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// Lyra and Bon Bon Are in Your Bed, and You Need New Sheets (Marcibel)  
// Story: Fimfic Authors Are In Your Bed 
// by Admiral Biscuit 
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Lyra and Bon Bon Are in Your Bed, and You Now Need New Sheets
Marcibel


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You have always considered yourself a sane man. You keep yourself daily from using a sharpened pencil to make little peepholes to your bosses' brains, from placing a homemade explosive underneath Jerry's desk so he'll have a little surprise when he comes back from kissing the bosses' asses, and from deep-throating the muzzle of a pistol. Gods, the Fates, or whatever the hell your sadistic marionette is, they have pulled you through some nasty crap, and no matter how soiled you may be, you always seem to hang on. 

However, that was before those ponies started paying you a visit just about every Monday night (with the occasional week off, which you believe with body and soul is the time they use to plan out what kind of screwed-up stuff happens to you next). Since it all began, you could practically feel the ropes of your sanity slipping away, dying as you experience pony after pony (with a surprise every so often) invade your bed. 

And that's another thing—why your bed? Of all the things they could burn, disturb, banish to another realm, why your bed? It's the only place you can get decent peace, falling asleep in the arms of Jack Daniels and Jim Beam (aside from whenever you take the two on the couch and pass out watching Bea Arthur as "Maude" at two in the morning). Why couldn't they have destroyed your workplace—or, better yet, Jerry's bed? But, no! They had come here, and ruin your life!

It eventually comes to the point where you just expect company every time you come home from work. You no longer accept friends coming over on Mondays, and your current relationship is with a collection of magazines gradually growing to its former glory. At least they don't get angry whenever you look at another woman. 

It is on such a Monday that you walk inside with the same walk: shoulders slack, dragging your feet, crushed cookie in pocket with some ridiculous "fortune" instead of the green and blue rupees you subconsciously pray for. You toss your bag wherever, and drudge into the kitchen to seek comfort in a Bud since you still haven't restocked your liquor cabinet after last week's "visitor." Honestly, she was more like an alcohol-seeking missile than a pony. 

You drink the entire can, and reach inside the fridge to fish out another. Pop, hiss, chug; the pattern repeats twice more until you have a nice buzz, and you move to the bedroom to face whatever hell hath rained upon you. You don't even knock; after all, it is your house. You just barge right in, drinking from the can. 

 And it was a grave mistake. 

Sure, there is a pony in your bed, and she is a familiar one. She is a mint green Unicorn, with short, spearmint green and white hair. Her eyes are closed, and her head rests against the headboard. A blush tickles her cheeks, and suppressed moans and pleasured sighs rolls off the horse tongue hanging out her mouth. You hear some sounds coming from underneath the blanket over her, where a pony-shaped bump is lightly bobbing its head. Little bits of a blue-and-pink tail poke out from underneath the covers. 

But it was all a very brief sight; almost as soon as you come in, the Unicorn sits up, her eyes shooting open, and her mouth transforming into a horrified frown. The lump stops immediately, and you do a spit-take like an idiot, wasting good beer. 

For a minute, the only things that moved are the hands on a clock on the wall. Horny stares at you with wide eyes, and you give her a glare that practically drills a hole into her brain. Your mouth is the first to decide that it is capable of forming words and thoughts.

"Grla—!"

Or not. Your brain facepalms at your mouth's incompetence, and in lieu of whatever words you were about to make, Lyra starts defending herself. 

"I-I'm so sorry! I d-didn't know you were going to be home so early!" 

"It's six o'clock! When do you think I was coming home?!" you shout, throwing your arms up and spilling some of your drink on your hand.

"I don't know…seven? We probably would've been exhausted by then."

Dealing with Lyra again is giving you a migraine, and you turn to the lump. "You, clam fan, please come out and tell me that you have more sense than your little piece of taffy here."

There is a slight hesitation as the pony uses his hoof to uncover himself, only to reveal that was it actually a mare instead of a stallion. It isn't until she wipes her beige mouth that the little detail of the pony's gender triggers in your half-drunk mind. 

"Y-You're a chick!"

"No, I'm a pony," she deadpans.

You ignore the mare's answer. Your brain is too busy putting two and two together, which takes a minute or two. No wonder you had to attend first grade three times.

"You're a lesbian!" you shout loudly.

She sighs. "A fillyfooler, yes."

You stare blankly at the mare, who turns her head away from your gaze and blushes profoundly. Her hair was a graceful combination of the colors of blueberries and bubblegum, shining in the orange sunlight pouring from the window. Her yellowish coat was darkened from the shadow of the blanket, and the scent of sour apples flowed from her lips. 

A set of hooves clapping pull back your drifting mind, and you look to Lyra with her hooves in the air. "Listen, can we have maybe five minutes to finish things?"

"What? Hell no!" 

"But I was so close!" she whines, shuffling her back legs. 

"No! What is wrong with you? Do you get off on doing it in someone else's bed?"

"Well, yeah," Lyra answers casually, "and it's not just beds. It's also couches, kitchen tables, camping tents…."

"We've even done it on a park bench during the daytime," Bon Bon added. "That was the only other time we've been caught in the act."

Lyra shook her head. "Poor Berry Pinch has never been the same since."

"What about Berry Punch kicking our flanks when she found out what her daughter saw? I didn't even know she could fight like that!" 

"Apparently she was in prison in Fillydelphia for about a year before returning to Ponyville." 

"Really? What was she in for?"

"I think she stabbed somepony during a fight."

"Remind me again why we're friends with her."

"Were friends with, actually," Lyra corrected, "and probably because we all have different rumors about us, like you being mistaken a changeling, Berry being misconstrued as the town drunk, or me mistaken for a human-hunter." For some reason, she looks at you. "You know, it really hurts ponies' feelings when atrocious gossip like that gets around."

Bon Bon nods. "Yes, just because my voice changes doesn't mean I'm a changeling. In fact, I have a small talent in voice-acting."

"And I have an interest in all sorts of supernatural and other-worldly things; still doesn't mean I get wet whenever I see a finger." Bon Bon donned a coy smile as a small rustle of a hoof moved amongst the sheets, and Lyra's entire body jerked. "Oh, but that hoof, though," she moaned. 

Seeing as the train of conversation had not only derailed, but did so in a way that it had jumped onto a whole other set of tracks, you clear your throat as loudly as you can. Both mares look at you, their grins disappearing into frowns. 

"First," you say calmly, holding up a finger, "I want all hooves out from under the covers, and tails tucked tightly between your legs. Got it?" 

They answer your question by throwing off the cover and revealing all eight hooves, with tails in the place you asked. 

"Good, now get out of bed."

They simultaneously climb out of your bed. 

"Now, get the hell out of my house."

Bon Bon and Lyra give each other a confused look. 

"But it isn't our time yet," Lyra states. 

"What the hell are you talking about?" you ask. 

"We can't go until it is our time to go," Lyra explains. "Look, I can't really say much more without ruining it, but the bottom line is that we won't be gone until it's time."

"And when will this be?" you ask through clenched teeth. 

"At seven."

"Fine. Now go downstairs, and wait for me there," you demand. 

Both mares nod and follow your instructions, trotting out of the bedroom and toward the kitchen. You don't even turn; you instead stare at a large stain in the middle of your bed. You begin pulling off the cloth, crumpling it into a ball as you go, and you toss it off to the side. 

Great, now I'm going to need new sheets. 

You begin to realize just how much "new" stuff you've been needing to buy lately. These ponies are determined to break me, one way or another, aren't they? I've bought a few mattresses, bed sets, windows, house repairs…

A sultry moan from the kitchen bring you back, and you turn to the doorway. 

"Son of a bitch," you growl. And just as the words came from your mouth, you feel something flowing from your nose. Two fingers to your upper lip tell you that your nose is bleeding. 

Wow, they finally did it. They finally gave me an aneurysm out of sheer stupidity.

And you fall, passing out on the floor.