Fimfic Authors Are In Your Bed

by Admiral Biscuit

Roseluck Sobers Up In Your Bed (Marcibel)

Roseluck Sobers up in Your Bed
Marcibel

* * *

Your phone's alarm awakens you, with the same assertive ignorance to your need of sleep and your outlook on life that you are beginning to just not care anymore that it does every morning. Of course you need to get up; you have a job that gives you money to live. Granted, you hate every aspect of the job—the people, the work, the place. If the zombie apocalypse came tomorrow, you wouldn't hesistate to put down any of your infected co-workers, whose hunger for brains would remind you that you are the only one with a mind at that place.

Your hand shoots out to quiet the damnable thing, worming through the mountain of soiled tissues and your most recent purchase—your new (and only) Playboy magazine—and the alarm finally goes away.

For a moment, you lie there, basking in the comfort of your slightly new, completely uncharred bed. People say sleeping in the nude is one of the most comfortable things in the world, and doing so in this bed, your life felt a little bit better. You may not have intended to sleep in such a way, but sleeping naked, letting everything hang out, helped to relax your mood.

Though not by much.

And it was then that a certain scent stained your nose—some ass had vomitted on the floor on the other side of the bed. You are certain that it wasn't you; you don't have any of the effects of a hangover, and you never drank (too much) on a Monday night.

Something moves in your bed, and you almost ruin your new sheets with a brown streak. You immediately shoot up to a sitting position, your blankets falling down to just your waist. Your eyes take in the shape of a pony, and your hands react to this surprise by grabbing a pillow and placing it over your groin. Sure, these ponies are always naked and probably wouldn't notice, but you have standards and don't want to take a roll of those dice in case one of them starts to get a bit extra friendly—especially when Dick Army is standing at attention every morning. You may be going to hell, but that doesn't mean that you should lengthen that list Saint Peter has at those pearly gates.

The pony—female if the curves of her rump pointing to you (as they always seem to be) and past experiences with the others taught you anything—was lying half-on, half-off your bed. Her coat was a pale yellow, which most (including your ex-girlfriend) might recognize as the color of the inside of a banana, while your mind quickly goes back to a phrase you've used before: "watered down piss." Honestly, if you gave any care for your mental health, you'd have yourself checked out and find what's wrong with you. But for now, you decide to shrug, and point to your crappy life.

Pony, right. Well, unlike some of the others you've had the displeasure of meeting, this one has neither wings nor a horn, like that one musician a while back. Her hair was bobbed, frizzled, and in a combination of a strange reddish-purple and a dark pink, and a rosebud adorned her shapely flank—not that you would use the word "shapely" to describe it; you were just saying. Along with the scent of vomit pouring up from the floor, the smells of a liquor cabinet and rose water practically radiated from the pony. But the oddest thing about her is that she is wearing red-and-pink-striped socks that climbed up all four of her slender legs.

What's next? A mint-green one in khakis and a foam finger?

She groans, a sign that you take as her awakening. This is the first time any of them has appeared during the night or unconscious, and you are thankful that she's at least alive. That would make for a fun day: having to toss some pony D.O.A. into the ocean. At least you'd be able to call off work, providing the excuse that your pony had died.

"Ugh…never gonna hang out with Berry Punch ever again," she mutters to herself and you notice a puddle of pony drool collecting on your blankets. Great, I have to do laundry. Then, with as much of a mind as your brain-dead colleagues, she rolls off the bed, landing with a hard thump onto her left side and shaking the entire room. Certainly the Noise Nazi next door is on his way right now to complain. Whatever. That doesn't matter; what does is that there is a hungover pony on your floor. She may be hurt, but after having one that stole your collection of decent reading material and another that tried to give your bed a viking funeral on land, you just don't rightly care anymore.

You might as well get things jump-started; you clear your throat, which catches her attention. She hazily looks around for a moment before her gaze drifts over to you. Her green eyes were incredibly blood-shot, and they would otherwise be gorgeous (for a pony) if they weren't so riddled with sickness and regret. When her eyes meets yours, they double in size.

"Oh, um, hi?"

"Hello, and welcome to Hell," you say, even though you're beginning to believe Hell would be a lot like Paradise City compared to this life. You continue, "My name is"—you shrug just as you're about to introduce yourself—"not important." You didn't tell the others your name, so why give this one the pleasure (or burden, you really aren't sure anymore). "So what's yours?" You glance at the mark on her flank. "Axl?"

She gives you a look of confusion that would've been adorable if the situation was different. "What? No, the name's Roseluck, or Rose for short."

Yeah, that makes sense. Good thing, too; I don't any dicks other than my own in here.

Rose sits up and rubs her eyes. "Where am I anyway?"

"My house."

She gives off a short, dry laugh, and mutters, "Thanks." Rose gives her hooves a weird look; she must've just realized her odd apparel. "Why am I wearing socks?!"

Again, you shrug, which you really should stop doing since your shoulders are starting to hurt at not giving a damn. "Maybe it's your fetish? I don't know. Look, do I need to stay home to take care of you?"

Rose gives you a worried look. "And what do mean by 'take care?'"

"Not what you're thinking."

"Fair enough," she says and lays her head back on your carpet floor. Rose makes a noise that sounds like a gross whinny, and mumbles something that sounds like, "Buck me."

You feel a tad bit of empathy for the poor mare, having gone through the same headaches, the same incoherent speech, and the same crappy "friends" that only seemed interested in getting your sorry ass drunk just so they could turn your face into a mural of a big black bukkake. And to think that was pinnacle of your existence.

You sigh, and snatch your phone off your nightstand. Your fingers hammered against a few keys, simply telling your bosses that Rose is sick and you need to take care of her. (For a moment, you struggle to hold back the impulse to add the initials F.O. to the text.) They don't ask too many questions (Thank God!), so they won't respond. You toss the phone back onto the nightstand, which makes something of a loud bang. Rose starts at the noise, and you realize she must have found your rough carpet floor comfortable enough to have fallen asleep.

Suddenly, it occurs to you that you still only have a comforter and a pillow providing protection to President Johnson, and now with this pony no longer an unconscious heap on your bed, but a sickly mess upon your floor conveniently facing the only safe exit, there is almost nothing keeping you from completely exposing yourself.

"Ahem!" you cough, once again getting her attention. "Can you roll over and not look this way for a minute?"

"Why?"

"Because, I'm naked," you answer. You're certain that she's way too hungover to jump anything, but you still have your standards.

"So?" Rose says, her forehead contorting itself in confusion.

"Well, I don't know about your kind's manners, but here on Earth, it's rude to point at people, with fingers or else."

Her brow twists more. "I'm a pony," she merely states.

"Doesn't matter. Do you present yourself to every pony that walks through your door?"

"Um, present…?"

You promptly face-palm—clueless, this one is. It becomes obvious that she's not going to be rolling over, and you grab another pillow. You slip out from under the comforter, with President Johnson's fluffly Secret Service members out front like a shield, and walk backwards through your bedroom door—at least you would've if the door was actually open. Instead, the door knob slams into your lower back, your head bangs against the hard wood, and you openly let out a curse not intended for the little kiddies.

This definitely catches Rose's attention. Her red and green eyes fly open and look at you, and you instinctively tighten the grip on the pillows, realizing what you must do.

You have to sacrifice one of the pillows, so you'll have a free hand to open the door.

You impulsively toss the pillow in your right hand at the mare, hitting her square in the face and causing her to flinch while you make your mad dash out of the room. You slam the door, and breathe a sigh of relief before heading to the bathroom. You only take a step toward the bathroom doorway when an epiphany strikes you in the head: you completely forgot to grab clothes.

"Motherfu—"

* * *

Half an hour later, you are fully showered, but the fact that you are wearing week-old jeans over three-day-old underwear negates your cleanliness. Your pride (and with it, a totally rational distaste for exposing yourself with these sapient, possibly insane ponies) is one of the few things you truly value in this world, and you would be damned if you're going to let Little Miss November Rain—or any of them, for that matter—take even a peek at you in your birthday suit in exchange for some clean underwear.

Also, you're pretty sure you're out of clean underwear anyway.

You quickly stuff your face with some generic toaster pastries, which taste like cardboard dipped in sewer and filled with edible, strawberry-flavored KY Jelly that somehow had gone terribly bad, before going back to check on Rose. You open the door just enough to get a view and peer inside. She had moved from the floor to your bed, and is now lying on her back and stuffed under the covers. Her hooves were pressed against her head, as if they were trying to clench at her hair, and her eyes were screwed shut.

You walk in, and mutter something about her making herself at home. Rose notices you, prying her eyes open into a wince, and her nose twitches a couple times as she sniffs the air.

"You smell like plot," she says. Damn pony olfactory abilities, you think.

"Well, pardon me for stenching up my own home. Last I checked, you were the one trespassing."

She shamefully looks away, preferring to examine your closet. "Sorry," she whispers.

You open the nightstand's drawer, and pull out a bottle of asprin. Your bathroom doesn't have a proper medicine cabinet, so pills of all colors and sorts you keep in the drawer in your nightstand. It's not like you have any kids running around, consuming anything that resembles M&M's, and if you really wanted to forget your troubles, you know you'll always have the Captain and Sam Adams to help you with that.

The cap pops off, the bottle rattles, and three tiny pills fall into your hand. You offer them to the mare, along with a "Here, take these."

Rose looks at you suspiciously. "If those are roofies, you're stupid."

Great, these ponies have date rape. That's always fun to know.

"They're asprin," you tell her, and for proof you show her the now-empty bottle. She scans the label and holds out her hoof for the pills. You oblige, looking on with some sort of amazement as the pills stay in her hoof until they are popped into her mouth. She swallows them with ease without anything to help wash them down. She rolls over onto her right side, facing you, and offers a grateful smile before she closes her eyes.

Within a minute, Rose is asleep, and you find yourself watching her (like a creep), the rise and fall of her barrel, the occasional twitch of an ear. Then you notice that she's drooling on your pillow.

Looks like I'm going to have to burn my pillow now. Your eyes then slide over to the vomit on the floor. Someone somewhere must really hate me, or I'm just the favorite doll of some insane god. You look back at Rose, who's still fast asleep, and an idea pops into your head.

You take soft, swift steps around your bed and over to a desk you almost never use. Dust covers just about every nook and cranny of it, and the only roughly clean part is the handle of the drawer holding the pens. You pull open that particular drawer and quietly rummage through it. Your search isn't long, and your hand holds a black permanent marker as it withdraws from the clutter. You glide over to Rose, marker in hand, and pull off the cap.

With a gentle and somewhat skilled hand, you draw the first of many throbbing tools on the mare's right cheek.

Comments

[Despoiled Vessel]

5495205

I always say to myself: "Never publish anything without sending it to at least two pre-readers."

And I always end up messing up the rule. >_<

[poisonflame616]

What's next? A mint-green one in khakis and a foam finger?

yes, so much yes

[Nyerguds]

You take soft, swift steps around your bed and over to a desk you almost never use. Dust covers just about every nook and cranny of it, and the only roughly clean part is the handle of the drawer holding the pens. You pull open that particular drawer and quietly rummage through it. Your search isn't long, and your hand holds a black permanent marker as it withdraws from the clutter. You glide over to Rose, marker in hand, and pull off the cap.

Oh, you bastard

Personally, I'd, um, prioritize cleaning up the vomit. Because, y'know, smell. But hey, that's probably just me

One note:
> asprin
You know it's spelled "aspirin", right?

[pahnazd]

5495402 I second that, cleaning vomit first, drawing shenanigans later.

[Morphy]

5490264

Still haven't worked it into a ringtone but... it could happen!

[FanOfMostEverything]

Someone somewhere must really hate me, or I'm just the favorite doll of some insane god.

An insane pantheon, actually.

5495381
"Do you know how long it took to get these made? I literally had to duel Rarity to get her to agree not to put any jewels on them. And she fights dirty."

[Pankrazius]

5495402

Personally, I'd, um, prioritize cleaning up the vomit. Because, y'know, smell. But hey, that's probably just me

No, its a question of priotiries. The vomit will later smell the same as now. But the pony may disapear.

[Nyerguds]

5495637
Not really true. Vomit smell tends to linger, the longer it has been there. It soaks into everything.

[Pankrazius]

5495644

Gnnn... This decissions everytime. Look: You have two options: clean vomit OR prank a sleeping hangover pony. Is it just me? Its OBVIOUS whats the only true course of action could be.

[Nyerguds]

5495664
Hey, ponies come there every Monday. You're still the one who has to live there, though

[Pankrazius]

5495668
Yeah. But most of them are sober or at least awake. So it may be your only chance for revenge in a long depressing time of ponies invading.
And very few of them are actual... nice, so you don't want to play pranks on them. (I knew... unrealistic, but still - there is hope!)

And with a bit of luck, some pony will char or flood your bed anyway - see. vomit cleaned + revenge = The fun hath been doubled.

... why is there no Luna-smiley?

[Dash The Stampede]

So....Close...

Excitement....Building....
i.imgur.com/mbm7vxk.gif

[Maxes Altho]

5495692 Your chapter up next?

[Dash The Stampede]

5495795
Eventually, I think.

It's different, I'll give you that.

[Dusty Sunrise]

In life of the recent chapter, somebody should write "Lyra is in your bed, wearing khakis and a foam finger."

[MythrilMoth]

That was quite a fun and bizarre chapter.

[metallusionsismagic]

I don't any dicks

You accidentally the what?

Fruit's hanging a bit low there, pardner.

[TerranceJet]

"Axl?"

Axl? What does he have to do with... OH! Headcanon confirmed. Roseluck is totally in a rock band.

[Luna Secret Stallion]

5500321 Dude that's my thing now!

[chrismonteith]

dick human