[FLUTTERRAPE] Rough Around The Edges


                                            An Anon said:

                                            >"Don't think I've read a Flutterrape with Tavi. Can you write green, Anon?"

                                            I wrote some shorts based on that prompt back in 2021, but left it on a cliff-hanger and stuck it in one of the FR volumes to gather dust.

                                            I actually wanted to finish it off for a while afterwards, but was unable to due to my crippling lack of creative spirit and willingness to commit to a task. Anyway, it's done now, and I've given it its own paste.


                                            ---


                                            [Chapter 1]


                                            >"...This isn't to say Brimbrindle's work is derivative per-se, just that the essence of it stems too closely from the same source - that being the death of their mutual teacher - and ultimately, given that Tinsel's Rhapsody emerged three years prior to great acclaim, it's led many to suggest that Brimbrindle was, intentionally or otherwise, influenced to an extent by his classmate's arguably far more evocative and emotional piece."

                                            >You sip your wine in concert with Octavia Melody, sat across from you as she is in her own rich red leather armchair identical to yours by the fireplace, finishing with a pensive nod.

                                            "I see, I see. It's all elementary really, isn't it."

                                            >"Oh, I agree completely, quite elementary."

                                            >You bob your head in deference.

                                            >You have absolutely no idea what she's talking about.

                                            >Your eyes lift from the immaculate slate mare before you to address the room and the other attendees.

                                            >Nobles, bureaucrats, and every flavour of snob in-between is here. Then there's you.

                                            >Dressed in Rarity's finest impression of a human-shaped tuxedo doing your best to act as though you have the slightest inclination as to what anyone here is saying.

                                            >That you've survived for over four hours so far is either a testament to your nascent skill at subterfuge, or the people in here are too far up their own arses to notice that you haven't offered anything in the way of substantial conversation as they continue to drone on about whatever special role they happen to inhabit.

                                            >The two most looked-at objects thus far have been the grandfather clock and the door.

                                            >Though this last hour has been spent solely in the company of a mare that seems to have latched onto you.

                                            >You're not sure why she's still talking to you, or where the contents of the white wine bottle between you both has gone in that time.

                                            >Not long now, Anon. Hang in there.

                                            >Octavia touches your arm and you jump.

                                            >"Are you quite well? You seem preoccupied."

                                            >You look away from the door and regard her warmly.

                                            "Just a thought, my dear, nothing of consequence. Do go on? You were talking about the, ah, music."

                                            >"Ah yes, well I rather think I've spoken enough for now. Do tell me about yourself? Where do you hail from, Equestria, or beyond?"

                                            >What?

                                            >Some stuffy, upper-crust prat, asking about your life? This is both new and woefully unprepared for.

                                            >You shift in your seat, adjusting your tie with a sweaty palm. You hope it's not trembling too obviously.

                                            "Well, as you can probably tell I'm hardly a pony."

                                            >"I have noticed that, yes," her expression is drinking you in, her blinks are infrequent and gaze fixated on you. Her smile broadens whenever your own glance catches hers.

                                            "I wasn't born in Equestria though, I happen to have travelled here from another dimension by way of a strange magic that Princess Celestia and I are in correspondence over."

                                            >'Travelled' means 'dragged', and she 'corresponds' to you each month to say she hasn't found anything yet, but that she's still looking.

                                            >It's more a formality at this point; you're not going home.

                                            >"I see. And were you... important, where you came from?" she ventures.

                                            >Aha, the one question you -have- prepared for.

                                            "I was the sanitation and wellness director for a renowned restaurant."

                                            >You were a janitor at Hooters.

                                            >Her eyes widen and she nods appreciatively.

                                            >"Quite the position. And have you been able to transfer your skills to the employment sector here?"

                                            "Alas, cultural and educational differences between our peoples have rendered my specific skillset inapplicable to this environment."

                                            >You're a NEET, and Celestia sends you pocket money every week. She's too good to you, that horse.

                                            >"That is unfortunate indeed."

                                            >Your next glance at the clock makes your heart thrill.

                                            >Five hours has passed.

                                            >According to Rarity, that's exactly how long you need to stay at one of these god-forsaken parties before it's polite to leave and not spurn the host.

                                            >You all but leap to your feet, making a show of checking your broken watch, there purely to complete the ensemble.

                                            "Ah, but that is the time already, it seems."

                                            >You cast a smile at Octavia, the first genuine one all night.

                                            "I am afraid I must take my leave, my dear. It has been a delight speaking with you, and wish you the very best of luck in your--"

                                            >Wait, what did she do again? Mosaics? Or was that the dude with the obvious toupee from earlier?

                                            >You glance at her flanks.

                                            >No, her cheek has a treble-clef on it; music, then.

                                            >Octavia catches you checking her out and tilts her side to you slightly, giving you a better view.

                                            "In your music."

                                            >She gives you a coy smile and stands with you.

                                            >"I shall escort you outside then, I am growing weary at this hour and will be retiring shortly too."

                                            >Ugh, of course.

                                            "Ah, of course. Very well, let us abscond."

                                            >The pair of you track down the host and thank him - something that ends up taking ten minutes because apparently the richer you get the more difficult it is to just say "Cheers for the invite but I need to go chuck up your caviar in my toilet at home, peace out" and be done with it.

                                            >Passing through the doors was like passing through the Pearly Gates.

                                            >You suck in a deep breath, the frigid air the most savoury thing you've sampled all night. Only now does it strike you how much of the air indoors was tobacco smoke, hot breath, and people huffing their own farts.

                                            >Octavia shivers beside you and then, surprisingly, opens her jaws as wide as possible to yawn, not bothering to cover her mouth.

                                            >She blinks blearily and sees you looking, immediately snapping her mouth shut and fake-coughing into her hoof.

                                            >"Ah, uh, th-that was quite rude of me, my apologies."

                                            "No no, it's quite alright, my dear. Where is your carriage?"

                                            >There'll be some underpaid shmuck somewhere out here waiting for his mistress to return to him so he can drag her home.

                                            >"I, ah, I prefer to walk, actually. Unless you have a carriage we can use? If-- if that's not too presumptuous, I hope?"

                                            >You look at her askance.

                                            >She tugs at her collar and grins, pristine teeth catching in the moonlight.

                                            >The two of you are alone on the edge of the mansion's courtyard, near the gardens and the carriage parking grounds.

                                            >You both hold one-another's look. As you do, you pick out imperfections in her posture and appearance that you hadn't seen before.

                                            >Her bow-tie is done in the the wrong sort of knot, her hair pin is scratched and worn, and her perfume out here in the cold has that familiar down-market hint.

                                            >She's looking at you with the same intensity, though tinged with visible worry.

                                            >For the second time that evening you smile genuinely, your shoulders relaxing.

                                            "You're a fraud as well, aren't you."

                                            >Octavia's head snaps over her shoulder, panicked, but there's definitely no one around to see you. Or at least no one that matters.

                                            >When her eyes find you again she deflates, her aristocratic temperament vanishing.

                                            >"Oh thank Celly for that. Thought I'd gone and fucked myself there," she says in a broader accent that skips her latter-T's.

                                            >You puff out your cheeks and are grounded in reality for the first time in five hours.

                                            "Christ, I thought I'd misread you."

                                            >"Not me, I knew I had you pinned for a clown from the start. Takes a muggins to know one, innit?"

                                            >You jerk a thumb at the main gates to the courtyard.

                                            "C'mon, Miss High Society, I'll walk you home."

                                            >"Hey, escort home from a bonny lad like you? That's alright, that is, go on then. Hey! You didn't say who you were anyway, you were going on about some sanitation shite."

                                            "Well first off the 'restaurant' I worked at was this working-class joint where the waitresses had their tits on full display."

                                            >"Fuck off! Really? Ey, that sounds like a proper gas. You ever cop a feel?"


                                            *


                                            >Octavia fumbles with her house keys, swearing under her breath as she unlocks the door and stumbles inside.

                                            "Steady on, mare."

                                            >"Too much fucking wine, I think. Get the lights, duck?"

                                            >You flick a switch on the wall and a spark of magic ignites the arcolamps. The lamps alone set this neighbourhood's income bracket several spots above yours.

                                            >Octavia staggers away from you, roughly pulling off her collar and tossing it without a care onto a nearby seat.

                                            >She shakes her head, the previously sculpted mane falling about her head in a fuzzy wreck.

                                            >"Yeah, just sit anywhere, I'll get us drinks," she calls over her shoulder as she wanders into what you assume is the kitchen in her open-plan studio apartment.

                                            "More? Lady I'm one glass away from hurling; the caviar was bad enough."

                                            >"You didn't eat it? You know it's not s'posed to be eaten, yeah?" she yells from out of sight.

                                            "Regardless, I did and I regret it," you fall into a seat and sink into its plush cushions.

                                            >The world settles from spinning a bit and the vertigo you'd been experiencing the entire walk home lessens.

                                            >Octavia returns with two beer bottles.

                                            >It's Rummy Stout, the cheap stuff you can get at any corner shop. You accept it with grunted thanks.

                                            "How'd you convince them you were upper class, anyway?"

                                            >"I play the cello, obviously. Stupid gets think anyone who plays it is suddenly Moo-zart so I just go along with it. Gets me into nice gigs." She swigs back the bottle, necking half of it like it was water. "What about you? I was talking for like an hour and you didn't say a fucking thing, how'd you manage that?"

                                            "Just good at talking out my arse, I think."

                                            >"So you're not actually gabbing at Celly?"

                                            "Nah, I am."

                                            >"Well lah dee dah, look at you. I only met her once, at the Gala I think. She's alright. Weird vibe from her though. Probably a freak in the linens."

                                            >You snort over your beer and some of it goes down the wrong hole. You bang your chest and cough with Octavia laughing at your expense.

                                            "What, and you're not? Lower class bird like you would probably do anything for a pack of gummy worms."

                                            >"Oy, oy! Cheeky bastard." She smirks. "My prices are a bit higher than that."

                                            >You both laugh, but you stop with a yelp when she dumps herself into your lap.

                                            "Woah, what's this now?"

                                            >"You joking? Come on, I've been trying to get you between my legs all night, why'd you think I weren't leaving you alone? Get your kit off and lets have a go."

                                            "Wh-- Octavia I'm not--"

                                            >"Tavi, please and thank you. And come on, it'll be right. We're just mucking about on the settee, not getting married or nowt. Don't stain the fabric though or I'll punch you in the bollocks."

                                            >She makes short work of your belt and your pants are cast aside in drunken disarray.

                                            >There you lie bottomless on her sofa, and Octavia gets to work.

                                            >Her head plants itself between your thighs and your eyes bulge as a hot, sloppy mess takes your entire package at once, balls and all.

                                            >She slobbers on everything, the suction accompanied by the worrisome grazing of flat teeth all over you.

                                            >She makes an attempt to piston her head back and forth, but it feels less sensual and more like roughly pulling off a wet sock then putting it back on.

                                            >Despite the oral sword of Damocles, and the alcohol in your system, your body miraculously responds and your shaft swells.

                                            >Tavi releases you with a gasp and flashes a toothy grin at you.

                                            >"That enough foreplay? Never was a fan, me. Too much like wasting time, you know? Come on, ram it in and stretch me out, I've been dry for months so it's high time a bloke fucked me into the cushions. Remember about the stains though, swear on my mum I'll break your knob."

                                            >Drunken fumbling and mumbling swears fill the next minute as the two of you get into position.

                                            >There she sits with hind legs spread across you, front hooves on your shoulders, your eyes level.

                                            >Somewhere within you, a small voice argues that this is a bad idea.

                                            >"Cozy, innit? Never shagged an alien before. Now get on with it--"

                                            >You shunt to the hilt inside her. She brays like a donkey. The afterparty begins.


                                            *


                                            >You wake up dead.

                                            >Something is punching the inside of your skull; sharp, specific pains wrack your arms, legs, shoulders, pectorals.

                                            >You're on the floor of someone else's house, completely naked and covered in what your disoriented fingers feel to be bite marks.

                                            >For a minute you lie in bewildered, painful silence, your mind coming to grips with who it is, where it is, and even briefly why it is.

                                            >Everywhere is either lightly or heavily glazed, the sofa the latter, and which for reasons that escape you has been pushed all the way over onto its back with the dust-coated underside facing you.

                                            >There's a pathetic groan that takes a few seconds to register as yours, and you roll onto your front, pushing yourself up with trembling arms.

                                            >A brief stagger to your feet and you turn about, searching either for your clothes or answers, whichever you find first.

                                            >A flushing toilet and a mighty yawn snaps your attention to a doorway.

                                            >Octavia - the name leaps to mind and you don't interrogate it - collar absent, drags her hooves out of a bathroom.

                                            >Her mane is chaos, most of it fuzzed and bunched up over one side of her head in a mockery of its previous neatness.

                                            >She gives you a dopey grin and slouches to the fridge, yanking it open and throwing a carton of orange juice onto the counter with indifference.

                                            >"Morning, love. That were alright, weren't it? Proper sore, me. Feel like someone beat the shit out of me with a crowbar. Or a massive cock. Wouldn't be the first time for either."

                                            >Her eyes wander to the sofa and she snorts.

                                            >"Yeah, we couldn't save it. It's alright, think I punched you in the head as payback after you made me cum all over it four times. Vinyl's gonna go sick on us though."

                                            >Only some of the words she said made concrete sense.

                                            "V... Vinyl?" you manage.

                                            >Almost on cue, another mare trots out of a bedroom and stops dead in the doorway. Her mouth drops open, cerise eyes bulging. She doesn't say a word.

                                            >Octavia nods at her then at you.

                                            >"Good morning, Miss Scratch. Sleep well? That there's my new coltfriend. How the bleeding hell you didn't hear us last night is beyond me, you sleep with your headphones on again?"

                                            >Vinyl nods dumbly and takes in the carnage that is the front room.

                                            >She glances up and stares at the ceiling fan.

                                            >You do the same, and see your shirt dangling from the lazily turning blades.

                                            >You also see the same glaze that coats nearly every surface dotted along the ceiling.

                                            >"Yeah, sorry about that," Octavia grunts. "I'm a squirter."

                                            >Vinyl shoots her roommate a dirty look. Octavia shrugs.

                                            >"What? I'll clean it, fuck me, don't get your knickers in a twist."

                                            >She looks to you with a smile, sipping her orange juice.

                                            >"So! I had fun, think you did too, yeah? Wanna go for a coffee or something, or do you wanna tongue-fuck my arse on the kitchen counter again?"

                                            >Vinyl slaps a hoof against her face with what sounds like a well-practised groan.

                                            >You collapse in a bewildered pain-ridden wreck.


                                            [Chapter 2]


                                            >Rarity is upset, though that's nothing new.

                                            >She hurries about, her expression shifting between panic and agitation.

                                            >"Utterly ruined it; this arm is hanging off! It was machine-stitched-- these things don't just -come apart- you know, they have to be -pulled-!"

                                            "Well, it was definitely handled roughly..."

                                            >"By what? You? Or will you be sticking with your other excuse?"

                                            "What's so unbelievable about me being mugged?"

                                            >"At a soiree for nobles? At an estate outside Canterlot? With all that private security they'll have hired? Oh yes, vagabonds abounds in those sorts of areas." She scoffs, only to whimper when she sees the torn remnants of your tuxedo jacket again.

                                            >"I spent so long on i-hi-hiiit!" she storms over and punches you in the shin. Hard. Again. You wince but accept it. She did do all this for free, and you didn't do a good job of looking after it.

                                            >Well, you did until you got back to Octavia's place, after then you're not sure it was ever meant to survive what happened amidst that maelstrom of tongues, grunting, and volcanic bodily juices.

                                            >Put simply, the ensemble had both looked and smelled better.

                                            >Rarity potters to and fro, grumbling. You have to stay on the pedestal or she'll stab you with another knitting needle.

                                            >Her first answer to most of the things you do seems to be to either punch or stab you in the legs.

                                            >Figuratively and literally, she does have a point.

                                            >Her generosity has kept you afloat since you've arrived. You owe her nearly everything, and the thought of disappointing her creates a knot in your stomach.

                                            "They liked it, at least."

                                            >She frowns up at you, but with a slim crack in her façade.

                                            >"Did they?"

                                            "Sure. I got several ponies asking me who made the set and I told them it was Rarity of Canterlot."

                                            >"Of Canterlot?"

                                            "I thought you wouldn't want to be advertised as being in 'Ponyville' since that sounds kind of common, so I directed them to the Canterlot store."

                                            >Her face performs a bizarre contortion, her anger at your mistreatment of her clothes warring with her approval of your marketing sense.

                                            >The latter wins, and the mare trots on the spot with a giggle, pausing to paw at your bruised leg - gently this time.

                                            >"Ooh, if we can attract a larger clientèle from that side of Canterlot I'll be booked for the next year! You -have- to attend the Sparkling Spring Fling now, and the Nocturne!"

                                            "The what-now?"

                                            >"Ruby Sparkle - she owns the Equestrian Airboat Company - she'll be hosting her own bash in a few weeks. I bet if you put your name down she'll have you."

                                            "I don't get why they're so keen on having me around, I don't say anything--"

                                            >"Not about what you -say-, darling, it's about what you -are-. The only human in Equestria, especially one in contact with the Princess, is a novelty."

                                            "A marketable novelty. I'm a glorified mascot for your shop."

                                            >"Well..." she mouths a few words, frowns, then cocks her head. "I suppose, if you want to be a cynical grump about it. But look at it this way, you're rubbing shoulders with some of the most influential ponies in Equestrian society. Maybe one of them would have need for your, ah, talents?"

                                            >You raise an eyebrow at her and she gives a weak shrug.

                                            >"Alright, maybe not, but you're learning new things, aren't you? One of these days you'll get a job."

                                            "Not if I spend all my time at parties."

                                            >"Oh hush, that's hyperbole and you know it. Besides, there are plenty of ponies to keep an eye out for who might be good for conversation."

                                            "Yeah? Like who?"

                                            >She hums. "There's Ruby, obviously. Then there's Prince Blueblood, who used to be the literal worst and frankly still is, but he's mellowed out somewhat these days. There's... Fancy Pants," she takes a moment to mask her smile, "h-he's, ah, he's wonderful. Then there's Posh Tiara, no relation to Diamond, and Octavia Melody would be nice for a chat too."

                                            >You purse your lips.

                                            "Oc... tavia?"

                                            >"You've never heard of her? Oh, Anonymous, she is the -picture- of upper-class sophistication. She's poised, elegant, has a natural, regal accent that I would die to have. She's the sort of mare that was brought up properly, you see? She's polite, endlessly charming. Yes, I've only spoken to her perhaps four or five times over the years, but she's a pony worth knowing. I think you might hit it off."

                                            >You swallow. Rarity looks at you expectantly.

                                            >"Something the matter?"

                                            "I might have met her at the last party."

                                            >"Oh! Well you'll know all about her, then."

                                            >Rarity drifts away to a nearby mirror.

                                            >"I do wish I could match her grace," a melodramatic sigh and she strokes her glossy mane in the reflection. "She's like Fluttershy, in a way. She just -has it-. That natural beauty and manner that lesser mares like myself have to work as hard as possible to maintain."

                                            >You nod along. Should you correct her? Better not. That's venturing too close to eventually admitting that the outfit she spent a week slaving over was ruined by you in a debauched delirium.

                                            >The knot in your stomach tells you all you need to know about that idea.

                                            "She's uh, she's really something. More than meets the eye."

                                            >"Certainly. She'll likely be at the Spring Fling as well, so perhaps you could get to know her again?"

                                            >You laugh, hoping that it doesn't sound too nervous.

                                            "Yeah, sounds good."


                                            *


                                            >The elderly stallion before you has been talking about trains for thirty minutes.

                                            >You know it's been thirty, since there's an ornate mantle piece clock behind him that you've been keeping track of as he wheezes out each laboured word.

                                            >"The thing about carriages, you see, is that they have to have -round- wheels on them to move properly. We tried square wheels at one point. Thought it would be more marketable to the youth since they kept calling each other 'squares' back then, but that didn't work. So then we tried pentagons and that was an improvement..."

                                            >The clock, you're convinced, is also a liar. It hasn't been thirty minutes, it's been thirty years.

                                            >He drones on, and you watch the clock until you realise he hasn't spoken in a while.

                                            >To your surprise, he's fallen asleep standing up, his monocle having popped out and landed in his glass of scotch.

                                            >You look about, unsure what to do.

                                            >At one side of the smoking room you're in, a set of open French doors call to you, its flanking royal blue drapes beckoning fingers saying 'come hither'.

                                            >Mercifully, Ruby's party provides access to the outdoors and away from the windbags. You stroll outside and suck in lungfuls of smokeless, clean air. With nothing better to do, you lean on the balustrade overlooking the gardens and listen to the murmur of scattered partygoers.

                                            >Only a few hours to go, and then you can leave.

                                            >There's the fear that you might be getting used to these sorts of parties. Leaving them as soon as possible may be the only thing that's stopping you from turning into a geriatric moaning about trains or some other high-society nonsense.

                                            >You close your eyes and bask in the cool breeze, letting your mind slip away from pentagon wheels if only for a while...

                                            >"Oh thank Celly, thought I was gonna have to suffer through this one on my own as well."

                                            >Something pinches your buttock.

                                            >Your eyes bulge open.

                                            >Octavia grins up at you, and at your attention she shuffles closer, pressing her thigh against your leg.

                                            >"Evening, love. Y'alright? Not had sight nor sound of you since the other month. Didn't scare you off, did I?"

                                            "I've been, uh, busy."

                                            >"Ah, it's right, me too. Been booked full this last fortnight, had to go up to Fancy Pants' place the other day and all. Proper posh he is, couldn't understand a word of what he were saying half the time but he paid a fair bob for me to be there."

                                            "Y-yeah?" The shock of seeing her again after last time is taking a while to fade. "What did you... do?"

                                            >"Played my cello obviously, what do you think? You doing alright, duck? You look well peaky."

                                            "Listen, Octavia--"

                                            >"Tavi! Fuck's sake, you've not forgotten that already, have you? Here's me thinking we had something going," her words might be harsh, but her delighted smile betrays how happy she is to see you.

                                            "Tavi. What do you think we are?" You gesture between the pair of you for emphasis.

                                            >She watches you for a second, then shrugs, "Dunno what you mean. We're going out, innit?"

                                            "Going...?"

                                            >"Dating, then. Coltfriend and fillyfriend. Come on, Anon, I don't just let anyone stick it in my arse the first night I get them home."

                                            >Your cheeks warm, despite the breeze.

                                            "Right, but we were both a bit blitzed, weren't we?"

                                            >"So?"

                                            "So... it can be played off like a mistake, right?"

                                            >"Mistake? What kind of bird do you think I am? Do you think I can't hold my liquor? I'd drink you under the table, mate, no messing."

                                            "I'm not saying you couldn't, but maybe in our inebriated state we acted in a way we otherwise wouldn't have done?"

                                            >"Inebriate... are you daft? You're not going posh on me are you? Been spending too long talking about trains, you have," her grin returns. "He weren't half going on were he? Glad he's asleep or I'd never have had you to myself."

                                            >Deep breath, Anon. All at once, like a band-aid ripping off. You fix her with your sternest look.

                                            "Octavia, hooking up with you was a mistake on my part. We're not dating, a-and I'm sorry for leading you on, alright?"

                                            >Octavia watches you, waiting for the punchline. None comes.

                                            >The grin slips away and a scowl takes its place.

                                            >She steps back and the chill wind sweeps between you, emphasising the sudden cold at the spot she was pressed against.

                                            >You can live with that reaction. After this she'll want to leave you alone. Better to do this than--

                                            >Her grimace twists into dawning understanding.

                                            >"Ooh, I get it. No, no I get it now." She titters. "Proper tease, aren't you?"

                                            "What?"

                                            >"So we're -not- shagging each other, got it," she winks, her voice reverting to its false aristocratic tone. "My good stallion, I do apologise for this most unsavoury misinterpretation of events. Would you care to accompany me inside? There we can at least weather the storm of this evening together?"

                                            >You study her closely. There's something at play here, but you don't know her well enough to know what.

                                            >Better be on your guard.

                                            "Sure, we can do that. Lead on."

                                            >She saunters past you and through the doors. Her tail flags at you as she does so.


                                            *


                                            >"...The entire airship had to be redone, it was really quite awful..."

                                            >Ruby Sparkle - your esteemed host and no relation to Twilight Sparkle, much to Ruby's annoyance - has been talking for a long time.

                                            >You aren't sure how long, so you politely nudge your hip-height companion when you're sure Ruby isn't looking.

                                            >Octavia, who is better positioned than you are, tilts her head away. It tilts back and she leans closer.

                                            >"Twenty minutes," she mutters from the side of her mouth.

                                            >There are only a couple of hours left, so you need to stay strong.

                                            >Incredible, really, that the greatest test of willpower is to be found in a place of such ostentatious hedonism.

                                            >You'd assume that it would be easy to attend a house party held by rich people, but you could never have imagined that the rich would be so one-dimensional.

                                            >You've found a trick, though. Something to help keep the conversation going without people cottoning on to you being a fraud.

                                            >"...But of course it's neither here nor there. So, Anonymous, what do you make of all this? You strike me as a business-savvy stallion, how would you manage rising material costs? I'll be offloading much of it to the customer, but should I sack some of my more expendable staff too to be safe? Just so I'm not wasting so much on labour?

                                            >You make a show of thinking, even stroking your chin for effect. Octavia suppresses a smirk.

                                            "One should carefully consider all possibilities, but ultimately I feel this might be best interpreted as a matter better handled by the solicitors."

                                            >Ruby nods with an eager, somewhat relieved, smile.

                                            >"Oh quite right, I agree completely. It really is more of a legal matter. Thank you, Anonymous, you're wise beyond your years!"

                                            >As it turns out, every single rich person will leap at the first opportunity to get lawyers involved, no matter what the issue actually is.

                                            >At a previous party you told a guy to get the lawyers involved when a friend of his cheated at croquet.

                                            >You don't even know what croquet is. A form of knitting, you think.

                                            >"And Miss Melody, how are you finding this party? Does it match that little get-together at the Pants estate? I heard you were attending. I'll bet our drinks selection is better than his?"

                                            >"Oh yes, it was quite lovely, quite lovely indeed, but as for the selection..." Octavia's voice is, much like her name suggests, melodious. It has a pristine chime to it, like ringing a clear glass. Each word is annunciated perfectly, each syllable delivered meticulously. Hers is the voice of the aristocracy. Little wonder she blends in so well.

                                            >The two of them go back and forth for a while, with you nodding and sipping from your glass where appropriate, keeping as always an eye on the time.

                                            >At one point Ruby asks you whether or not she should stock the wine you're drinking again at the next party.

                                            >You tell her to get the lawyers involved.

                                            >She agrees.

                                            >The hostess departs to mingle with her other guests, leaving yourself and Octavia stood to one side of the atrium nursing your warm drinks.

                                            >"Fucking hell I thought she'd never shut up," Octavia whispers.

                                            >You cringe and check to make sure no one heard her.

                                            >Seems like you're safe squirrelled away in this corner, so you murmur back.

                                            "Do you know anything about airships?"

                                            >"You joking? Couldn't tell you what spigot looked like if you showed it me."

                                            >You glance at the time again and snort through your nose.

                                            "I swear the clocks are slower in here."

                                            >"Probably are just so the old farts can spend more time huffing each other."

                                            "Is that Château du Methane I smell?"

                                            >"With hints of lavender and, dare I say yakshit?"

                                            >You share a muted laugh and smile at each other. You glance away, but she keeps staring.

                                            >"See? This is nice, innit?"

                                            "As friends, yeah."

                                            >"Oh yeah, 'friends'," she gives you an exaggerated wink.

                                            "I'm serious."

                                            >Her mirth fades, but she gives a half shrug.

                                            >"Well I wouldn't mind a bit more, you know?"

                                            "Like I said, I'm sorry, but I'm not looking for anyone at the moment."

                                            >"Well I am. You're alright, you are. I think you're well fit." She raises her glass and sips, then speaks low with a cheeky grin. "Nice cock as well."

                                            "Thanks, you too-- shit." You wince and she covers her snicker with a hoof.

                                            >"So, how about you and me swipe that decanter of whatever over there, neck the whole thing, then head back to my place and have a go under the sheets? I haven't felt myself up ever since our last meet and I'm gasping for a good fuck."

                                            >Her bedroom eyes are locked onto you, and you're finding it hard to look away.

                                            >You tug at your collar and glance down one of the side corridors. It's quiet. No ponies around. An escape?

                                            >A drunken stallion suddenly stumbles out one of the doors lining the corridor to the faint rush of a flushing toilet. You nod. Bingo.

                                            "Need to use the bathroom, back in a bit," you push past Octavia and march in a straight line for the closing door.

                                            >She scowls but masters it quickly, putting her pleasant, upper-class mask back on in time for an interchangeable socialite to collar her and leap into a one-sided discussion about gardening or some other useless bourgeois pursuit.


                                            *


                                            >It's only been fifteen minutes but you already know this is the best idea you've ever had.

                                            >The tight restroom nestled in the quiet corridor is expectedly lavish.

                                            >The toilet paper must be twenty-ply, or something close anyway. It's like wiping with velvet.

                                            >Best of all, no one has bothered you yet, so you've been able to sit in here twiddling your thumbs and not needing to worry about talking to anyone.

                                            >A knock interrupts your silent celebration, and a deep voice outside speaks.

                                            >"I say old sport, is there anyone in there?"

                                            >You flinch, but think quick on your feet. Well, you're sat down, so it's more thinking quick on your bottom.

                                            "Beg your pardon, chap," you call back, "this one is occupied, I'm afraid. Ey wot?"

                                            >"Ah, quite so. Very well, I shall try another stall," you can practically hear his moustache and top hat.

                                            >...

                                            >Is that it? Is that all you need to do to keep people from bothering you?

                                            >Anonymous, you genius, you've figured it out.

                                            >Just sit easy and wait for the clock out in the hall to chime nine. You don't even need to buckle your pants up. Not like anyone can see you.

                                            >Another knock. You're ready.

                                            >"Excuse me, is this one occupied?" comes a thick ethnic accent of no decipherable origin.

                                            "Yes, I'm afraid so," you call as clearly as possible.

                                            >Sucker.

                                            >There is no response, except a thin scratching.

                                            >Your ears perk up, and the handle rattles slightly.

                                            "Uh, occupied!"

                                            >"I know, hun," says a broader, far more familiar voice.

                                            >The lock snaps back, the door opens, and Octavia tumbles in.

                                            "The fu--"

                                            >"Shh!" She barges the door shut and scrambles to lock it again before pressing her back to it, waiting for something.

                                            >You both stare at each other, the sound of the party outside rumbling through the walls.

                                            >Octavia allows herself to grin after a time. It's her biggest grin all evening. A Cheshire Cat grin.

                                            >"Knew you were still skiving off in here, you jammy bastard."

                                            "How the hell did you get past the lock?"

                                            >"What? I'm a working girl, think I've never cracked a lock before?"

                                            >She hops up onto your lap.

                                            >You become aware of how cramped the toilet stall is - narrower than long - despite how luxuriously decorated it may be.

                                            >Octavia's body is squashed against yours, her hot breath carries the ethanol scent of too many drinks. Too many for normal ponies, that is. She's demonstrated a considerable constitution.

                                            >"Got bored waiting for you to come back. Thought I'd drop by and..." she wriggles her hips, letting her hind legs drape over each side of your own in a way reminiscent of your first 'meeting'. "Keep you company. The decanter was just more apple scotch, by the way. It was alright, prefer a cheeky rum, to be honest."

                                            "Octavia."

                                            >"Ta~avi~i. Come on, I call you Anon, don't I? We were great that first time."

                                            >She punches you in the shoulder, a firm scowl set on her face once more. She wears it like a glove.

                                            >"Don't be a nobhead, I really like you. Vinyl likes you too. Well, alright, no she doesn't, and she blames you for what happened to the settee, but I know it wasn't you. It was my jizz, not yours. Mostly."

                                            "What part of 'no' don't you understand?"

                                            >"The 'no' bit, you mong. Now are you gonna get your pants off or do I have to make a another mess of one of these nice suits?"

                                            >Her intent strikes you like a thunderbolt and your cheeks flush.

                                            "...Sorry?" you say meekly.

                                            >Octavia's malicious grin returns.

                                            >"Never split a girl in a toilet stall before? Gonna be popping that cherry tonight then, don't you worry."

                                            "Tavi, we're not doing this--"

                                            >"Ooh, so -now- it's Tavi? You're just egging me on. Go on, say it again. I like hearing you say my name, gets me well hot."

                                            "I'm serious."

                                            >"And I'm not?" she gives an indignant snort. "Get hard and get stuffing before I get bitey. You know how hard I can bite."

                                            >You gulp. You still bear faint marks all over your body, especially around your nipples.

                                            >"Just this one time, and we'll be quick, I promise."

                                            "No you won't."

                                            >"You what?"

                                            "Last time we did this we didn't stop until I was unconscious."

                                            >Octavia stares at you for a second, then snickers.

                                            >"You think I stopped after you went unconscious?"

                                            "You -didn't?!-"

                                            >"You having a laugh? Course not. When I want to get shagged I do it properly. If I can still walk once I'm done I've not done it proper, have I?"

                                            >She leans in closer.

                                            >"Speaking of, last time we did this I remember walking into the kitchen just fine the next morning. Looks like you and me have some extra work to catch up on."

                                            "At a fucking party? With all these people outside?!"

                                            >"Ooh, listen to that language, I'm really getting you going aren't I?"

                                            "Tavi, if we get caught we're finished!"

                                            >"I know, kinda hot innit? We'd best be quiet then."

                                            "You... you're not even -remotely- quiet."

                                            >"I am simply a passionate lover." She snickers. "You'd better find a way to keep me from screaming. Maybe there's something you can stuff my mouth with?"

                                            >Against your every wish, you feel yourself tightening against your pants.

                                            >Octavia grinds herself against the developing hardness with a vicious smile.

                                            >"Oy oy, looks like he's getting into it. Took his bloody time. You like that? You like the idea of us going to other parties and fucking in the bathrooms? Maybe we could spice it up. Maybe you could fuck me in Fancy Pants' bed. Ooh, can you imagine what he'd say if he walked in on you drilling my arsehole? Imagine what they'd say about us both. It'd be a proper scandal, wouldn't it? We'd never be allowed back at these parties again. Just think about all those upper-class bellends waddling around in their fancy clothes and talking their fancy shite, all of them oblivious to you slamming me into the wall."

                                            >As she speaks, her moistness seeps through your pants. She's soaking by the time she's done, the tiny bathroom heady with her scent.

                                            >"Fucking hell, Anon, I'm -really- horny now. Seriously. Pants off and stuff it in me, I wanna see if you can give me a baby-bump just from jizzing a dozen wads in me."

                                            >Her hooves wrench down your already unbuckled pants.

                                            >She is about as far from gentle as you can get, and though mercifully you do find a way to keep her quiet, you're not proud of what you had to do.


                                            *


                                            >"I say, the two of you have a healthy glow about you. Too much wine?"

                                            >The group of stallions and mares have a hearty chuckle at your expense.

                                            >You smile and laugh it off with them, though most of your energy is going towards preventing your knees from trembling.

                                            >Octavia stands to your side. A few hairs are out of place on her previously immaculate mane, but otherwise the clean-up operation following your tryst seems to have been a success.

                                            >The group ramble on about tax avoidance schemes and other things you couldn't care less about.

                                            >Octavia spends most of it politely nodding along as well. No matter where you move or how fast you walk around the mansion, she ensures some part of her is always touching you.

                                            >Mostly it's her barrel against your leg, like a dog that refuses to be parted from its master.

                                            >Given how hard she was panting a little while ago, and how much drool she was getting all over you, that's not a bad comparison.

                                            >Half-way through a mare talking about steam power or some other drivel, the clock chimes nine o'clock.

                                            >Almost on instinct you pivot and walk straight for the door, casting farewells and goodbyes to anyone in earshot.

                                            >Octavia remains glued to your side throughout, through the mansion, past the atrium with a nod to Ruby, down the carved stonework steps and on towards the main gate.

                                            >"Thanks for the date, love," she says eventually.

                                            "Wasn't a date."

                                            >"Ehh, it basically was."

                                            >You turn to her at the end of the mansion driveway, your teeth gritted.

                                            "You're a maniac! We could have been caught!"

                                            >"Were we?"

                                            "No! But that doesn't give you the right to--"

                                            >"Then I'll see you next week at the Nightlantern Nocturne."

                                            >You gape at her, lost for words.

                                            >"It's a big do celebrating... something. Not sure. But Fleur De Lis is going and will want to see me so..."

                                            >She babbles on.

                                            >Rarity mentioned the Nocturne.

                                            >It was one of the highlights of the year, and she'll want you front and centre showcasing her designs.

                                            >You could always decline.

                                            >Say you're sick, that you can't go.

                                            >But that would be letting Rarity down, and your knotted stomach denies you.

                                            >You could tell her about Octavia, but who would believe you? Her mask is as flawless as they come, and Rarity would only think you're making excuses as to why her clothes keep getting wrecked.

                                            >Your thoughts spiral further into misery, so you tune back in to your unwelcome companion as a distraction.

                                            >"...And I'm gonna be honest, I wanna deep-throat you in the hedge maze. You up for it?"

                                            >She beams up at you, eyes flitting over your features awaiting the response she probably knows she's going to get.

                                            >There's no way out.

                                            "I have to go," you say, your voice hollow, "I don't have a choice."

                                            >"Aww, don't go being a sap on me. Appreciate it though," she giggles. "So it's a date then. I'll see you later, love. Can I ask you a favour though?"

                                            "Wh-what?"

                                            >"Make sure you eat plenty of pineapple before the party. I like sweets, not savouries."

                                            >She winks and saunters off into the night, laughing.

                                            >To think you once thought Hooters was a bad gig.


                                            [Chapter 3]


                                            >"Gems!" Rarity declares, then falters and shakes her head. "No, no no no, definitely not, too garish, won't suit you."

                                            >She gallops about the boutique yanking open drawers and tossing old drafts around.

                                            >"And I know you're not going to want to go out dressed in ribbons and bows again after the Gala the other year... what about silks? Oh, I don't know what to do!"

                                            >You glance at the clock. Lamentably, you've already been sat here for an hour.

                                            >A sip of your tea doesn't help - it's gone lukewarm and is thus undrinkable.

                                            >"Anonymous," Rarity stops before you, odd strands of her mane are beginning to lose their nerve and break rank. "I don't mean to alarm you, but I have no idea what to dress you in tomorrow evening."

                                            "Guess I'll have to skip the Nocturne, then."

                                            >She slaps you.

                                            >It's a completely involuntary action, like when a doctor hits your knee with a hammer and you kick your leg. You can tell because she blinks afterwards and looks at her own hoof like it isn't hers.

                                            >"Wh-- Well first of all I apologise for whatever that was, but you can't not go! You've put your name down!"

                                            "So? People drop out of parties at the last minute all the time."

                                            >"Out of -parties-, yes. This isn't a party, it's a -soiree-, you can't leave it's... well you don't do it!"

                                            "I worry that you might be over-thinking this. It's just a... thing. There's always another one I can go to."

                                            >"Not this, the Nocturne is too important. Please, work with me here, I -need- this, Anonymous, I can't let it slip by. What sort of things can you see yourself wearing? Yakistan Boho? East Manehatten Urban? Southern Suave? Las Pegasus Vibe?"

                                            >Your vacant expression when confronted with anything to do with fashion tells her all she needs to know.

                                            >She reels away, running about and dancing on the verge of hyperventilating.

                                            >"I thought I might be able to come up with something in time, but I got so carried away with my own ensemble that I completely forgot to do yours!"

                                            You cock your head. "Your own ensemble?"

                                            >Rarity turns back to you with a weak smile.

                                            >"I wanted to surprise you, but..." her horn flares and her closet opens.

                                            >From within, a flowing evening gown emerges, floating to you like a chic ghost.

                                            >"Ta-daah? I'll be attending the Nocturne with you, to keep you company and such. You've clearly been doing something right because I got a personal invitation from Cumulus Front himself requesting my attendance! I thought you'd... appreciate me coming too, since you're always so bored at these sorts of things." She trots closer and spreads the dress out before you. "Do you like it? Moonstones and blue topaz dot the hems, see? And this broach fixed to the neckline is set with tanzanite. Very rare."

                                            >The dress is a captured ocean wave compelled to form, a shimmering liquid of half a dozen hues that matches Rarity's azure eyes. You don't know the first thing about tailoring or fashion, but for a moment you can't speak, stunned by the artistry of the piece.

                                            "It's breathtaking," you murmur.

                                            >"Oh, you're too kind," Rarity paws your arm. "You are... alright, aren't you? With me coming?"

                                            >You smile warmly.

                                            "I am. It'll be nice to spend time with someone I actually like for once."

                                            >She nods and skips away to put the dress back in its hole.

                                            >"Thought you might be. Plus I'll be able to keep an eye on you so you don't go ruining another suit," she jabs your arm affectionately. "Though that doesn't really help us with our current problem. You have nothing to wear," her grimace returns.

                                            "I could wear what I'm wearing now?"

                                            >Your purse your lips and try not to smirk.

                                            >Rarity takes one disgusted look at your ripped jeans and t-shirt, and the knitting needles on the table beside her vibrate with malevolent intent.

                                            >You scramble from the room laughing before she can retaliate.


                                            *


                                            >"And is--"

                                            "Your mane is perfect, Rarity, please stop fussing over it."

                                            >"I'm not -fussing-, I'm only-- alright, I am fussing, but can you blame me? Look at this place!"

                                            >The Nightlantern Nocturne is an annual bash held at the estate of one Cumulus Front, a member of the pegasus aristocracy. As with all pegasus estates, his garden is Romanesque - all carved marble pillars and archways regardless of their appropriateness.

                                            >Cloud architecture fills in the gaps, murky white smears bridging the waxen marble to the hedgerows and flowerbeds. The contrast between greenery and cream fluff is jarring, like they've been superimposed on an otherwise perfectly serviceable painting of an ornate garden.

                                            >Tacky, in your uneducated opinion.

                                            >Rarity appears smitten, but perhaps more by the event and those present than the setting.

                                            >It's dusk, the sun is setting in the valley and the oriental paper lamps marking the occasion have already been lit, adding another layer of discord to the whole setting.

                                            >French gardens with Roman highlights and Japanese lighting. And you thought Rainbow Dash was tactless.

                                            >With Rarity at your side you ascend the garden steps from the carriage courtyard, your hired driver tips his hat to you both and trots off with his partner to find a place to park and play cards for the next five hours.

                                            >Before you can make a comment on the garish statue of a pegasus filly pissing into a fountain at the centre of the anachronistic mess, a stallion in military dress practically drops on top of you.

                                            >He beams at Rarity and Rarity alone, taking her hoof and kissing it much to her delight.

                                            >"Rarity! Ever so glad you could make it, I just knew you'd leap at a chance to visit my garden."

                                            >"And, ah, attend the Nocturne of course, Cumulus," she giggles.

                                            >"Yes yes, that too, I suppose. Now, I'm going to have to abduct you for a spell, I must introduce you to a fellow from the Baltimare Art Institute..."

                                            >Stammering and casting you worried looks, Rarity is 'guided' away from you. The cold shoulder from the host tells you that you shouldn't follow lest you make a fool of yourself and Rarity, so you hang back and give her a sympathetic wave as she disappears behind a hedge with him.

                                            >Poor mare. Still, she wanted to come. Talking to stuffy art-types is a cruel fate, but you've had worse.

                                            >You set off in search of the refreshments.

                                            >With any luck they'll have some of that apple scotch you had at Ruby's place. Boring the aristocrat class may be, they have a taste for the good stuff.


                                            *


                                            >You stare at the statue and sip your drink.

                                            >Regrettably, it's only a spirit of some kind with a bit of lime floating in it, but it'll do.

                                            >You didn't read the bottle, but you did find a large glass to hold it all.

                                            >You'll need every drop of it to ease the shock of what you're looking it.

                                            >Before you landed in Equestria, you were once unfortunate enough to see a post on Instagram.

                                            >Some dumb Polaroid with a cheap filter and a caption like "New age fun with a vintage feel".

                                            >It made you sick. That same nausea is resurfacing now in the face of this abomination.

                                            >It's like someone took a mare, imprisoned her in stone, then snorted a line of coke and went at the poor lady with a chainsaw and an industrial-sized can of silly string.

                                            >Once they were done they melted seven hundred candles into a bucket and hurled the wax and wicks at the statue.

                                            >Then they looked upon what they had wrought, projectile vomited on it, sealed the vomit under a layer of clear-wrap plastic, and finally set fire to the whole thing before committing themselves to an insane asylum.

                                            >The plaque below the atrocity reads "Celestia by the Watering Hole".

                                            >You pray for the sake of your beloved Princess that she never sees what has been done here. Some things deserve to be lost to history and remembered by none.

                                            >"That is the ugliest fucking thing I've ever laid eyes on, and I once walked in on Vinyl impaling herself on a dildo the size of your forearm."

                                            "Yep."

                                            >You sip your drink.

                                            >Your brain is still figuring out what else to say to the newcomer though, so you keep drinking until it's all gone and you've swallowed the piece of lime.

                                            >It slides uneasily down your oesophagus.

                                            >Better man up and face the music.

                                            >You do so, and the music - Octavia Melody in this case - beams at you.

                                            >"Hi, hun. Fancy seeing you here all alone."

                                            "Oh god," you intone.

                                            >"I'll take that as a compliment, you prick. So! Saw you swaggering over with some cow. Think I recognise her?"

                                            "Rarity. Fashion designer and a very, very good friend of mine, so I'd appreciate you not calling her a cow."

                                            >"Ooh, friends, are you?" Octavia looks at you askance. "I get it."

                                            "Do you?"

                                            >"Think so. You brought her to make me jealous, didn't you?"

                                            "Whatever gave you that idea?"

                                            >"Just because you weren't happy with me at the last do," once again, her ear-to-ear grin betrays her intent. "You're trying to get back at me for making a stallion of you in that toilet. It's fine, I get it. Not everyone can handle me, though you do a way better job than most, let me tell you."

                                            "Rarity was invited here by Cumulus Front. She'd have come whether I did or not."

                                            >Octavia cocks her head.

                                            >"Cumulus did?"

                                            "Yeah. Why, that a problem?"

                                            >She frowns and chews the inside of her lip for a spell.

                                            >"It'll be right. Wouldn't do it at a gig like this. Now, you and me have something to be getting on with, know what I mean?"

                                            >You stare down at the slate mare, lost for words. Her audacity is matched only by her beauty, as deceptive as the latter might be.

                                            "We're at a garden party," you say bluntly.

                                            >"Well done, glad to see you've not gone daft."

                                            "There are ponies everywhere, and I can't see any toilets we can sneak into."

                                            >"Ooh, fan of the toilet setting, are you? Alright, lover-boy, I'll keep that one in mind. Maybe for your birthday," she winks at your glowering. "You're proper easy to wind up, you are."

                                            "Great, perfect, so you're not serious about fucking in a garden maze."

                                            >"First of all this ain't really a maze, just a load of naff hedges arranged around a load of equally naff pegasi so-called 'artworks'."

                                            >She licks her lips and bounces her eyebrows at you.

                                            >"Second, I never said anything about fucking. If you remember I said I wanted to deep-throat you. You been eating that pineapple like I asked?"

                                            "Okay, gonna swing back to the fountain now. Safety in numbers and all that."

                                            >"What? Oh come on, don't be a nobhead--"

                                            >She scrambles after you, only scowling the way she is because there's not currently anyone else around you.

                                            >"I've been waiting all week for this!"

                                            "Don't you have someone else to be talking to? Fleur, was it?"

                                            >"Oh, yeah, her. Yeah, she and me aren't talking right now."

                                            "Why, she discover you're a lecherous drunk and a fraud?"

                                            >"Pot and kettle, mate, don't get so high and mighty with me. Besides, Fleur's just as bad as me. Worse, even, just has a fancier accent. Don't know where she's from but when she starts talking fancy she loses me."

                                            >You stop just before the corner that would take you into the central plaza of the gardens with the fountain.

                                            "Fleur is worse than you."

                                            >"Yeah? Haven't you met her before?"

                                            "No, but she's a model. She's Fancy Pants' girl, isn't she?"

                                            >"So? Doesn't mean she's not got a mouth on her. She's a proper bitch too, but that'll only last until she apologises. Well mad at her, me," she grumbles.

                                            >You squint down at the miffed mare.

                                            "So is every high-class beauty in Canterlot secretly a foul-mouthed sex-crazed lunatic?"

                                            >Octavia takes a step back.

                                            >"Fuck off, I might be a bit harder than the toffs that prance about in their Sunday best every fucking day of the week, but I'm perfectly sane, thank you."

                                            "Could have fooled me."

                                            >"What's your problem? I'm just trying to have a laugh with a mate. I've been going to these things a hell of a lot longer than you have. You've only been here, what, a year? I've been coming to these since I was a teenager. It don't get any less boring, so I'm sorry for trying to show you a good time."

                                            "You raped me in a toilet."

                                            >She stares at you.

                                            >Then punches you in the leg hard enough for you to yelp.

                                            >You go down on one knee hissing. Octavia is at eye-level with you and curls her hoof under the scruff of your neck, dragging your nose to hers.

                                            >"I recall you doing plenty of humping of your own, you fucking freak. Don't go throwing that word at me or I'll drag you behind that wall and kick your teeth down your fucking throat."

                                            "Octavia--"

                                            >She shoves you away and takes another step back. Beneath the Japanese lantern's glow her eyes glisten. She's trembling. Hurt.

                                            >"I've been nothing but nice to you," her voice wavers, "so just fuck off, Anon, go on."

                                            >She turns and trots deeper into the gardens, her movements hurried and clumsy.

                                            >Well. That's a first. You're amazed she can feel anything other than rage and lust, but hey, she's leaving you alone now, which is a win.

                                            >You try to laugh, or even to smirk in light of your minor victory.

                                            >It doesn't last. You frown in discomfort and adjust your footing, your leg still throbbing.

                                            "Really?" You ask yourself. "This?"

                                            >The newly formed knot in your stomach informs you well enough of your mistake.

                                            >You ignore it and walk out into the brightly lit plaza, shepherding your expression into something more civil.

                                            >The last thing you need is some touchy-feely musician getting under your skin.


                                            *


                                            >The mare before you has been talking about the importance of bureaucracy.

                                            >Nothing in particular, just that the mechanisms of gerrymandering, signing in triplicate, and committee are ultimately necessary, and that the brave souls maintaining such structures deserve more medals and praise than fire-fighters and doctors.

                                            >What's remarkable is that she didn't even introduce herself. She just walked up to you and started talking as if picking up where she left off.

                                            >She's been looking at you this entire time but you're not sure she's actually seen you.

                                            >You throw back your fifth drink that evening to no reaction from her. No idea what you're even drinking, it's more of that label-less bottle, but it's clear like a mountain stream and kicks like an angry grey donkey.

                                            >Actually, the mare's just stopped. Her jaw has gone still, could it be?

                                            >No, she was just pausing to breathe. She's back at it now, saying that "really the stained glass windows in Celestia's throne room should all be depictions of administrators and clerical staff instead of irresponsible heroes."

                                            >What's worse is that there are no clocks out here, so you can't keep track of the time.

                                            >You could have been here for five hours already.

                                            >That'd be nice. It would mean you could grab Rarity and leave, preferably without saying goodbye to anyone.

                                            >Art has never been something you've been all that passionate about, but being around so much unarguable garbage in this garden has turned you from a philistine to a champion of traditional artforms.

                                            >First thing tomorrow you're visiting the Equestrian National Gallery in Canterlot and cleansing your palate.

                                            >Even the music from the hired band is rubbish, it's all percussion with no melody.

                                            >Would it kill them to hire a string section? Some violins? Cellos?

                                            >The thought trips you up.

                                            >Octavia's trembling lip and wet eyes push to the fore of your mind and you wince.

                                            >She looked hurt. Genuinely.

                                            >But why should you care? She's been nothing but trouble. Hasn't she?

                                            >"Now, Ink Jet! There's a stallion who knows a thing or two about paperwork!"

                                            >The mare has vanished. Good riddance. She wasn't even cute.

                                            >That's a strange thing to think.

                                            >You scan the crowd, looking for a captivating blue dress clothing your only real friend in this hell.

                                            >It's easy to do so, as you tower over ponyfolk, but you still can't see her.

                                            >Come to think of it, you've not seen her since she was plucked from your side.

                                            >You furrow your brow and set down your empty glass on the lip of the fountain.

                                            >The world swims a bit, but you've been through worse.

                                            "If I was a seamstress, where would I be," you mutter.


                                            *


                                            >Octavia was wrong, this place is definitely a maze.

                                            >These statues could all be accused of looking the same as a joke, but you've definitely passed that one that looks like a cow giving birth to a tractor at least three times.

                                            >Your vision swells and you lean against what may be the udders on said cow. Hard to tell with modern art.

                                            >Those drinks might have been stronger than you thought, and the glasses a bit larger.

                                            >You shake your head, and your eyes rattle about in your skull, your vision swimming in and out of focus.

                                            "God, what the hell was I drinking?"

                                            >There's a sharp intake of breath and you twist your head.

                                            >Octavia stands behind you, hoof raised to move forward, but she's looking like she's wanting to turn back.

                                            >Why does she look so concerned?

                                            >And was she always that pretty?

                                            >She gathers herself and twists her expression.

                                            >"Guess I took a wrong turn," she sneers. "Was looking for the fountain, not the... twat."

                                            "Aha! Good one," it actually was. Or you could just be drunk.

                                            >She glares at you to begin with, but after looking you over her expression softens.

                                            >"Are you alright? Not that I actually care and all, but... you look leathered."

                                            "Been leathered before, and not just with whips and shit," you guffaw and Octavia blinks.

                                            >"Shit, you -are- leathered. Do you need to sit down?"

                                            "Nah, need to find Rarity. You seen her?"

                                            >"Not seen her since you showed up, why?"

                                            "She's missing. Could be dead, not sure yet," another laugh, though you're not sure why you'd find that funny.

                                            >Amidst your drunken haze, there are alarm bells frantically ringing.

                                            >Something is very wrong.

                                            >Octavia comes to your side.

                                            >"Fuck's sake," she mutters and punches your leg on the same spot Rarity tends to. Why do they always go for the legs? They're short, you suppose, so it's the only place they can reliably punch.

                                            >You don't feel it anyway.

                                            >"You've been a complete nob tonight, you have. Come on, let's go sit down, or something. Just get you off your feet, no, over -here- you fat bastard."

                                            "Did I ever tell you how pretty you looked?"

                                            >She glances at you, then looks away and shakes her head.

                                            >"No, you didn't."

                                            "You're nice. You're a nice mare."

                                            >You reach down and stroke her mane.

                                            "Pretty mare."

                                            >Octavia doesn't look enthused. She looks troubled. Given your stupor you can hardly blame her.

                                            >"You've not been this drunk before. How many did you have?"

                                            "Five. I think."

                                            >"Five -what- though?"

                                            "Dunno. Clear stuff. Strong stuff."

                                            >"Straight spirits? You have anything to eat before you came?"

                                            "Nah, not eaten all day, was gonna grab snacks from here."

                                            >"So you've necked a shitload of spirits on an empty stomach, fucking hell you're a clown. Sit down, Anon. No, -here-, you prick."

                                            >Very gently, she guides you to a stone bench and you slump onto it, back resting against the thick hedge. The world settles somewhat but still throbs in time with your temples.

                                            >Octavia perches herself next to you, looking at the side of your face with evident worry.

                                            >"You alright? Not gonna chuck up or anything?"

                                            "Mm fine. Need Rarity though. Kinda worried. You seen her?"

                                            >"I already-- I'll get you some coffee, just don't... go anywhere."

                                            "You're pretty."

                                            >"I know I am, you stupid get."

                                            >The mare hops off and rushes presumably to the refreshments area.

                                            >How she's able to walk in a straight line is a mystery; if your recent meetings are anything to go off she'll have downed far more than you.

                                            >Earth pony mares are tough, you'll give them that. They can take a beating.

                                            >Oh boy can they take a beating. You grin at no one.

                                            >She returns with an entire flask of coffee, but by that point you've already leaned over the bowl of a micro-fountain with a -very- generous interpretation of Luna's back end and emptied your stomach into it.

                                            >The bile was so acidic you hope it might dissolve through the stone, but unfortunately not. You might have been able to do your part in ridding Equestria of the artistic sin that infests this garden.

                                            >It's up to the clean-up crew now though, bless their tortured souls.

                                            >The flask is taken with slurred thanks and you gulp down a mouthful before you pull it back.

                                            "What's this?"

                                            >"Black coffee. Keep drinking, then eat this."

                                            >She pushes a bowl of chopped fruits at you.

                                            >"Fruit. Helps with sobering up," she says before can ask.

                                            >You obediently drink the coffee and eat the fruit in silence.

                                            >Laughter floats over the tops of the hedgerows. You'd almost forgotten you were at a party. You're thankful you have a friend here to look out for you or you might have done something stupid.

                                            >Octavia plays with the end of her mane and watches you eat everything, eyes still narrowed.

                                            >About a quarter-hour later, you rub your eyes and are thankful to see the world settling, though your thoughts are still fogged and movements groggy.

                                            >"Better?"

                                            "Yeah, yeah it is a bit, thanks."

                                            >"You're welcome."

                                            >You look at her, sitting beside you in the dusklight, one side of her creased face tinted orange by a garish paper lantern.

                                            >The alcohol swims in your bloodstream, and you feel a dull headache coming on.

                                            >Even so, you don't feel like it's the spirits nudging you to speak.

                                            "Tavi."

                                            >"Yeah?"

                                            "I've been a dick, haven't I."

                                            >"Just a bit."

                                            >She shuffles closer to you, her thigh pressed against yours. Feels nice.

                                            >"I get that you're reluctant and all, but..." she shakes her head. "Bloody Nora these things are dull."

                                            "Or I'm just that exciting."

                                            >She grows a small smile.

                                            >"Coming back now, are you?"

                                            "Kinda," you lurch to your feet deaf to her protests. "Still need to find Rarity though. Last I saw her was when she got pulled away by that Cumcloud guy."

                                            >"Cumulus Front."

                                            "Yeah, him. You know him?"

                                            >She gives you a long look.

                                            >"He's got a reputation."

                                            "As?"

                                            >"As a guy who likes young mares and won't take no for an answer."

                                            >Your dull mind sharpens, or tries to.

                                            "Tavi," you wipe your mouth on your sleeve. "I need your help."


                                            [Chapter 4]


                                            >Octavia periodically nudges you back into a straight line.

                                            "Thanks," you say for the fourth time.

                                            >"Never took you for a lightweight."

                                            "I'm not. You horses just have strong sauce."

                                            >You proceed through the garden like a drunken lout and an ornery donkey. Which is apt, because that's what you are.

                                            >Octavia glances at you as you walk, her concern still showing.

                                            >"Not sure how you're gonna rescue your mate like that."

                                            "I'll think of something. Has anyone ever told you you look like a donkey?"

                                            >She double-takes, stops dead, and glares at you.

                                            "But, like a pretty donkey. Nice ears." You reach down and stroke them with your fingers, the smooth grain of the hairs pleasant under your fingertips. "Nice donkey."

                                            >"You're lucky that feels good or I'd castrate you. Anyway, look, we're here."

                                            >The mansion overlooking the garden emerges from behind the next turn, and you nod sluggishly.

                                            "She'll be in there, we need to storm the place and rescue her."

                                            >"Oh yeah? Go on then, I'll be here cheering you on. Go get her, legend."

                                            "Thank you," you say before you fall forward and face-plant the grass.

                                            >She stands over you, sighing.

                                            >"How about this, you follow me, I'll get us inside. Yeah?"

                                            "Good plan," you say to the grass.


                                            *


                                            >The stallion squints at you.

                                            >Octavia's expression doesn't change.

                                            >"Well?" She says sharply. "I do hope I needn't repeat myself, my colleague here requires medical attention!"

                                            >The stallions tilts his head and looks at you askance.

                                            >Your grass-stained, muddy, red-cheeked face and slowly blinking eyes must look terrible in the half-light of the mansion's bracket lanterns.

                                            "Not feeling good," you slur for effect.

                                            >He grunts.

                                            >"Right, fine, I'll take you both to the in-house doctor's ward. It's over on the far side of the estate, so head inside and take a right, I'll be behind you to make sure you don't wander."

                                            >Octavia thanks him with a curtsey and he moves aside for you to pass.

                                            >Beyond the side door you'd approached is a small kitchen, one of three, the stallion explains, though you're not sure why since no one asked.

                                            >He explains each room you move through, as well as the notable artworks; vases, paintings, embroidered banners.

                                            >Maybe his boss told him to make the place look good if anyone visited during the night.

                                            >You amble into a small corridor between a sitting room overlooking the garden and a simple bedroom, presumably one for the staff.

                                            >"Ah, excuse me," Octavia pauses and touches the stallion's shoulder.

                                            >He stops and seems to start at how close she suddenly is, almost pressed against him in the narrow walkway.

                                            >You slump against the wall behind them, watching her work.

                                            >Tavi moves closer still, her mouth not far from his.

                                            >"Would you mind telling us where the master bedroom is?" she says in a low voice.

                                            >The stallion glances down the hall, then back to the mare. Tavi smiles sweetly.

                                            >"That's just beyond the landing at the top of the stairs, but I thought you needed a doctor?"

                                            >"Oh, one of us does," Tavi says softly.

                                            >Then she headbutts him.

                                            >You hear one skull strike another and it hits you like a bell tower's toll.

                                            >The stallion staggers and slumps much like you are against the wall. You watch with wide eyes, and before you can blurt her name Tavi does it again.

                                            >She cracks her head against his twice more, then takes him in a choke hold, her expression a grimace as the dazed stallion bats at her with flailing hooves.

                                            >He goes still and she stands, correcting her mane and grinning at you.

                                            >She either doesn't notice or mind the split skin on her own forehead running blood between her eyes.

                                            >"Been a while since I've done that. Still got it, eh? Trick is to loosen your muscles when you nut him, that way you don't tense up and risk a sprain. Hurts like a cunt though, won't lie."

                                            "Wh-what the hell are you doing?!"

                                            >"What? We need to poke around here and can't do it with this nonce following us. Besides, who's gonna believe him? Octavia Melody, renowned classicist, suddenly smashing her head against his and choking him out? Yeah right, that'll be the day. Come on, let's go. Can you handle a flight of stairs, chick?"


                                            *


                                            >The atrium opens out before you, empty.

                                            >Octavia checks first, then waves for you to follow.

                                            >She tiptoes (tiphooves?) across the smooth chessboard tiles.

                                            >You plod after her, shoes thumping against the floor.

                                            >Tavi gives up her stealth and sighs.

                                            >"Yeah, guess that wasn't happening. Come on, you clown, get up 'em."

                                            >She half-guides, half-pulls you up the stairs. You cling to the railing as though you'll tumble back down if you let go, which to be fair you probably will.

                                            >Finally, after much encouragement mixed with threats of physical violence against you, you arrive at a pair of double-doors.

                                            >"Ready?" Tavi says.

                                            "Ready," you nod.

                                            >Your head swims with the motion. You're not sure what you're in for, but you won't be much use. Might be better to let Tavi take care of anything that involves any sort of movement, action, or locomotion. You'll be there for moral support, though.

                                            >On three, you burst through and behold--

                                            "...It's not a bedroom."

                                            >The room is little more than an antechamber, a couple of simple wooden doors lead to destinations unknown, but a third one is decorated with carved clouds set into the wood along with a golden plaque too far away to read.

                                            >Octavia clicks her tongue.

                                            >"No, this'll be the lobby before the bedroom proper. Should be the one there with the--"

                                            >You hear a muffled yelp.

                                            >Even with the fog in your mind and cotton in your ears you know a cry of pain when you hear it.

                                            >You look to Octavia. Her mouth is set in a line.

                                            >She gestures at the elaborate door.

                                            >"That one. No messing this time, come on."

                                            >She leads the way. You stagger after her, willing yourself to be over the drunkenness.

                                            >At the very least you can't say this party's been as boring as the others.

                                            >Octavia stops before the door and lowers her voice.

                                            >"We'll go in on three, grab Rarity--"

                                            "No," you say bluntly.

                                            >You slam the heel of your foot against the door just below the handle and snap the doorframe inward.

                                            >Several things happen at once.

                                            >Octavia swears very loudly. A masculine voice shouts as well. A third, feminine voice screams either in shock or torment.

                                            >You barrel through the door and see Rarity, bare of her dress and on the master bed, pressed on her front, ruined mascara upon tear-stained cheeks.

                                            >Lying on top of her but quickly jumping to attention, the sweaty unclothed form of Cumulus Front.

                                            >His expression twists into indignant rage.

                                            >"Just who the fuck do you think--"

                                            >You swing at him.

                                            >The heroic image you had in your head of bludgeoning him, saving Rarity, and later being given a medal by Celestia as the Star Wars end-theme plays, dies abruptly.

                                            >The stallion, whom you now remember is in fact a military sort, evades your drunken blow with practised ease.

                                            >He punches you in the jaw.

                                            >Octavia could pack a mean punch herself, but she's also a tiny mare and probably held back.

                                            >Cumulus Front on the other hand has broken something. You feel a tooth come loose, and the coppery taste of blood rushes into your mouth.

                                            >Light flashes behind your retinas and your world swims.

                                            >You go down on the bed and lie stunned as your mind desperately tries to orient itself.

                                            >Rarity scrambles away from the fight and huddles against the headboard, limbs pulled against herself and shaking like she's freezing.

                                            >"Knew you shouldn't have been invited--" Cumulus starts before a grey blur attaches itself to him.

                                            >Your stalwart companion, your pretty grey donkey, your rabid wolverine in a bow-tie, thrashes him.

                                            >She shrieks like a Nordic berserker hyped up on psychedelic mushrooms, her voice a few decibels below a commercial airline flying over a house. Her hooves can't seem to decide whether they want to punch, kick, slap, poke, or prod.

                                            >Whatever she does, it's done with such ferocity you wonder if it's the same mare or some enraged demon wearing her skin.

                                            >Cumulus bellows in turn. The melee pauses long enough for you to see his ear is soaked in blood and missing its tip.

                                            >A deep gash splits his cheek, and one eye is clenched shut.

                                            >He kicks out, and Octavia gasps. She goes down, holding her side.

                                            >Cumulus stands above her. He rears up, brings both hooves to bear, and drives them down to crush her.

                                            >He doesn't land, for a length of fabric wraps around his neck and yanks him back.

                                            >Rarity stands on trembling legs, her horn at work.

                                            >The pillow cases, bedsheets, and any other linens she can grab are torn into strips and used to bind the stallion.

                                            >He rips them off as they land, but there's too much.

                                            >A glittering blue mess wraps around his throat and squeezes.

                                            >It's her dress. You feel dismay both at the destruction of such a piece and the frame of mind Rarity must be in to do so.

                                            >She tears her once beautiful dress to pieces and ties Cumulus' legs with it.

                                            >She breathes heavily. You all breathe heavily.

                                            >Octavia drags herself off the floor and shuffles to you.

                                            >You can't speak. Your jaw won't move. Trying to do so is agony.

                                            >For a moment, you all stay still, waiting for the next thing to happen.

                                            >Cumulus struggles, but his wings, legs, and jaw are wound tight. He can't speak over the wad of pillow-casing stuffed in his mouth.

                                            >"Well, duck," Octavia whispers between laboured pants. "This'll be a date to remember."


                                            *


                                            >Rarity's eyes drink in the article with evident glee.

                                            >Her expression is bordering on maniacal, and you can't say you blame her.

                                            >The front page shows an apoplectic Cumulus Front being dragged out of a courthouse, guilty on charges of assault and rape.

                                            >Apparently they even managed to charge him with your inebriation. Not sure how, but it all served to lock him up so who cares.

                                            >And just like that, his life, career, wealth, everything he'd built, is tainted beyond repair. He'll be out in seven years, but his reputation will never recover.

                                            >Rarity looks up at you and smiles. Her eyes don't glitter so much anymore, they've hardened, but as she told you earlier, the world doesn't stop because you have a bad day, so she doesn't either.

                                            >There are dresses to make, and shmucks (or clients, as she calls them) to sell to.

                                            >"I do hope he has a nice time in prison."

                                            >You nod. Her eyes flicker between your eyes and the lower half of your face, and flash with some of that anger she's carried since the Nocturne.

                                            >"And I'm sure you do as well."

                                            >Another nod. Rarity excuses herself to make you some more tea and you return to reading your book.

                                            >The brace on your jaw will need to remain for months until the fracture heals, so until then you're on a liquid diet.

                                            >The bell over the shop door rings, and you turn in your chair to see who it is.

                                            >Octavia doesn't say anything for a moment. She looks around the room, and when Rarity closes a cupboard just behind the wall in the kitchenette she nods with smirk.

                                            >"Good afternoon, Anonymous," she says with posh affectation, "I thought I might visit to see how you have been recovering. Are you doing well?"

                                            >You nod hesitantly. She's got a motive.

                                            >"I'm ever so glad to hear that."

                                            >She pops herself down beside you and stares into your eyes.

                                            >"I was wondering if you would be available to attend the Summer Sun Celebration. I shall be performing with a host of other musicians for the Princess, and you might find the venue to be agreeable. Once I have finished my set, I shall be free to wander the castle's private gardens with you. Alone. What do you think?"

                                            >You shake your head vigorously, it twinges your jaw, but you have to make your point.

                                            >"No, you wouldn't miss it for the world? I'm glad to hear it. Ah! And here is Rarity!"

                                            >Rarity almost drops the tea as she enters.

                                            >"Octavia! I didn't know you were coming!"

                                            >Tavi hums pleasantly.

                                            >"I wanted to visit and see how you've both been getting on since that unfortunate business at the Nocturne. How are you feeling?"

                                            >Rarity straightens her posture and gives a firm nod.

                                            >"Merely a setback. A lady cannot allow herself to be undone by this sort of horridness. I shall survive, Octavia, I assure you."

                                            >"I'm certain of it," Tavi says with a nod, "I was just discussing the upcoming Gala with Anonymous. He'll be attending! Isn't that wonderful?"

                                            >Rarity clops her hooves together excitedly and giggles.

                                            >"I love that you're so engaged with these events, Anon! It'll boost business so much to have you attending so many."

                                            >"He might be reluctant to admit it, but Anonymous likes attending these parties with me," Octavia says, her perfect smile never turning from you. "It's like we're joined at the hip. And I must say, I do enjoy our time together whenever we pair up. Wherever he goes, I'll be sure to cum."

                                            >She winks at you. Rarity is oblivious.

                                            >"If you don't mind, Rarity, I was hoping you might fashion a dress for me to wear? I would love to display one of your originals at the Gala."

                                            >Rarity is starstruck. She makes a strange, girlish squeal before she composes herself.

                                            >"Th-that would be excellent. Excellent! I'll have to get started right away! Wait here, I need to get my drafting paper from upstairs!"

                                            >Rarity vanishes. Octavia's smiles broadens.

                                            >She climbs onto your lap, legs draped over either side of yours, and sighs as she settles her loins against yours through the fabric. The heat is evident. The moisture too.

                                            >"That's more like it. So, we didn't get to do owt at the Nocturne in the end, saving Rarity and getting the shit kicked out of me and all that. Did that for you, by the way, you're welcome."

                                            >She kisses your lips. It's surprising both how tender she is, and how obvious it is she's only barely holding herself back.

                                            >Tavi whispers to you as she looks into your eyes.

                                            >"I'm gonna tell you this now so you don't act all surprised when it happens. But when we're at the Gala, and I've finished my set, I'm coming for you."

                                            >You swallow the lump in your throat.

                                            >"I'm gonna drag you out into those gardens. I'm gonna get your clothes off. And I'm gonna fuck the living daylights out of you. That sound good, oh poor, wounded, chivalrous coltfriend of mine?"

                                            >You whine and shake your head.

                                            >"Charging in there knowing fuck all about what you were going to do, taking a hit like that, all so you could save your friend. The things I'm gonna do to you, chick." Another kiss on your lips. "They'll need to make a brace for your pelvis next. Best part is? You'll do it. You'll keep coming to the parties 'cause Rarity says so. I'll keep riding you 'cause you're the best lay I've ever had. We're gonna keep doing this happily ever after, and after I've broken you in, we're getting hitched. No fucking way in Tartarus I'm letting some other slag get a piece of this," she rubs your chest with a hoof, "now that I've had you. You're all mine, Anon. Mine forever. Don't you ever," another kiss, "ever," another, "forget that."

                                            >You hate fancy parties.


                                            The End.