• 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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Rainbow Dash Makes Your Bed Run Red (gabrek)

Rainbow Dash Makes Your Bed Run Red
gabrek

You gape at the sight before you.

It’s been a long day- Mondays always are, especially after you have to “volunteer” for weekend shifts. Those horrible, ironic weekend shifts that never score you Monday off- Wednesday or Friday maybe, but never Monday. The one day you actually need to try and figure out how your life has fallen- plummeted?- neigh, rocketed out of control.

Your eye twitches as you realize the ponification in your own thoughts. The little bastards are getting into your head. By getting into your bed. And your porn. And lighting it on fire. Replacing it with crystals, futons, cotton candy, sentient versions of itself, and their own beds. Spilling tacos and whiskey and discipline and cereal all over your once sacred sheets, crushing and displacing and banishing and partying with the damned thing, only to leave no real evidence of their passing aside from demolished appliances, ruined laundry and charred nudie mags. They’d even somehow managed to destroy your beloved vehicle- despite being nowhere near it at the time- and landed you a night in jail when they used it as a vehicle against the establishment.

Your renter’s insurance premium rivals the military budgets of small nations.

It wouldn't be so bad if they’d just somehow manage to permanently destroy the damn thing, but every few weeks it reappears in perfect condition as though nothing had happened to it. Nothing aside from the dander and stench and hair and emotional instability of that particular week’s new pony visitor, of course.

After the cuteness and novelty wore off on the first night, you were able to tolerate them. As the weeks turned to months, delight morphed quickly into annoyance and began the long trek towards becoming full-fledged hatred. Things have gotten to the point where you occasionally indulge in fantasies of colorful leather throw pillows… but the sight before you makes you sick for even thinking of such dark things.

A small hole has been torn through the wall below your bedroom window, through which a thick, brilliantly red substance trickles, accompanied by the sounds of unhinged laughter, machinery working, and the occasional sickening sound of tearing and crunching.

You stand unable to process the sight before you for a few moments, taking in the horror (from the bedroom- of course it’s from the bedroom) before the red stained cerulean back and wings brush against the window with a peal of cackling, leaving a splash of color across the panes and bringing you back to reality- or at least, what your psychiatrist assures you is your own perception of reality. Horrible realization makes you sprint up the street towards your complex. Sharp, acidic scents burn your nose even before your lungs begin to protest, and as you pass the front yard a burst of green liquid sprays from your kitchen window.

You scream as you slam into the wall besides the stairs- it’s in your eyes and it burns worse than “tear-free” shampoo. After several seconds of futilely trying to rub the substance from your eyes, you scream again as you realize it’s gotten into your mouth. You spit, you gag, and you scream a third time as you realize that it’s really, really spicy.

The encounter brings you to your knees, retching and gasping over the sidewalk now decorated with the remains of the joy you purchased at Panda Express. Sure, you’d given up on the place after the first fortune cookie, but with the way the universe was acting, it wasn’t unreasonable to hope a fortune reading “Your bed is safe from all equines” would pop up in the next one. Besides, their honey walnut shrimp is delicious.

Not so good on the way back up, you realize, as part of your mind notices the orange stream pouring from another new hole into the flowerbeds.

You stagger up the two flights of stairs, careful not to wipe at your face again with your sleeve, which seems to be glowing with that potent green substance. Fumbling with your keys, you finally manage to open the front door, only to be met with a blast of smoke. It’s surprisingly cool, and begins to form a thin layer of fog around your feet as you step into your living room, the sight of which is enough to make any insurance adjuster stagger with horror.

The carpet is completely covered with an inch thick layer of a purple gel, swirled in with blue in the kitchen and the yellow which is almost pouring out of nook that leads to your bathroom. You idly consider taking your shoes off as you always do, but are afraid of what these other colors could do to your feet. You look up and around and choke back a sob of terror to see that your home is now completely unrecognizable.
Through the clouds of mixed mist and smoke, you can tell that every scrap of furniture is completely gone, replaced by makeshift tubes and gaskets, apparently repurposed out of everything from your couch to the pipes once connected to your brand new stove. The fridge lays splayed open at an awkward angle, pouring out the haze like a smoke machine on steroids, and your toilet is inexplicably piped onto one of the counters, its lid bubbling and twitching as it processes some mystery material.

More disturbing than the property damage are the thin sheets of material hanging from every available surface. Ragged pieces of multi-colored coverings, soaked and dripping with colored ooze. You gag again and quickly lean on your knees to vomit after you see the sunflower emblazoned on one small torn chunk died periwinkle, dangling from what was once your favorite lamp.

A sudden high pitched whine is cut off by a resonating gurgle as a surge of red hits your bedroom door, causing it to bulge slightly before bursting off of its hinges with a small tide of crimson and a bout of horse, feminine cursing.

You curse quietly yourself as you realize that you did it again, and despite the overwhelming panic and fear in your gut begin to move quietly towards your bedroom door. A cheerful yellow happy face beams at you from its position nailed above your hallway light switch; the random but familiar collection of vegetables marked on another unfortunate piece is vigilant from the ceiling as you creep towards the mare that you now recognize as Rainbow Dash.

You have seen her before; clumsy, but so confident and bold… as she hovers in a freakishly business like position with her back towards your doorway, you can’t say that those qualities aren’t still there. Something has changed though; maybe it’s the intensity of her gaze around the unrecognizable, red stained remains of your bedroom, or the way she kicks as the small pile of thin, splintered objects strewn across your comforter, or the twisted grin she has as she manipulates the bizarre machine that churns away in the clouds built up over your bed. You can’t put your finger on it… until the red streaked mare turns, locking your eyes with hers and with a wide smile, whispers just one word.

“Perfect.”

You shout with panic, and turn to flee. It’s like you know nothing about her speed, strength and agility, her military training- survival instincts only know to send you running with a scream. It is futile. Dash’s cannons are wrapped around your waist in an instant, and you stumble headlong into the sickening yellow goop in your hallway that again manages to find its way into your mouth. You spit, gasp and sputter all at the same time, simultaneously trying to scream and process the toxically spicy substance as you feel yourself being dragged by the feet back towards your bedroom.

You come to your senses enough to try to fight back, though there’s little you can do on your belly except kick and thrash wildly. You feel a shoe dislodge and hear it strike a wooden surface; your feet fail to connect with the insane pony behind you, though she loses her grip as your other shoe slips off.

You keep flailing around in the yellow ooze for a moment before you realize that you’re not being dragged anymore. You blink, once, twice, as your senses recover just enough to hear the tomboy speaking to you.

“Hey. You okay?”

More blinking. It’s either shock and disbelief, or that colorful crap in your eyes again.

You finally settle on a succinct summary of events with which to question the pony.

“What in the hell are you doing to my house?!”

“Oh. That. Heh. Well, I got zapped here- AGAIN- and I was really bored, and for some reason you don’t have any snacks or drinks anywhere… so while I was looking I saw your house was really, really boring.”

You blink again.

“Seriously, like- not awesome AT ALL. So I figured I’d paint it for ya!”

“Yeah. But you don’t have any paint either! So I built this to extract the spectra from all your boring old clothes and chairs and stuff!”

“That explains… nothing, really, but I WAS wondering why pieces of my boxer shorts and oven mitts were stapled around my hallway…”

“Yep, gotta let them dry! And now your whole house is about 20% cooler!”

You groan at the overused catchphrase as the mare turns back to the machine and begins stuffing your shoes into it, causing the grinding and tearing noises you heard before.

“All thanks to the good ol’ rainbow factory! ‘Where not a single sole gets through!’”

You palm your face- HARD. Maybe it’ll just be the crazy jackal-monkey thing again next week…

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