up your house, wrecked your toilet, drank your alcohol, read your porn, etc.

Finally came the bedroom, you mentally brace yourself as you turn the knob on the door and slowly open it dramatically, years of playing Resident Evil made the act seem more scary and dramatic, you clench your body as you swing the door open, and lo’ and behold, a pony sits on your bed, but you can’t seem to recognize him as any of the ponies you’ve seen on the show. Must be another OC… you tell yourself as you prepare for more terrible grammar and soul-crushing attitudes.

“Hey, bowling pin head.” You say, the pony who was obviously an earth pony raises his head to stare at you, and you and he gasp at what was most likely the same fact, the fact that your facial features matched to as much as they could, same eye colors, the same 5 O’clock shadow that came due to lack of sleep, same hair style with the same dull shine, everything matched as much as they could, besides the fact that his face was shaped like a ponies, which was normal.

“Who are--” You both say in unison, stopping mid sentence at the similarity to the voice.

“You go first.” You both say, both of you cringe at the irony.

“No, you go ahead.” Once again, you both say the same thing.

“Alright, let’s just shut up, okay?” The pony says, the same thing you were going to say, I like this one. You think to yourself as a small smile escapes your lips,

“What’s with the grin?” he asks,

“Oh nothing, it’s just you seem exactly like me,” You fold your arms, “This is a nice change other than the ponies who seem to--” He interrupts you,

“Blow up your bathroom, eat your sheets, send your bed to another dimension, and burn your refrigerator?” he asks, you freeze at the statement, but you just shake your head,

“Yes, usually happens every--” He interrupts you again,

“Every Monday, I know.” He interrupts, you grumble at the fact that he kept interrupting you, “Humans do the same thing to me, should’ve never trusted that chinese restaurant…” he muttered to himself, your eyes go wide in realization, He is me… you think to yourself, before you go off jumping to conclusions you begin to quiz him on things that have happened in your life,

“You didn’t happen to have a girlfriend who - in your opinion - was a real ass, did you?” you ask,

“Yeah, damn near ruined my life.” He raises a curious eyebrow, “I’m guessing you’ve had the same problem, too?”

“Oh, you have no idea.” you respond, you feel the smile on your face widen. God, I hope this one can stay, you plead to yourself. He shuffles on the bed to make room for you, and you sit down on the bed

“So, what’s your name supposed to be?” You ask, bracing yourself for some retarded name,

“My name is…” he stops as if he choked on something, “Not important.” he finished, you nod slowly, just as you never gave your name to anyone or any pony who appeared in your bed,

“So, first humans, now you’re appearing in a human counterpart’s bed?” You ask,

“Oh, you noticed that too.” He responds, you let loose a chuckle,

“Mondays suck.” You both say in unison, letting loose a barrage of laughter, you begin talking with your pony counterpart for hours on end and you don’t notice the time until you see a bright halo appear above you,

“Oh damn.” The pony’s eyes go wide, “Looks like it’s your turn.”

“Wait wh--” you are interrupted when you nearly go blind from the bright light, as you are flung around, you watch as the seizure-inducing colors flash all around you, you let out a wordless scream as you fling through dimensions, suddenly everything goes black and you hit something soft followed by a feminine ‘Oof!’

“Hey, watch it, bub!” your ex’s voice says,

Oh shit…

Today is going to be a bad day.

Snowdrop Is Two Feet to the Left of Your Bed (Admiral Biscuit)

Snowdrop Is Two Feet to the Left of Your Bed
Admiral Biscuit

Another terrible day, you think. Work was . . . well, it was over. That much could be said for it, at least.

But it's a Monday night.

On the way home, you wrack your brain for any things you haven't tried yet to get rid of the ponies. Killing them outright might work, but you're hesitant to commit to that course of action. At the very least, it will probably leave you with a corpse to dispose of, and it's probably illegal, too.

Any more, you can hardly remember all your visitors. They've all blurred together into formless mass of pain and suffering.

They really ought to be banned by the Geneva Convention, you think, looking listlessly at the street leading to your home.

You'd had a few visits which had gone well, and you'd actually been deluded into thinking that perhaps things were taking a mellower turn. Right up until you had unceremoniously been dumped into your ex's bed.

Clearly, her anger management classes hadn't benefited her. One punch to the face could have been reflex, you'd grant her that, but there was clear malice behind the right hook that had followed and blackened your eye.

You shove the key into the door and push the door open ever so slowly, listening for the telltale clopping of hooves.

Nothing.

You let out a breath you didn't know you were holding, examine your thankfully pony-free domicile, and open the fridge. At one point, you'd considered stocking it with a lifetime supply of lunch meat, in the hopes of scaring them off, but it'd be your luck to discover that they were carnivores.

Plus, you would have had to spend some serious time shopping, and that was something you had no intention of doing if you could help it. The grocery store was supposed to be a quick in-and-out, rather than an expedition.

You settle on a couple of sandwiches and a couple beers.

You sit down in front of the TV to eat, knowing in the back of your mind that it's a complete waste of time. You can't focus—you never can on Mondays. You know a visitor is coming, and you know by now that you can't ignore her.

Why is it you've had a flood of girl ponies, a sex-crazed griffon, and even a fruity serpent, but you can't get a date to save your life? The universe has a special hatred for you, it seems.

By the time the end credits of the second movie are scrolling by in super high-speed—anything to cram in a few more commercials—you can barely keep your eyes open. Your visitor, whoever she is, is at least being quiet.

Or else she hasn't showed up yet.

It takes one more beer to work up enough courage to head for the bedroom and find out if you've finally escaped the madness, even though deep in your heart you know you have not. There will be a pony or griffon or heaven only knows what in your bed.

You shove open the bedroom door cautiously and are barely able to believe your tired eyes. The bedsheets are smooth . . . well, no they're not; the bed is as unmade as it was when you left this morning. Nevertheless, there isn't a big enough rumple to be hiding a pony.

Barely able to contain yourself, you gleefully walk to your bed.

When you're most of the way across the room, you trip over a warm equine lump curled atop a pile of dirty clothes, hit your mattress at the only angle where instead of catching you gently, it bounces you back, and then slam into the floor hard enough to rattle the bedroom windows.

"Jesus Harold Christ on a pogo stick, why?" You rub your chin. "Also, ow!"

The pony, who until a moment ago was sleeping peacefully on your week-old work clothes, leaps up in alarm, and flies directly into your closet, where she immediately becomes entangled on the collection of empty hangers. Before you can get back to your feet, she works her way loose, crashes to the ground, and gallops into the back wall of the closet.

You see her shaking her head, but before she can smash into anything else you're across the room, grabbing for her. Her stumpy little legs are no match for your stride.

In the ensuing scuffle, she manages to kick you in the nuts, and whack you across the face with a wing, before you finally get enough of a grip on her to hold her away from your body.

"Whoa there, calm down," you tell her. "And stop kicking at my face, okay?" Sadly, this is an experience you know all too well. Children are the devil; why should pony foals be any different? If you had a dime for every time some entitled soccer mom's demon spawn had vandalized your department, you'd be sitting on a tropical island, accepting umbrellaed drinks from bikini-clad waitresses.

Naturally, your calming words only provoke the opposite reaction, and she squirms around even more in your hands. Your grasp slipping, you take the only remaining option—roll to your side so that she can get her hooves on the ground, and then shove yourself into as tight a ball as possible, in case she comes back kicking.

Fortunately, she flees again. Or tries to, at least. This time she stays on the ground, and heads back the way she’d come. After caroming off nearly every piece of furniture in the room, she finally relocates your dirty laundry pile and belly-flops on top of it.

Then she does something truly bizarre—and you've seen more bizarre than anyone else on Earth, you're sure. She grabs the pile in her hooves, clutches it against her belly, and flies up until she just brushes the ceiling of the bedroom.

And then she stops flapping.

For a second, she hangs there, before plummeting back to the ground. Luckily for her, her vertical flight had a rather distinct diagonal element to it, and she manages to gracelessly land on your bed.

You've had more than enough of this game. Little miss clumsy is going to destroy your room with her head if she keeps panicking. "Would you just calm down?" you mutter. "You kicked me in the nuts, you know."

"My head hurts," she replies, feeling her way around your bed with her forehooves until she locates the blankets and worms her way underneath.

"You flew into a wall, then you ran into a wall. Of course your head hurts."

"Your cloud doesn't work right," she says accusingly, her voice muffled by the covers.

"My dick probably doesn't any more, either." You slump back down in the closet. "Sorry. Sorry for the shitty welcome. Sorry for kicking you. I didn't mean any of those things, if it makes you feel any better."

"Where am I?" She sticks her muzzle out of the covers, and you get your first look at her face. It's painfully adorable, especially when she reaches out a hoof and rubs her snout. "This isn't Cloudsdale."

"Welcome to my humble abode." You hold your arm out, pointing as you speak. "Over there, we have my nightstand, across the hall, my bathroom, and in the center of my room, my bed, with a pony in it." As you continue the visual tour, you find yourself becoming increasingly perplexed by the way her eyes stay focused at you no matter where you point.

All the other ponies figured out pointing.

Maybe this one's retarded.

"And that's pretty much it," you say. "In the morning, you'll be returned to wherever it is you live."

"I don't want to be here," she decides.

"Yeah, well I don't want you to be here, either, but the universe has it out for me, and I guess you pissed it off, too. Listen, I'm not really comfortable here in the closet. I've got a hanger trying to rape me—you're not going to panic if I get up are you?"

She shakes her head, then ducks back under the illusory safety of the covers.

You stand up and stretch out, making sure to look down the front of your pants to make sure there isn't a hoofprint there.

She sticks her head back out, and you guiltily cover yourself again, before moving towards the bed. She doesn't react at all—her ears stay pointed in your direction, and her head follows you, but she seems unaware that you're moving towards her.

And then you notice how milky her eyes are, and all of a sudden you feel like the biggest douche in the entire universe. All the pieces click into place with a cognitive snap. "You're blind, aren't you?"

She gives you a tentative nod.

You're at a complete loss, and you righteous anger vanishes like a Twinkie at a Weight Watcher's Anonymous meeting. You can't stay mad at a scared, blind foal. Even if she did kick you in the junk.

"You know what?" you tell her. "Why don't you make yourself comfortable until the morning. I'll just sleep downstairs. If you need anything, just shout, okay?"

"Can you get some new sheets? These are wet."

"How—"

She cringes away from your voice, and burrows back under the covers. From underneath, you hear her muffled voice. "You scared me. I'm sorry."

Against your better judgement, you reach forward and began gently stroking the her head through the covers. “It’s okay. I’m not mad. I’ll get some clean sheets, and maybe a glass of warm milk for you, alright?”

She’s still shivering under the covers, but you can feel her tentative nod under your hand.

Rarity Has Just Redecorated Your Apartment (zakueins)

Rarity Has Just Redecorated Your Apartment
zakueins

Another Monday, and another day the temptation to go Old Testament Biblical (i.e. fire and brimstone) on your job has gone up another notch. Some idiot in the break room stole your lunch (an utterly delicious spaghetti and meatballs from last night), your boss was ready to make you work unpaid OT before you pointed out that doing so would get the company and him in trouble with the EEOC again (they’re still resolving the whole sexual harassment complaint of your previous manager), and by the time you got off work, the last direct bus to the lot where you park your car left just as you made the corner. Two buses and an hour and a half later, you finally have gotten to your car, had something to eat that wasn’t greasy chain fast food, and now you’re about to come home to a new pastel pony problem.

A whole year of this has definitely worn your nerves out as well. Even with the YouTube videos, the occasional Fortean phenomena scientist trying to figure out what’s going on, and an amazingly kind landlord, nobody has the faintest clue why you’re ground zero for para-dimensional ponies. You’ve lost sleep, money, hair, two computers, three refrigerators, four beds, a night stand, and all of your good porn because of it. If anything really pisses you off, it’s losing the good porn. Some of the good porn isn’t in print anymore and they want really obscene costs to get new copies on the Internet. You turn the car wheel to the street where your apartment is...and there’s a line of trucks parked along the street.

Something about this makes you wonder, and as you drive along, the truck logos are from a major appliance chain. Specifically, the chain that handles really high-end appliances for people that can spend a thousand dollars on a refrigerator that does everything but have it’s own tiny cow inside for fresh milk. There’s also some trucks from IKEA, a “get rid of your junk” truck, and a single white unicorn with a checklist.

From what you recall about pony attractiveness, she’s cute in a whole “professional” sort of way. Her long, purple mane falls over one eye with an elegant curl, tail done in curls as well, and her Cutie Mark of three diamonds glitters in the setting sunlight. The clipboard is waving, and you can see that she’s talking with somebody that screams “lawyer” in a three piece suit more expensive than your car and several workmen.

Sighing, you pull into your parking spot for the apartment, noting that somebody has repainted all the parking lot lines in fresh yellow paint. Shouldering your backpack and taking a deep breath, you walk around the corner to the sound of the pony talking in a very elegant accent. “I’m so happy,” you can almost hear her squeal, “I mean, in only one day, I’ve managed to make this place so much more elegant.”

“I’m glad to hear that,” you say, and come up to the pony. “I assume that you’re my latest visitor.”

“Of course, darling,” she smiles, and nods her head. “My name is Rarity, and when I arrived in your domicile, I realized just why I was there. Just the mis-match of everything involved there was horrible. None of your furniture matched, and so much of it was battered and damaged, that I just had to do something about it.”

“Oh?” you ask very carefully, and look at the lawyer, his expression one of very professional curiosity.

“Well, you see,” Rarity continues, “after I started to plan out what I could do in only a day, I realized I needed help. As it turns out, Princess Celestia has a contingency planned for these circumstances, so all I had to do was make a phone call and this lovely gentleman here was able to help.”

The lawyer steps in between the pause, and says, “Hello, I’m William Howe, with the law firm of Dewey, Cheatam, and Howe,” offering his hand for a handshake. As you shake hands, he continues, “We are the law firm that manages the trust for Princess Celestia, and when Rarity contacted us and gave us her authorization codes, we were able to provide her with assistance.”

“And, such assistance it was,” Rarity smiles. “Just the smell alone...sadly, I know the source, and Spike is normally such a well behaved dragon. And, since I had to move around your old furniture to put new furnishings in, we were able to get a painting crew in here in early so that everything would be dry by the time the appliance and furniture delivery people arrived. I couldn’t do anything about the carpet or the kitchen cabinets-perhaps on my next visit here.”

“How did you get permission to do any of this?” you ask, looking in a shocked wonder.

“There’s a ‘maintenance clause’ in your lease agreement,” Howe says, looking at you. “Once we agreed to certain considerations, we were able to get access to your apartment for the work needed.”

“Considerations,” you say, your voice trailing off.

“Well, I am not impressed with some people’s idea of service. I mean, I was ordering only one stove and one refrigerator and they were going to make me wait until next week! But, when you order sixty stoves and refrigerators and hint that you may go to their competition if they cannot deliver that day,” Rarity shakes her head sadly. “It becomes amazing how quickly they discover that their schedules open up.”

Just to fix your apartment, she had the stoves and the refrigerators and probably the sinks and toilets of every apartment in the complex replaced… And, at no charge to the landlord, who was probably going to be tickled pink and figure out how to jack up your rent. You don’t know exactly what expression is on your face, but Howe says, “As a part of the agreement with the rental agency that owns this property, rental rates will remain the same. In addition, certain contingencies have been acted upon, and I will need you to examine and sign this contract.”

He hands over a thick stack of paperwork and you find a good source of light away from the still-working installers. As you read through it, it’s like some kind of weird dream, the sort where everything seems to be going so right, like the world has been put on greased rails. The contract is for a trust, and in exchange for your continued good care of trans-dimensional ponies, the law firm of Dewey, Cheatam, & Howe would pay the full rent, rental insurance, and utilities for your apartment. Damages to furnishings caused by pony visitors would be paid for as well, including a new bed as needed. All you need to do...is stay here and be a good host.

You read through the contract three times, looking for land mines, and sigh. “There has to be a catch. What’s the catch?”

“The only catch is that if you move and your visitors do not move with you, the trust would be emplaced with the next resident of the apartment that has pony guests,” Howe replied. “Beyond that, you just have to treat your guests decently.”

You close your eyes and count up ten elephants, take a deep breath, and pull a pen out of your pants pocket. “You do realize that what you’re offering will effectively double my salary,” you say, signing and initialing the contract as needed.

“Which makes it a great deal,” Howe nods and you look around. Rarity is biting her lip, and she is starting to bounce a bit on her hooves.

“Rarity,” you ask, “would you like to show me what you’ve done to redecorate my apartment?”

“Yes!” Rarity gushes and you realized that she’s carrying you along by her magic, leading you up the stairs to your apartment.

You have to admit, Rarity does great work even under the time pressure of a single day.

The smell, that never-to-be-forgotten smell of burnt refrigerator, has finally gone away. Replacing it is the fading smell of paint, as all the walls in the apartment have gotten a new coat of eggshell white paint. The major appliances in the kitchen-the stove, the microwave, and the refrigerator-have been replaced with some of the most high end hardware you’ve seen outside of an HDTV design show. The entire kitchen has been cleaned, dishes put away, and it almost seems to shine.

Coming into the living room, Rarity has gone hog-wild with the IKEA catalog, and replaced every single mismatched bookshelves with floor-to-ceiling Billy bookcases, a Hemnes corner workstation for your computer, and a TV table that has plenty of space for your DVDs, video games, and controllers. Anchoring the center of the room is a lovely new Karlstad sofa-bed, with a table holding all your remote controls in front of it.

Anxiously, Rarity leads you to your bedroom, where more bookshelves and several dressers live. They all surround your bed-a very nice and elegant four poster bed with a lovely new set of sheets and comforter. Rarity giggles, and she bounces herself onto the bed, curling up on it. “I found the best mattress possible, perfectly comfortable for a gentleman and any company he might have,” she says, making bedroom eyes at you and spreading out slightly. “And, the sheets! I wish I had the time to do proper, custom satin and silk, but the ones that I was able to get at the store were suitable enough. And spares for when you have to clean them.” She waves a front leg at you and smiles, “Come on, give it a try!”

You sigh, pull off your slippers, and get into your usual side of the Queen-sized mattress. And, you have to admit, it is a very comfortable bed. Rarity scoots across the mattress and snuggles up with you, smiling. “Are you enjoying it?”

“Yes, I am,” you have to admit, and roll onto your back, looking up at the ceiling. Rarity rests her head on your breastbone and you smile softly. “Thank you for all your work.”

“I feel like I should be doing more,” she says softly. “I admit, your wardrobe could be better, but it is too late to go shopping for anything to help you be better attired. We, and I use the ‘we’ in the ‘everypony that has been here’ sense, know that we’ve been a bit of a problem for you since these arrivals have happened. You should have something that makes you smile and feel better.”

“It has been an interesting year,” you admit. “Some of it makes me insane, some of it makes me smile.”

You roll onto the side of your bed, sitting up, and roll your shoulders. “One of the things that I’ve been doing in the last few weeks has been interviewing arriving ponies. Would you join me in the living room for an interview?”

Rarity smiles, and says, “Oh, most certainly, darling! Let me get my mane and tail worked on, I did bring some makeup, and I can be ready for you in a few minutes!”

The investment in a pretty decent video camera, two sets of wireless microphones, and a couple of lights to make sure nobody thought you were playing CGI games wasn’t that hard once you learned where to look on eBay. Learning how to fit a pony with a wireless microphone so that they could be heard clearly was tricky, but you got an amazing amount of advice after the first show. You’ve finished the setup, and a general idea of how to adjust the lights to compensate for your new couch when Rarity comes out of the bathroom.

She looks more...polished than you do. Subtle makeup, a freshly brushed mane and tail, her body shining softly by some means, she smiles and says, “Oh dear, you are ready. I’ve heard of this ‘Internet’ thing, and you are interviewing ponies that come through your house. Which interview will this be?”

“The ninth,” you say. “I’ll show you all the others when we’re done.” You help to fit Rarity with her microphone, and sit at the computer for a minute. “Talk a bit, normally,” pulling on headphones.

“Well, darling,” Rarity says, “I expect this to be a most interesting of interviews, as I have so much to talk about! While I was waiting for the first round of delivery people, I started to look at the fashion programming on television. And, while some of it is beautiful, while some of it is just...a cacophony of fabric design! To think, they call themselves ‘designers’!”

You listen in on the headphones, and smile. “Perfect sound,” and set up everything to record. A quick check of the white balance on the camera to compensate for the white-fur on Rarity, and you start off with the post-intro credits introduction. “Hello, and welcome to Pony Time. My guest this Monday is the fashionista and decorator that helped to turn my apartment around in a single day. Ladies and gentlemen, it is my honor to introduce tonight Rarity.”

“Why thank you,” Rarity replied, and the interview gets off to a swimming start. It’s thirty minutes of her talking about fashion (“Some designers...yes, clothing must be art, but it must be art on the canvas of your model, not just proof that you can make a fabric sculpture!”), decoration (“you must be careful not to over-decorate, it’s too easy to throw in that one last set of cushions or that one last overstuffed chair…”), and some of her fashion choices for the next season. The alarm clock you set just out of sight flashes (no sound, you’re recording), and you winding up with the last question and go into the show ending. A few seconds to get the right length of tag to work with in editing, then you turn the camera off. “Thank you,” as you quickly check to make sure you got a clean recording.

“Why, thank you, dear,” Rarity replies, and she lifts off the microphone and electronics package with her magic. “Have you eaten? I am hungry, and I would love for something to eat.”

“I ate before I got home,” you apologize. “Normal practice for me, since I don’t know who will show up, in terms of ponies. I mean, I’ve had some really rude ponies come and I didn’t want to ruin my appetite.”

“Oh, I understand, dear,” Rarity smiles. “But, can I get something to eat?”

“Better yet,” and you fire up your phone to find a food app. A few questions later, and a local Indian place is bringing over vegan aloo mutter and dessert. When it arrives, you tip the delivery person well, and Rarity is already working her way through it by the time you get back to the computer to start editing the episode of Pony Time.

She smiles, and wipes the last bit of curry with the provided bread. “Delicious,” she replies. “I must have the recipe with me on my return, I will see if we have the spices back in Equestria. You are preparing our interview to be shown?”

“Yes,” you reply, putting the last touches on the editing. “Let me show you what I’ve done…,” and you fire up the video software on the computer to show the intro sequence to Pony Time. Rarity watches the interview, and she nods at a few points, then the ending and your “hey, contribute by PayPal” post credits plea. “Interview number nine is done,” you smile. “Want to see one through eight?”

“Who did you interview, darling?” she asks, settling onto the couch.

“First off, we had Princess Cadence come by again,” and you bring up her interview on the TV, so you can both watch it on the bigger screen. It’s pretty raw (you’d like to say “authentic”, but your video editing skills were rudimentary at the start), but a half hour later, it’s over and Rarity says, “She does interview well.”

“Cadence was the first,” you reply, and start to sort through the videos on your YouTube channel. “Next up was Gilda…”

“Oh, her,” Rarity sighs in a voice cold enough to freeze oxygen. “Yes, I knew she was Rainbow Dash’s friend, but I always thought Rainbow Dash had better taste in ponies she liked.”

“Turns out it was one of the most highly rated interviews,” you say. “Biggest number of views, at least. And, she might have a surprise or two in store for you.”

“Oh?”

You run the interview, and it hits that one point where Gilda was talking about the other reason why she was in town. “Yea, I wanted to see Rainbow Dash,” she says, trying not to claw the old couch up under her. “But, I wanted to go by the Carousel Boutique as well. I heard a lot of great things about Rarity, and I wanted to get something custom from her, as I was going to really show off when I went to my brother’s wedding.”

Rarity makes you rewind the video past that point twice, and she says, “Goodness me, I will have to write her and see if she’s still interested.”

You bring up another interview, this one of Time Turner, and spend most of the evening talking about ponies that have come through, things that have happened, and you manage to find a good recipe for aloo mutter to give Rarity. She smiles, and says, “May I see some more of the fashion shows on television?”

“Certainly,” and you fire up the television on the special pony setting you programmed into the cable box (no porn channels or the more violent basic cable channels), and give Rarity instructions on how to use the remote control. “I’m going to head to bed in about an hour, so keep the volume down, please.”

“Oh, absolutely, darling,” she smiles. From...somewhere...she pulls out a notepad and colored pencils. She’s sketching from the TV, clearly working on ideas from the fashion show she’s watching. “I’m liking this designer,” Rarity says, scribbling out an idea for something that looks like a little black dress built for ponies. “He is making the most of his models, and that is wonderful.”

“If pony-to-Earth service was more regular,” you comment, “I suspect you would find a lot of people who would love to work with you.”

Rarity blushes, and smiles. “Darling, you’re embarrassing me! But, yes, I would be honored to work with some of the models here. Or, figuring out how to make the most of humans, a challenge indeed.”

She sits down on her haunches, and nods at you. “If you can get me some of these magazines they refer to and send them back with the next pony, I will gladly pay the cost of shipping from the pony there.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” and you search the fridge for something to nibble on. “Slice of chocolate cake?”

“Oh, yes,” Rarity says, and you split up the last slice of cake between the two of you. As you work on the computer, Rarity hums and makes comments as you hear the pencil scribble on her notebook. Finally, you finish up for the night, close the computer down, and find the blankets. Laying them in front of the couch, you say, “If you need some blankets, here you are. Probably won’t see you tomorrow morning, ponies usually leave before I wake up.”

“It was a pleasure, darling,” Rarity smiles, and she lifts herself up for a hug. She nuzzles your cheek as you hug, and sits back down. “Thank you, and I hope we can visit each other again soon. Hopefully with you having a day off, so I can get you properly attired!”

You blush and smile, “Thank you, and I’ll get the magazines for you.” As you head off to bed, Rarity sighs, you almost think you can hear, “a shame he isn’t a pony.” As you close the door, she’s complaining about a fashion designer with a fetish for androgynous boys in girl’s clothing.

The next morning, you’re up with the alarm clock and the TV is still on. Rarity is gone, but there are blanket on the couch, and a note on your computer table.

Thank you, darling, the note begins. I was up most of the night, taking notes. If I had a way to make a copy, we’ll have to talk about it on your program next time I come by. Next week, I hope to get the magazines, and I will find some way to compensate you for the cost. Have a great day at work!

The note is signed in a beautiful, flowing signature and you smile, tucking it into the portfolio folder you keep near the desk. It’s bulging with other notes, drawings, and photos, which means you’ll have to get another one soon. You already know where you’re getting the magazines for Rarity, and one or two she might have missed.

It might not be the best day you’ve have today, but it is starting superbly.

Bulk Biceps is Bench Pressing Your Bed (Level Dasher)

Bulk Biceps is Bench Pressing Your Bed
Level Dasher

So, what kind of catastrophe awaits me tonight? you wonder to yourself as you close your front door. You’ve come to grips with the fact that it’s likely not going to stop. Ever. You can kiss a good night’s sleep goodbye.

You walk straight towards the bedroom. You don’t even bother going anywhere else. Well, except the bathroom. Gotta do that first…

Your bodily functions now having run their course, now you proceed to the bedroom. You may as well just get it over with.

As you open your bedroom door, you find your bed hanging in midair, just below the ceiling.

No, wait, about two feet off the floor.

Now it’s back at the ceiling.

At this point, your bed floating up and down in midair isn’t a complete surprise. Any of these magical ponies could be playing with it like a child’s toy. That isn’t exactly the case, though. This time, a sheet-white—you don’t think you can really call it a pony... it’s too big for that, so you decide on horse—a sheet-white horse is laying on the floor underneath the bed.

The horse— dammit, you’re too used to calling them ponies… just call it a damn pony. The pony is lifting your bed up like it’s nothing. As you get a closer look, you confirm that it’s male. Muscles bulge around his entire body. He looks like he’s on steroids. There are veins popping out of his head, but he doesn’t seem to be challenged by your bed’s weight at all.

As he continues lifting your bed, you start to ask him, “Dude, are you—” You flinch slightly as he quickly glares at you, his teeth bared and a brow cocked, but he doesn’t stop. You try again. “Are you bench pressing my bed?”

He looks back up at the bed and shouts, “YEEEAAAAAAAAAAHHHH!”

You stagger back for just a second— the shout wasn’t expected… but considering what was happening, it probably should have been. The pony just continues bench pressing your bed.

“You know, you don’t look like you’re having that much trouble,” you tell him calmly. A ‘roided-out body-builder pony. You admit to yourself, despite all the characters you’ve had visit you so far, this was actually a bit surprising. “You could probably put a little more weight on there.”

“YEEEAAAAAAAAAAHHHH!” the pony responds.

You stare at him while your bed continues to get bench pressed over and over. By now, you feel more sorry for your bed than yourself. You attempt to put it out of its misery. “You know, there’s a gym down the street. You’d probably get a better challenge over there. You want me to show you where it is?”

The pony stops mid-bench, holding the bed straight up with his forelegs fully extended. You think you’ve got a chance at actually solving your pony problem early for once. He then tosses the bed into the air, bounds to his feet, and punches the bed in the center from the bottom, splitting it in half, all while simultaneously shouting, “YEEEAAAAAAAAAAHHHH!” He then stomps out your bedroom door and heads for the exit.

You smack your forehead with your palm. So close… SO close. You decide to follow the pony out, since you might actually be able to get a night’s sleep on the couch without a pony in your place of residence. As you walk outside and close the door behind you, he stands there staring at you, still panting from his ‘workout.’ You sigh, then point down the street and say, “About three blocks down, make a left, another two blocks, and it’s on the right. It’s called ‘Roy’s Gym.’”

In a split second, the pony grabs you by the scruff of your neck and screams, “I’M NOT ON ‘ROIDS!” He then throws you toward your front door; you break through it and slam into the wall, then fall to the floor.

You lift yourself up and rub the back of your head, noticing a red streak on your hand when you look at it. Through the splinters of your door, you notice the bulky, clearly-not-on-steroids pony stomping down the street.

Well, that certainly could have gone better… but it could have been worse…

Your Bed is in Your Bed, Pondering a Philosophical Dilemma (AShadowOfCygnus)

Your Bed is in Your Bed, Pondering a Philosophical Dilemma
AShadowOfCygnus

It is probably Tuesday morning.

Well, admittedly, it is morning, you went to bed on Monday night, so the logical thing to conclude is that it is, in fact, Tuesday morning. For Tuesday morning always follows Monday night, and Monday night always precedes Tuesday morning. It has always been so. The expected, the rational, the reasonable belief would be that, having gone to bed Monday night, it is currently Tuesday morning.

However.

Most Tuesday mornings do not begin forty-thousand feet above sea level. Most mornings in general do not begin at forty-thousand feet above sea level.

And yet, that is where you are.

Forty-thousand feet above sea level.

In your bed.

Your bed, I note, which is shooting gaily through the sky at a prodigious clip, though unsupported by any apparent means of locomotion. Nor even -- as you can plainly tell by peering over the edge -- the forty-thousand foot beanstalk, that might have been the next reasonable guess. But no, no, that was last Tuesday.

For you see, while most Tuesday mornings do not begin at forty-thousand feet above sea level, they have, for a good long forever now, begun remarkably badly. Whether awaking in a house decimated by ponies the previous night, or transported to far-flung dimensions, or in the bed of someone you’d rather eat raw cockatrice than spend another waking moment with, you’d long since learned to fear the morning that was supposed to come after Monday night.

And the worst part? After a while, even time itself decided to take the piss. Once upon a time, weeks had consisted of seven whole days, Monday through Sunday, as was to be expected. But once the constant parade of strange and disquieting phenomena began to creep their way into your life (and your bed), something changed.

You’d go to bed Tuesday night, and when you woke up, it would be Monday morning. Whole week stolen. You’d spend the day dreading the night, and once it came -- sometimes sooner, sometimes later -- Something would happen. That Something was never the same Thing twice, but it always ended in some kind of pain or crippling injury -- usually a bruised ego; the worst of wounds.

And after you’d cried yourself to sleep that night, and after you’d woken up Tuesday morning, and after you’d wasted precious time trying to fix whatever the last disaster had irreversibly damaged, you’d spend what little time you had left grabbing a bite to eat and beg not to be fired again. And then you’d stumble home, beleaguered and exhausted, fall asleep, and when you woke up, it would be Monday again.

Because, you see, Tuesday night is almost a whole week away from Monday morning. And as the Internet has taught you so well, a week is far too long a time for anyone to wait for their dose of Something, especially your friendly neighbourhood ponies. And since Something only happens on Monday night -- not Sunday night nor Tuesday night, and Celestia forbid a Friday night (perish the thought!) -- your doom is Bill Murray, endlessly looping for the amusement of deviant ponies (and pony accessories) until the end of time.

Homura’s got nothing on you, baby.

At one point, you’d tried to keep track of the days. At one point, you’d tried to find ways to break the cycle. At one point, you’d even tried to kill yourself to Equestria, as happens in those shitty self-insert fanfics that are your guilty pleasure, so you could settle the matter with Celestia herself. Again.

But nothing doing. No matter what you tried, no matter how hard you struggled -- and you tried some serious Final Destination shit there for awhile; remember that trip to the entomologist? -- every attempt failed. Monday night always came, bringing with it drunken Armours and studious Sparkles and malevolent Chrysalises, and increasing evidence for alcoholism for you. By drink or some darker force, however, you’d resigned yourself to it. Not quite ‘made your peace’, because you still occasionally relapsed and tried to blow up the entire house, but close enough to be mistaken for it at a distance.

But you had to admit, for all the crazy shit that’d been done to you over the course of Monday nights past, it had never -- not once! -- reached quite this level of extreme.

And yet, here you are.

In your bed.

At forty-thousand feet above sea level.

Which you’re probably just going to go ahead and blame on the ponies.

Yeah.

It occurs to you at this point that you should probably be more concerned that you are at forty-thousand feet above sea level. Because for all that’s happened thus far in the course of your spectacularly fucked-up life, not once have you been shooting through the air like a rocket-propelled ostrich, with nothing more than your sheets and whatever stained T-shirt you wore to bed separating you from a certain death by gravity.

Well, not at this altitude, at any rate.

You ponder the passing fluffy cumuli for a moment and wonder, not unjustly, whether this might be an appropriate moment to scream. And then you ponder it a moment more, and for several more moments after that, until the idea of ‘moment’ has gone right out the window and it’s now officially an aside.

At the end of it, however, you do decide that forty-thousand feet is indeed a quotient worth screaming at.

So, in the hopes that it might somehow help, you do.

It doesn’t seem to help.

It does, however, wake the snoozing bed in your bed next to you. It blinks blearily at you, and -- voice perfectly audible over the whipping high-altitude winds -- asks you why you’re screaming, darling.

It takes you a howling moment of logic to realise that your inner monologue hasn’t yet made much note of the fact that there is a bed in your bed next to you. Perhaps it was too busy snogging the id backstage to remember its cue.

It takes a moment more to realise that it isn’t just any bed, but your bed, in your bed with you.

At the very least, it’s not a pony. Unless . . .

‘I get it,’ you proudly proclaim, refusing to be wrong-footed, even at forty-thousand feet above sea level. ‘I know what this is.’

Your bed looks at you, utterly confused.

‘This is another Changeling thing, innit?’ You’re very sure of yourself on this. It was -- what? -- the second or third time this had happened that your bed had suddenly sprung legs and a carapace? ‘So who is it this time? Chrysalis? Some sob-story survivor of the Canterlot attack? Someone else completely fucking irrelevant?’

Your mounting frustration at the situation you’ve found yourself in finds an outlet in your ranting, and the bed in your bed actually recoils. ‘Actually, you know what? No. I don’t care. I’m not dealing with this. I’m going to roll over now, and go back to sleep. I’d better bloody well be home when I wake up, yeah?’

This last is directed to the skies whizzing by above.

With a muffled thud of sheets, you flip yourself over, as far away from the bed in your bed as it is possible to be while still being in the bed.

You hear, from behind you, a slight whimper. ‘Irrelevant?’

The word carries on the wind for a moment, like a particularly vile bit of flatulence. Then the sobbing begins. Loud, waily sobbing. The kind of sobbing that usually ends with cleaning the snot out of T-shirts, and fielding noise complaints from Ms-Next-Door-Stick-Up-Her-Arse.

‘All those nights we spent together,’ your bed chokes out. ‘All that time we shared . . .’

Your must actively remind yourself that this is, in fact, your bed speaking, and not your depraved ex. Nor even a Changeling pretending to be your bed, apparently.

‘I was sleeping in you,’ you grumble, somewhat put out.

‘Exactly!’

You lie there awkwardly for a couple of moments while your bed wails into the pillow next to you, contemplating whether you could have phrased that better. But as the wailing continues, something else strikes you.

This is actually insane. Like, really truly insane. Not your standard gibbering about aliens and giggling like a hyena on a cocaine binge insane, really fucking insane. Even considering all the crazy shit that’s been going on for you lately, Groundhog Day or no, this is off the Richter Crazy-Shit Scale.

There’s no way this can honestly be real. Elaborate, inventive, stressful, taking cues from your past experiences -- there’s no doubt about it. This has to be a dream, and a damn ridiculous one at that.

Cracking an eyelid, you peer over the edge of the bed again at the land forty-thousand feet below. They say one of the most common nightmares is falling . . .

Then again, the wind whistling past you seems fairly real, and while you’re not exactly in the mood to pinch yourself at the moment, you reckon that if you did, it’d hurt. Though, admittedly, probably not as much as listening to the ecstatic lamentation going on behind you. At least the fall would be quick.

And, hey, if you pulled this off, you’d never have to see another pony in your bed again. Ever.

Your bed blows its nose wetly on something behind you, and the decision is made. Closing your eyes tight shut and taking a deep breath, you throw the covers back, spread your arms wide . . . and let yourself fall.

And fall.

And fall.

The wind whips past you in the darkness behind your eyes, fingertips and toes hot and tingling with adrenaline. Your heart beats wildly, erratically, fit to burst, leaping into your throat as the vertiginous swooping sensation passes from your stomach to the very reaches of your--

Whump.

. . .

Far too quick for forty-thousand feet. And far too few gobbets scattered about the countryside. The wind is still ripping around you, you can feel it, but you’re . . . lying on something? And, nearby, through ears raw and ringing from the roar of the wind . . . is that someone crying?

Again you crack an eyelid, and find, to no small astonishment, that you are lying in your bed, and your bed is next to you, still wailing like a banshee.

Your mind boggles. It performs a boggling so profound, that any panel of certified bogglers would have have consented as to its authenticity. It performs the kind of boggling that puts most mental gymnastics to shame, the kind of boggling that generally requires one’s brain to be double-jointed to accomplish.

And at the end of its period of requisite boggling, your brain decides that this has to have been a cosmic fluke, and commands you to dive out of bed again to test the theory . . .

. . . only to land back in bed, next to your bed.

The third and fourth attempts produce the same result, though the fourth also results in your heel colliding painfully with the crossboard at the foot of your bed, and your howling quickly joins the renewed wails of the bed in the bed next to you.

And as you clutch your foot and bellow in agony, and as the bed in bed next to you blows its nose once again on the bedspread, you become aware of a low rumbling in the bed beneath you, building gradually in strength and volume until it becomes recognisable as a deep, sonorous voice vaguely reminiscent of Samuel L. Jackson, but considerably less profane.

‘If you lot keep this up, I swear to God I will turn this thing around and take you both straight home!’ bellows the bed you and your bed are sharing.

The caterwauling ceases, as much in surprise as in compliance.

‘Much better,’ harrumphs the bed. ‘Just look at you . . . you think the Hun’s going to be impressed with that stubbed toe down there, eh?’

‘I . . . what?’

‘Normandy, boy! France! The Continent! The Front!’

‘The FRONT?’ Oh please, let this still be a dream.

‘Yes, the Front, you daft sod! Where else did you think you’d be paratrooping into, a cosy resort trip in Majorca?’

‘I--’

‘I bet you’d rather be home in bed right now, reading the paper and sipping on some posh tea, is that it? You make me sick, you little-’

‘I am in bloody bed!’ you roar, cutting your bed off at the pass

To your utter surprise, the bed lets out a guffaw. ‘That’s the spirit, boy! Eat, breathe, and sleep your vocation, innat right? These other little shits could learn a thing or two from you!’

A few moments of stunned silence pass, and you manage only a few fish-mouthed, incoherent sounds. A passing sea urchin is moved by your insightful words, and tips its fedora in your general direction. Insomuch as it can tip, around the spikes.

Not stopping to wonder why there’s a fedora-clad sea urchin passing you in midair, you renew your attempts to speak to the bed your bed is in; that bed has been remarkably quiet and attentive the last few minutes. It distresses you that you can tell.

‘So,’ you ask of the bed you and your bed are in, as the urchin sails off, slightly miffed at not being taken seriously, ‘You’re flying us to the front.’

‘As I’m the pilot, yes.’

‘Right. So we’re in a plane?’

‘C-47 Skytrain!’ says the bed proudly, the sky darkening to a worrying shade of maroon in the urchin’s wake. ‘Best troop carrier of her class!’

‘And, er, I suppose your instruments are all working and that?’

‘Right as rain. Don’t you worry, boy, we’ll get you there in one piece.’

‘Yeah, thanks,’ you say, staring worriedly as you overtake a school of whippets swimming serenely through the air.

It takes a moment of sitting, ignoring the renewed whimpers of the bed next to you and the tangerine cloud marmalade that’s come to rest on the bedspread nearby, but you work up the courage to speak to your bed again.

‘Look,’ you say, trying to wrap your head around the situation. ‘We’re in an, er, plane flying over an, um, warzone. I don’t suppose there’s flak, or anything, is there?’

‘Oh by Jove, you’re right!’ cries the bed, as a Pop-Tart-flavoured cat nyans off to the right, and fireworks begin erupting all around. ‘They’ve found us! Hang on!’

It then begins to make a series of whooshing and nyowwing noises, evidently to mimic a plane taking evasive manoeuvres. The bed, however, maintains a rigid trajectory due west, towards the now-setting lavender sun, surrounded as it is by a choir of buck-naked baby imps with wings made of marshmallow.

‘Does it strike anyone else as odd,’ you comment loudly over the impromptu sound effects and the thrumming of a hundred unheavenly harps, ‘that a warplane ought to have such lovely sheets?’

‘Only the best for-’ your bed begins, then fakes a long, loud coughing fit. A couple of technicolour sparrows fly out of an orifice you can’t discern from your current position. ‘I mean, I don’t know what you’re talking about. Sheets? Preposterous.’

‘Well, fine then. What about my bed, sitting here next to me?’

The bed bends in ways a bed is decidedly not supposed to, weaving snake-like past an oncoming gibbon, to throw you a distinctly incredulous look.

‘Did you prepare for this at all?’ it hisses conspiratorially. ‘Blimey, boy, I’ve known people to go off-script, but it’s like you’re not even trying. . . !’

And with that, it goes back to imitating fighter-plane noises, leaving the imps to leer unpleasantly at you, twanging their harps. Somewhere, nearby, the moon rises out of a pool of disembodied larynxs, much to the annoyance of the still very much present sun.

You feel, somewhat justifiably, that things are spinning out of your control.

This feeling is only amplified by the explosive sigh that erupts from the aforementioned bed in bed next to you. It is such a sudden noise that even the tangerine cloud takes fright, soaring off through the imp pack towards a flock of its particoloured fellows, blowing peppermint-flavoured raspberries in its wake. Thenceforth, no-one acknowledges the Fanta-smelling stain on the bedspread.

The bed in your bed throws said sheets back, stretches, and -- apparently having forgotten its previous complaint with you completely -- smiles. ‘Welp, guess the jig’s up then, eh?’

‘Er, what?’

The bed waves about at the ever-changing landscape you’ve spent the last while observing and trying to refrain from commenting on. ‘You know, the jig! The fishsticks and the custard! The apple and the orange! The meat and drink! The thing. Everything.’

‘Oh?’ You scratch your chin, trying to look nonchalant as the sun and moon come to furious blows overhead, doing truly obnoxious things to the lighting.

‘Oh yes,’ the bed continues, unperturbed, as the blows transition rather naturally to passionate snogging. ‘And furthermore, I’m not your bed at all! I’m--”

And here your bed unzips itself from four or five directions at once, exploding in a whirling mass of leather flaps, balsa wood boarding and undone yarn. And from this cacophony of impossibly-proportioned-but-still-improbably-realistic disguise steps . . .

Shock!

‘You again?’ you cry, recoiling. This is not best pony; not even close.

‘Me!’ chirps Pinkie Pie with undue glee, kicking off the last of the rubber bed suit. It evaporates into a puddle of Terry Pratchett’s tears as she leans forward, bug-eyed and deadly serious. ‘And we have to talk.’

‘Couldn’t you just leave me alone, instead?’ you whimper, as the sun and moon sink behind a conveniently-placed potted plant pretending to be a nearby mountain range.

‘Ohh, you silly’, giggles Pinkie, springboarding back to her old self. She boops you playfully on the nose. ‘Why would we ever leave you alone? Then what would we give the nice people to laugh at, hmm?’

She turns to the lumpy jackanapes sitting beside her. ‘Do you want to see the rabbits, David?’

You briefly contemplate going insane. No less so after a platoon of battle-hardened cheese wizards engages the swarm of harp-imps circling your bed. Unsavoury yowls and exotic smells pour in from all sides as Pinkie continues.

‘See, normally, I’d have been having fun with Discord right about now, zapping Sheogorath’s trousers, but this time things are different. Complicated.’

This has to be the most serious you’ve ever seen her. And it’s just as unsettling as everything else going on.

Pinkie leans nonchalantly to the left as a wheel of gouda sails by, nearly taking off your ear. ‘What I’m saying is, this is big. And something this big can only mean one thing.’

The bed you’re both sitting in rumbles noisily, hacks up a hairball at the narwhal, and is suddenly a vintage steamship -- built to scale! -- chugging along an icy river of clattering porcelain spoons. Yes, still forty-thousand feet up. The wizard-imp war proceeds unabated.

‘What I’m saying is, everything that’s happened up till now? It’s all been leading up to this. And now it’s happening.’

‘And . . . how do you know this?’

‘Look around, silly!’ She flaps at you. ‘Look at the sun and moon! Look at the pirouetting gophers! Look at the Lazy Susan filled with angry kumquats! Look at the little angry cherub things beating up those Starswirl the Bearded impersonators! The sky is chartreuse! What more evidence do you need?’

You refuse to look at these things, and focus as best you can on Pinkie, past the antennae of the lobster that’s crawling out your nose.

‘This sounds like the lead-up to some kind of X-Files reveal. Please God don’t be Mulder in a Pinkie suit. You’re not allowed.’

‘Aliens!’ grins David Duchovny from not far off. And sure enough, a few raygun-toting things you once saw in an episode of DS9 show up in defence of the retreating wizards.

‘Gah!’ cries the pinkest one, in mounting frustration. ‘Listen! I’m trying to tell you there’s still a way out of this!’

‘Alright, fine.’ Another flaming cheese whizzes over your head, this time accompanied by something shaped exactly like a twangoodle. ‘Shoot.’

Pinkie gives you a dead serious look. ‘We have to find the authors.’

‘The authors?’

‘The ones who wrote all this up. You know, the Authors.’ She makes a spooky hoof-gesture.

‘Uh-huh.’ You are most sceptical. So is your second head, growing primly alongside the one that just spoke.

‘It’s absolutely true!’ says the pink rhinoceros, waving its tiny arms for emphasis. ‘I mean, really, how else do you explain all this?’

‘Discord.’ The second and third heads nod sagely.

A long pause from the salmon-coloured hippopotamus. The imps are become trousers, lazily thrumming out smarmy rock ballads on winged electric toasters, and appear to have made peace with the wizards.

‘Yeah, okay, maybe,’ the fresh strawberry milkshake finally relents. ‘But it’s not. And I’ll show you.’

And from a hitherto-unknown fold of space-time, Pinkie Pie pulls a wad of what appears to be chewing gum -- it’s hard to tell around the screaming iguanas -- and pops it in what would, were she not a milkshake, be her mouth.

There is a mild susurration in the surrounding surreality as she does so. The trousers flap their zippers in protest, the sun and moon pause in their ethereal snog, and even the bed grumbles to a halt, hanging suspended in the chartreuse sky. Your three heads, and the pair of eyes sprouting from your leftmost toe, watch in horrified fascination as Pinkie begins to blow a bubble from the gum she’s heartily chawing.

This, it should be well noted, is no ordinary bubble: it glistens with an irregular sheen, like oil, and smells ever so faintly of cotton candy. Thick, too -- a good ⅛-inch skin on it. But most worryingly, it’s been expanding at a prodigious rate, almost of its own accord, after the first blow, and where it meets another object, it continues unabated, phasing right through the obstacle and ultimately swallowing it whole. In a matter of seconds, Pinkie is gone, along with a good chunk of your bed. Your three heads have barely enough time to take in a collective breath before the expanding pink wall is upon you, and then . . .

You’re through.

It’s remarkably pink here, and Pinkie Pie is no exception. And it is, indeed, Pinkie Pie, not the cheap dime-store knock-off. You, yourself, appear to be back to normal as well -- a shame, as the heads were starting to grow on you. You’d even been considering names for them.

Pinkie Pie looks you over a moment, and, apparently finding you satisfactory, produces the largest knitting needle you’ve ever seen, and raises it threatening over her head.

‘Cover your ears!’

And she brings the needle down into the pink.

Bang.

A thermonuclear detonation inside your head, and suddenly the world is a kaleidoscope of colour, sound, and indistinctness. Not the strange surrealism of the world before the pink bubble, but that which accompanies the end of dreams -- a palette of light and colour, a rainbow variance across an invisible spectrum see only by an inner eye. A beautiful, shapeless, dimensionless void, devoid of any perspective, replete with wonderment beyond imagining.

And, for some reason, a bunch of old crisps and beer cans.

Pinkie taps you on the shoulder. ‘Perfect! We made it out, just in time.’

You simply stare at her.

‘Total creativity collapse. Could’ve gotten very messy if we hadn’t got here when we did!’ She’s suddenly distracted by a shiny thing. ‘Ooh, what’s that?’

‘What? I don’t see anything.’

‘W-well . . . stand here and look.’ She manhandles you slightly through nth-dimensional space.

‘There’s nothing there’, you say, folding your arms as an errant crisp packet pirouettes lazily by, ricocheting off your head with the sound of a kettle drum. ‘Just a bunch of old junk from under my bed.’

‘No!’ Pinkie admonishes you again. ‘Look!’

So you look. Not just a look, but a look. A long look, a deep look, a thrusting, grinding, intimate look.

And then, at last, you see. Past the infinite corona and the whirling pentacles, past the streamers and ribbons, past Stygian depths and Lovecraftian horrors, and the deeper, darker ocean green, there, under your bed, in the centre of the room beyond, you see.

It is a room. Your room. Dirty, sparsely furnished, the stains and craters from your many recent exploits on prominent display: the room you’ve always wanted. And there, in the centre of the room--

A bed. Your bed. Stained and matted and still burned in places, sure, but it is your bed.
And within your bed, lies your bed. Your bed. Stained and matted and still burned in places, sure, but it is your bed. Yes, it is your bed, and within that bed lies your bed, and within that bed lies your bed, and within that bed lies your bed.

And as you look, and as you see, you notice there is something in the middle of your bed. Many somethings, in fact, and as you squint to see to the centre of your bed within your bed, within your bed, within your bed, within your bed, within your bed, within your bed, within your bed, within your bed, within your bed, within your bed, within your bed, within your bed, within your bed, within your bed, within your bed, within your bed, within your bed, within your bed, within your bed, within your bed, within your bed, within your bed, within your bed, within your bed, within your bed, within your bed, within your bed, within your bed, within your bed, within your bed, within your bed, within your bed, within your bed, within your bed, within your bed, within your bed, within your bed, within your bed, within your bed, within your bed, within your bed, within your bed, within your bed, within your bed, within your bed, within your bed, within your bed, within your bed, you can just barely make out--

‘My God’, you say, tears welling as a poignant mix of emotions surge in your chest.

‘It’s full of authors . . .’

And so it is. They are all there: the technicolour butterfly, the broomstick-riding Sweetie-wizard, the man with the rising sun, the bashful blue stallion, that one bloke from Chicago, another Pinkie seeking hugs, the indistinct silhouette, the red-lit neon sign, the howling drake, the spike-haired blue pegasus with the bitchin’ coat, and there, there, in pride of place -- there, in the centre of it all, the mastermind, den Überkeks himself, resplendent in his bicorne hat. And as the whirling kaleidoscope of your own beds comes more sharply into focus, you can see that they are all, to a one, smiling at you.

Congratulations! they all seem to say. You won!

Thank you! you seem to respond. Thank you all!

And then, still smiling, one of them reaches over and turns out the light.

Everything goes black. The room, the kaleidoscope array of beds, the whirling prism of possibility -- all dark. And it is not merely the absence of light -- this darkness feels complete; neither menacing nor comforting, but somehow . . . final.

Then, a resounding voice from on high, every word resounding like a cloister: ‘‘It’s been fun, but we’ve all got other stories to write, ‘kay? Thanks! Bye.’

A moment of deafening silence.

Pinkie: ‘Welp, so much for that, I guess.’

Silence. Then:

‘ . . . Pinkie?’

‘Yeahuh?’

‘What happens now?’

‘Oh, we just wait. This happens every so often; don’t worry. They’ll be back, and when they do, the party starts up all over again!

‘Really?’’ A note of optimism.

‘Well . . .’ A shifting of hooves. ‘For me. I dunno about you.’

‘Oh.’

‘I wouldn’t worry about it too much, though -- they liked you. I could tell.’

A further silence. The blackness cloys a bit thicker around you.

A cough. ‘Any telling when they might be back?’

‘Nope, no idea. But -- ooh! Hey! That totally reminds me of something! I just remembered, I had something for you.’

‘Mm?’
She gropes for your hand, and places something soft, round, and slightly fuzzy in it.

‘What’s this? A kitten?’

‘Can’t you tell? It’s a peach, silly!’

Lord Tirek Is Having A Hot Tub Party In Your Bed (Twiface)

Lord Tirek is Having a Hot Tub Party in Your Bed
Twiface

You stumble into your apartment tired and exhausted. You’ve been through a lot during these past several months: you’ve had an innumerable number of ponies commandeer your bed, crash into your bed, eat on your bed, try to get you to sleep with them on your bed, hide in your bed, redecorate your bed (and your room), get a tattoo of your bed, and even declare it to be the last hope of the universe. For some strange reason, all of the weird things that have happened to you this year have somehow involved your bed.

“Why?” you ask yourself. “WHY do all of these weird things keep happening to my bed? Can’t I just have ONE night where nothing unusual happens and I can get a good night’s sleep like everybody else?!?!?!”

You’re halfway through the door before you notice that your room has changed (again!) since you saw it last. A pile of books are neatly stacked on the floor, your missing cup is on the nightstand, and in the center of the bed is a black-and-red centaur with impeccable pecks, a magazine in front of him and a humongous blunt is between his lips.

Then you realize that he isn’t holding a blunt at all: it’s actually Snoop Dogg wrapped in a strip of butcher paper.

“Smoke me everyday,” says Snoop Dogg.

“I’ve seen worse,” you say dryly. Then you step forward to confront the demon-lord in your bed.

“Bwaaaa ha ha!” banters Tirek jovially. “The water’s great, eh Junior?”

Then Discord sticks his head above the covers, which are now green for some reason. The rest of his upper body then follows. You notice that he comes not from below the covers, but from inside the covers, as if he had submerged himself into the sheets themselves.

“Sure is, papa!” says Discord. Then he turns his head to the side.

“Come on in, mama!” he says.

Best Pony, who is sitting on a giant rubber duck floating on the covers, flinches in fear.

“Ummmm….” she says, looking coyly to the side. She is just as creeped out about this as you are. “...I think not.”

Suddenly, they all notice you. Best Pony shouts your name.

“You again?” whines Discord. “Don’t you ever give up?”

Then Tirek shouts your name so loudly that you fall backwards.

“HOW DARE YOU DISTURB MY FAMILY VACATION?” he exclaims.

Then Tirek takes the Snoop Blunt out of his mouth and blows a massive cloud of white smoke.

Suddenly, a gigantic purple serpent emerges from beneath your covers. You recognize him as Steven Magnet from the season 1 pilot.

“Hop on my back if you want to save her!” he says.

Seeing as you have no other choice, you hop onto his back. A seatbelt is conveniently built into a chair-like divot on his back, and you impulsively strap yourself in.

“Curse you, Dora the Explorer!” you mutter under your breath as the giant sea serpent ascends into the sky.

You are now high up in the air, riding Steven Magnet’s back at a rapid velocity like a roller coaster. Steven flies in circles around Tirek, who breathes fire at you as if he is trying to kill you.

“A Bullet Bill approaches from behind!” says the voice of Spike. You look behind you and find that he is now riding on your back.

Annoyed at this, you try to shake him off, but then realize that the effort is futile as he is buckled into a seatbelt on your back. Then you hear a whistling sound.

A snoop blunt rams into you and Spike from behind, causing enormous pain.

“What the heck are we supposed to do?” you ask.

“Throw something at him!” says Spike. “That usually works in boss battles like these.”

“But what do I have to shoot?” you ask.

“I dunno,” says Spike. “See if there’s anything in your pocket!”

You stick your hand into your pocket. Your fingers find several pieces of paper, and you pull them out. You examine the papers, and realize that the fortune cookie fortune you got from Panda Express the other day has managed to replicate itself.

You decide to try something desperate: you take about half of the fortunes and stick them back in your pocket. Then you take the other half and fashion them into a tube. Then you reach back into your pocket and pull out one of the fortunes, wad it up into a little ball, and then spit on it.

Taking your recently created spitball, you stick it into the tube and blow as hard as you can. The spitball flies through the air and hits Tirek.

“Oww!” says Tirek. “That hurt!”

“It’s super effective!” says Spike. “Do that again!”

You reach back into your pocket and prepare another spitball. Then suddenly Spike yells, “A Bullet Bill approaches from behind!” You turn around and fire the spitball at the Snoop Blunt, which explodes upon contact.

“Well, this is going to be fun,” you say snarkily.

“Who are you talking to?” asks Spike.

“The camera,” you respond wryly.

Spike looks around, but he doesn’t find anything out of the ordinary. You, however, are looking directly into the camera unamusedly. You almost say something about how very few people know about the fourth wall even though it’s right there in front of them, but you hold your tongue because you know that the reader is sick of all your snarkiness.

The battle between you and Tirek goes on, with you firing spitballs while Tirek shoots Snoop Blunts and Spike warns you about incoming projectiles. Steven Magnet continues to fly in circles around the room, although he’s gotten lazy and reverted to taking the same flight path for each revolution. He keeps going up and down and doing loop-de-loops, which makes you dead certain that at least part of the story involves an actual roller coaster.

You continue shooting spitballs at Tirek and his Snoop Blunt missiles. Half of them miss, but by the end you’ve gotten the hang of it and all of your shots land perfectly on target.

Eventually you come down to your last spitball. You are suddenly enthralled by a pang of fear over what will happen when you run out of spitballs, and whether the ride will keep going and how you are going to defeat Tirek after that, but you muster the courage to shoot anyway.

Tirek stops shooting Snoop Blunts at you, stops breathing smoke, and a glazed look fills his face. Then he collapses and splashes into the sea of covers on your bed. Droplets of green liquid emanate from the site of the splash and wet everything around it, including the stacks of porn magazines that Twilight Sparkle put there when she first invaded your bed.

“Fuck!” you mutter, griping over the damage that has been done to your beloved porn. But your griping is cut short when a parasprite wiggles out of Tirek’s ear.

“Thank you!” exclaims the parapsrite. “But our princess is in another castle!”

You look back to where the rubber duck was. Best Pony is still on the rubber duck, but then Discord hops on too.

Discord snaps his fingers and a tall pole extends out of the rubber duck’s head. Four blades fold up from its sides like the frame of an umbrella. Then the blades start spinning, lifting the duck and its passengers up towards the ceiling. The rubber duckcopter crashes through the ceiling and then flies away.

“It’s been one of those days,” you sigh to the camera. “Come on, Spike!”

Spike reluctantly follows you out of the house.

Outside, you look around, but see no sign of Discord, the duck, or Best Pony. You do spot a large stone edifice down the road, which you’re certain wasn’t there before. You decide that this is the best place to search for answers. As you get closer, the letters above the doorway become visible. They read:

Ludwig’s Castle Hotel.

“We ain’t afraid of no Discord!” you say as you march toward the door. But just as you are about to do open it, it disappears.

“Woooaaahhh,” says Spike.

Then a new door appears in its place. You open this one and look towards Spike.

“Hurry!” you tell him, and prepare to step inside the hotel.

But your foot is frozen. So is your leg, your arms, and the rest of your body. Spike appears to have frozen too. You wonder if there is lag in the server, but your fears turn to the worst when corny music begins to play and the scene fades to black.

A Bottle Of Strawberry Fanta Is In Your Bed, And It's Definitely Not Celestia's Fault (ocalhoun)

A Bottle Of Strawberry Fanta Is In Your Bed, And It's Definitely Not Celestia's Fault
ocalhoun

Magic blipped and flashed again, filling my room with its presence. My girlfriend, Cindy, reappeared... with two black-clad security guards clenching her arms. They jumped as soon as they noticed the change, then stared at Celestia, who smiled down at them from on top of my bed.

One of the guards grabbed a radio from his belt. “Security Control, be advised… This is Agent Jacobs. Uh, we have a situation here. Agent Cobbs and I have somehow been transported to an unknown new location, along with the intruder. There is another unauthorized person here, as well as a … some kind of strange horse.”

I groaned. This was all about to get a lot more complicated than I’d like.

Cindy wrestled her way out of the startled guards’ grip and lunged toward the bed. “You! What did you do to me?”

Jumping up to stand on some of my favorite blankets, Celestia sneered down at her. “Nothing I didn’t have a perfect right to do, you insolent little—”

I cringed as my girlfriend plowed into Celestia’s legs, sweeping the Princess down. They both smashed down onto the mattress and bounced.

“Security Control, please respond. Repeat, Security Control, please respond!”

Cindy grunted as Celestia landed a solid kick to her thigh, but she didn’t stop. She grabbed a big handful of Celestia’s flowing mane and yanked it hard, making Celestia squeal.

“Where are we, man? What the fuck is going on?” The other security guard, the one who wasn’t futilely shouting into his radio, clutched my arm and stared at me. “What happened? Tell me!”

“Security Control, do you read me? Please respond!”

A scream came from the bed. “You horsey little bitch!”

“Down, filthy ape!” came the reply.

“Security Control! Security Control! We have an emergency!”

Celestia’s magic reached out and grabbed something, sending it whizzing across the room. It smashed into Cindy’s head, knocking her onto the bed. But the moment it hit, it burst and hissed as it sprayed red foam all over the bed and walls.

“STOP!” I shouted.

Somehow, miraculously, they all did stop. The security guards stopped yelling and stared at me. Celestia froze, her hoof inches away from Cindy’s head. Cindy turned and looked at me, wiping a wet lock of hair away from her face. For a brief, precious moment, everything was still and quiet, except for the bottle of strawberry Fanta still hissing as it sprayed into my bed. I knew I had to capitalize on this brief moment, nurture it and help it grow into calm … or things would never get under control.

First things first… “Celestia, Cindy,” I said, “can you please just call a truce for ten minutes while I explain what’s happening?” I paused, waiting for them to agree, which they pointedly didn’t. But they also didn’t go back to fighting, so that was something.

Then to deal with the guards; I turned to them. “Okay, now this is going to be weird, but I’ll explain it to you as best as I can.” They nodded – that was a good sign. “So…” How could I explain it? I pointed toward the bed. “Celestia here is a magical winged unicorn from the TV show ‘My Little Pony’. I really don’t know how she got here, and I’m as shocked as you are to find out that she’s real. But she is real, and she does have very powerful magical abilities.” Seeing their blank looks, I winced a little. “Does that make sense so far?” Ha! How could that possibly make sense?

The one who had been shouting at his radio – Agent Jacobs? – stroked the stubble on his chin. “My Little Pony? I think I know that show … my daughter watches it sometimes.”

Well, that was something. “Good, good. Now, it’s Celestia’s magic that transported you from where you were – congress, right? – to here, probably because you were holding on to Cindy at the time, and I demanded that Celestia bring Cindy back.”

Agent Cobbs, the other one, raised a finger, as if asking permission to speak. “Um, who’s Cindy?”

“Oh, right. That’s Cindy there on the bed, wrestling with Celestia. She’s my girlfriend – Cindy I mean, not Celestia.”

“Are you sure about that?” Cindy griped.

Staring at the two of them, Agent Cobbs pursed his lips. “You know… that’s kind of hot, in a weird kind of way.”

Various shouts of protest came from his partner, Cindy, and even Celestia … but I had to admit, now that I took a moment to look, it was. The red Fanta had soaked Celestia’s mane and Cindy’s clothes, making them both a little transparent and pink, and the two of them were thoroughly entwined on my very own bed.

“Hey!” Cindy shouted. “You wipe that look off your face right now!”

Ah, right. I blinked and shook my head, forcing myself not to think of certain images I’d seen online, images that this scene made me remember. Now would probably be a good time to explain things to Cindy. “Okay, so… Well, Celestia just showed up at my house yesterday. I had nothing to do with it, and I had no idea it would happen. I didn’t even know it could happen! And she wouldn't leave my bed, and I was really tired, so I had to sleep. It ended up being what you saw. But I swear, there’s nothing at all sexual or romantic about it. I don’t even want her here at all!”

“Would it kill you to pay me at least a little respect?” Celestia scowled at me.

I sighed. “Come on, I didn’t mean it that way.”

“Then what way did you mean it?” Cindy said, her tone biting.

“But where ARE we?” a guard asked.

Celestia flopped down on top of Cindy, smothering her.

Cindy reposted with a vicious jab to Celestia’s stomach.

The other guard dove into the sticky red pile of a fight on the bed, trying to grab Cindy again and restore what he must have thought of as control.

Agent Jacobs pulled out his radio again. “Agent Jacobs to Security Control, Agent Jacobs to Security Control.”

No! And things were going so well! I held my head in my hands as the room descended into chaos again. “Ugh! Just stop, everybody stop it now!”

Of course they didn’t listen, and more of my personal belongings were flung across the room as Cindy and Celestia separated and moved to more long-range fighting. Something hit my window and cracked its glass.

I was desperate for it to stop. “Celestia, do something!”

There was a flash and the now-familiar sound of teleportation, and then the only two left in the room were me and Celestia. The Fanta slowly fizzled to a stop and the room went quiet.

“What did you do? Where did you send them?” This wasn’t the kind of peace I’d wanted!

Celestia smiled. “There, isn’t that better?”

“No! Where did you send them?”

She shrugged.

Well, this was a mess. Both literally all over my now soggy and pink bed and figuratively all over who-knew-where, wherever Cindy and the two guards had been sent this time. I sat down with a heavy plop in my computer chair and heaved a deep sigh. “Why me?” I asked nobody in particular.

“Because you left a picture of me open on your computer,” Celestia said. “That makes the transfer across dimensions a bit easier.”

Ugh. It would be something stupid like that.

Author's Notes:

This chapter is a continuation (Chapter 3) of Princess Celestia is Still in Your Bed, which is in turn a sequel of Princess Celestia is in Your Bed, the story that started it all.

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It is also Admiral Biscuit's prize from my big 250k contest, in lieu of the actual cash prize.

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It is brought to you thanks in part to my Patreon supporters! They're invaluable for keeping me focused and motivated to write with the power of the deadline.

If you'd like to help keep me writing, please check out my Patreon page.

Death Is In Your Bed (Admiral Biscuit)

Death Is In Your Bed
Admiral Biscuit

It's Monday again. It happens every week.

You trudge home like a man on the way to the gallows. Dinner is a simple affair; a fully-loaded deep dish pizza, washed down with Jim Beam straight from the bottle. Maybe that'll help numb the pain you know you're going to suffer.

You don't know what kind of pain, of course. That's one of they ways they get you. It might be physical, or emotional, or psychological. It could be financial; you've lost count of how many beds you've gone through, but you're on a first-name basis with the guy at the bed store. You put the three-quarters empty fifth of bourbon to your mouth and drink deeply.

Hell, it could be a combo.

Those Mondays are the worst.

You listlessly shove your way into your bedroom, holding your free hand against the door to steady it, stagger across the room, and drop into bed. It's pony free. For now.

"Get it over with," you shout at the ceiling.

The ceiling doesn't answer, so you take another drink.

You're not sure what time it is. The power seems to have gone out, which is undoubtedly a pony's doing. You paw at the covers, but you're still all alone in bed. That means that the pony is somewhere else. Eating your food, maybe, or burning down your kitchen. Maybe it got lost, and it's raiding your neighbor's fridge. That would serve him right.

You check the living room. No pony.

You check the kitchen. No pony. But you do find another bottle of bourbon, and since you're down here anyway, you might as well take a drink.

Or maybe two.

You stagger back to your bedroom, caroming off the walls like a billiard ball, until you finally reach your bedroom. Through your blurry vision, you spot a lump in the bed—tonight's pony is hiding under the covers.

Were your coordination more certain, you would have strode boldly over to the bed and yanked the covers off; the tiny part of your brain that's still sober reminds you that your drunken gait isn't impressive at all. But it doesn't matter: you get the duvet on your second attempt and yank it free.

Time stops completely. Up until now, you'd believed that it took a while for alcohol to wear off despite what the whisky-devil in your head might insist—but at the sight of your visitor you reach a state of 100% stone-cold sobriety in a tenth of a second. That's followed by a shriek which would do a six-year-old girl proud.

In your bed, staring at you with empty eyesockets, is Death.

Pony death.

He's wearing a black robe, and holding—somehow—a pony-sized scythe. All you can see of him is his skull and if he weren't in your bed and staring at you with his not-eyes, you might think he's cute.

He opens his mouth and lifts a hoof—no surprise that his hoof is also just bones—and at that moment you remember that you have urgent business anywhere but here and sprint out of the bedroom door like Usain Bolt mainlining epinephrine. It's possible you just set fire to your carpet with your feet, but you're not going to look back and see.

You fly down the stairs . . . especially after you hit the skateboard which is there for no apparent reason. At that point, your figurative flight becomes more literal. However, unlike those pesky pegasus ponies, you have no control in the air, and your windmilling arms do nothing to alter your tragic headfirst arc into the floor.

Out of the corner of your eye, you can see your visitor coming down the stairs, and he leans over you and then everything goes black.

Time passes in a weird staccato montage. An ambulance crew is putting you on a gurney, and then you're in a hospital bed, dimly aware of a doctor shaking his head. Then the blanket is pulled up over your head, and you realize that you're dead.

You've never been dead before, so you don't know quite what to expect. It's peaceful, but kind of boring.

Having a front-row seat at your own funeral—literally—wasn't something you'd ever anticipated, but the lid's open for the service, and everyone says nice things, even your boss. You're surprised he showed up. Maybe he thought it was a good excuse to skip work. It does make you wonder who's going to get your last paycheck.

The saddest man at the whole funeral is the salesman from Mattress World. If only they'd branched out into coffins, he could have made one more sale.

As you hear the first shovelful of dirt rattle against the lid of your casket, your face breaks into a broad grin. At least there won't be any more ponies.

You feel a heavy weight on your chest. It was crowded in here before; now it's intolerable. A horsey, hay-ey smell assaults your nostrils, and you feel the weight shifting around.

"Where am I?" a girlish voice says. You can hear a faint tone of alarm in her voice.

You should have seen this coming. Even death won't keep the ponies away.

Oh how you wish you'd been cremated.

“What are you doing here?” you ask. Your voice is harsh and dry. Makes sense, you haven't had anything to drink in a week.

“It's a Monday,” she says. “But this isn't a bed.” Her tone is accusatory, and you almost recognize it—you know her. She's visited before.

Then a hoof jabs into your groin, and you discover that you can still feel pain. You sit bolt upright and open your eyes

only to find yourself back in your bedroom, sprawled out over your bed. You're still in your clothes, and there's a mostly-empty bottle of bourbon clutched in your left hand like an adult's teddy bear.

You're covered in cold sweat, and you just look at the ceiling for a minute, to get your bearings back. Then you feel that stabbing pain again, and it's not a hoof in your groin, it's what Wacko would call a potty emergency. The pizza and bourbon isn't sitting right at all.

You launch yourself out of bed, and carom against the hallway wall as you skid towards the bathroom. You're already shucking your pants as you hobble into the bathroom and the salvation of the porcelain god.

You make it, but only just. Your head's spinning, your gut's clenching, and you're sure it's going to take the whole can of Febreeze to make the bathroom habitable again, but at least it can't get any worse.

Which, of course is when the shower curtain's pushed back by a hoof, and a familiar wall-eyed pegasus sticks her head out.

You jerk back in surprise, cracking your head against the cabinet above the toilet. You lean forward, fight down a wave of nausea, and sidearm a roll of toilet paper at her, striking her right in the muzzle. Her hooves skitter on the bathtub, and you hear a heavy thud as she loses her footing and crashes. She catches the shower curtain, and it falls down on top of her, shrouding her completely.

"Serves you right," you mumble. "Catching me by surprise like that."

And then two thoughts occur simultaneously. She might be hurt, and you'd actually feel pretty bad if she was. But more importantly, that was the only roll of toilet paper.

From under the shower curtain, you hear her mutter, “I just don't know what went wrong.”

You hold your head in your hands. “Neither do I, sister. Neither do I.”

Author's Notes:

Well there you have it, kids, the official last chapter. With apologies to AnonymousMaterials, who inspired pony death.

If you still want to participate, you can--I'll just add your chapter before this one. Follow the instructions printed in the blogpost for chapter submission, etc. etc.

And thanks everyone for submitting chapters, reading this thing, and commenting. It's been a wild ride, and I'm kind of sad it's over. Incidentally, we reached my goal of having more chapters than there are peachfics.