Butter Cookies and Cream, by Rupture Through Space And Time


                                            [Copied from https://pastebin.com/MsnnmBG0]


                                            >"Gidd'yup, Master!"

                                            >The charming daily mantra spoken by a sweet, soft voice is undescribable.

                                            >And the smell of lavender roses dancing all around your nose...

                                            >The bubblegum-pink-maned sweetheart that's taking care of you ever since last night is the closest thing to perfection.

                                            >Fluttershy.

                                            "Uhh... excuse me, Master? You need to wake up... if you want to, I'm not pushing you, really... but you need to go to school, and..."

                                            >As she rambled on about your scholarship duty, you continue your own golden nap.

                                            >Thy sleep is far above from sacred for thou.

                                            >"Master?"

                                            >But after all...

                                            >"MASTER!?!?"

                                            >Your wonderland is one dream away...


                                            >You suddenly feel something slippery rushing through your forehead alongside an avalanche of hard breathings and sobs.

                                            >You broke her down to tears.

                                            >Now you ruined it.

                                            >All you could hear is "P-Please...Something..."

                                            >The rest is inaudible.

                                            >You really didn't want to harm anyone, did you?

                                            >With that said, extending an arm out of the blankets, you wrap the yellow damsel in mistress.

                                            >You reach one of her ears and whisper...

                                            "Sorry, it's all right darling... easy, easy..."

                                            >While slowly running your hand through her mane, she slowly ceases crying.

                                            >That was one hell of a wake-up, was it?

                                            >A minute after, her sorrow tears comes to a full end.

                                            >In that exact moment, you finally open your eyes, and talk to her softly...

                                            "I'll wake up, sweetheart. Go and make me breakfast in the meantime, please."

                                            >She nervously nods and leaves.

                                            >And was also dressed in that small french maid outfit you said you loved at the store yesterday.

                                            >It really fits in every curve and line of hers.

                                            >You really want to fuc...huh?

                                            >You check the time.

                                            >It's tuesday.

                                            >Not even close to weekend.

                                            >Why it has to be so painful?


                                            >Rushing one floor below, you search for the kitchen.

                                            >Blame your house for being way too big for you.

                                            >Until Fluttershy calls in...

                                            >"Breakfast served, Master!"

                                            >And that's your compass to this known but yet unknown sea.

                                            >After a bit of rush in through some places, you finally manage to find the yellow maid you were looking for.

                                            >She was carrying a plate filled with chocolate-chip cookies over her barrel, and without even one falling out of it.

                                            >God praise that small bastard...

                                            >Or should he? A cookie from the plate abruptly falls, but you're quick enough to catch it mid-air.

                                            >While you put it back in its place, you attempt to adjust some chairs for her to accomodate herself.

                                            >Yeah, he should...no, he MUST.

                                            >Silently you grab one of those precious treats while Fluttershy's not looking.

                                            >Slow and steady, not to look suspicious-

                                            >SHE'S TURNING AROUND!

                                            >And all of a nervous sudden, hiding your arm underneath the table, she begins to count the cookies with an incredibly suggestive look.

                                            >I-It's not like you took the whole thing, we were going to eat them anyways...

                                            >"Masteeeer~"

                                            "Yeah?"

                                            >Inching closer to you, she whispers to your ear...

                                            >"I see you took one..."


                                            -------


                                            >Night.

                                            >The darkest of them all.

                                            >So dark cold and dull colors lurk from the shadows.

                                            >Light? There is no such thing on a time like this.

                                            >It was about time to get on your couch to watch at live TV who was the winner of A Day With Melody.

                                            >Long story short, you're a fan of classic music.

                                            >...More of a modern classic, like mixing hats and snares with pianos and violins.

                                            >The only pers...pony in the world to ever pull off that sort of thing and still keep enough of both is her.

                                            >Octavia Melody.

                                            >The thing is, you signed for this yesterday...what? You were bored and Fluttershy was out for groceries, what could you do?

                                            >*And the winner is...*

                                            >Eagerness, desire and hope fills your soul, neverending joy wanting to be released, should the winner be you.

                                            >Octavia takes a paper out of a bag with her muzzle, shuffling it to give bigger chances for anybody.

                                            >She presents it to the host, who takes it away from her and shows the paper to the camera, available for the world to see the name of...

                                            >..."Anon. E. Moose"...

                                            >...

                                            >...This is the calm before a storm...

                                            >...

                                            >YES! YES! YOU DID IT! YOU FREAKING WON!

                                            >Unmeasurable amounts of joy, pride and good moods kick the darkness of the room away.

                                            >Screaming in pleasurable agony, you call out for Fluttershy, but to your surprise, nobody came.

                                            >BUT IT DOESN'T MATTER!

                                            >WHAT MATTERS NOW IS THAT YOU WON. PERIOD.

                                            >*Well, 'cough' Anon, you'll find Octavia by tomorrow morning at your home, Congratulations and see you in the next weekend everybody!*

                                            Turning the television off, you lay across the couch with a psychopath-like ear-to-ear smile.

                                            >Sweet dreams, flutter...butter...


                                            >The chirping warning beep of your alarm bursts through your ears...wait.

                                            >You don't have morning alarms.

                                            >Fluttershy wakes you up every morning.

                                            >Could it be...?

                                            "Right up! One sec!"

                                            >Adjusting some of the most obvious flaws from after sleep, you reach for the door and pull it open to present you...

                                            >...That's right. Octavia freaking Melody.

                                            >Light purple eyes wrapped in a grey coat, black hair tipping at the top of her head, a small purple treble clef stamped on her flank.

                                            >Carrying a cello on her barrel, she gives you a warm smile and speaks with a soft, french accent...

                                            >"Hello, monsieur Master."

                                            >...

                                            >Where are the positive outcomes when you need them the most?

                                            >You stare at her in disgust, wincing and running your fingers through your head, stressed out.

                                            >Where did the contract say that Octavia has to actually BE yours now.

                                            >Oh, might as well ask.

                                            "..."

                                            >This is literally your deepest dream. Why question the how or why of the state? Enjoy it!

                                            >You give her a darkened grin and let her in.


                                            >"I want to hear one of your songs, please."

                                            >"Which one?"

                                            "Any."

                                            >Make me choose, sir."

                                            >Her light red tint on her cheeks and cute sad look plus an innocent hoof on her chin is enough for you to work that out.

                                            "Do Charming Midnight."

                                            >"Yes, Master."

                                            >Everytime Octavia calls you 'Master' or 'Sir' sends chills through your prejudiced spine.

                                            >Like she CHOSE to be a slave.

                                            >She AGREED to this.

                                            >...

                                            >...Fluttershy didn't.

                                            >She'd cry, she'd whine, she'd moan and tremble her way through her work and punishment, either she wanted or not.

                                            >Octavia looks fearless, and disguises that with cute and sad looks.

                                            >If you were to punish her, she'd never bat an eyelid.

                                            >That's the feeling you get when you look at her, and how she speaks. You can see through her.

                                            >"Can you give me the head start, sir?"

                                            "Now."

                                            >And without a vocal response, and with her cello standing next to the wall, she jumps her forelegs off the floor and tries to keep balance with her hindlegs.

                                            >And takes in the attempt of walking.

                                            >Or so you thought. She abruptly sets her weight on the wall, leaving her forelegs there, on the floor.

                                            >And begins to move like that towards the cello.

                                            >In the meantime, she swishes her tail once or twice, leaving her bits and pieces absolutely exposed some of the times.

                                            >To be honest, you'd take her from the back raw.