Brocoli Soup (AiE)


                                            Was gonna write some changeling shit that was cute, but I kind of got carried away a little bit. Just a little bit. I don't know what happened when I wrote this. Enjoy...?


                                            >Be the tallest horse in Equestria, Princess Celestia, AKA, the bestia

                                            >Anonymous has that sunshine smile with his spunky attitude again, walking with a spring in his step to the kitchen.

                                            >He sings a song without articulating any words - most likely he’d forgotten them - as he accosts the pot of soup on the stove, removes the lid, and out comes a storm of steam, washing over his face.

                                            >With his hand, he waffs up the aroma with a grin stretched far and wide across his muzzleless face.

                                            >“Oh, that smells nice,” he says. “That smells really, really nice.”

                                            >From the dining room doorway, you peek your head in for a gander.

                                            “Is it ready?” you ask.

                                            >“No,” he says, still looking into the pot of soup. “No, not yet. Still needs another ten minutes or so. Did I leave the kitchen timer on the table in there?”

                                            “Do you wish for me to wind it again?”

                                            >“Yep,” says Anonymous.

                                            >He covers the pot once more.

                                            >“Ten more minutes ought to do it.”

                                            >He walks back to the dining room and you both seat yourselves once again.

                                            >He reaches with his massive arms for the pitcher of ice water to fill his glass.

                                            >Meanwhile, sitting opposite to him, the golden glow of your magic illuminates over the wind-up timer, the hoo-man forgot to take into the kitchen with him.

                                            >While levitating it, you turn the dial to the ten minute mark, then set it down.

                                            “Ten minutes,” you say to Anonymous. “It is a good thing we did not have to build you a larger one of those, don’t you think?”

                                            >He takes a drink of water with his eyes closed and nods in a blissful silence.

                                            >He looks so happy, so comfortable, so relaxed at this new home of his...

                                            >And a good thing, too.

                                            >This home’s fruition was an arduous affair.

                                            >Many specifications were to be considered in its construction regarding his stature; the height from floor to ceiling at four meters tall — no different than a typical pony’s apartment — was simple enough, but the height of sinks, of chairs, of shower-heads and cabinets, of tables and bookshelves, had to be carefully thought-out.

                                            >While some of it was easy to figure out, like exporting furniture from Minotaur regions to fit him, other things such as an entire toilet had to be invented just for the silly hoo-man so he needn’t sit too low or to contain his excrement.

                                            >However, in the end, it seemed all this effort was worth it.

                                            >Anonymous is comfortable, and all is easy for him, never constantly having to bend down to reach for a door handle, having a sink large enough to wash his hands in, and so on.

                                            >Unfortunately, many of his visitors are not so satisfied.

                                            >As it turns out, reaching one’s hooves up desperately for the top shelf at your taller friend’s house is a most demeaning experience— and for Anonymous, a most amusing one.


                                            >Nevertheless, it does require that he constantly aid his houseguests— save for you, of course.

                                            >In fact, you believe it is why he appreciates your company.

                                            >Again: you, Princess Celestia, are the tallest pony in Equestria.

                                            >The tallest!

                                            >And so it is reasonable to assume a guest of your stature must be desirable to him, as well as instilling perhaps a sense of familiarity, a same-level friendship, you suppose.

                                            >So, if your company soothes any chance of rigidity Anon may face in transitioning to this world, then visit him often you shall!


                                            >With a content sigh, the hoo-man finishes his sip of water.

                                            >Puts it down on the table.

                                            >“You know, I really appreciate your patience, Princess Celestia,” says he, “I really didn’t think the soup would take this long.”

                                            >You wave your hoof in dismissal at this.

                                            “Oh, please. It’s of no concern, I assure you. In all honesty, I am quite happy with any excuse to be in your company no matter the circumstance.”

                                            >He smiles at that with a light chuckle.

                                            >“Oh yeah? How’s that?”

                                            “Well, it delights me to see how you have grown more comfortable in your new home— both Equestria and this house of yours. My faithful student was very adamant for you to have such a space on behalf of Equestria.”

                                            >Anonymous nods his head and laughs with a small tug at his shirt collar.

                                            >“Yeah, well, you’re also the one who greenlit the whole ‘donate-for-the-human’s-home” thing and got hundreds of thousands of Equestria’s own money to help me. And, well, you know, and you kind of are Equestria, so...mi casa su casa, right?”

                                            >He scratches his chin for a second, then bites his lower lip.

                                            >“Uh...Spanish does exist here, right?”

                                            >You chuckle at his voice, the earnest perplexion which rings in it.

                                            >Though you would never say it to him, you find it ‘cute’ how clueless he is while being so polite.

                                            >You nod with a laugh-creased smile.

                                            “Why, yes. It most certainly does. However, it is derived from the old tongue of long ago once known as—”

                                            >“Well then, mi casa su casa,” Anon says again. “So anytime you wanna visit, or if you just wanna get away from that big ol’ palace of yours, you just come on over, kiddo.”

                                            >Kiddo!

                                            >Tah!

                                            >You’re so old you’ve lost count of the years, the centuries, the millenia, even the eons that have passed you by— and he calls you ‘kiddo’!

                                            >Even as royalty, it is hard to stifle a giggle.

                                            “Oh, please, Anonymous. Might I remind you I’m quite older than I appear?”

                                            >“Sure you’re older, but taller?”

                                            >He crosses his arms to form the letter ‘X’.

                                            >“Errk! No way, Celé! You’re still only at about four-foot ten to my superior and godly six-foot and three-fourths of an inch height, soooo—” he pats you on the top of your head “--you’re just a widdle-biddle babby-boo!”

                                            >You sigh once his hand leaves your head.


                                            “Well, nevertheless, I am just delighted at the affection you hold for your new home. You are liking the area here as well, I hope?”

                                            >“Oh, yeah. It’s a little bit hard to get to town without a car and I’ll miss being able to just go for a drive, but, ah, I’m getting used to walking all the time everywhere.”

                                            “There are carriages that may bus you in Ponyville,” you remind him.

                                            >“Yeah, that I don’t fit in. Even if I did, they’re always kinda full. It’s good though; Twilight knows a guy in town who says he can fix me up with a bike suitable for my build. She said it might take some time, though.”

                                            “And you are sure you’re not too...lonely?” you ask him.

                                            >Again, he tugs his shirt collar.

                                            >“Well, sure, I got no neighbors near being right near the freakin’ Everfree,” he says, “but, uh...yeah, I get some interaction from a few friends every now and then.”

                                            >You tilt your head at him.

                                            “/Just/ a few?”

                                            >“Well, six,” he sighs. “And you know who, too. Them! The girls! But...but I got some others, too, I guess. I...I dunno, I’m working on it. Like, I’m not just some recluse in the woods or something over here, okay? I have a group I hang out with. It just...needs some work done.”

                                            >You sip from your glass of water, eying him carefully.

                                            “Well, if you say so, my little…*ahem* my /special/ hoo-man...but I worry for you nevertheless.”

                                            >You lean in close from your side of the table.

                                            “Anonymous, I promise that if you need company, that you wish me to visit more, then I can surely arrange--”

                                            >“I’m fine. And if I’m not, you’ll be one of the first to know. I promise.”

                                            >He snickers.

                                            >“Kiddo...”


                                            >The next half hour was more of the same, just with dinner.

                                            >It was nothing special by royal standards— but royal standards were royally over-the-top.

                                            >Sometimes, just a warm, simple, creamy bowl of broccoli soup in its simplicity was all comfort you needed.

                                            >If anything else, it is a good change from the royal castle’s extravagant meals.

                                            >Funny how warm food of nearly any kind may soothe the soul.

                                            >You suppose that’s just the magic of nourishment, of warmth.

                                            >As you both supped, jokes were made, stories were told, and a time to be had was had quite well as said time crept away.

                                            >Now, you find yourself stepping out the front door of Anonymous’s cabin.

                                            >He holds it open for you, of course.

                                            >Knows you can reach the door handle, knows he doesn’t need to hold it, but does so for the gesture of kindness more than anything.

                                            >And so, you take several steps into the forested front yard where your flying chariot awaits, your guards reigned and ready to take off.

                                            >“Hey, one thing I want to know before you go,” says Anonymous. “Are these guys always here the whole time or what?”

                                            “Oh, no,” you tell him. “Their timing is just so impeccable. In fact, it is most likely they had landed the second before you opened this door of yours but a few seconds ago, my dear hoo-man.”

                                            >“Oh,” he says. “Damn.”

                                            >You giggle.

                                            “Good night, Anonymous. Dream sweet dreams in a sweet, sweet sleep...”

                                            >“Sure.”

                                            “And do make more friends!”

                                            >“I know, I know!”

                                            >And then,

                                            >You hop aboard your chariot and ride off into Sister’s night...


                                            ***


                                            >You are waving goodbye to the dot flying away in the sky, the chariot upon which Princess Celestia, your dear friend, rides flown by her guards, the reindeer to her Santa sleigh.

                                            >That’s right, smile and wave, Anonymous.

                                            >Just smile and wave.

                                            >If you can handle waking up in a world ruled by magic horsies, then you can sure as hell smile and wave without looking like you’re gonna freak.

                                            >Finally, when the dot in the sky is long gone, you scuttle back into your cabin’s foyer and slam the door shut.

                                            >You waste no time; you turn the key in the handleset and hear it click as it locks.

                                            >Then you re-do the chain lock.

                                            >And the barrel bolt.

                                            >And the deadbolts, padlocks, and the child’s gate.

                                            >No time to super-heat the doorknob outside with the blow-torch.

                                            >Sun is way down by now.

                                            >Stupid soup taking up your time...

                                            >The window’s bars are down already— good.

                                            >Close the blinds, too.

                                            >Turn on the lamps.

                                            >Not too bright; you’ll need the light to see inside your house but you wanna have an easier time seeing out there when you need to.

                                            >Whiskey.

                                            >Where’s your goddamn whiskey?

                                            >Gotta have your whiskey and your gun.

                                            >Gun.

                                            >Gun!

                                            >Where’s the gun?

                                            >Gotta have the gun!

                                            >Living room.

                                            >Couch.

                                            >That’s it.

                                            >Gotta head to the...

                                            >Three rapid knocks at the front door.

                                            >“Open up! As a royal guard of Princess Celestia you WILL open this door right now!”


                                            >What?

                                            >Already?

                                            >Shit!

                                            >The adrenaline is in overdrive.

                                            >You toss the entire couch up, flipping it over so that it falls on its back.

                                            >From where your couch stood lays your gun, pre-loaded, ready for you to pick it up to do God’s dirty work.

                                            >It’s nothing fancy, just an old antique rifle, ancient and cliche-looking but it’s aesthetic as fuck.

                                            >Yeah, you ought to buy a mantle for this thing, though.

                                            >Not a good idea to just hide it under your couch like a fucking asshole or something.

                                            >Then again, you’re still saving up for that new sprinkler system that Daisy, Lily, and Roseluck said would do wonders for your garden.

                                            >You really want to interact with them more since you’re just really excited about having a garden to impress them and your other friends with.

                                            >If the Apples’ reaction to how you helped with their front garden last Friday was any indicator, then maybe you got a knack for having a green thumb or something along those lines.

                                            >Heh, and Big Mac said that thing the other day about—

                                            >Wait.

                                            >Why the fuck are you thinking about this?

                                            >Oh, right.

                                            >Gun.

                                            >Gotta get the gun.

                                            >Gotta get busy.

                                            >You rush back to your foyer, fully-armed, looking through the peephole of your front door to take a gander of your still-knocking and still-yelling “visitor”.

                                            >It’s kind of fucking loud.

                                            >He’s a guard.

                                            >He’s a pegasus.

                                            >Male.

                                            >One of the four you saw reigned to Celestia’s chariot.

                                            >He’s got a white coat, blue fur, and bluer eyes.

                                            >You’ll call him ‘Bluey’.

                                            >Barely able to see just past him knocking at your door through the peephole, you spy Celestia and her three other guards in your yard, their silhouettes shaped by the sheen of silver moonlight.

                                            >They all look horrified.

                                            >Princess Celestia turns her head, darts it around a lot, crying.

                                            >You can hear her bawl even with Bluey’s incessant ‘OPEN UP, SHITIZEN’ schtick.

                                            >The three guards surrounding their princess do so in a triangular formation with her secured tightly in the middle for protection.

                                            >By the way their legs tremble and the weakness in their eyes, their stoic bravery seems diluted with fear.

                                            >“Anonymous,” shouts good ol’ Bluey, “this is Royal Guard number six-one-one-two-one, a member of royal security and an escort of the princess, and as a policing body of Equestria you will open your doors for Her Royal Highness! Doing so otherwise will be in direct violation of the law and will result in you--”

                                            >You open the door and shoot Bluey.

                                            >The top half of his head popcorns open with a spray of black and blue shit and the pink of brains.

                                            >His tongue flais around in his lower jaw as the body drops to the floor, twitching, twitching, shakin’.

                                            >Fucker gave you plenty of time to unlock the door by distracting himself in his role.

                                            >Deserved it, really.

                                            >Problem though: the instant you’ve shot Bluey, Celestia and the three guards snap their heads at your direction, their gaze landing on you with unnatural precision.


                                            >Their faces are blank, no longer distorted with fear nor any other emotion.

                                            >Their faces hold no tales to tell in their wide, vacant, expressionless eyes, hollow of anything.

                                            >Their posture is straight since the second they heard your gun go off.

                                            >They stare at you, not blinking, not moving, stiller than any living thing ought to be.

                                            >Then, as the sounds of cicadas drone in the night around you, Celestia opens her mouth so, so wide.

                                            >Her jaw, it drops farther than anypony’s can, her mouth just gaping open like a snake’s, a mouth far too big for her head.

                                            >Her guards join her in this, doing the same, moving in sync with her like they were her shadows.

                                            >And they all start to scream.

                                            >Their piercing cicada-like buzzing shrieks, so ear-splitting it sounds like it’s everywhere, like those fire alarms from school, but right in your ear and in one, long, visvious screech and jesus christ jesus christ

                                            >They charge for you, come sprinting for you, thirsty to claim you.

                                            >You move fast.

                                            >Dragging Bluey’s twitching body into the foyer, you shut the door seconds before they can slam against it. >You manage to do three of your gazillion locks; they won’t barge in, just ignore their crashing against it and do the other ones at your own pace…

                                            >Finally, the door is entirely secured, and you’re left to contemplate over the trail of blue and black and green ick you’ve painted on your porch and now your floor by dragging ol’ Bluey inside.

                                            >You usually have something out over the carpet in case you have a splatter such as this, but, of course, you were late thanks to the soup not being ready on time this evening.

                                            >Now you’ll have to save for a mantle, that sprinkler system, AND a replacement carpet.

                                            >But you really don’t have time to think about that.

                                            >It’s kind of hard to think with a half-headed horse draining blue and green and black stuff the lower half of what remains of their head and mouth and lower mandible.

                                            >That and those screams and hisses and shouts and screeches from behind the door.

                                            >Need a moment.

                                            >Just a second to.

                                            >Collect.

                                            >Your breath.

                                            >Gotta calm down.

                                            >Gotta…

                                            >Oh, boy, this is gonna leave such a mess...


                                            >You sit on the first step of your staircase in the foyer.

                                            >The gun’s by your side.

                                            >Duh.

                                            >Good news: around thirteen minutes ago, those pesky friends outside your door let up with the banging and screaming.

                                            >Now, they’re just out circling your house instead.

                                            >Just like every night.

                                            >Feh.

                                            >They won’t find a way in.

                                            >They never do.

                                            >They never will.

                                            >You’re starting to worry about Bluey, though.

                                            >For a brief moment, you entertain the thought that you might have made a horrendous mistake with him, that you may have actually just murdered a guard.

                                            >But the stains on your carpet don’t lie; the gory mess which is now the top of his head (or rather the lack of one) is green and blue and black and gross.

                                            >It wasn’t a mistake.

                                            >It couldn’t be one.

                                            >Can’t fake that.

                                            >Finally, Bluey’s dead body shakes increase in their severity.

                                            >No longer do the tips of his legs twitch like the shake of a lamb’s tail, but spasm, thrash, like leaves in a storm, a kid being throttled.

                                            >The convulsions become so spastic, so sporadic, where he flails like a fish on a dock, flopping on the floor, splattering more ick on the carpet.

                                            >Asshole.

                                            >Steam and smoke start to sizzle away at his skin from every appedange of Bluey’s.

                                            >From the tip of his head, the end of his tail, the frogs of his hooves, do these rings of sizzlings around his everything grow into bright green flames.

                                            >Soon enough, the body is a dead mystery, burning in the white heat of an immense green fire.

                                            >And just when the flame is about to touch your ceiling, it flickers away.

                                            >Blows out like a candle.

                                            >Where Bluey once lay is the truth, crumpled on the floor, curled up like a bitch; it is the pathetic black carcass of a young changeling drone with half its head blown off.

                                            >You squat down for a better look.

                                            >Brush your hand across its stomach.

                                            >It’s ribbed.

                                            >Not like those fun kind of condoms, more ribbed ike a maggot, but smoother, skin like latex — soft, warm, supple latex— and a gentler, tenderer, succulent leather; and all of it black.

                                            >Such a dark, lightless black.

                                            >Your hand traces down the stomach, gliding over the skin, farther down, farther between the space between the legs.

                                            >The shame you once felt for this long ago is flat.

                                            >It’s there, but it’s useless, just a reminder, nothing to stop you, nothing that can no longer haunt you with regret.

                                            >Your hand feels warm.

                                            >Warmth between the legs.

                                            >Two bumps, supple, soft, small but jiggly.

                                            >There’s a long, fleshy tube, and now you feel warm too.

                                            >Face gets red.

                                            >Feel all flushed.

                                            >Breaths seem shorter.

                                            >Long ago as a child, you remember hearing on the history channel that a lot of people stranded in the cold would straddle their own genitals, a survival technique since the genitals have so much body heat.

                                            >Now, your hand invading the ripe surface of a changeling carcass’s little cloaca thing, you assume the same may be the case for them.


                                            >You grab the body, sling it over your shoulder, hand feeling that ass up in the air, and walk to your little living room.

                                            >The couch is still flipped over.

                                            >Feh.

                                            >For a moment you wonder if you’ve damaged the floor when you tipped it, but disregard the thought as you walk to the nearest barred window — the nearest, widest-looking, barred window — and pull up the blinds.

                                            >Outside, “Celestia” stops before taking another step whilst circling your house, her hoof not even touching the ground.

                                            >She stands frozen, like a deer.

                                            >But her head snaps to the light from your window.

                                            >Her face is still that same, awful blank.

                                            >Her eyes are rolling.

                                            >Just the whites in them.

                                            >But somehow, you know she’s looking at you.

                                            >You wave at her with your free hand, give her a big goofy grin like you would to the real Celestia, and pat the Changeling you've slung over your shoulder on it’s ass, drape it’s green sea-slung looking ovipositor down your chest.

                                            “Hey, bitch! Want some love?” you yell, laughing. “I’ll show you some fucking love! And I’m gonna show this motherfucker right here how I fucking make it!”

                                            >The fake Celestia shrieks.

                                            >It’s loud.

                                            >Hear it echo through the woods around your house.

                                            >It does not break the glass to your window, nor can it weaken and un-bar them.

                                            >What it does do, however, is attract the other three changelings.

                                            >From all sides of your house, they come running up to her, stand by her side, hissing at you in yon fair window, walking closer like a bunch of hungry jackals.

                                            >Good.

                                            >You really want them to see this.

                                            >You drop your pants to the ground.

                                            >One of their ears twitch at your belt buckle clanking on the floor, and then their eyes widen seeing the tent you’re pitching with your boxers.

                                            >The changelings scream louder.

                                            >Seem to be picking up on things.

                                            >On where this is going.

                                            >And by the time you kick your underoos off, they’re beyond mad.

                                            >Your cock is at full fucking mast.

                                            >Nine inches.

                                            >Too big for the ponies of this world.

                                            >And probably changelings, too.

                                            >You’ll have to catch one alive, sometime.

                                            >When you use your free hand to start jerking off, right in front of them, they’re foaming at the mouth, bawling, crying, screeching, screaming, all with their fangs bared.

                                            >Their screams, usually an uncertain wavering screech, strange like a bobcats, is now more panicked, more angered, and outcrying.

                                            >They all try to ram against the barred window.

                                            >Nothing.

                                            >And oh boy are they pissed now.

                                            >So mad are they that they light up in green fire, their disguises completely eschewed as their focus is gone, screaming, snarling, all trying to intimidate you.

                                            >You just laugh at them.


                                            “Aw, what’s the matter, maggots? This little guy a friend of yours? Aaaaww, I’m sure he misses you, you little fucking freaks! But don’t you all fucking worry. Oh, ho, ho, don’t you fucking worry! ‘Cause I’m gonna make your buddy MY buddy, cause I’m gonna fuck the shit outta him! Then I’m gonna fucking eat his ass and cook him, too! I’m gonna fucking devour him while you all fucking cry about it tomorrow night!”

                                            >You see tears on one of the changelings’ faces, twinkling by the blue light of their eyes.

                                            >Behind them, out in the night-time shadows between the trees, do more blue eyes light up.

                                            >Dozens of them.

                                            >Maybe a hundred.

                                            >Maybe even a little more…

                                            >And they all come out from the treeline, all hissing and pissy and fangs showing while they’re screeching.

                                            >Got an even bigger audience tonight.

                                            >You laugh.

                                            >You just laugh and laugh and start fucking the hole where Bluey’s head was blown off.

                                            >Usually, you push your cock into the esophageal opening, but it becomes surprisingly lose during things like this.

                                            >Not Bluey’s, though.

                                            >Oh, Bluey’s throat-hole is all nice and tight and still has a lot of blood still there.

                                            >And the caucaphonus choir of heartbroken changelings, their distorted voices all chambering their outrage and grief and so much more, only makes you go longer.

                                            >That night…

                                            >When you finished, that night, you showed the changelings their friend’s raped neck-hole.

                                            >You showed them how you squeezed out your cum mixed with their old friend’s blood from Bluey’s raped neck-hole, the two together forming a creamy green liquid.

                                            >And you did with the liquid what you do most nights.

                                            >You saved it.

                                            >For Celestia, of course.

                                            >She always liked the simplicity of your broccoli soup.

                                            >But she’d never know the ingredients.

                                            >It feels good to be a king.

                                            >It feels good to fuck.


                                            END


                                            _______________________________

                                            Explanation:

                                            So I apparently wrote this somehow. I don't think it's very good, but I suppose so long as it leaves a foul taste, my job was kind of done. That being said, this was originally going to be a cutesy "Big Hoo-Man make Big Pone feel SMOL" story, as you probably thought, but I had changelings on the mind for whatever reason, and I was in a pretty venomous mood for the last three afternoons where I've barely had time to do dick, sooooooooooo I guess this is what came out.


                                            I just wish it was better. Feels like two people wrote this.