Anon deliberately flusters Moondancer (RGRE, shitpost) -- part 1


                                            "AAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"

                                            >With that primal scream, you hoist the bar up off your chest, inch by straining inch.

                                            >You can feel the veins in your forehead and neck pulsing, and you're pretty sure your face is purple right now.

                                            >Finally you lock it out and drop it into the rack with a groan of relief.

                                            >You did it. You FINALLY did it!

                                            >You benched 3pl8!

                                            >Three hundred and fifteen FUCKING pounds of steel and iron.

                                            >Your spotter, Bull Dyke, pounds you on the back.

                                            >"Nice job, Anon! You need me for anything else?"

                                            >"I'm good, thanks. Gonna do easy maintenance sets for the rest of my workout, some light cardio, go see my publisher, pick up some library books, get lunch, and then go home and fuck my marefriend stupid. Or pass out with my face in her pussy. Depends on how tired I am after I finish up here."

                                            >From somewhere off to your left, you hear a mutter of "Slut."

                                            >You turn your head slowly in that direction.

                                            >There's a spindly brown fucker DOING CURLS IN THE SQUAT RACK!

                                            >You watch for a second to make sure he's not just horribly botching an attempt at an overhead press.

                                            >Nope. Curls.

                                            "You know, one, you could have the courage to say that to my face, Caramel."

                                            >You get up and start moseying towards him.

                                            "Two, you're grossly inconveniencing everyone -- everypony -- who wants to use the squat rack to actually, y'know, squat. Or do an overhead press. It is one of the greatest offenses you can commit at the gym. You know, in the old country, they had a specific punishment for doing curls in the squat rack. Do you know what it was?

                                            >"N-no."

                                            >You lean in, and whisper into one hairy horsey ear.

                                            "You'd be beaten senseless with a barbell, and then when you woke up, they'd use the barbell to take you to ANAL TOWN."

                                            >Caramel goes stark white. Whiter than you.

                                            >Which is pretty fucking white.

                                            >You raise your voice back to a normal conversational level.

                                            "But we're not in the old country. This is Equestria, land of friendship and sparkly things. So please, stop curling in the squat rack. It's rude. Go and get a spotter if you're worried about dropping the barbell on your hoof. Sir Scribbler will be happy to help -- though he may draw a horrible caricature of you later."

                                            >Instead, Caramel bolts, eyes rolling and ears laid back in an expression of pure tiny horse terror.

                                            "Goddammit, I didn't mean to spook him that hard."

                                            >Feeling rather bad, you go through the rest of your workout, then hit the locker room to change. Normally you'd shower, but you have a diabolical plan to tease your poor marefriend, and you know from past experience that the smell of your sweat gets to her easily.

                                            >You slide on the special socks and underwear that you had commissioned, slap on the temporary tattoo, and start getting dressed in street clothes.

                                            >"Hey, Anon, good job today -- WHOA!"

                                            > You don't think you've ever heard Bull Dyke sound that shocked.

                                            "Yeah, yeah, laugh it up, Bull. I know I look like a slack-jawed faggot, but Sassy Saddles assures me that this outfit will have Moonie gushing like Niagara Falls in no time."

                                            >"Yeah, brah, but please tell me you're not wearing that through the streets! You'll have stallionists and traditionalists both trying to mob you!"

                                            "I was going to wear jeans over it. Like I said, I don't actually like the way it looks, it's just to tease Moonie."

                                            >"Whew."

                                            "Guess I'll have to wear a shirt over this as well?"

                                            >You turn around and show off the temporary tattoo of Moondancer's cutie mark that you pressed onto your pelvis, just below your belly button.

                                            >Bull facehoofs. "Brah. Keep that covered or the stallionists will riot."

                                            "I mean, it's a temporary tattoo. I did the necessary research. I found out about the cultural and legal significance. Hence why it's a TEMPORARY tattoo. I love Moonie, and I want her to know it, but I'm not willing to actually be her property. I'm my own man.

                                            >You blink.

                                            "Speaking of love lives, I almost forgot. I got you Sassy Saddles' address. And her schedule. She's off at 6 tonight and tomorrow. She'll be expecting you to show up and take her on a date.

                                            >Bull Dyke actually blushes. "Thanks, brah! I've been trying to work up the courage to talk to her for weeks now. I'm glad I said something to you.

                                            "No problem, champ."

                                            >You slap Bull Dyke gently on her cutie mark -- a bull's head with crossed female symbols for horns, and a grotesquely long, dangling tongue.

                                            " Just be careful, and don't break the poor girl like you did Misty Fly. I hear they had to swap in Rainbow Trash for Misty at the next Wonderbolts show, and half the crowd got showered in crusty cunt flakes."


                                            ***

                                            >You swing by your publisher's office to look over your editor's revisions of your first draft.

                                            >Initially Cut N. Paste stammers nervously while you talk to her.

                                            >You actually apologize to her and give her a little cologne to rub under her nose -- Cut's a good mare and doesn't deserve to be taunted by your pheromones.

                                            "Just don't use too much of it. It's from my world, and perfumers here charge an arm and a leg to make custom blends."

                                            >"I can't take it if it's from your world!"

                                            "You can and you will. I honestly forgot to take you into consideration when I was plotting my little scheme to tease Moonie, and we do need to actually get some work done. We can't do that if your head's spinning."

                                            >Cut blushes, but puts some cologne on her hoof and scrubs it under her nose.

                                            >She blinks.

                                            >"It smells like old books, whiskey, and vanilla."

                                            "That's how it's supposed to smell. What were you expecting?"

                                            >"I don't know, but not that. It definitely works, though. I can't smell you at all."

                                            "Good. Let's get down to business."


                                            >The editing session goes less well than you had hoped. Cut is able to help with dialogue (your greatest weakness), but she insists that you further tone down some of the darker elements.

                                            "Cut, I already cut out a lot from my original version, because I'm aware that ponies are a lot nicer than humans are as a species. By my world's standards, this novel wasn't all that dark to begin with."

                                            >"Sweet Faust, what is WRONG with your species?!"

                                            "Lots. But if I start on that --"

                                            >"Please don't. I had nightmares after my initial read-through of your first draft. Luna actually showed up in my dreams to help me deal with it."

                                            >You wince.

                                            "Really? Shit, I'm sorry, Cut. I didn't think it was that bad. Look, I can make some of the changes that you want, but Hengist's motives stop making sense without all his trauma. Same goes for Memnon."

                                            >"Speaking of which, can you hurry up and change their names to pony names already? I keep having trouble trying to wrap my head around those names."

                                            "It's the opposite for me. If I swap the names before the final revision, I'm going to have trouble mentally."

                                            >"Ergh."


                                            >The editing session goes on from there.


                                            "You have a couple of references to 'hands' and 'feet' here that should be 'hooves.'"

                                            "Goddammit, I thought I'd caught them all."


                                            >"Can you add more detail to the sodomy, maybe add in Kleon's viewpoint as well? Colt-on-colt action really sells, and you write it so well."

                                            "Uh, not really. I don't have personal experience bottoming. There's a reason we're only seeing it from Memnon's viewpoint."

                                            >Cut N. Paste flushes a brilliant crimson. "NevermindforgetIaskedandItotallywon'tcloptothementalimageofyoutakinganeffeminatehumanmalelater!"

                                            "I speak fluent Flustered Mare, Cut. Also, you're a bad liar."


                                            >"Can you PLEASE tone down the body horror some more?"

                                            "If I tone it down any more, it won't be horrifying."

                                            >"Anon, the lobotomies alone would be bad enough, but the subsequent cocooning will remind anyone from Canterlot of the changeling attack. I know you were here for that."

                                            "Yeah. They're why I'm out of hollow-point .45. Ugly little bastards don't even have the decency to taste good. I was hoping they'd taste like shrimp or lobster."

                                            >Cut turns green.

                                            "Come on, Cut. I had a dozen bodies on Moonie's lawn. Eating them would have been the most efficient option. Unfortunately, they taste like a combination of okra and spoiled meat."

                                            >"Oh, dear Faust --" Cut grabs the trashcan from beside her desk and pukes into it.

                                            "Shit. Sorry. I didn't realize that you were that sensitive."

                                            >You hold Cut's mane back while she continues vomiting.

                                            >"YAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAKKKKKKKK! ACH! ACH! RAAAAAAAALPH!"


                                            >Somewhere in Yakyakistan.

                                            >Be Yakh ibn Yakrulf.

                                            >Your ears have been burning for the last fifteen minutes, and you don't know why.


                                            >Be Anon again.

                                            >Finally, Cut stops puking. You take out a handkerchief, mop the vomit away from her mouth, and dispose of the now-ruined hankie in Cut's now-nearly-full trash can.

                                            "You want to take a break and reconvene tomorrow?"

                                            >"Yes please."

                                            "That's fine. I have a few errands that I need to run. Jewelers, alchemists, Gristle's butcher shop..."

                                            >"YAAAAAAAAAAAK."

                                            "Sorry. I think I have another handkerchief somewhere..."


                                            >Be Gunter Gristle.

                                            >Canterlot's only butcher and fishmonger.

                                            >Also the joint operator of a deep-freeze meat storage facility with a unicorn named Icebox.

                                            >She does the magic, you do the sales.

                                            >You cater mostly to the expat trade and the various diplomatic embassies -- pegasi and some batponies eat fish occasionally, but if you depended on them for your business, you'd starve.

                                            >Currently, you're haggling with your most exotic customer, Anonymous.

                                            >You were hoping to get Icebox to do it, but she took one whiff of him, started flagging, and fled into the freezer.

                                            >Personally, you don't get why mares like his smell so much. Maybe it's a pony thing. He smells like a wet Arimaspioi. You should know, you go to the same gym.

                                            >"Come on, Gunter. The new storage fee is way too high. Seventy-five bits a month is unreasonable."

                                            "Do you want my wife and cubs to starve, Anon? I know you were expecting to work through the carcass more quickly, but it's taking up a quarter of my freezer!"

                                            >"Gunter, you don't have a wife and cubs. You have a minotaur boyfriend that you need to stop fucking in the gym showers. Having to listen to mooing and squawking if I want a late workout gets old.

                                            "Err..."

                                            >Curses, you thought you'd been subtle.

                                            >"Come on, man, I've been eating centaur two or three meals a day for the last three months. There's only so many ways to cook the bastard and even switching between the ape half and the horse half every day, it's getting old."

                                            "How is that my problem?"

                                            >"There are still a couple hundred pounds of meat left. Can you chop the monthly fee down by two-thirds and take it in trade rather than in bits? And maybe exchange some of the other meat for what I have in the freezer. I've been dreaming about steak, bacon, fish -- hell, even chicken."

                                            >"If I'm taking it in trade, I can do fifty bits' worth of meat per month, and one pound of other meat for five pounds of centaur meat.

                                            "That's highway robbery and you know it. Thirty bits' worth per month and a one-to-one ratio."

                                            >You squawk and grab your head in your talons.

                                            "Sweet Boreas above, I thought diamond dogs were greedy! Forty-five bits' worth per month, and a one-to-four ratio!"

                                            >Anon rolls his eyes. "Tell me, Gunter, when you put a bit in your purse, does it scream in horror at the thought of never seeing daylight again? Thirty-five and a one-to-two ratio. I don't have all day. I've got puffy pony pussy to eat out and then fuck."

                                            >Ping!

                                            >The sound of gold on stone draws both your attention and Anon's. There's a bit spinning on the floor between you.

                                            >You both dive for it in unison, then yelp and recoil as you actually touch it.

                                            >It's freezing cold.

                                            >"Will you bastards just strike a deal already?!" Icebox stomps out of the freezer, looking peeved. "Sweet Faust, Anon, if you didn't have that snub nose, I'd think you were part griffin."

                                            >"Nah, I just come from a long line of tight-fisted Southern peasants, who in turn came from a long line of tight-fisted --"

                                            >"I don't care if you're the second coming of Princess Platinum, I don't want to have to hide in the freezer all day. Gunter! Settle on forty and a one-to-three ratio, and get the musk-beast out of here so I can get back to work."

                                            >Anon frowns. "I'd resent being called a musk-beast if that wasn't the exact reaction I was trying to get out of my marefriend. As for the deal, it's...tolerable. Supposedly, that's the mark of a good compromise. You're welcome to take your first payment up front. Preferably out of the brain -- what's left of it, after my 10-gauge slugs went through."

                                            >Ooh, organ meat. You drool a little.

                                            >"That said, can I get a one-pound ribeye, please? I have plans for the afternoon and I need something that I can cook in a hurry."

                                            ***

                                            >Be Twilight Sparkle, unicorn.

                                            >Bad friend.

                                            >Even if Minuette, Lemon Hearts, Twinkleshine, and Lyra have forgiven you, you're having trouble forgiving yourself for neglecting them. Or Moondancer.

                                            >"I think this is the place." Minuette looks kind of nervous. "Didn't use to look like this, though."

                                            >The little house's siding looks kind of run-down, but the roof and the front door look brand new.

                                            >The windows have ornamental wrought-iron bars over them, which is a little more worrying.

                                            >The sign in the front yard is even more worrying.

                                            >It reads, "Attackers will be shot. Survivors will be shot again."

                                            >There's a smaller sign under the first one. "Reporters, solicitors, and other pests (THAT INCLUDES YOU, SPITFIRE), please leave your cards / flyers in the mailbox and I'll consider getting back to you. Unless you're Spitfire."

                                            >An even smaller sign under that one reads, "If you ignore the previous sign, I will shave your chest tuft off, braid it, and add it to the collection."

                                            >Strands of fur, plaited into ropes, dangle from the bottom of that sign.

                                            >You notice two bright orange tufts among the trophies, and wince.

                                            >Spitfire isn't the quickest learner, it seems.

                                            >Nervously, you make your way up to the front door and knock.

                                            >Ow! It's solid wood!

                                            >Your hoof hurts now.

                                            >The door swings open, and a bespectacled nerd regards you.

                                            >"Moondancer?"

                                            >"What do you want? I'm trying to study."

                                            >"It's us! Your old friends!"

                                            >Moondancer's eyes light up, and for a second, you think you've gotten through to her. Then she rears up and waves one hoof.

                                            >A deep masculine voice comes from behind you, along with a heavy wave of male scent that makes your head spin. "Moonie, my love, what's all this?"

                                            >'My love?'

                                            >Moondancer has a coltfriend?

                                            >Moondancer, of all ponies?!

                                            >You don't have a coltfriend...

                                            >You turn around, and promptly make a noise best described as "GLRNK."

                                            >Moondancer's coltfriend is Anonymous, the weird apelien who killed and partially ate Lord Tirek!

                                            >You'd like a word with Shining Armor. He mentioned that Anonymous saved Canterlot...and COMPLETELY failed to mention that Anonymous was dating Moondancer!

                                            >Why does nopony in your family share anything IMPORTANT?!

                                            >"No, seriously, what's all this?"

                                            >You don't see the terrible thunderstick Anonymous supposedly wielded against Lord Tirek, but you still feel like Honesty is the best policy...

                                            "I came to apologize to Moondancer! I ran off to fight Nightmare Moon and I completely skipped her party!"

                                            >Moondancer glares at you. Her purple eyes are as hard and cold as twin amethysts. "It's almost two years late for that, Twilight."

                                            >Your ears flop to the sides of your head.

                                            >"Hold on, now, Moonie. Hear them out. Just not now. I had plans for us for this afternoon. Could you ladies come back later?"

                                            >"They don't need to come back. I don't want them here."

                                            >"Moonie, they're here asking for your forgiveness. That's a rare trait. They're obviously sorry for the shabby way they treated you."

                                            >You make a whining noise.

                                            >"I love you, and I want to be your best friend, but I shouldn't be your only friend. You should at least try to let them beg your forgiveness. But later. In like four or five hours."

                                            >"Why wait that long?"

                                            >"Well, my love..." Anonymous pulls off his shirt, and your mind goes blank. The hairy flesh beneath is fishbelly pale, but it's sturdy and solidly muscular. It's not super-defined in the way that Bulk Biceps is, but it reminds you of your brother or Big Mac. Functional strength without concern for aesthetics.

                                            >Then you notice the tattoo of Moondancer's cutie mark just below his bellybutton.

                                            >Moondancer sees it too, and her eyes bulge. Her cheeks flush a brilliant crimson.

                                            >She starts to say something, but Anon bends down and stops her mouth with a kiss.

                                            >"It's a temporary tattoo, Moonie. I wanted to show you how much I love you, but I'm not your property. That said, I intend to really...drive home how much you mean to me. It's going to take a while. I intend to be very thorough." >Anon undoes his belt and drops his pants.

                                            >HRFDRFSPRKFZL.

                                            >Twilight.scroll has stopped responding.

                                            >Refolding scroll.

                                            >Unfolding scroll.

                                            >Twilight.scroll has resumed parsing.

                                            >Dear Faust in the foothills, Anon's wearing stallion's lingerie with Moondancer's cutie mark on it!

                                            >Thigh-high socks, the same cream shade as Moonie's fur, hug the wiry legs beneath them. A ring of trim circles them at the top. The trim's the same color as Moondancer's mane and tail, down to the purple streak. A ball-bra -- in the same color / cutie-mark combo -- supports a modest bulge.

                                            >"And now for the final touch." Anon kneels down so that he's at eye-level with Moonie, pulls down her sweater, shoves his face into her exposed chest tuft, and inhales deeply.

                                            >Your face is red, but you're pretty sure that Moonie's is about to catch fire.

                                            >Or at least blow a couple of blood vessels.

                                            >The scholarly part of your mind remarks that Anon's species apparently does not follow the ape standard of having small dicks, because the cock suddenly tenting his ball-bra would make most stallions jealous.

                                            >It's not as huge as your brother's or Big Mac's, but it's still well above-average.

                                            >"You don't know what you do to me, Moonie. You've taught my poor lonely heart how to love again." Anon huffs Moondancer's chest tuft again, shoving his face into it further, and you see his muscular arms clench around her back.

                                            >"You've made me --" Anon pulls his face out of Moondancer's chest tuft, takes her chin in one hand, and kisses her. "-- your hopeless --" Kiss. "-- love-slave." Kiss.  "I can't get --" Kiss. "--enough --" Kiss. "--of you." Kiss. "But while I am actually -- " Kiss. "-- shameless enough --" Kiss. "-- to fuck you --" Kiss. "-- in front of your former friends --" Kiss.  "-- I think that might embarrass you."

                                            >Moondancer makes a small squeaking noise and covers her eyes with her forehooves.

                                            >"I'll take that as a 'yes, being publicly ravaged would embarrass me.'" Anon grabs Moonie, slings her over his shoulder, and stands up, using one hand to hold Moonie in place while he carries her.

                                            >That's rather impressive. Moondancer isn't exactly fat, but she's on the chubby side.

                                            >"Y'all come back later. MUCH later."

                                            >Anon uses his free hand to close the door behind him.

                                            >You, Minuette, Twinkleshine, Lemon Hearts, and Lyra all look nervously at each other.

                                            "So, I guess things haven't been absolutely terrible for her..."