• Published 1st Jan 2015
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Fimfic Authors Are In Your Bed - Admiral Biscuit



A collaborative collection of stories about finding ponies in your bed.

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You Completely Fail To Notice Applejack Is In Your Bed (Bugsydor)

You Completely Fail to Notice that Applejack is in your Bed
Bugsydor

It's been a long day at work, even for a Monday. Some would argue that there is no other kind of workday, but you know better. The days may all be longer than you'd like, but experience has taught you that some days are just especially soul-sucking. Some would also argue that it's no longer Monday, as it is well-past midnight, but those turdsickles can go hang. Anyone who's played Majora's Mask knows the next day doesn't start until 6AM.

You idly wonder as you trudge through your front door whether there are any churches that still burn people for practicing necromancy, and whether you could covertly tip them off about your boss's eerie ability to siphon the life from his employees and leave them as shambling shells. Then you realize that you'd want no part in the religious/legal battle that would entail, even if you would enjoy seeing how your nemeses reacted to holy water.

You consume a bag of chips for dinner on your way through your kitchen, unwilling to consider doing anything more complicated in the name of sustenance. Working the closing shift in addition to the shift you were actually supposed to be working has left you a bit less vital and lively than usual. You really hope you don't wake up as a zombie.

As you use the last sparks of your energy to ascend the stairs to your room, you remember it's still kinda Monday. The phrase "Monday night, pony night" used to have a much happier meaning for you before those four-legged fiends started stealing your sleep box; now the phrase just fills you with dread. Sometimes you wonder how you can still stand to watch that show.

"Meh," you mutter, "it's already 2AM. Maybe this week's guest star has already come and gone, and I'll only have to clean up the aftermath like that one time with Ms. Harshwords complaining about the Ponylympics or whatever it was."

Sweet Mercy, you're tired.

You open your door and, seeing nothing amiss in the dim glow of your stairway nightlights, flop unceremoniously onto your bed.

"Oof," says your pillow.

You don't even bat an eye. It'd hardly be the strangest thing that parts of your bed have said when you wished to sleep like the dead. It's not even the strangest thing it's told you while you were wide awake, if you count that one time it got replaced with a magical talking bed that felt oddly like chitin.

A thought strikes you (at an oblique angle, as you are mostly asleep), and you prod your oddly loquacious pillow with a closed fist. Yep, it's warm and fluffy, but kinda firm. Just like a pillow should be. It smells a little funny, like sweat, pony, and funk, but so does most of the other stuff in your room.

"Hey, ya danged varmint!" your pillow grumbles sleepily in your ears. "I am tired as a dog from working the fields all day, an' I don't need none of that nonsense from no...body."

Yep, nothing out of the ordinary at all

"Shoosh. You're a pillow, and good pillows don't talk," you reply as you snuggle deeper into your bed and your mildly abnormally talkative pillow.

"But you... I... Aww, what the hay. It's not even the weirdest thing that's happened this month."

'Nope, not by a longshot,' you think as you begin your night's final descent into unconsciousness.

"Well, as long as ya don't drool too much," your pillow says with a yawn. "G'night, Mister Human."

"Good night, pillow. Now shoosh."

Despite the soul-grinding grind of work today, tonight has gone fairly well. Nothing's on fire, nobody is trying to murder you, and the state of your bed is more-or-less as you remember it.

And best of all, absolutely nopony at all has come to steal your sweet, sweet slumber.

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