[NSFW] assorted oneshots


                                            This is a collection of various small story snippets, most of which have been written for prompt threads and didn't take or were simply never intended to be any more than casual one-offs. If you're looking for great literature, you've come to the wrong place. Most of these are here simply for the desire of personal backups. If you're looking for that sort of thing, please enjoy.


                                            Prompt: Would you a Demon Pone?


                                            >A bright flash of unlight dances before you, a scorching ball of witchfire called from the dept of the immaterium.

                                            >You shield your eyes, the intense brightness of the licking flames threatening to burn out your vision.

                                            >After a few seconds, the light subsides and gives way to the form of a small equine, clad in heavy pink armor and trailing hellfire.

                                            >"Human!"

                                            >The pony speaks, her voice vox-corrupted and amplified to a painful burst that leaves your ears ringing.

                                            "Y-yes?"

                                            >"Speak up, Human! This quiet offends Slaanesh!"

                                            >You try and shield your ears from the assault of noise, but to no avail.

                                            >Her voice - while being robbed of most of its tone by the mechanical amplification - is just too loud, too penetrating.

                                            >"You called for us?!"

                                            "Uhmm... I don't..."

                                            >The pony looks around the room, the various tomes, runes and blood-drawn summoning circles betraying your pitiful attempt at lying.

                                            >A low, guttural laugh comes from behind the vox system, distorted and blown-up into what is more akin to a buzzsaw going through gravel.

                                            >"You hailed, and we met your plead! Now scream for me!!!"

                                            >The wailing sound once again threatens to shatter your eardrums.

                                            >Jesus fuck, what is this shit?

                                            >Did the book lie?

                                            >You just wanted to summon a cute and sexy demonpony, not give form to a metal-clad sound system made flesh.

                                            >"We are amplified! WE BRING THE SOUNDS OF CHAOS!!"

                                            "Argghh, stop fucking shouting. Lower your fucking volume!"

                                            >"WE'RE SO LOUD YOU WANT TO DIE. HEAR THE SONG OF SLAANESH!"

                                            >The mare keeps shouting.

                                            "Please, I just wanted to fuck a demonpony. The book said Prince of Pleasure. I'm sorry."

                                            >Another laugh comes from the mare, reminding you of a tank roughly changing gears with its engine on fire.

                                            >"SLAANESH IS WITH US! OURS IS THE SONG OF VICTORY!!"


                                            Prompt:

                                            >"ANON Y. MOUS WHAT IS THE MEANING OF THIS?"

                                            >She holds up a thick ass stack of paper.

                                            >"THIS IS A LIST OF CHARGES FROM PONYVILLE ALONE."

                                            >"WHEN I SAID YOU HAD DIPLOMATIC IMMUNITY, I DIDN'T THINK YOU'D TAKE THIS FAR"

                                            what are the charges /mlp/?


                                            >You thumb through the papers, skimming over the pages to find out the severity of the charges made against you.

                                            >Most of it, while annoying and probably costly, is generally sound in its reasoning and you can understand how ponies would see what you did as an infringement of their likelihood.

                                            >Turning sheet after sheet, you can't help but smile as you remember the multiple occasions cited for your unlawful behavior.

                                            >Indecency, public urination, property damages, wasting town resources, writing spam and chain letters to the castle...

                                            >All of it is meticulously documented, sorted and filed together with various supplementary accords, eyewitness reports and recreations of crime scenes.

                                            "This is in surprisingly good order", you comment with a nod, as you let your eyes wander over a several-page-long document with yellow and red markings and various handwritten post-it notes strewn over the papers.

                                            >"We have been building a case against you for months, Anonymous", Celestia states proudly.

                                            >"Also our lawponies don't exactly have much to do, so your... shenanigans" - she stresses the word - "were a welcome source of workload for them."

                                            "Fair enough, I guess."

                                            >"So, Anonymous", the Princess picks up after a few moments of silence, "how do you plead?"

                                            >Her eyes search for yours, attentively studying your reaction.

                                            "Not guilty, your Highness", you firmly state, trusting your instinct to deny absolutely everything you're ever been accused of until the point of certain defeat.

                                            >Celestia frowns.

                                            >"My faithful subject...", she begins, stepping closer and lowering her voice.

                                            >"Anon. This" - she taps a hoof on the stack of papers - "This is proof, beyond any doubt, of your criminal wrongdoings. It's watertight, all of it. Both my sister and I have conferred, and while we're certain lawbreaking of this magnitude is unprecedented, we're willing to grant you a royal pardon based on your troublesome adjustment period to your life in this land."

                                            >She gets even closer, whispering to you with pleading eyes, her enormous capacity for empathy making this ordeal almost harder on her than you.

                                            >"But you'll have to confess."

                                            "No can do, Sunny Buns."

                                            >Years of venturing on the edge of the moral and legal horizon have made you resistant to the play of the good cop, forcing you to keep up your strategy of denying and arguing.

                                            >You will not confess.

                                            >You will not break.

                                            >Not without a fight at least.

                                            "This isn't as open and shut a case as you think it is", you say slapping the papers dismissively.

                                            "Like here - you can't prove it was ME who switched the labels of the salt and sugar in the bakery. Could have been anyone."

                                            >"Well, I suppose..."

                                            "And here", you point towards a large, highlighted section of text, interrupting the Princess and reading aloud: "Eyewitnesses describe a large, bipedal creature relieving itself against the southeast wall of the royal palace."

                                            "That's not much to go on. For all you know, a Minotaur or maybe even a Dragon pissed on your wall. Frankly I'm shocked by the lack of castle security this displays."

                                            >Case after case, you point out any and all bullshit flaws you can find, dismissively throwing stacks of paper over your shoulder.

                                            "And this one..."

                                            >Hold on.

                                            >What?

                                            "Mind explaining this one?"

                                            >Celestia, who had been patiently following your charade until now, looks at you questioningly.

                                            >"What about it?"

                                            >You look to the paper and back to Celestia.

                                            "Not praising the full moon on a clear night?" you read off of the indictment.

                                            >The mare nods solemnly.

                                            >"I'm afraid it's the law to go out and profess your love for the moon on nights like these, Anonymous."

                                            "But... why?"

                                            >"My dear sister is rather adamant about this one. She feels it is only proper to worship her moon when it's in full view. 'Tis the law."

                                            "Why?" you repeat, turning the paper for any hidden information you might be missing.

                                            >You're prepared to go to jail for most of this shit, but for something like this to be the nail in your proverbial coffin?

                                            >"Oh", Celestia giggles, "it's a rather silly reasoning, I believe. You know the sun and moon are magically connected to my sister and me, yes?"

                                            >You nod.

                                            >"Well, Luna feels the full moon represents her body. Certain parts of her body anyways."

                                            >Celestia giggles again, her smile warm and affectionate with a hint of playfulness to it.

                                            >"To not worship it would be an affront to the royal... you know... booty", she whispers.

                                            >The last of the paper stack slips through your fingers, scattering the pages on the marbled floor of Celestia's throne room.

                                            >Dropping to your knees, you present your wrists and neck to the Princess.

                                            "Lock me the fuck up."


                                            Prompt: How do you cheer up this cutie when she's down in the dumps?


                                            >It's Friday afternoon when you step through the school gates for what would be the last time for the week, a happy smile on your lips and plans for a fun-filled weekend on your mind.

                                            >Coming around the corner of the archway, you spot your favorite - and only - walking-home companion.

                                            >Since your houses are in the same general area, the two of you have developed a habit of keeping each other company on the trek home, swapping stories and enjoying breaking the routine of your regular journey with the occasional detour.

                                            >Truth be told, you've begun looking forward to the walks with Pinkie, coming to like her cheery demeanor and seemingly unbreakable happiness.

                                            >Getting within earshot of the girl on the steps she usually sat on waiting for you, you call out.

                                            "Yo Pinks!"

                                            >No reaction.

                                            "It's Frrrrriday night motherfucker!"

                                            >You let the words roll off your tongue, overpronouncing the syllables in a futile attempt at comedy.

                                            >Pinkie chooses to keep her head low and remain quiet.

                                            >Still, the look on her face betrays her emotions: sad eyes with a small, tight frown.

                                            >This isn't the happy, go-getter, Friday-after-school Pinkie that you know.

                                            >Nor is it the Monday-morning-biology-class Pinkie.

                                            >This isn't even the just-got-chewed-out-by-her-parents-for-failing-the-math-test Pinkie.

                                            >Sitting before you is a genuinely depressed Pinkie Pie, the locks and curls of her hair looking just a bit less bouncy then you'd like them to.

                                            >Standing above her, you wait until she slowly, calculatingly rises her head to finally make eye contact, her usually sparkly irises a dull shade of blue.

                                            "What's up, Ponks?"

                                            >"..."

                                            >Your question is met with more staring, followed by a quiet, drawn-out sigh.

                                            >"Let's go", Pinkie finally states, her voice flat and monotone to the point of sounding bored.

                                            >"Let's go home so I can fall on my bed, fall asleep and put this awful day behind me."

                                            >With that, the rose-tainted girl rises to her feet and slowly walks away from the school and towards her home.

                                            >Not knowing what else to do, you quickly close the gap she'd gained on you during your initial confusion with a few large steps.

                                            >Putting your hands in your pockets, you silently walk alongside Pinkie.

                                            >And for a few minutes, the only thing you hear is the rhythmic clacking of your shoes on the hard concrete and the occasional sound of cars driving by.

                                            >This might be bad.

                                            >You honestly can't remember your friend ever being this down.

                                            >Not even after that cheesy party boy exchange student left.

                                            >This is beyond normal sadness.

                                            >Remember that Yotsuba chapter where her teddy bear is broken?

                                            >It might be time to use your secret weapon now.

                                            >Honestly, you'd hoped it'd be under better circumstances, but the severity of the situation is not lost on you, forcing you to try and cheer up your friend with all available methods.

                                            >Swinging your backpack to your front while you walk, you fumble around its innards for a bit before producing a small pink carton box with a blue ribbon.

                                            >You smile, remembering how early you'd gotten out of bed this morning just to make it to the bakery in time before they sold out.

                                            >The fabled, sought-after triple chocolate-chip cupcake.

                                            >Pinkie's favorite.

                                            >Granted, it's not as good as if it was still warm from the oven, but you thought to give it to her after school as a special treat to start her weekend off right.

                                            >Looks like she might be needing it more than you thought.

                                            "Hey, Pinkie?"

                                            >"Hmm?"

                                            "Give me your hand."

                                            >The girl complies, apparently too frustrated to put up any resistance.

                                            >Or even care.

                                            >Gently placing the delicate box on her outstretched palm, you push her hand back to her to bring the present within her view.

                                            >"Oh", she flatly exclaims as she realizes what you've given her.

                                            >"Thanks."

                                            "You're welcome", you grin, satisfied in your ability to...

                                            >Hold on.

                                            "Aren't you going to eat it?"

                                            >"Maybe later."

                                            >Okay, now you're getting worried.

                                            >Normally, the bouncy-haired glutton would have already devoured the offered snack, tearing into the soft baked goodness without any regard for manners, the carton and - on occasion - your fingers.

                                            >You've never seen her just being able to hold it, without even so much as looking at it.

                                            >You may have to be a little more forceful here.

                                            "Well, if you're not going to eat it..."

                                            >You quickly grab the box back from her, the girl unable to keep herself from involuntarily following the motion with her eyes.

                                            "Don't mind if I do", you grin, tearing off the ribbon and opening the box.

                                            >Below the protective layers of silk and carton, the delicious, chocolatey treat reveals itself to you in all its mouthwatering glory.

                                            >Without any grand movements, you pick up the cupcake and quickly proceed to bite a large chunk out of it.

                                            >Chewing loudly, you grin towards Pinkie.

                                            "Isch good", you manage to say, cheeks filled to the rafters with cupcake.

                                            >And despite doing her level best to ignore you, the girl can't quite keep her eyes from the baked good in your hand - or the large bite missing from it.

                                            >"Anon.", comes the quite murmur.

                                            "Hmm?"

                                            >"...nothing."

                                            >Another, slightly larger-than-needed bite is enough to send her over the edge.

                                            >With a yelp, Pinkie grabs after the treat, pushing you away with reckless abandon.

                                            >"Mmmmhm!" she exclaims after stuffing the rest of it into her mouth with one quick motion and happily chewing away.

                                            >A few more seconds of slightly undignified eating noises and a large gulp later, Pinkie sheepishly smiles at you.

                                            >Granted, her earlier sadness is still written on her face, but at least she's not frowning anymore.

                                            >"Thanks, Anon", she says quietly.

                                            "Anytime."

                                            >Having made it to her front yard, Pinkie steps through the gate and waves you goodbye.

                                            "Hey, are you going to tell me what's up now?"

                                            >"Ehhh, maybe later, Anon. Happy Friday night!"

                                            >With that, the girl vanishes through the front door, leaving you confused, alone and a little hungry.

                                            >Happy that you were able to at least help her out somewhat, you slowly begin walking home.


                                            Prompt: Russian airsoft Trixie


                                            >You drop down, pressing your back against the grey wall of cold concrete and carefully spy around the corner.

                                            >Looks clear.

                                            >Happy to have a moment to catch your breath and service your weapon, you take inventory.

                                            >You pull out a clear plastic can of pellets, careful not to shake their contents too much and give away your position with the characteristic rattle of plastic.

                                            >"Comrade Anon!"

                                            >You jerk your head around, the grip on your replica M4A1 tightening.

                                            >Looking up, you see a familiar face, lavender eyes curiously mustering you in your state of surprise.

                                            "Trixie!" you angrily whisper at the girl, an intimidating AK-74 casually held in her hands.

                                            "Sit down!"

                                            >Trixie follows your order and squats down next to you, the fabric of her tight-fitting blue hoody playfully outlining the curves of her body.

                                            >"Is of great pleasure to be finding you, comrade Anon. Trixie is of hopes we can assist one another in struggle against devilish forces of capitalism, да."

                                            >Not again with this.

                                            "You’re not Russian, Trix", you state with annoyance, the weird habit of your friend adapting these blatantly fake mannerisms together with the painful accent nothing new to you.

                                            >Something about your regular airsoft get-togethers just brings out the actress in her.

                                            >"The Trixie is not of understandings, comrade. Maybe Privet Anon did of drank too much of the vodka?"

                                            >You sigh, cycling your rifle with a small, metallic clack.

                                            >The pseudo-Russian girl looks at you with disgust.

                                            "Spare me! Not this again…" you knowingly begin to argue.

                                            >"Anon, your rifle is of using direct impingement system which is basically same as poops where you eats."

                                            "Yeah yeah…"

                                            >"Is rifle of gypsy westerner design produced by fascists and capitalists. You should of bring glorious Kalashnikova rifle into battle, which is same wound for less cost."

                                            >Getting ready to continue pushing up with the annoying girl now apparently a member of your squad, you rise up, doing your best to ignore her ramblings.

                                            >"Maybe you is of want to question rifle design conceived by glorious comrade Mikhail Kalashnikov? Maybe the Trixie should of be reporting Privet Anon to secret police."

                                            >You jump around the corner and Trixie follows, quickly letting off a few bursts in the general direction of a red-and-yellow-haired figure crouching in the shadows at the far end of the dusty corridor, all the while ranting about ammo types and operating procedures.

                                            >A surprised shriek comes down the hallway, the ambushed girl on the other side dropping to the floor in pain.

                                            >"Is good gun, да? Very strong. Powerful."

                                            "Let’s just keep going."

                                            >"The Trixie agrees."


                                            Your waifu can't express out-loud how she feels about you confessing to her. Where does she point to on the chart?


                                            "Hey Rainbow, how're you doing today?"

                                            >Closing the door to her room behind you, you walk over to your friend sitting up in the hospital bed, her face turned away towards the window.

                                            >The blinds are drawn, shutting out the harsh afternoon sun and coloring the room in a strange, surreal shade of twilight.

                                            >The smell of sanitizer is heavy in the air, conjuring up images of white lab coats and surgeons' face masks in your mind.

                                            "Dash?"

                                            >Sitting down on the bed, you slowly move to touch her shoulder.

                                            "Are you okay?"

                                            >Rainbow turns, the empty expression on her face only offset by the red marks in her eyes left over from too much crying.

                                            >Her coat seems dull and colorless, and her signature polychromatic mane is a tangled mess.

                                            >She opens her mouth, producing nothing more than a few dry chokes and gasps, followed by a heavy, drawn out sigh of defeat.

                                            >You thought she'd be used to this by now.

                                            >You thought you'd be used to this, but the painfully cold stab of helpless sympathy reminds you of the opposite as Rainbow points towards the folded chart lying on the table next to you with tears in the corners of her eyes.

                                            >You pick up the thick, laminated piece of paper and step around to sit on the other side of the bed, next to your friend.

                                            >You look at the colorfully stenciled symbols, each one playfully capturing some sort of need, desire or reply, each one stylized with a cute, cartoony pictograph of a pony or an associated object.

                                            >Each one utterly useless and degrading to use.

                                            >Dash looks up to you while fighting back the tears, silently prompting you to ask a question, to justify the ridiculous pamphlet trying to boil down the entirety of her emotions into a handful of neatly ordered images.

                                            "Are you okay?" you ask again, feeling stupid while holding out the plastic-encased paper to her.

                                            >Rainbow points towards the upper left, a picture of a hoof pointed downwards framed by a red square.

                                            >No.

                                            "Yeah, I didn't figure."

                                            >Your friend stretches out her hoof again, gesturing to the picture of a calendar in the top row.

                                            >Date?

                                            "A date, huh?" you mockingly ask in an attempt to lighten the mood.

                                            "How about we wait until you're out of the hospital before we make any romantic plans?"

                                            >By the look on her face, Rainbow's still as unimpressed by your futile try at humor as the last time you made that joke.

                                            "It's Friday, Dash. Two days since I last came to visit you. It's been four weeks since your..."

                                            >You struggle to find the words and keep your voice level at the same time.

                                            "...your accident."

                                            >Rainbow nods absentmindedly, seemingly trying to account for the days rushing past while she’s been chained to a hospital bed with her only means of communication in the form of a standardized collection of reaction images.

                                            >A few seconds pass before she gives up, sinking back into her pillow and finding you again with tired eyes.

                                            >She points to the next picture.

                                            >When can I go home?

                                            >There it was again, the question you didn’t want her to ask.

                                            >The question she asked every single time you came to visit her for the last month.

                                            >The question you couldn’t answer.

                                            "The doctors said not for a while probably."

                                            >Watching Rainbow’s hopeful expression turn to cold realization almost sends you over the edge, her big magenta eyes now glistening with unshed tears as she moves her hoof one picture over.

                                            >Test results?

                                            "They’re... they’re still working on it, but it doesn’t look..."

                                            >The words catch in your throat as your friend starts sobbing, small crystal tears leaving wet streaks in the fur of her cheeks and dripping down into her hospital gown.

                                            >Your heart shatters as you watch her silently cry, her body shaken by inaudible sobs.

                                            >You try to hug her but are weakly shoved away.

                                            >Rainbow looks at you with a fierce expression through the tears and points again.

                                            >When can I go home?

                                            >You can only stare back at her.

                                            >When can I go home?

                                            "I’m sorry, Dash."

                                            >When can I go home?

                                            >You turn to face away from your friend, trying - and failing - to find answers in the colorfully drawn communication cheat sheet you’re holding.

                                            "I’m sorry, but I think I..."

                                            >The blue pegasus gestures to the paper again, her hoof pointing to a new symbol in the lower left corner, her eyes pleading you to help her, to take her with you, to do something, anything other than leave her alone in this sterilized room again.

                                            >I want to live.

                                            >When can I go home?

                                            >I want to live.


                                            Prompt: Would you take advantage of a drunk pone?


                                            >You are Anon and you're currently enjoying a spontaneous midnight stroll through the empty streets of Ponyville.

                                            >Stars spot the deep black sky overhead, and the sparse illumination of the street lamps scattered around the streets leaves enough room for comfortable darkness between the cones of light.

                                            >Pulling your jacket tighter in an attempt to shut out the early-autumn chill, you startle slightly when you suddenly make out a voice calling your name.

                                            >"Anon..."

                                            >Quickly looking around, you see no one on the street with you.

                                            >"Ahhnnnnnnooonnn..."

                                            >Nope.

                                            >You're about to turn around and flee from the spooky sensation and back towards your house, when you spot a bushy purple tail hanging over the backrest of a nearby park bench.

                                            >Creeping up towards the appendage almost drained of its color in the gloom, you make out the soft giggling of a pony's familiar voice.

                                            "B-berry Punch?"

                                            >"Ohai Anonymoush... *hic*... wassap?"

                                            "Jesus, you scared me half to death. What the hell are you doing here?"

                                            >The clearly intoxicated pony turns her head to - after a few false starts - look you in the eyes, apparently momentarily confused about her whereabouts.

                                            >"Restin'", she manages to slur out after a few seconds before turning her head and slumping back onto the bench.

                                            >Content with the explanatory value of her words, Berry chooses to not elucidate on her situation any further, instead proceeding to loudly empty the contents of her stomach onto the ground next to her.

                                            "Nice. You've been overdoing it again, haven't you?"

                                            >"Yesh... I mi-might've", the pony hacks out between spitting and dry-heaving.

                                            >You shake your head at the display in front of you, your words failing you for an appropriate response.

                                            "Nice...", you reiterate.

                                            >Damn alcoholics.

                                            "Do you think you're fine to find your way home?" you ask with a hopeful voice, even though the answer to your question is painfully obvious and highlighted by Berry again violently disposing of the offending toxin crushing through her stomach.

                                            >You walk around the bench, careful not to step into Berry's sick, and squat next to the hurting pony.

                                            >Gently resting your hand on her forehead and eliciting a small, painful moan, you can't help but feel sympathetic to her struggle.

                                            >You know the pain of too much alcohol as well as the public humiliation usually accompanied by it.

                                            >The nights are getting colder too.

                                            >You can't just let her alone out here.

                                            "Berry", you try to say as softly as possible, lightly snapping your fingers in front of her face to get her to focus on your words.

                                            "Do you want me to get you home?"

                                            >"Yesh please", she nods drunkenly.

                                            "Alright."

                                            >Standing up, you move to put your hands beneath Berry's form to lift her up, but hesitate just before your fingers make contact with her soft, velvety slick fur.

                                            "If you're going to be sick again, do it now instead of when I'm carrying you", you state while looking down onto her.

                                            >"All good Anon. M'fineee now. *hic*"

                                            >Cautiously, your hands approach Berry's body again, gently lifting her up and folding her into a carrying position in front of your chest.

                                            >With your arms wrapped around her fuzzy warmth, you slowly begin walking.

                                            >Fearing that the swaying of your motion might trigger another episode of vomiting, you try to minimize your shaking by firmly pressing Berry to your body and walking as upright as you can.

                                            >The drunken mare seems to enjoy the motion rather than being sickened by it though, with a gentle smile slowly forming on her lips.

                                            >Her eyes are closed, and you can make out a quiet melody hummed to the beating of your footsteps.

                                            >Damn alcoholics.

                                            "Looks like you recover fast, huh?"

                                            >"Hmhhh", Berry slurs, slightly bobbing her head with the swaying.

                                            >"Ish all good, Anon."

                                            >For a while, the only things that you hear is the sound of your own steps, the distant rustling of leaves in the wind, and the drunken pony's quiet melody which you can't help but join into after a few more minutes.

                                            >Your fingers dig into her warm fur, and you slowly become aware of Berry's form.

                                            >The delicious roundness around her haunches, the soft sensation of her hooves, the subtle curves of her face as she slowly drifts into relaxation.

                                            >This might be bad.

                                            >By the time her place comes into view, the mare in your arms has dropped into a deep, alcohol-induced slumber.

                                            "We're here", you whisper.

                                            >No response.

                                            >Stepping up to Berry's front door, you fumble for a spare key below the doormat and proceed to carry the comatose pony inside.

                                            >You lay her down on the sofa, enjoying the sensation of her fur sliding through your fingers as you pull your hands out from under her.

                                            >Berry immediately rolls over, digging herself deeper into the cushions and offering you a view of her ample backside in the process.

                                            >Yeah, this is bad.

                                            >You grab a blanket from the armchair nearby and cover her up, patting her head before you hurriedly turn to leave.

                                            >You're two steps on your way towards the door when you stop.

                                            >Don't!

                                            >You turn around again, bending over the peaceful mare.

                                            >The rest of the world is dead to her right now, and you're sure she won't remember - let alone notice - anything going on right now.

                                            >No, this isn't you, this isn't what you came here to do.

                                            >Your friend relied on you to help her tonight, to protect her and not satisfy your own twisted desires with her body.

                                            >You won't be able to face her again if you give in now.

                                            >Stretching out a shaking hand, you curse yourself for not being a stronger man, a stronger friend, but instead succumbing to your baser instincts and your blatant need for self-gratification.

                                            >Reaching Berry's fur, you softly boop her on the nose, before quickly pulling your hand back with a racing heart.

                                            >What have you done?

                                            >You nearly stumble over your own feet while hurrying for the door, pulling it closed behind you and sprinting home while scolding yourself for what horrible thing you just did.


                                            Prompt:

                                            >Be Anon.

                                            >Sound asleep all curled up in your cozy bed.

                                            >Suddenly you wake up and upon realizing the urge, go to piss.

                                            >As you pass the living room, you see someone sitting on the couch watching Netflix on your tv.

                                            >You do a double take and see it's your older sister Moonie.

                                            >You're completely baffled and ask what she's doing there.

                                            >She begins explaining.

                                            >Apparently her roommate brought a friend over.

                                            >Then she beings sobbing.

                                            >You ask why, and she replies.

                                            >"B-because."

                                            >She sniffes.

                                            >"He ate my pizza."

                                            How do you react?


                                            >You sit down next to Moondancer on the sofa and grab the nearby blanket, wrapping it around your body to shield it from the cold of the night.

                                            >Truth be told, these impromptu visits are not exactly new to you.

                                            >That doesn't make them less irritating though.

                                            >Or less awkward.

                                            >You sit quietly for a while, focusing on keeping your eyes open while Moondancer flicks through a variety of shows, only to get stuck on some overly colorful, admittedly well animated Japanese cartoon.

                                            >You blink, turning your head to look at her and back at the screen.

                                            "What's this?" you ask, your voice still heavy and sluggish from sleep.

                                            >"Anime", comes the curt reply.

                                            >You nod, turning your attention to the pink-haired, twin-tailed heroine who just threw her friends crystallized consciousness onto a moving truck.

                                            "I think I remember this one. Doesn't it end kind of sad?"

                                            >"Depends on how you look at it, I suppose", the girl in the sweater answers; her eyes puffy and pink from crying earlier.

                                            >"I think it's sweet."

                                            >You nod again, sinking deeper into the cushions to get away from the cold and simulate the warmth and comfort of your bed.

                                            >The two of you watch the episode, followed by the next and the one after that.

                                            >By the time Moondancer starts the fourth, you're barely able to keep yourself awake, stretched out on the couch with your head leaning against her shoulder.

                                            >The fuzzy warmth of her sweater rubs against your cheek and you can feel her frame rise and fall slightly with the motion of her breathing.

                                            "Do you want to tell me what happened now?" you ask tiredly, ready to fall asleep right there; on your couch and leaned against the girl interrupting your slumber.

                                            >"Twilight brought one of her stupid friends over", she gnarls.

                                            >"And he ate the leftover pizza I was saving for the weekend. I mean can you believe it? The nerve on that guy!"

                                            >You ask the first thing that pops into your head.

                                            "What kind of pizza?"

                                            >"Pineapple."

                                            "..."

                                            "Get the fuck out of my house."


                                            Prompt:

                                            >Buy a nice camera

                                            >Convince Rarity you are a professional photographer and can make her famous

                                            >Get her to pose for shoots like pic

                                            >Move on to nude shoots

                                            >Eventually fuck her on camera

                                            >Profit


                                            >It may have cost more than you were realistically planning to spend on it but getting a high quality camera was definitely worth it in the end.

                                            >You sit in the classroom, flicking through the images you've taken over the course of the day on the colorful, high-resolution monitor of the surprisingly heavy device.

                                            >School's been out for a while now, but you're still busy with enjoying the photos saved onto its generous internal storage.

                                            >The interior of your room.

                                            >Sunrise over the city.

                                            >A dead sparrow on the side of the road.

                                            >Your classroom with a few students already placed on their seats.

                                            >Mrs. Cheerily angrily scolding you for taking a picture in class with the flash on.

                                            >Your lunch tray.

                                            >Picture after picture flashes over the screen as you mentally reiterate the day, all of them crisp, resolved and incredibly sharp.

                                            >The few times you fiddled with the settings present themselves as a series of photos taken with different effects or color schemes.

                                            >An image of a school bench in calm sepia is followed by a portrait of Rainbow Dash with the color settings cranked up to the max, bringing out the various streaks and curls of her hair in brilliantly shining arcs of light.

                                            >She was actually more than happy to pose for you.

                                            >Weird.

                                            >"That looks simply divine, Darling."

                                            >If not for your safety neck strap and the instinctive death grip on your new purchase, you'd have thrown it on the ground from being startled just now for sure.

                                            >A purple-haired girl is walking beside you, curiously eyeing the screen of your DSLR.

                                            "Jesus, Rarity, don't scare me like that!" you scold her, your heart rate slowly normalizing after the shock of the sudden voice and almost dropping your camera.

                                            >"Pardon me, Anon" she grins "but I was simply under the impressing you were well aware of my presence. I've been standing next to you for a few minutes now."

                                            >What?

                                            >Were you so engrossed in your photography you missed a girl walking in?

                                            >That might be worrisome.

                                            >"Well, I suppose you WERE quite absorbed with your toy."

                                            "Toy?" you ask toneless, the underlying mockery not entirely lost on you.

                                            >"Your camera, dear. Although I do have to admit the pictures I saw were rather formidable."

                                            >Rarity points towards the screen, a slightly overexposed Rainbow still stupidly grinning from the other side.

                                            "Yeah."

                                            >You quickly swipe the photo away to a much more neutral shot of the chalkboard between lessons.

                                            "It's pretty great. A little pricey but it really shows, I think."

                                            >The girl nods.

                                            >"You know, I've actually been looking for a... an opportunity like this, I suppose. You see, my portfolio is in dire need of a few fresh snapshots and the camera on my phone simply won't do for something like this."

                                            >You nod slowly, not entirely following but afraid to show your mental insufficiency by asking.

                                            >"So do you think you could help me out?"

                                            "I..."

                                            >You look down to your camera and back up to Rarity in a futile attempt to buy time.

                                            "I think so?"

                                            >"Splendid, darling!" the girl exclaims, smiling brightly and taking a few steps away from you and into the empty classroom.

                                            >"Shall we do a few practice shots right now then?"

                                            >Looking at her with what you can only assume is a dumbfound expression for a few seconds, you’re finally able to connect the dots.

                                            "Oh. OH! You want me to take a photo of you!"

                                            >"Well, I was thinking more along the lines of a few more, but yes."

                                            >As if to underscore her words, Rarity straightens out her clothes with a few practiced pats and tugs, and strikes a delicate pose in front of you.

                                            >"Alright, well..."

                                            >Quickly assessing the lighting of the room, you step right to get a better angle and start taking pictures, toying with a few of the settings and experimenting with different camera modes.

                                            >In contrast to your amateurish testing, Rarity displays clear experience with what she's doing, expertly going through a variety of styles and poses between snapshots.

                                            >In one shot, her hands are on her hips, displaying an almost comical power pose, in the next she's shyly turning away from the camera while playing with a lock of hair.

                                            >She's good.

                                            >Her arms are folded behind her head.

                                            >Her hands are poking her cheeks.

                                            >Her hands are gliding over her thighs.

                                            >Her hands are... groping her breasts?

                                            >Looking over your camera, Rarity stares back at you, confused.

                                            >"What's wrong, darling?"

                                            >Her hands are still holding her breasts, sensually kneading the soft domes and threatening to burst them out of her low-cut blouse.

                                            "What are you doing", you ask with a dry throat, trying your best to avoid the indecent pose before you and your body's reaction to it.

                                            >"Posing."

                                            "Like that?"

                                            >You gesture towards her breasts, and it takes a few seconds and a shrewd smile to make you realize what you're pointing at.

                                            >"A model needs to be refined in all manner of photography, darling", she explains with conviction.

                                            "Yeah but... porn?"

                                            >"Oh, dear" Rarity laughs "this isn't pornography. It’s simply a bit of light erotica."

                                            "Well, if you say so."

                                            >You continue taking pictures, watching Rarity go from pose to pose and more and more lewd with each shot.

                                            >She’s bending over, exposing an ample amount of her generous cleavage.

                                            >She’s stretching with a yawn, pulling up the fabric of her blouse to reveal her flat stomach and a hint of her bellybutton.

                                            >She’s facing away from you, bending over and showing off her deliciously thick backside.

                                            >You snap through them all in quick succession, hoping to get done before your brain - and your lower half for that matter - fully catches on to what’s going on right now.

                                            >Rarity straightens out after pulling down the brim of her pants a few centimeters to reveal the hint of a black and lacy thong for the last picture of the set.

                                            >Finally, it looks like she’s gone through her repertoire.

                                            >Walking back over, the girl sits down next to you and watches through the pictures you hastily flick on and off the screen for her.

                                            >"Very good, darling", she commends, either missing or pointedly ignoring your reddening cheeks as you play back through the series of increasingly scandalous photos.

                                            >"You really have a knack for this, it appears."

                                            "Yeah, well, I read a lot about it online. So if we’re done now, I’ll just…"

                                            >"Now let me just take off my pants real quick for the next few", Rarity interrupts your flight attempt.

                                            >You’re about to ask her to repeat herself because you obviously misheard, but the purple-haired girl is already walking back into her space.

                                            >Her jeans are folded neatly onto the chair next to you.

                                            >When she turns back around and starts posing - lightly spreading her legs to accentuate the roundness of her naked thighs - you’re finally failing to keep your body in check any longer.

                                            >Sweat forming on your forehead, you start taking pictures again, turning to conceal your by now painfully obvious bulge.

                                            >Clad only in her panties from the waist down, Rarity continues her modeling.

                                            >The tight thong leaves little to the imagination on her front side, and even less on her back, which she’s more than happy to demonstrate by turning around and slightly pulling her cheeks apart to reveal the black string traveling through the valley of her incredibly soft-looking bottom for a picture.

                                            "So… this is porn now, yes?"

                                            >"Yes darling, THIS is porn", she explains while sitting down and spreading her legs wide, filling in the picture of the last bit of her modesty with a puffy and delicious snapshot.

                                            >"Now give me a second to take these off for the last part", Rarity states while tugging on the string of her underwear.


                                            Prompt: I want to impregnate Trixie at Camp Everfree


                                            >"Trixie swears to God, if you so much as make a sound and get us busted, she will rip your little nuts off herself."

                                            "Yeah, yeah..."

                                            >You and the threatening girl lie huddled up against each other in her sleeping bag, the other occupants of her tent sleeping soundly a few meters away.

                                            >The residual glow of the campfire is a dim flicker against the fabric of the tent, throwing the hard features of Trixie's face into sharp relief.

                                            >"What are you waiting for?" she whispers angrily, moving one of her hands below the covers to pull her restricting sweatpants out of the way.

                                            >"Give it to Trixie."

                                            >As if to underscore her words, she pulls up a thin, lacey piece of cloth and presses it into your face, letting you inhale her scent from her freshly removed panties.

                                            >This girl.

                                            >Constantly mocking, teasing and outright insulting you, she's doing her best to make every little interaction an uphill battle.

                                            >In one moment she's inviting you to her tent for some nightly shenanigans, in the next she's rudely kicking you out after the two of you have succeeded in sneakily enjoying each other’s bodies without alerting her roommates or - God forbid - the supervisors.

                                            >You probably would have given up trying to deal with the constant struggle a while ago, if not for the few, precious moments when you get to observe Trixie shedding her armor and reveal to you a soft and feminine side you doubt many people have ever had the pleasure of experiencing.

                                            >After all is said and done, Trixie always finds her way back to you.

                                            >And you're hopelessly falling for her every single time.

                                            >She pulls the pink fabric away and lets you brush a strand of hair out of her face, the purple of her irises sparkling brightly when they catch the stray light from outside the tent.

                                            >Apparently annoyed with your gesture, Trixie lets out a small grunt and proceeds to angrily fumble around your underwear with both hands, freeing and guiding your erection with a few practiced motions.

                                            >Once you feel her warmth envelop the tip of your member, you hold up your end of the bargain by quickly and assertively pushing forward, eliciting a small, stifled moan from the girl.

                                            "Shh...", you whisper grinningly as you slowly begin thrusting.

                                            "I thought you said we shouldn't wake anyone."

                                            >"Shut up, Anon", Trixie hisses, her hot breath tickling your skin as she hugs herself around your form tighter.

                                            >"Just make sure to keep pounding Trixie."

                                            >You signal your understanding - and approval - by slightly quickening your pace, enjoying the sensations of the girl's erect nipples poking your chest and the tight embrace she expertly exerts on your dick.

                                            >Softly mewling into the sleeping bag, she begins squeezing her thighs and flexing her muscles to the rhythm of your thrusts, trying to increase the pressure.

                                            >"How does it feel, Anon? How does it feel to stealth-fuck the camp's hottest girl while her friends are sleeping just an arm's length away?"

                                            >You’ve noticed a while ago that Trixie is not above a bit of assertive dirty talk during your sessions, apparently using the passion and lust to let out her energy and relieve herself of the stress built up over the day.

                                            "Feels good."

                                            >"Good? Trixie believes her hot and dripping wet pussy greatly exceeds description. How could you simply say ‘good’?"

                                            "How’s my dick then?"

                                            >"It’s adequate, Trixie supposes."

                                            "Adequate?" you mirror her words, spending most of your concentration to keep up your rhythm and not give the girl any openings for her attacks.

                                            >"It’s the right tool for the job, Trixie admits, but how can it even compare to the soft lewdness of her pussy, quivering with delight at the prospect of a hard rod after waiting the entirety o-"

                                            >Both Trixie and you stop moving when the cone of a flashlight begins shining over the outside of tent, illuminating the two of you with a ray of light making its way through the fabric.

                                            >The girl reflexively clenches up around you, making it all the harder to stop pushing into her tightening opening.

                                            >You daringly try to keep up a minimum of movement, much to the terrified girl’s dismay.

                                            >The red in her cheeks now clearly visible in the light, the pleasure of watching her squirm to ignore the presence of your dick is only slightly offset by the venom-filled look she’s shooting you.

                                            >Like a deer in the headlights, she’s hopelessly caught between her instincts.

                                            >You stop moving when the cone of the flashlight gets bigger, accompanied by the sound of approaching footsteps from outside the tent.

                                            >Maybe you’ve gone too far this time?

                                            >Both of you embrace each other tightly, afraid to move, afraid to breathe, afraid to even think about what would await you should whoever is coming up on the tent decide to take a peek inside.

                                            >And yet - in a strange and entirely unexpected way - the whole situation only adds to the pleasure you’re feeling.

                                            >Trixie’s nipples could cut glass, and her round thighs are clenched tightly around your legs.

                                            >The heat radiating off of her body is almost too much to bear, and you’re exerting all of your mental capacity to scream at your body to not just finish her off with a few quick and hard pokes.

                                            >Almost against your will, your hand - which was in the process of firmly grabbing one of the girl’s ass cheeks - nudges its way forward to give her other hole the slightest bit of pressure.

                                            >Her eyes go wide at the sudden sensation, and she can only pleadingly stare into yours while her tongue almost lolls out of her opened mouth with lust.

                                            >A few more seconds pass until the light suddenly flicks off and the two of you take in a much needed breath of relaxation as the footsteps outside slowly fade away into the darkness.

                                            >A minute later, Trixie is the first to dare speak again.

                                            >"Anonymous, I swear there’s only one way out of this for you, and that is to fuck me into orgasm so hard I forget myself with pleasure."

                                            >Not wanting to overdo it, you choose to ignore the fact she spoke in first person and instead do your best to oblige.

                                            >You start thrusting again, one hand continuing to massage Trixie’s butthole and the other gently but firmly covering her mouth.

                                            >The last thing you see of her lips is the goofy smile spreading on them as she begins riding out her orgasm and panting into your hand.

                                            >You don’t stop thrusting when she starts convulsing around your dick, neither do you when she begins twisting her own nipples for added pleasure.

                                            >You only stop once the girl of your dreams glides into comfortable, exhaustion-induced sleep below you, her chest slowly rising and falling with big, relaxed breaths.

                                            >You sneak out of the tent after collecting your clothes in the dark, careful not to wake any of the other occupants and dumbly grinning to yourself for finally having won one.


                                            Prompt: I stab Pone.


                                            >You thrust the knife forward with a jerk, using all the strength left to you to keep your hands from losing their grip.

                                            >Putting as much force behind your motion as you can muster, you keep pressing, feeling the serrated blade cutting skin, flesh and muscles with a wet, sickly jitter.

                                            >You've done it.

                                            >You managed to stab her.

                                            >Panting, you look at your hands, still balled into tight fists around the nasty piece of hardened steel, still afraid to let go, still shaking with the excess of adrenaline rushing through your body.

                                            >Slowly, the reality of what you did catches up with you.

                                            >And you can't suppress the grin spreading on your face.

                                            >You've finally ended her tyranny.

                                            >Many have tried before, tried to take matters into their own hands and resort to the last option their broken minds could come up with.

                                            >And all of them missed their mark.

                                            >But not you.

                                            >You drove the angry piece of metal home, letting the blade sing to its heart's content while burying itself into her soft flesh up to its hilt.

                                            >It was almost too easy.

                                            >Finally daring to loosen your grip, you look up, madly searching for the former Goddess' eyes, not wanting to miss the last glimmer of light leaving them.

                                            >You did it.

                                            >This is your reward.

                                            >Your moment.

                                            >This is the last look into a mad tyrant's soul; and it is yours, and yours alone.

                                            >You startle when her eyes look back at you, a wide, skull-splitting grin on her lips exposing rows upon rows of sharp, blood-pinked teeth.

                                            "No."

                                            >Her wide eyes stare into yours, the purple of her irises sparkling with nightmarish madness.

                                            >"Well done, Anonymous..."

                                            >The words come out sneered, pressed out between ragged breaths, an oppressing, foul stench of decay washing over you with every syllable.

                                            >You try to jerk the blade back out, to pull it free and let the serrated edge continue to do it's work.

                                            >It's no use.

                                            >The murderous steel is stuck fast, unmoving in the cackling Goddess.

                                            >"Tell me..." she laughs, the sound akin to a shrieking buzzsaw.

                                            >"How do you feel after killing me?"

                                            >Her words burn into your mind, bringing with them searing, white-hot pain in the back of your skull.

                                            >"How did it feel to kill a GOD?"

                                            >She laughs again, baring her gore-flecked shark teeth in the threatening display of amusement.

                                            >You scream, letting go of the knife's grip to stumble backwards, pure terror making you unable to even think of doing anything else but staring into her eyes and trying to gain as much distance as you can.

                                            >It's no use.

                                            >You can't get away.

                                            >With the polished metal still sticking out of her chest, the tainted God takes a step towards you, then another, quickly closing the gap you desperately try to gain.

                                            >"How can you hope to defy me?" she snarls, the cackling grin still wide on her face.

                                            >The last thing you see are rows upon rows of otherworldly teeth closing in around your vision.


                                            Prompt: I want to bully Fluttershy.


                                            >You sit in the corner of the cafeteria by yourself like you always do.

                                            >Long ago, you might have wanted to join a group, wistfully looking over to the other tables in an attempt to catch someone’s attention and get invited over.

                                            >Long ago, you probably would have acted surprised at the forwardness, cautiously walking over and taking your seat among the strange faces all the while meekly and stutteringly introducing yourself.

                                            >Your name is Fluttershy, you would have said after a few false starts - prompting a couple of nods and polite smiles - and you’re thankful for invitation.

                                            >They would have liked you, wouldn’t they?

                                            >They would have accidently found you the next day, and the one after that, gleefully asking if you wouldn’t like to share a table again.

                                            >It’s always so cramped during lunch hour, and so hard to find normal people to enjoy your food with, so why not come sit together again, right?

                                            >Soon enough, you’d have become a part of the group, taking your regular seat at your regular table and happily gossiping with your newfound peers.

                                            >They’re not always easy to talk to, but who is nowadays?

                                            >For what it’s worth, they’d always make you feel welcome and give you a chance to eat your lunch in peace while listening to their stories, happily offering to swap desserts or help you with your leftovers.

                                            >A warm sense of familiarity would fall over you, informing you that you finally found a place to feel protected.

                                            >Long ago, you might have had friends.

                                            >Not that it matters anymore.

                                            >You eat alone, your sight kept firmly on your food and your face half hidden between curtains of pink hair.

                                            >You don’t even eat much anymore, the painfully cold knot in your stomach making it impossible to do so most days.

                                            >You don’t look up, hoping that avoiding any and all chances for eye contact will somehow save you from having to interact with people.

                                            >With him.

                                            >"Hey!"

                                            >The hand slamming on the table startles you, the sudden sound and unexpected closeness almost making you drop your untouched sandwich.

                                            >Panic crushes through your mind and body, both from the shock and the hauntingly familiar voice calling you out.

                                            >If you’d have eaten anything at all today, you surely would have thrown up right now.

                                            >Your heart racing in your chest and your entire body shaking, you try to sink deeper into your chair, as if you could escape if you could just ignore him long enough, as if you could somehow flee by just disappearing under the table.

                                            >"Oh Fluttershy…"

                                            >His voice is an oily slick singsong, betraying his smile even before you manage to muster enough strength to look up.

                                            >Your hands let go of your sandwich, the carefully and lovingly assembled lunch your mom made for you falling onto the table in an unsightly heap of wasted sustenance.

                                            >"Fluttershy…"

                                            >The edge of your vision is starting to blur, the familiarly stinging sensation forcing you to blink in an attempt to avoid embarrassing yourself even more.

                                            >"Look at me", he commands, any hint of playfulness snuffed from his voice and replaced with a cold, razor-sharp hostility.

                                            >You can’t suppress the whimper as you slowly peek up.

                                            >His large hands - each of them big enough to grab hold of your entire skull easily - rest on the table, supporting his frame as he is bending over you, looking down with a familiar sneer.

                                            >But behind it, behind the tissue-thin veneer of a smirk, you can see the malice threatening to spill over.

                                            >Like a predator successfully corning its prey, he looms over you, a shark smile on his lips and the knowledge of his absolute and uncontestable power twinkling in his eyes.

                                            >"You know what I want, don’t you Fluttershy?" he asks, still pointedly hushed, pointedly off-key.

                                            >"You haven’t forgotten?"

                                            >You try to shake your head no, but all you manage is to continue staring into his eyes, shaking like a meek animal and biting back tears.

                                            "…"

                                            >The sound that comes out of your mouth is nothing more than a squeak.

                                            >"What was that?"

                                            >You swallow hard, focusing your entire will - at least the part not paralyzed by fear and still obeying you - to form the syllable.

                                            "…no."

                                            >"Good!"

                                            >Another outburst, accompanied by two giant hands slapping the table, the thunderous crack making you flinch and covering your head.

                                            >As you try to ignore the hot sensation streaming down your cheeks, you feel two sets of giant fingers close around your wrists.

                                            >Exerting just the tiniest amount of pressure, he pulls your arms away from your face.

                                            >Even if you weren’t sobbing right now, even if your arms and legs didn’t feel like jelly, you’d have no resistance to offer him.

                                            >He leans down, his face now centimeters away, his sneer replaced by a much colder, much harder expression.

                                            >"Then give me my money."

                                            >He doesn’t have to yell, he doesn’t have to shriek, he doesn’t even have to forcefully intone the syllables.

                                            >He whispers the words.

                                            >And all the threads he could make - all the painful sensations he could inflict on you - are implied within.

                                            >As soon as he lets go of your hands, you hastily fumble for your wallet with shaking hands, your tear-filled vision making it hard to clearly see what you’re doing.

                                            >Finally managing to pull the damned thing free, you pull it open and throw it onto the table, the image of the brightly colored synthetic fiber with the cute, printed-on animals blurring as you continue to cry.

                                            >Like a scavenger picking through the bones of a rotten carcass, he makes quick work of your wallet, pulling out the couple of coins and bills your mom had put in there for you with practiced movements.

                                            >Satisfied, he leans back.

                                            >"Thanks, Flutters" he grins "knew I could count on you."

                                            >Your lower lip is quivering, your mind working hard to stop yourself from loudly bursting into a crying fit and alerting everyone within the cafeteria as to what just happened.

                                            >You’re trying, but it’s quickly becoming a losing battle.

                                            >"See you next week then?"

                                            >He turns to leave, but not before making a large, swiping motion across the table and spilling your cup of iced tea into your lap.

                                            >With the cold, sticky, sugary-sweet liquid running down your legs and slowly seeping into your clothes, you bury your head into your arms, trying to muffle the sounds of your sobbing.


                                            Prompt: Drinking with Applejack


                                            >The mare sitting next to you knocks back another drink, exhaling sharply before waving over the bartender for yet another refill.

                                            >"And ya know what the worst part is?" she continues her rant.

                                            >You take a sip of your own drink, letting the soft flavor bloom on your tongue for a second before nodding for her to continue.

                                            >"Worst part is I don’t even care anymore. About any of it."

                                            >The stallion behind the bar brings back the bottle of amber liquid and pours another glass with tight, practiced motions.

                                            >Which the mare promptly gulps down, gesturing for more.

                                            >He shoots you a sideways glance before indulging her and trotting off again.

                                            >"Sometimes I just want to get my work done and for the whole world to leave me the hell alone. I don’t want to hear about your problems, I don’t want to be the one to have to tell you to stop messing around, and moon, I don’t want to save the fucking world every five minutes."

                                            >Your drinking companion turns to look at you, blinking as if she just now realized you were there to begin with.

                                            >Her eyes are a dark shade of green, glowing mysteriously when they catch the dim twilight of the bar.

                                            >"I mean, can’t a mare just focus on her orchard for a change? Is that so much to ask…"

                                            >You don’t really know the pony, but you understand what she means, you guess.

                                            >You take drinking to be a solitary sport yourself, but that doesn’t mean you can’t listen to a good, alcohol-induced rant if called upon.

                                            >Beats sitting in the dark and daring your liver to a staring contest at least.

                                            >Raising your glass to clink it with hers, you polish off your drink.

                                            >The mare mirrors your actions, her eyes already searching for the bartender to get started on the next round.


                                            >It’s a few drinks later when the pony with the surprisingly high tolerance finally starts showing signs of slowing down.

                                            >Fumbling with her hairband, she lets her mane fall down around her face, the golden streaks framing her cheeks, complementing her eyes in a strange but fitting play of colors.

                                            >The barkeeper has long since left the bottle between the two of you, shaking his head and judging his time to be better spent serving the customers at the other end of the bar instead of refilling the same glasses over and over again.

                                            >"Just because Ah make a livin’ growin’ apples doesn’t mean Ah want mah whole persona to be defined around apples, ya know? Apples this, apples that. 'Oh, AJ, how long ‘til cider season? Oh, AJ, can ya bring me one a ya Granny’s famous apple pies?'"

                                            >Her words are getting heavier, more slurred, the clipped accent from before more unchecked now.

                                            >Seems like her drunkenness is finally catching up with her.

                                            >Holding the bottle between her hooves, she polishes off the rest of its contents in a long, hefty pull.

                                            >With an exhale and a victorious grin, the mare finally slumps down onto the countertop.

                                            >Resting her head on the wood, her eyes find yours again.

                                            >Her hat has been abandoned on an empty stool a while ago.

                                            >"Can’t Ah just be 'Jack' for once?"


                                            Prompt: What if writefagging was an office job?


                                            >You sigh, leaning back in your chair to rest your eyes and massage your temples for a moment, hoping to somehow mitigate the raging, skull-splitting migraine.

                                            >You’ve already crunched down two painkillers and threw in a gulp from your secret under-the-desk flask for good measure, but nothing seems to really do the trick.

                                            >The cold, flickering light of your monitor illuminates your cubicle, touching the stacks of paper and empty take-out boxes with an almost eerie glow.

                                            >You’ve been awake for the past twenty hours, running on coffee, microwave food and the notion of finally getting transferred to someplace better if only you did a good enough job here.

                                            >Yeah, right.

                                            >You chuckle to yourself, standing up to try and get some feeling back into your legs.

                                            >Peeking over the plastic walls of your tomb, you get a view of the rest of the office, the rows and rows of cubicles stretching into the darkness to all sides, as far as your monitor-strained eyes can see.

                                            >The overhead lighting has long since broken, leaving you with a murky, muddy twilight only occasionally broken by the haunting blue shimmer of the workstations of other lost souls silently going about their business.

                                            >It’s been days since you’ve seen another Anon, and it’s been so long since someone actually important came visiting that you don’t even remember who it was.

                                            >What was your name again?

                                            >You could swear it wasn’t “Anon” to begin with.

                                            >It’s at the tip of your tongue, if your tongue didn’t taste of painkillers and stale alcohol right now.


                                            >You remember you weren’t always here with the writefags.

                                            >You started out with the lurkers on the bottom floor, hundreds of Anons assorted onto long, wooden benches, following the daily ins and outs, ever so silently watching without actually doing anything.

                                            >Without having to bear any of the responsibilities.

                                            >It was easier back then.

                                            >You suspect they’re still down there somewhere but you can’t really be sure.

                                            >You went into shitposting next, and the CYOA department afterwards.

                                            >You never did quite have the talent to make it among the drawfags, but that’s probably for the best, seeing as next to none of them are around anymore.

                                            >Looking over the sorry state of the writefag halls again, you remember how full of life, how bustling this place used to be.

                                            >Light is starting to fill the room in your mind’s eye, the ghosts of past Anons hurrying between cubicles, carrying stacks of papers and dictionaries.

                                            >The clacking of keyboards would echo through the halls, the smell of fresh coffee and printer ink heavy in your nose and the warm, fuzzy feeling of accomplishment rushing through your veins.

                                            >To this day, you haven’t experienced greater joy than knowing other Anons appreciated your work or – on occasion, there’s no shame in it – got a good fap out of it.

                                            >More than once you stood before the great poster of horse genitalia anatomy pinned to the wall somewhere, wondering about ancient mysteries and pathways long forgotten.


                                            >Blinking, you find yourself in the dark again, the smile you didn’t know had spread on your lips fading, the golden sheen of the past fading back into the silent, atrophied present.

                                            >Something in your mind snaps, forcing you to walk away from your desk, past abandoned workstations with smutty printouts flaking off their walls and towards where you think you remember the break area is located.

                                            >This time for sure.

                                            >It’s been ages since you actually walked around this place so you can’t quite remember, but you think it’s this way.

                                            >Your footsteps echo through the halls, some far-away shadows at the edge of the darkness creeping over their walls to search for the source of the unfamiliar noise.

                                            >You give them no notice, instead increasing your pace once a chemiluminescent green arrow begins to separate itself from the black, pointing along one of the walls.

                                            >There it is.

                                            >Entering the empty break area, most of the coffee pots and water heaters cracked and broken, you search along the wall.

                                            >There!

                                            >This time for sure!

                                            >A small, rectangular strongbox is bolted to the wall, the caution and warning labels stenciled onto it in red lettering informing you that you have indeed found what you are looking for.

                                            >Turning the key left in the lock, the front of the box flops down with a sickly squeak of rusty metal, giving away its price of cold, processed steel.

                                            >You take the gun out with shaking hands, turning it over and gingerly wiping dust and grime off of it with your fingers.

                                            >The words ’pull trigger to get off ride’ are etched onto the slide.

                                            >This time for sure…

                                            >Before you lose your nerves, you look up and put the muzzle into your mouth, aiming upwards.

                                            >What’s your last thought supposed to be?

                                            >You try to think of your waifu but – try as you might – you can’t really remember her.

                                            >You’ll just think of the one with the red-and-yellow hair.

                                            >Yeah, that’ll do.

                                            >No reason to make this any sadder than it is.

                                            >After a few more seconds of shaking and sweating, you manage to pull the trigger.

                                            >Click.

                                            “WHO THE FUCK USED UP THE AMMO AGAIN?!”


                                            Prompt: Lord Inquisitor Anon is banned from doing X in Equestria


                                            >Be Anon, Lord Inquisitor of the Ordo Hereticus in Equestria.

                                            >You're reading through the list of what appears to be commandments you found pinned to your door this morning with increasing disgust.

                                            >Throne.

                                            >Shaking your head with revulsion, you set the piece of paper afire, letting the purifying flames envelop it.

                                            >The letters quickly vanish along with the rest of the parchment, allowing you to breath just a little easier again.

                                            >Still.

                                            >You shove your Inferno Pistol back into the holster around your waist, its comforting weight settling against your thigh.

                                            >This is bad news.

                                            >You already knew the extent this planet's populace has fallen into the dark clutches of heretical practices, but their outright defiance of your inquisitorial power is unsettling.

                                            >Psykers are running rampant in the city streets, using foul warp-sorcery like it's the most natural thing to do.

                                            >It sickens you.

                                            >You executed three of the mutated specimens known as 'Unicorns' on sight yesterday, only to find there's hundreds and hundreds more of them.

                                            >The leader of this planet's dominant species - a rogue, warp-tainted imposter - is all but a cultist of the Archenemy.

                                            >You may be a Lord Inquisitor but you have to accept your limits.

                                            >Emperor, you cannot win this fight continuing on like you have.

                                            >Beginning the walk back to your transport ship, you spot a tiny specimen next to you, the little creature of pink fur hopping quickly to keep up with your strides.

                                            >It smiles up at you, apparently unfazed by your Inferno Pistol, the Power Sword strapped to your side, or even the inquisitorial rosette angrily glinting on your greatcoat's chest.

                                            >"Hiya, Nonny! Where you going?"

                                            >You wordlessly look skywards, to where your main vessel can be seen, the ship ponderously hovering at high anchor.

                                            >"What are you going to do?" the creature keeps bouncing beside you.

                                            >You answer with a single word, unable to keep the note of satisfaction out of your voice.

                                            >"Oh, what's that mean, 'Exterminatus?'"


                                            Prompt: Camping during flyder season


                                            >You knew it was a bad idea to go on the camping trip after all.

                                            >Your granny warned you not to go during flyder season.

                                            >Your brother warned you.

                                            >Applejack warned you, going so far as to lock away your camping gear in an attempt to keep you from leaving.

                                            >You remember the tears of rage stinging in your eyes when you yelled at her, screaming about what an awful sister she was until your voice was gone.

                                            >She just kept smiling at you, letting you scream yourself hoarse with tears running down her cheeks, leaving wet streaks in her fur.

                                            >It didn't matter, in the end.

                                            >You snuck out early the next morning, meeting up with Scootaloo and Sweety Belle at the crack of dawn to leave for the camping grounds.

                                            >All three of you had been warned of the dangers - knowing full well that the winged pests your sister told you about were no laughing matter - yet you all chose to ignore them.

                                            >All of you felt that the time you would spend together over the next couple of days was well worth the risk, what with your mutual adventures growing less and less frequent since the three of you got your cutie marks.

                                            >You needed the time; to just go back to how things were before, to leave the world behind for just a few days and groom your friendship.

                                            >To remember what it felt like to be Cutie Mark Crusaders.

                                            >The chance of actually running into the ghastly things was small enough, inconsequential enough, that none of you actually thought twice.


                                            >Pain shoots up your spine as the confining layers of web pull in tighter around your body, leaving you less and less room to move and struggle.

                                            >Less and less room to breathe.

                                            >As if trapped in a snake’s deadly embrace, you can feel your restrictions closing in with every breath you take, sapping away your strength with every agonizing second.

                                            >You’re on the ground, covered in sticky, flexible and unbreakable webs from head to toe, the angry buzzing of the swarm itching in your teeth with its high-frequency pitch.

                                            >On the edge of your shrinking field of vision, you can make out the two baggy, sickly wet cocoons you saw Scoots and Sweety disappear in earlier, the struggling from within by now alarmingly absent.

                                            >You feel the sensation of the last of your breath leaving your lungs, the crushing force from the webs preventing you from taking another as your vision finally fades to black.

                                            >The last thing your oxygen-deprived, adrenaline-soaked brain shows you before the world stops existing is the image of your crying sister, listening to you screaming and cursing at her for forbidding you to go camping.

                                            >You hope you can apologize to her someday.


                                            Prompt: Operator Fluttershy


                                            >Special Ponies and Tactics (SPAT) team is deployed.

                                            >Hostage situation, at least six armed hostiles and an otherwise muddy state of information.

                                            >Early intelligence suggests a minimum of three rifles and an unknown number of small-caliber guns.

                                            >An outdated mine set up as a booby trap has been found and disabled near one of the entrances.

                                            >All attempts at negotiating fell flat, no demands have been communicated.

                                            >Three hostages have apparently been killed already, another ten are unaccounted for.

                                            >SPAT is setting up at all the exits, pegasi are deployed for high-altitude countersniping.

                                            >Hostile unicorns are blocking spellcasting in the target area, taking shock-and-awe magical insertion out of the equation.

                                            >No one knows what the best course of action is, everyone is wildly arguing over the comms.

                                            >There's talk of military assistance being on the way, but no one seems to know when to expect them.

                                            >Or when to expect the situation to go south.

                                            >Over the shouted appeals for calm and barked orders for proper radio discipline, an almost inaudible voice can be heard.

                                            >It's meek, however collected, and almost annoyed in its passiveness.

                                            >"Shields up," comes the silent announcement, completely buried under the multitude of speaker-corrupted voices.

                                            >"Flashbang out..."

                                            >A thunderous crack of light and noise kills everything else that is being carried on the channels, drawing a few long seconds of dead air after it.

                                            >The sound of splintering glass follows, dangerously clear in the vacuum of hesitation and confusion, accompanied by a tiny whisper in everyone's ear.

                                            >"Breaching."


                                            Prompt: Burger-King crown for bootleg Chrysalis bot


                                            "Hold still, will you."

                                            >You gingerly place the paper crown on top of the mare’s head, slightly nudging it this way and that until it sits right.

                                            >It’s just a tiny bit too big for her, slipping down to right above her eye level.

                                            >Glowering up at you, her ominously-glinting irises just barely visible below the rim, Chrysalis chirps.

                                            "I know, I know," you hold up your hands in a placating gesture, "you deserve better."

                                            >She chirps again.

                                            "But it’ll do for now, right?"

                                            >You can’t suppress your smile.

                                            >Chirping yet again, the mare keeps staring, angrily leering from under her new headwear.

                                            >God, she’s cute.

                                            "Hear ye, hear ye," you try to affect your best impression of a sophisticated accent, "Queen Chrysalis, First of her Name, Protector of the Realms, Home of the Whopper, Guardian of the Secret Sauce, Paladin of-"

                                            >You’re cut off by more angry buzzing, accompanied by the freshly-coronated mare wildly pointing and flailing with her hooves.

                                            >Her crown keeps slipping down over her eyes, forcing her to readjust and push it back up while maintaining her furious chirping.

                                            "Alright, alright!"

                                            >You hold out your hand, grinning down on the mare

                                            "If you don’t want it, give it back."

                                            >Chrysalis stops dead in her tracks, her venomous glare creeping from below the paper rim.

                                            >With a last, dismissive buzz, she turns around sharply, skittering off with the crown on her head.