A RariTwi Sh*tfic I Wrote For Monochromatic (Update: Monochromatic Did Not Want To Read It (´°̥̥̥̥̥̥̥̥ω°̥̥̥̥̥̥̥̥｀). Can You Really Blame Her Though? ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ )

CapNTilfy

CapNTilfy #1 · Oct 11th, 2019 · 5 · ·

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Oh my god... A story with cover art that matches my level of drawing?!

Boof Man

Boof Man #2 · Oct 11th, 2019 · 1 · ·

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CommonGround

CommonGround #3 · Oct 11th, 2019 · 2 · ·

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...which sadely I’m probably never going to finish because I suck at finishing things.

I, uh, don’t have any clever way to end this story... So, uh, I guess have a nice day?

Hey, look, you finished this one! Ya must not suck that much after all.

Super Trampoline

Super Trampoline #4 · Oct 11th, 2019 · 5 · ·

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9877078
You’ve never met a celebrity before. But there he is: Ben Shapiro. He charms you immediately. Five feet, four inches tall—he’s hopping up and down, sprinkling a fine, glowing dust in your face.
“Why do you have five feet?” You ask, nervously.
A tinny laugh bellows as best it can through his miniature windpipe. “More Shapirtoes for your pleasure, beautiful!”
He winks and leaps from your shoulder into your bosom, planting his five feet in a perfect circle around your most-sensitive areola. One at a time, his microtoes begin kneading your buds. “Doesn’t that feel nice, precious?”
You nod your head slowly and drift into a deep relaxation as his five feet start tapping rhythmically. Your breastular flesh is jiggling like porcelain-colored Jell-O with every slap of his size zero-fives. Your flaccid nipple grows erect, stinging as though its erogenous spout were smeared with eucalyptus. But you love the pain. And the more it hurts, the more you fall in love, the more the charm is working.
“How did a little boy like you get such talented tootsies?” You ask, shyly.
His tinny laughter delights your ears once again as his Shapirsoles increase their slapping speed.
“Survival of the fittest!” He says, beaming. “That’s the infinite wisdom of our celestial father. Truly I tell you, His Holy Spirit does rove about the discus of the Earth. And yea, though the five-foot Shapiro walks through the valley of the shadow of death, he will fear no evil, for the Evolutionary Hand does pick him up and place him on the narrow road to life, and in his heart he is the biggest boy of all.”
He puffs his chest as his little face swells with pride. His podovibrations become more violent. Your entire breast seems to phase in and out of physical space, waves of pain and pleasure mingling upon each return.
“Can this really be happening?” You say aloud, unable to stop your thoughts from flowing into tender words. “Has this five-footed punk rock intellectual really chosen mine juicy vessel to tease?”
He’s floating in front of your face, eyes wide and getting wider, stretching beyond what’s possible. His form twists and wanes with the peaks of your psychic rapture. You feel all twenty-five microtoes prod your bottom lip to open your mouth. He dances upon your teeth to the rhythm of the eternal hymn, Semi-Charmed Life by Third Eye Blind. Its pop sensibilities radiate from your thousand-petal crown, Sahasrara, shooting modern rock vibrations deep inside your quivering root, Muladhara. His tinny laugh, five octaves higher than Stephan Jenkins’ mellifluous brocals, awakens you from this sonic bliss.
“Can you hear it, novitiate?” He speaks to you tenderly. “Do you hear His celestial wailing?”
“And the riffing!” You exclaim, eager to impress your teacher. He smiles warmly.
“You are yet a suckling, and you wish to impress me?”
“Yes, teacher. Just tell me what I must do to gain your favor.”
His Shapeet stop tapping. The healing tones of America’s favorite San Francisco-based post-grunge quartet vanish. It doesn’t take long for human frailty to find you. What’s this dull world of monotone and cognitive sickness? Anxiety. A deep, aching sadness. Fear and existential dread. This can’t be normal life, can it? Are Ben Shapiro’s toes really that enchanting?
“Motherhood is the most impressive act of all,” he says. “A good mother is like the soil.” You notice his voice deepening. “She’s humble. She’s walked on. Submissive.” His voice is deeper than you thought possible. “But in this humble soil, the Biologically Male Man shakes his tree and deposits his seed.” You feel all five of his legs stretch and wrap around the top of your head, forming a hand that grabs a clump of your hair. His microtoes massage your scalp. “My lady,” he says, solemnly. “If you will accept mine seed, you will become as the soil.”
You remember the fine, glowing dust Ben sprinkled in your face. What was that about? Are you on some kind of drug? No. It can’t be. Ben Shapiro’s size zero-fives are stronger than any entheogen you’ve ever taken. They’re a shamanic ritual, a cult, a religion, a god. He sprinkles more dust in your face. You decide to accept his seed.
“Can I name the child?” You ask.
“No. I’ve already picked their names.”
“Their names? I’ll have more than one?”
“I will have two children. And their names shall reflect the merit of their father, as He has commanded. These Biologically Male Man sons I will name Facts and Logic.”
You are on your back. You feel your children squirming inside you. There is a single, quarter-sized red LED casting scarce light in the room. “Sing to me, Ben.” His tinny laughter delights your ears. “Why should I sing?” he says. “When I could put these Shapirtoes to work?” His bare Shapeet again slap and tap upon your teeth to the rhythm of holy song.
“Wish you would step back from that ledge my friend!” Your children claw at your belly.
“You could cut ties with all the lies that you’ve been livin’ in.” Their ten feet and fifty toes rip your abdomen open.
“And if you do not want to see me again, I would understand.” Ben takes the children and smiles at you. Their forms twist and contort until they’ve phased out of this world, clicking and screeching and whistling.
Free of his intoxicating zero-fives, the horror of what’s transpired washes over you. “B-Ben...” You stammer. “Y-You… eviscerated me with Facts and Logic.”

Boof Man

Boof Man #5 · Oct 11th, 2019 · · ·

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9877083
i0.kym-cdn.com/photos/images/facebook/001/242/059/58b.png

Crystal Static

Crystal Static #6 · Oct 11th, 2019 · 2 · 7 ·

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This fic is more autistic than your usual fare of shitfics.

Congratulations.

Super Trampoline

Super Trampoline #7 · Oct 11th, 2019 · 1 · ·

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9877118
What do you mean, "autistic"?

Super Trampoline

Super Trampoline #8 · Oct 11th, 2019 · · ·

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9877271
I guess you’re right, but I, kind of curious how this story made you think of that?

Bright Roast

Bright Roast #9 · Oct 11th, 2019 · 1 · ·

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I really like the original art (do not steal) cover picture. I think it rounds the whole mess up into a warm fuzzy ball of joy.

Super Trampoline

Super Trampoline #10 · Oct 11th, 2019 · · ·

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9877334
I'm glad you appreciate my MS Paint cover!

FanOfMostEverything

FanOfMostEverything #11 · Oct 11th, 2019 · 2 · ·

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Rarity was kicking it in her hotel room at the Manehattan Luxury uh… shitty horse pun for a hotel name

I usually go for Bitz-Carlton.

Lemme check Derpibooru.

I got you. Just over pony Don Draper's withers.

or Raritying to go, as it were.

I can hear Rarity say this after about four glasses of wine.

There's a joke I could make about uranium and a RariTwi dirty bomb, but that seems in poor taste. Suffice to say, thoroughly enjoyable ramble. Thank you for it.

Ledrose

Ledrose #12 · Oct 11th, 2019 · · ·

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What did I Just read?

This fic perfectly illustrates the way your mind works when you come up with the idea for the story and try to develop it.

Rarity came thirteen times.

But I’m 27, probably roughly her age in the show now, and I’ve not really done much with my life

Actualy from the interview with Lauren Faust she was 21 years old in 1 season. Then she already had some business in 21. If we start to consider that she grows for 1 year every 2 season, then now she is 25 years old. Yeah. You are right then. But that doesn't change the fact that she had her business at 21 and you haven't. Just like me