Oi, You got a brushie for that coat? (OC, PTFG, one-shot)


                                            >Be Anon

                                            >You were getting ready for your day on patrol, Pon-E insignia polished and gleaming on your breast.

                                            >Your town was a cozy little place in rural Pennsylvania with a population barely scratching quadruple digits.

                                            >It was the absolute picture of those scenic English villages in movies, except with less sheep, which made it a perfect relocation spot for fresh transformees to acclimate.

                                            >Hardly any real trouble ever, and the community was small enough that you often got people calling you by name and giving you friendly waves in the morning.

                                            >The local program officers were few in number, and routes predictable enough that people were bound to learn your name, you suppose.

                                            >Anyhow, you suited up with everything you needed and headed out of your house, ready to start the day.


                                            >As usual, you’re greeted by the sight of Dahlia watering her flowers by her front stoop.

                                            >She gave you a bright smile and lowered her watering can to the ground before speaking.


                                            >”Good morning, Anon,” she said.

                                            >Dahlia trotted over to the waist-high stonewall separating your gardens and leaned her forehooves over it.

                                            >There was a subtle swishing sound as her voluminous, dual-tone tail brushed against the grass.

                                            >She was a dainty thing, barely scraping average height and weight, with a cream colored coat and pink and purple mane/tail combo which naturally held a wavey, free spirited look, and she had an infectious aura of cheerfulness that always put a smile on your face.

                                            >You gave a rueful shake of your head and walked over to the wall, giving her a gentle head pat.

                                            >She leaned into it with her eyes closed.


                                            >Dahlia was one of the many pony converted citizens in your town, or PCC for short.

                                            >PCC’s were part of a government program to reduce national resources and welfare costs, as there had been a big economic downturn in the last few years.

                                            >A bit of an extreme measure, to be sure, but it was that or UBI and healthcare reform.

                                            >You mentally shrug.

                                            >Anyhow, anyone could volunteer for pony conversion, and as long as they were nice and useless to society, they’d be converted and placed in a shelter within the week.

                                            >From there, they would be featured on the government's bidding site, and an owner could buy them, or, for those who learned to hold things with their hooves, wings, or horn magic, there was the option to simply relocate and apply for the Independent’s license.

                                            >Dahlia was one such license holder, as well as one of the many ponies in town.


                                            >Officially, you were merely her neighbor.

                                            >Unofficially, the program had enacted a simple guardian protocol for all select Independents, one that put you next door to Dahlia so you could keep an eye on her and make sure she was safe.

                                            >And to ensure she didn’t burn her house down.

                                            >She almost did actually, so you suppose that was a good call.

                                            >Poor thing was so upset and flustered over the whole ordeal that you had to hold and pet her ‘til she calmed down and told you what happened.

                                            >Turns out she just got distracted while trying to make cupcakes to share with you.

                                            >In fact, in a strange twist of irony, YOU were the distraction, as she didn’t want to miss saying good morning, and the usual petting made her forget about her oven.

                                            >There was quite the mess to clean, and a few things to replace, but all in all, it could have been a lot worse.


                                            >Which is why you didn’t report it.


                                            >Most people still viewed ponies as incapable, albeit intelligent and adorable pets, who needed a bit of a guiding hand due to their maturity drop.

                                            >You liked to call it whimsy.

                                            >In any case, the Independent's license had been a big gamble to put into action and the program had a lot of opponents.

                                            >A mare or stallion’s ability to stay independent could be a tenuous thing, and they had a lot of rules to adhere to.

                                            >If you had reported Dahlia’s fire, it would have meant the end of her Independence license and likely her relocation to a new home with an owner.

                                            >You’d never see her again...

                                            >So, it was just a little slip up, you told yourself, and she got everything cleaned up in the end (with a bit of help) so no biggie.

                                            >Nobody got hurt.

                                            >A sweet mare like her didn’t deserve something as drastic as losing her license.


                                            >That did remind you though.

                                            >As more and more PCCs started appearing and becoming regulars in society, more and more regulations for them were coming out.

                                            >Most were to help manage public opinion of the project—stuff like, ‘no acts of intimacy in public with your owner’, or, ‘if a pony’s tail is kept short, they are required to wear some kind of rear covering in public.’

                                            >They were still fighting the stigma that ‘ponies were too sexy’, after all.

                                            >Others were made to protect them, such as requiring agents like yourself to monitor cases for abuse, or laws requiring a comfy, appropriately sized bed indoors—if not a place in bed with their owners.

                                            >That one came about after a particularly infamous case where a mare got locked outside on a stormy night.


                                            >Still, while the rules made sense, some felt a bit overreaching.

                                            >In particular, regulations on appearance and dress code for mares were starting to get a bit overzealous, but most of the girls put up with it without any fuss.

                                            >As Dahlia told it, having to wear cute clothes and look nice wasn’t much of a problem at all, and it was still worth the conversion anyhow.

                                            >It made you wonder what kind of life she had before, but you weren’t given access to her file.

                                            >You just saw the way she looked whenever she started thinking about it.

                                            >Her expression would grow cold and distant, and that jubilant energy that invigorated her every movement would evaporate in an instant.

                                            >She used to say her life was like a dream now.

                                            >You sometimes wonder if, when she zoned out like that, she was afraid she would wake up.


                                            >”Nooon! Keep going!”

                                            >You blinked and realized you stopped petting her head midway.

                                            >Right.

                                            >Pony time.

                                            >As you ran your fingers through Dahlia’s mane, watching her hum in contentment, your thoughts wandered back again to the latest regulation.

                                            >Likely because, you realized, she had violated it.


                                            ‘All independent mares are required to be neatly brushed whenever they go out in public. If one is found to be suitably scruffy, they are to be put over their program agent’s lap and brushed in public.’


                                            >You pursed your lips.

                                            >It was an interesting idea, you suppose.

                                            >Treat the independent like a pet as a punishment, while also taking care of their messy coat.

                                            >The county even gave out these really soft palm brushes that clipped on your belt.

                                            >It seemed a little silly to you, but appearances did matter, and the program was already fighting an uphill battle with some members of the public.


                                            >But even if you had your reservations, she’ll never improve if you keep going easy on her.

                                            >You couldn’t look out for her forever.

                                            >With a deep sigh, you pulled your hand away from Dahlia’s cheek, the mare in question dipping her head for a moment then looking up at you with a question in her eyes.

                                            >Agh, you were not looking forward to this… Dahlia was such a nice mare.


                                            “Dahlia, did you get that letter about the new dress code?”


                                            >She put a hoof to her chin and scrunched her face in thought for a moment, a gesture that looked far too adorable on a creature like her.

                                            >”Oh! Is this about the socks we have to wear for winter?” she said, her head tilted to the side. “I ordered some pink ones already. I’m really excited to try them on actually, but I might need your help putting them on at first.”


                                            >...

                                            >You really do wonder about the board making these choices, but you admire Dahlia’s impeccable taste.

                                            >Pink socks would look great on her.

                                            “Uh, no. This isn’t about the winter socks. I’m talking about your coat.”


                                            >She squinted her large, amethyst eyes at you.

                                            >”My coat…?”

                                            >Dahlia turned to look at her backside, unfortunately causing her body to spin a few times before she realized what she was doing and cleared her throat, this time stopping to crane her neck instead.

                                            >”I don’t understand. My coat’s just a little scruffy because I haven’t had a chance to—”

                                            >Her ears shot up straight and she snapped back to you, eyes wide.

                                            >”OH! Right *that* new change! I’m sorry, Anon—I don’t normally brush until after breakfast.”


                                            >You let out a long sigh and leaned on the stonework wall, brush already placed in your hand.

                                            >Dahlia’s eyes flicked to it once before she shrank away from you.

                                            >”Do I have to get brushed… o-on your lap?”


                                            “Well, that’s what I’m supposed to do, Dahlia. It’s a new rule, sure, but you know better.”


                                            >Her breathing quickened as she shifted her weight back and forth, tail flicking nervously behind her.

                                            >”Right. My bad… S-sorry, sir.”

                                            >A faint pinkish hue tinged her cheeks and she pulled at her mane with a hoof, looking for all the world like a little girl caught with her hand in the cookie jar.


                                            >You watched her for a moment, unease rising in your center before you let out a sigh.

                                            >She wasn’t making this any easier.

                                            >Maybe you could just...

                                            >You surveyed the street, noting how empty it was as you weighed your options.

                                            >Hm, well with nobody around it wasn’t much of a punishment, right?

                                            >You *could* let it slide just this time. Dahlia wasn’t a bad mare—she just forgot is all.

                                            >Yeah, screw it. You’ll give her a free pass here.

                                            >You pulled the brush by its strap off your palm and stowed it back in your belt with a click.


                                            >Dahlia, having watched the brush with a breathless anxiety nearly this whole time, blinked and gave you a look.

                                            >”Huh? But I thought—”


                                            “Look, I’m letting you off with a warning because you’re my favorite little mare and I know you’re a good girl. But don’t let me catch you breaking code again? Got that?”

                                            >You gave her a boop which caused her to look up at you with a strange, unreadable expression.

                                            >Whatever it was, it didn’t look like she was happy about it.

                                            >Fair enough, you wouldn’t like being babied either, but hopefully that gave her the motivation to do it herself.


                                            “Alright, well I’m off to see how the other girls are doing,” you said, straightening your jacket and giving your uniform a once over. “Just get brushed, then you can finish your flowers okay?”


                                            >You thought for a moment that you heard a small whine come from her but she answered with a, “... yes, sir,” before trotting back inside.


                                            >Hm, well that wasn’t so bad, you thought with a shrug.

                                            >Hopefully there weren’t too many other dress code violations today.

                                            >You didn’t like having to discipline the mares, but someone had to do it.

                                            >At least for now, you’ll just give them a warning.

                                            >They were all good mares.


                                            >They’ll all follow the new rules in no time.


                                            --


                                            >1 week later.


                                            >You sat slumped against your door on the front stoop, a worn and frayed brush balanced on your palm.

                                            >It was the third one you’d ordered this week.

                                            >There had just been… so many violations…

                                            >Day in and day out.

                                            >Nearly every mare in town needed to get brushed after the first day, sometimes more than once per day.

                                            >For some reason, after they put out this new rule, all the well behaved, sweet mares in this quaint little town had turned into defiant, mussy-coated little rebels.

                                            >You’ve never seen anything like it.

                                            >This new punishment just… it wasn’t working.

                                            >At all.

                                            >You’ve sent letter after letter to the commissioner in your district but you’ve gotten nothing in return.


                                            >You let out a long, grumble filled sigh as you massaged your brushing shoulder.

                                            >Then your other brushing shoulder.

                                            >You’d spent enough time giving brushies and swapping arms that both were sore, the pain of making gentle circles on marecoats burned into their fibers.

                                            >You don’t know how much longer this can go on.

                                            >I mean, you like your job, really you do, but you felt bad having to “discipline” these ponies all the time.

                                            >You were a Pon-E agent dammit, and you joined the force to keep these sweet little mares safe and happy, not fight some sort of brushie rebellion.

                                            >You just don’t know what to do.

                                            >It even affected mares like—


                                            >”Hi, Anon!”

                                            >You turned to see Dahlia’s muzzle peeking up over the stonewall.

                                            >Even from here, you could see her coat was uneven, sticking out in multiple directions and in dire need of some grooming.

                                            >She also somehow managed to get some leaves and bits of dirt in her coat too.

                                            >What the heck did she do, trip and fall in her flowerbed again?


                                            >”Anon, I tripped and fell in the flowerbed again,” she said. “I guess I gotta be brushed, huh?”

                                            >You slumped against your door, eyes trailing back to your worn, tattered brush.

                                            >”OH, um, you need a brush? Just a sec!”

                                            >The mare rushed inside, and within no more than thirty seconds, galloped over to your yard and dropped a little pink brush at your feet, her tail wagging like mad behind her.

                                            >She then climbed up in your lap, turned belly up, and pulled her hooves to her chest.

                                            >”I want to start with my tummy if that’s okay. I got a little sensitive last time so this might help to— Anon are you okay?”


                                            >You gave her a look that was equal parts exasperated and resigned, though not angry.

                                            >It was impossible to be angry with this little mare in your lap.

                                            >You gave her messy mane a ruffle before gathering her brush into your hands, sluggishly slipping the band around your knuckles.

                                            “I, uh… I guess I’m just a bit tired,” you said, as you gave the device a few test strokes around her midsection.

                                            >Little bit firmer than the brushes the force gave you.

                                            >[spoiler]Apparently Dahlia prefered it rough.[/spoiler]

                                            >She let out a low moan from the back of her throat as you began giving her belly a thorough brushing, starting from her tuft and working down her middle.


                                            “I’m just starting to think this punishment they came up with isn’t exactly… giving the right incentive.”


                                            >Dahlia let out a small gasp as your brushing moved to her inner thighs, though she relaxed after a moment.

                                            >”Well I guess there’s no choice. I was a bad girl so now I have to get brushies in public~”

                                            >She winked and stuck her tongue out at you.


                                            >What a cheeky little thing she’s become.

                                            >You still remember when she could barely look you in the eye.

                                            “You realize it’s too early and nobody is even out yet, right?”


                                            >”Hm, well if you want to redo it again later, I’ll come meet you at the Cafe on mainstreet. My treat?”


                                            >You chuckled.

                                            “My salary isn’t *that* low, Dahlia. I can pay.”


                                            >”Yeah but you did that last time. I’m an independent, remember? I can’t let you pay for my food all the time. It’ll look bad. And besides—”

                                            >She rolled over, your brushing having long since taken care of her underbelly.

                                            >”You’ve been working really hard. You deserve something nice.”


                                            “I’m just doing my job.”


                                            >Dahlia let out a small moan as she stretched out on your lap.

                                            >“I have to agree. This little citizen thinks you’re doing an *excellent* job.”

                                            >You paused mid stroke and gave her a look.

                                            >Was that… flirting?

                                            >“Hey, Anon? You ever thought about adopting a mare?”


                                            >You quirked a brow at her.

                                            “Not really. Why?”


                                            >”I just thought you’d make a good Guardian. If you were to pick one of the mares to be yours… well, I think you could make them really happy.”


                                            >Your brushing slowed as you hummed to yourself.

                                            >Honestly it was something you thought about more than a few times, but with your work being what it was… it felt like a conflict of interest.

                                            >And while you had your favorites—secretly of course; you’re not a monster—it was impossible to choose which one you’d even want to adopt.

                                            >They were *all* amazing, sweet little mares when it came down to it, and you tended to think of yourself like a guardian to all of them.

                                            >And you were happy with leaving it at that but…

                                            >You did wonder.

                                            >What would it be like to come home and hear the clip clop of little hooves trotting up to meet you and ask how your day was.

                                            >What would it be like to relax in your favorite chair, and pull your mare into your lap for a gentle petting session while all the stress and ache of the day melted away?


                                            >Dahlia’s tail flicked against your leg, and she wiggled her hips with a pout.

                                            >“Anon? Are you done already?”


                                            >You blinked and realized you’d stopped at some point in your thoughts.

                                            >But more importantly, that little bit of motion stirred a bit of heat in your loins, a fact that alarmed you quite a bit considering Dahlia was currently lounged across said lap.

                                            >Shoot shoot shoot, just focus on brushies!

                                            >You immediately went back to evening out the side of her barrel, trying your best to put all your attention back to the task at hand.

                                            “Um! Actually no. You are still a big mess. It’s going to take me a bit to get your mane all nice again. And your tail? That’s going to take some serious work to get it all poofy and cute again. I’ll have to be careful not to pull your hair with all these snags too.”


                                            >She giggled and leaned in against you, lightly nuzzling into the crook of your hip.

                                            >”Take as much time as you need.”


                                            --


                                            >Be Dahlia.

                                            >You walked inside your little cottage, your morning mail in your mouth, unable to keep the happy little pep from your step as you headed towards your mirror by the door.

                                            >You had set it up a long time ago for last minute checks ever since Anon laughed at that one huge mane-wing you had that one time.

                                            >The big dumbie said it looked cute, but you felt stupid, so you made sure to check yourself over each morning.

                                            >As you came into view, a warm feeling welled up in your chest.

                                            >From top to bottom, your coat looked amazing—shiny, fluffy, and silkier than ever.

                                            >If it hadn't been for the fact that this wasn’t the first time getting brushed by Anon, you would have gasped.

                                            >You could never get your coat this nice.

                                            >He’d even touched up your mane a bit, though there were still a few wings that you anxiously smoothed out with some spittle on your hoof.

                                            >There. Perfect.

                                            >You did a few poses, more than a handful being experimentally alluring.

                                            >Your tuft really added to your feminine appeal, my gosh...

                                            >It was hard to judge with your new sexuality, but you thought you looked in equal parts adorable and sensuous right now.


                                            >You hope Anon thought so too.


                                            >All those hours spent brushing mares really made him good at it, and god did it feel good.

                                            >It was actually really hard to bite back all those moans.

                                            >You felt so small in his lap.

                                            >A shiver ran up your spine and you felt a strange, tingling sensation well up in your abdomen.

                                            >Dangit, you don’t know how he does it, but his brushing sessions just make you feel so sensitive and touchy-feely afterwards.

                                            >Probably because your coat feels so nice against everything.


                                            >You try one more practice look, an innocent-enough stare you hope to use on Anon when he tries to pay at the cafe, and with a satisfied nod at your work, you head into the kitchen.

                                            >With a quick hop, you’re up onto your chair and you drop the mail on your pony sized table.

                                            >There was already a sheet waiting for you there—an adoption form, filled out with your signature for the voluntary revocation of an Independence license and transfer to an as-of-yet unsigned party.

                                            >You gave it a forlorn glance before letting out a sigh and getting to work going through your mail.

                                            >Letter from Lilly, bills, bills, spam, more spam...

                                            >Oh, and your magazine for mares monthly came in!

                                            >The front had a picture of a mare with really tantalizing eyes framed giggling and making cupcakes with a handsome human.

                                            >A little bit of icing had gotten on her nose.

                                            >Icing on the cake, you muse.

                                            >One of the tag lines jumped out at you.

                                            >”The way to his heart through his stomach: six recipes to enjoy together, as well as 3 tips to get his ‘oven’ all warmed up.”

                                            >You felt your cheeks heat up at that and make a mental note to have a quick read later.

                                            >For science of course.

                                            >You tap your mail against the bottom of the table to straighten the letters and put them to the side, and then, with a heavy knot forming in your stomach, you fidget with your hooves for a moment before turning to the other pile of mail on your table.

                                            >The one you took out of Anon’s mailbox before he came outside this morning.


                                            >You’re a bad pony.

                                            >The worst in fact.


                                            >As far as Anon knew, his mail was just being delivered later in the day and he’d pick it up when he got home.

                                            >But in reality, you’ve been snagging it.

                                            >You don’t read any of his mail though!

                                            >So… there’s that.

                                            >You just need to take one letter out because reasons.

                                            >Your eyes glance over to your adoption form on instinct, adjusting it clockwise then counterclockwise as you glance over all the info again, reading but not really reading.

                                            >You have to just go for it or you’ll feel bad and start crying, so you dive in while trying not to think about how he called you a good girl those few times.


                                            >With practiced motion, you begin flitting through Anon’s mail, looking for the letter with the PonE initiative’s seal on the front.

                                            >Bills, bills, spam, a car mag, a letter from Lovelace, spam—

                                            >You froze and flipped back to that last letter.

                                            >Wait a minute, what the heck did that little hussy want with your guardian?!

                                            >Your features soured as you put that to the side.

                                            >Okay sometimes you read his mail if it’s from mares. Who cares?

                                            >As long as they didn’t get all flirty in their letters, you’d reseal it and put it back anyways.

                                            >He was your guardian, not theirs.

                                            >With a huff, you continued through the pile—an ad, another ad, OH! There we go.

                                            >You took out the letter from the county authority and skimmed it.

                                            >Sure enough, it was yet another announcement on the discontinuation of the brushing law.

                                            >Anon, having sent several letters to the county office which you were unable to intercept, had been getting these notifications as a result.

                                            >Apparently, the new rule had caused a massive uptick in violations.

                                            >A 534% increase to be exact.

                                            >So, as of a week ago, a letter was sent out that it was to be discontinued immediately.

                                            >Anon, never got that letter, because of you.


                                            >There was a shredder a skip and a jump to your left, its contents already holding the confettied remains of several policy change letters.

                                            >It would be a simple matter to ensure Anon never saw this one.

                                            >But as you held the letter in your hoof, a heavy pit formed in your stomach.

                                            >How long were you going to keep taking Anon’s mail and lying to him?

                                            >This couldn’t go on forever. He’d eventually find out.

                                            >And even if you could keep this up for another week or two somehow, Anon had been exhausted this morning.

                                            >More than that, he’d looked defeated—heartbroken over how you were all behaving, how the system had seemingly failed to have the right impact on all of you.

                                            >He just wanted to do his job and see everything go right for you girls, even if the rule was stupid.

                                            >You glanced again at your adoption form, a cold feeling settling over you like a stormcloud.

                                            >’You’re a good girl, Dahlia,’ Anon’s voice echoed in your mind.

                                            “But I’m not…”


                                            >Your ears lay back against your skull, and with fresh moisture welling in your eyes, you looked back at the letter one more time.

                                            >Anon didn’t have any mares of his own.

                                            >But if he ever did, he deserved the best.

                                            >He deserved one that was pretty and loyal and good and that didn’t manipulate him just to get something stupid like a brushing or two.

                                            >He deserved so much more.

                                            >If Anon had a mare, she would be honest and true, just like him.

                                            >You bit your lip as you stared at the letter, each word in it weighing on your mind like a weight.

                                            >Dangit.

                                            >You groaned and clenched your eyes shut.

                                            >HECKIN’ DANGIT.


                                            --


                                            >Anon held the letter in his hand, eyes tracing across each line as a light breeze brushed across your soft and even coat.

                                            >You wore a summer dress, thin and white, its fabric hugging snuggly your chest while hanging loose around your meager hips in a way you hoped made you look more mature than you felt right now.

                                            >Why you picked out a dress to wear for this was beyond you?

                                            >It was just lunch.

                                            >Or at least it was supposed to be.


                                            >The Cafe was never busy in the afternoon, normally making your table feel like a small oasis, but today it felt like a desert island as you waited for Anon to finish.

                                            >You had already told him the truth.

                                            >Each word came heavy as your heart strove to beat out of your chest, but you did it.


                                            >Now you simply waited.

                                            >Eventually Anon put the letter to the side, a small look of relief on his face as he took a sip  of his tea.

                                            >A small pang of longing ran through your chest at that, of not getting anymore brushies from him but your disgust for yourself quickly buried the notion.

                                            >If you had to manipulate him and steal his mail to get them, you definitely didn’t deserve them in the first place.


                                            >Anon finally turned to you, his eyes meeting yours, neutral expression meeting a shrinking fear.

                                            >”Dahlia?”


                                            “Yeah?”


                                            >”I can’t say I’m not a little disappointed in you.”

                                            >Ice, cold and sharp filled your center, but you resolved yourself to stay strong.

                                            >No crying, okay?

                                            >Face it like a mature mare and be responsible for once.

                                            >You still felt moisture welling up in your eyes, but you hardened your features and nodded.

                                            >He seemed to take that as a reason to continue but he didn’t speak.

                                            >Instead, he let out a slow sigh, and reached over the table towards you.

                                            >You flinched.

                                            >His hand came down on your head, gentle and caring.

                                            >And he gave you a simple but more needed than he could ever know, pat on the head.


                                            >”Thank you for telling me the truth, Dahlia. I’m proud of you.”


                                            >You took a huge breath of air, realizing suddenly that you’d held it for some time.

                                            >Oh God, your stomach feels like you’re on a roller coaster.

                                            >But you did it!

                                            >You shifted in your seat, both reveling and squirming under his attention, all the while particularly conscious of the saddlebag you’d brought with you.

                                            >Just below your hooves, peeking out from your bag was the small white tip of your adoption transfer form.

                                            >You’d brought it not to show, but as a reminder to yourself, a totem to give you the strength to do the right thing.


                                            >You are not a good girl.

                                            >Not yet.

                                            >But one day, maybe you will be.

                                            >And when that day comes, maybe you’ll have the courage to show him that paper.

                                            >It’d been sitting on your table for weeks...

                                            >But for now, your coat was neat and brushed, the sun was shining—

                                            >You leaned into his hand, letting out a small sound of appreciation.

                                            >And you were with your favorite human.


                                            >And that was enough.