//------------------------------// // Twilight Sparkle Is In Your Bed, Reading Playboy (Admiral Biscuit) // Story: Fimfic Authors Are In Your Bed // by Admiral Biscuit //------------------------------// Twilight Sparkle Is In Your Bed, Reading Playboy Admiral Biscuit Twilight was so absorbed in the magazine that she didn't notice your arrival. It's probably just as well—your bottle falls from nerveless fingers, and if you'd still been holding your phone, you'd've dropped that, too. For the next little while—you have lost the capacity to keep track of time—you just stare at her. She's intently focused on the magazine sitting propped up on a pillow, while next to her a pen hovers in her magenta aura. Every part of the tableux is so unreal that your eyes keep moving from one scene to the next. Your eyes are drawn to the unnatural yet totally believable way the pen hovers in the air, slowly rotating around its vertical axis, until it's pressed into use on the page. Then she flicks her tail, and you notice the way that stray hairs are spread across your comforter. Since you're already looking at her body, it isn't a stretch for your eyes to follow up her tail to the curve of her rump, and to the cluster of stars proudly displayed on her flank. Her hind leg is tucked under her like a dog might, you notice, before your eyes move upward, to the spill of her mane over her withers, and the more cat-like way she's folded her forelegs on your bedspread. Twilight's brow is furrowed in concentration, her attention laser-focused on the words on the page. You watch, unmoving, as she reaches the end of the page and looks away from the magazine long enough to scribble another few lines of notes, before grasping the page in her aura and flipping forward. You're briefly distracted by her right ear flicking back, and your poor brain struggles to make sense of the movement, but then you see her rotate the magazine sideways and unfold the center spread. I'm going to hell. This is certain. In life there are things that Are Not Done. You cannot punch grandma, no matter how annoying she can be. You cannot ever admit to looking at another guy's junk, regardless of circumstance. And you cannot show porn to a pony. Never mind that she found it herself. That doesn't make it better. You mutter out a garbled sentence. In your mind, you said, “Don't be afraid, and don't look at that.” What came out was more like “Nurgh.” This gets Twilight's attention. She jumps to her hooves and back, turning to face you. The magazine is held up in her aura, like a shield, and the centerfold hangs down like an accusing tongue. Your reaction is much more manly. You shriek, and move back into a defensive crouch. This has the undesired effect of placing your foot directly on top of the bottle. Your foot slips out from under you, and as you're falling backwards with all the grace of a drunken sea lion, you absently notice that the bottle is flying towards Twilight. On the pain scale, this is nowhere near your worst landing; on the humiliation scale, it's in the top five. You crack your skull into the wall with a comical bonking sound, get your hands back under you, and stagger back to your feet. Twilight, you're relieved to see, has managed to catch the bottle; it's joined the magazine in her aura. “What are you doing here?” you both say simultaneously. “It's my—“ “I don't know, I—“ Both of you glance at each other through the doorway, and then Twilight gives off a nervous little laugh. “You go first; it's your house.” “It's my—wait, how do you know that?” Twilight blinked. “The bed smells like you do.” Oh God, that's right. Horses, and by extension ponies, have a good sense of smell. “Yeah,” you say with false bravado. “It's my place.” “I hope you don't mind,” Twilight said. “I . . . well, I found myself here, and I would have gone back right away, but I saw a book I hadn't seen before. And some magazines. And I got distracted.” She had the grace to blush at that statement. “But I didn't hurt them, and I was going to put them all back afterward.” “It's okay,” you assure her. “Even if your filing system is a bit . . . unusual.” Twilight frowned. “I—“ “Who keeps magazines under a bed? Nopony would know they were there. It was a good thing I dropped a pen.” She lifts a stack of magazines aloft to illustrate her point, and your mortification is now complete. “There are so many of them.” She fans them out to illustrate her point. Turns out you weren't at rock bottom yet. “It was hard to choose which to look at first.” A glimmer of hope. “So I skimmed through them all.” Okay, this is probably rock bottom. “Most of them weren't very interesting.” She lifted a sheet of paper into her aura and glanced at it, although you were certain she didn't actually need to. “Nor were they terribly comprehensive.” Or not. . . . “Honestly, a single illustration would have sufficed. Then they would have had more pages available for articles, like this magazine does.” She pulled the Playboy back out of the stack. “I can't say I'm thrilled about their choice to mix fiction and journalism like they do, but I suppose it's hardly a scholarly journal.” “Yeah,” you squeak out, eagerly grasping at the idea of the articles rather than the pictures. “It's more of . . . ah, light reading. And fiction. Kind of meant to appeal to a bunch of interests, you know?” Twilight blinks, and then scrunches her muzzle in the most adorable way. “Is it meant to get you interested in the subjects in the hope that you'd read more books about that subject?” “Yes, sort of,” you explain. “There was an interview with Benicio Del Toro,” she said. “They used a lot of words I wasn't familiar with, but am I correct in believing that The Wolfman is a play?” “A movie,” you say automatically. “Oh. Is it educational?” You shrug. “Maybe? I haven't seen it.” Twilight looks at you sympathetically. “The article made it sound rather interesting.” “I just haven't gotten around to it,” you lie. “But I'm going to.” When Twilight looks away, you cover a yawn. “Oh—I had a question, if you don't mind.” “Is it about the magazines?” You narrow your eyes. “Which I just realized that I'm keeping for a friend.” She shakes her head. “It's about the book.” Twilight floats the skin magazines into a neat pile and lifts up your Christmas present. Which you haven't read. On the plus side, you can probably fake it—you read the summary on Wikipedia, so you could sound like you'd read it, in case it ever came up in a phone conversation. “The book. Yes.” You nod eagerly. “I'm normally more of a book reader. That's why I never read the article about the Wolfram, and haven't seen it. In fact, I've never opened any of them.” “Wolfman,” Twilight automatically corrects. “On the first page of the novel, the protagonist gets into a car. I get the sense from the story that it's a self-propelled vehicle.” You nod. “Yes. You're right.” She gets a smug smile on her face and checks off a line on her sheet of notes. “That's what I thought.” Her lavender eyes bore back into you. “How does it work?” •        •        • Mondays are the worst. For every good thing you get on a Monday, the universe gives you a kick in the shin as well. Or the groin, just to mix things up a bit. You've proved beyond the shadow of a doubt that ponies really exist. But, Twilight's incessant questioning about every single detail in the novel is beginning to grate on your nerves, and you can barely keep your eyelids open. It's an interesting learning experience, to be honest. You'd heard about people falling asleep on their feet, and wondered what that might be like. Now you have the benefit of firsthand experience. It's not as fun as it sounds. You dimly wonder when you'll just pitch forward and crash face-first into the floor, and more importantly, if that will wake you up. As you conclude your brief summary of modern plumbing and why you can't flush away all of life's little problems, inspiration strikes. “I have to go to the bathroom,” you tell Twilight. A nanosecond later, you find yourself wondering if ponies do that—but there was an episode where Pinkie needed to pee, so yes. Twilight nods, and you scurry off to the privacy of the toilet, making damn sure to lock the door behind you. It might not stop a unicorn, but it would slow her down. When you're done, you open the door and practically trip over her. It's the first time you've seen her standing, and you can't help but notice that her horn is at the perfect height to gut you, or—if she ducks her head—ruin your love life forever. Not that she'd really need to use her horn for that. “I kind of have to go, too,” she says sheepishly. “I just was so fascinated by our conversation, I didn't want to interrupt it by leaving the room.” “I can see how that could happen,” you mutter. “There's a bar of soap on the sink; if not, there's one in the shower. You can use any towel you can find.” You stagger down the hallway as the door shuts behind you. You have a brief moment of concern as you wonder if she'll know about how a toilet works, but then you remember that there was a flushing noise before Pinkie went into the outhouse, so surely Twilight will figure it out. You're too tired to care, anyway. You round the corner into your bedroom, and there's your unicornless bed in all its glory, just begging you to lie in it. If you weren't so tired, you'd have neatly cleared the bed. But you're on the verge of physical collapse, and besides, it's your bedroom. According to the alarm clock, if you fall asleep right now, you'll be able to count your hours of sleep on one hand, and you're getting dangerously close to not needing all your digits. You take your cell phone out of your pocket, check to see your alarm is set, and put it on the nightstand, then slide under the covers. Yes, you're wearing your clothes to bed, but you're an adult and you can do that if you want to. You've just rolled away from the door and the hateful overhead light when Twilight comes back into the room. You hear her hoofsteps pause at the door. “You snooze you lose,” you mutter ironically under your breath. “I hope you don't snore,” Twilight says. “Pretty sure I don't.” “Good.” You feel the bed shift as she climbs back up. Once upon a time, staying up all night and functioning the next day would have been a possibility, perhaps encouraged by doses of caffeine—but those days have passed. As much as you would like to stay up and bask in Twilight's splendor a little bit longer, it's just not feasible. And as late as it is, you'll have no trouble falling right asleep, even if Twilight Sparkle is in your bed. •        •        • It would be comforting to say that your sleep was restful. Indeed, there are even studies which show that sleeping with someone has health benefits; if it truly does, those benefits don't arise in one night. Your alarm is blaring and insistent. That's logical; a quiet alarm wouldn't be much use. You jerk awake and instinctively reach out to shut it off, but your arm smashes painfully into something unyielding. That's enough to wake you, although it does nothing to quiet the alarm. As you gaze in wonder at the magenta prison that now entraps you, the past night comes crashing back with a vengeance. To your total lack of surprise, Twilight is in the same position she was in last night; the only difference is now you're in the same bed and there's a magenta bubble between you and her. “Hey,” you shout. She's not paying attention; she's noticed your alarm, too, and is lifting your phone off the nightstand with her magic. Sudden, terrible, claustrophobic visions began to seep into your weary mind, and you began trying to force your way through the bubble. You might as well try to lift a piano with one hand. After what seems like an eternity but is probably only a few seconds, she notices your futile gestures, and dispells the bubble. You glare at her. She glares back. You snatch the phone out of her field and cancel the alarm. “Why did I wake up in a bubble?” “Because you snore. Normally, I wouldn't mind—Rainbow Dash snores, you know—but I was trying to study and it was quite distracting.” “I could have suffocated!” “No you couldn't. It would be a worthless shield if it suffocated anypony inside, don't you think?” “Fair enough.” You yawn and stretch your arms. “Okay, move out of the way. I've got to get up and use the bathroom. And take a shower.” Twilight nods and lifts her notes out of the way, before getting out of bed herself. She stands out of the way as you struggle to follow, finally making it to your feet just as the snooze on your phone ends, and the alarm shrieks out again. This time, at least, you can get right at it, and it's only a moment's work before the alarm is silenced. You instinctively scratch yourself before remembering you have company, and jerk your hands away before you embarrass yourself. The shower at least has the effect of waking you up most of the way, and your coffee pot downstairs will finish the job. Feeling mostly human again, you get dressed and make your way back into the bedroom. “I've got to go to work,” you announce. “Unless you need me to stay?” Privately, you hope she says yes. You can call in! And when they ask you why you can't come to work, you can tell them that you have an unexpected quadruped house-guest. Twilight nods absently, then sets down the pen and looks up. “I—oh. Um, I hate to ask.” “I'd be—“ “But could I keep this book?” “—to skip work . . . um, yeah.” Sure it was a gift, but there's no harm in re-gifting. It's not gauche if it's a request, right? “Great!” Twilight breaks into a broad grin, and it's like the sun emerging from behind clouds. All your cares just evaporate in the light of a soul-cleansing pony grin. “How about this?” Your good mood vanishes like a snowball in magma. “It has quite a variety of detailed anatomy photographs.” Yup. Going to hell.