Chapter 43
To be free of the sweater was glorious and Gosling—having just come out of the shower—roistered about in his naked state while the midnight hour made its reckless, relentless approach. Meanwhile, as Gosling did his pretty pony prancing, Celestia recovered on the bed in supine repose, looking as majestic as alicornly possible. She engaged in a dreadful, awful, terrible habit, potentially the worst habit a pony could have: she ate in the bed.
Multiple jars of pickled, preserved goods were held aloft, secured in the golden glowing, glittery nimbuses of her magic. Pickled apples, pickled strawberries, pickled pink onions, pickled pears, assorted pickled vegetables—and perhaps the worst of all, a jar of pickled eggs that were a garish, nightmarish pink. In sharp contrast to her public persona, the Celestia laying in the bed slurped, suckled, snorted, licked, and belched, all while various juices ran down her fuzzy chin.
“I have more manipulation in my primaries,” Gosling said while he feathergunned his reflection in the full length floor-to-ceiling mirror.
In response, Celestia let out a resonant, gurgling belch that made everything in the room rattle. Afterward, she guzzled some of the brine from the jar of pickled eggs, then did nothing to wipe the mess from her muzzle, which dripped down upon her graceful, swanlike neck. With a lewd, moistened slurp, she gave herself over to her hedonistic, visceral experience and attempted to fish out a pickled pearl onion with her tongue.
Gosling’s attention was torn away from his own reflection and he watched while his mate pulled not one, but many onions from the jar. Her long tongue would flick out, slither around a succulent pickled pearl onion, yank it from its fellows, and drag it into her waiting maw. It was like watching an anteater do its thing and Gosling was thoroughly entranced by the sight of it.
“Modern refrigeration came at a price,” Celestia mumbled while also trying to slurp brine from her chin.
“Sunshine?”
“For thousands of years, we had perfectly good means of food preservation, such as pickling and fermentation. It was nutritious and healthy”—here she paused, slurped, licked her chops, and belched before she continued—“it is my belief that it develops good, strong gut flora. But now that modern refrigeration is readily available, pickling and fermenting are falling out of favour, but we are also seeing a rise in digestive issues and tummy troubles for so many little ponies. I don’t think it’s a coincidence, Gosling. Thousands of years of eating this way and we’ve evolved—we’ve adapted to eat fermented and pickled foods.”
“Is this what immortals think about?” Gosling asked.
“This one does,” Celestia replied while she began her assault upon the jar of pickled strawberries.
“You and my mother have something in common.” Gosling gave his mate a nod and thought about his mother’s predilection for pickled foods—carrots and potatoes was a particular favourite. Of course, after eating a whole jar of pickled potatoes and carrots, his mother, Sleet, could send the pigeons fleeing from the rooftop.
Feeling a bit peckish himself, Gosling mounted the bed and then crawled on his belly over the rumpled, wrinkled, turned down bedding. He made a first attempt to communicate with his eyes, a silent request for food, but was soundly ignored by his mate. Moving closer, he became a little bolder, and was growled at for his efforts. Among pegasus ponies, a growl could just as well be an invitation as it was a warning to stay away, so Gosling persisted, pestering for a pickled treat.
Celestia’s tongue was terrorising the jarred strawberries, and her lips were stained blood-red from their succulent juices. Gosling moved in on the floating jar of pickled apples, but lacked the means to pull out a slice of juicy green deliciousness. When he sniffed, the brine set his brain on fire with longing, and he wanted some of the salty, sour treat. Lacking magic to pull a section of apple out, he went to work with his own tongue.
And was stopped by Celestia, who held his tongue in a nimbus of magic while giving him a stern, challenging glare. One eyebrow arched and her rosy eyes burned with a fantastic inner glow. At this moment, the fact that Celestia was an alicorn was almost irrelevant, as everything about her was profoundly pegasus pony in nature.
Gosling, with his tongue still pinched in Celestia’s magic, tried to appease his mate. What he said was, “Just one little bite of apple?” What came out while Celestia held his tongue was, “Justh wan litthle bithe of ath-hull?”
His ears snapped up in alarm when he distinctly heard something else coming from his mouth and for a moment, Celestia somehow remained stern—but then the stoic mask cracked and she began to snigger. Then, she coughed, which worsened, and then bright-red strawberry brine came shooting out of her nostrils, spraying everything, including Gosling.
With her sinuses seared by strawberry brine, Celestia let out a whoop, a shriek, and a hoot of laughter, in that order, and then was overcome by the giggles while vivid red juice was dribbled all over her muzzle, neck, and barrel. The bed—which was now a scene out of a horror movie bloodbath—was drenched with bright red syrupy brine. Celestia, seeing the state of her bedclothing, let out another shriek, which was followed up with braying peals of laughter.
She still had a firm grip on Gosling’s tongue somehow.
With Celestia braying like a donkey, Gosling too was overcome by laughter, but also by his own embarrassment. He knew full well what it had sounded like he had said and which part of her anatomy he wanted to bite. The whole bed was shaking—but not from freaky circus sex—and Celestia was clutching her stomach with both of her front hooves while kicking her hind legs in the air above her. There was no state of majesty that existed in the universe that could compare to her now.
“OW!” Celestia’s laughter paused for a moment while she held her tender fetlock aloft, away from her body, and then her laughter resumed, but was now somewhat subdued. She let go of Gosling’s tongue, pulled out a slice of pickled green apple, and stuffed the whole thing into his mouth before he could use his now freed tongue to say anything else.
“Another gala done and gone, and there was hardly any mischief,” Celestia said while still chuckling. “My students behaved themselves for the most part. What does it say about me and the fact that I am mildly disappointed with them for not causing a ruckus?”
In response, Gosling shrugged while crunching up his hard-earned treat.
“My gown was amazing, but it rubbed my teats raw. All my frogs feel swollen from standing too long. I’m sore all over and now, I’m sticky and look like I’ve had a nosebleed. The bed is destroyed and we’re both a real mess. I am pretty sure that if the guards saw us right now, you’d be seized and questioned about your rough handling of me.” She paused, let out a wordless whine, and then she added, “I don’t wanna get out of the bed and bathe… wah!”
To console herself, Celestia slurped a half-dozen pickled eggs in rapid succession and washed them down with a hearty guzzle of brine. Gosling meanwhile managed to pull out another wedge of apple with his tongue, and he spilled some of the salty-sweet juice on the bed. After swallowing, he decided to sample Celestia, and licked her neck. Salty-strawberry flavoured alicorn wasn’t bad at all, and he went at his task with affectionate gusto. While his tongue trailed over the delicate flesh of Celestia’s throat, he could feel the shifting bulges of her swallows, which was rather arousing.
“‘Tis the winter, Gosling,” Celestia murmured while kicking out her hind legs, going spread-eagled in a heap of limbs and wings. “Go south, you silly pegasus, and head for warmer, humid climes!”
Gosling awoke in a sticky, clinging mess and wondered if this was what it was like to be trapped within a changeling cocoon. The blankets were damp—sticky—and infused with an offensive reek that made his eyes water. It felt as though the sheets were glued to one of his wings. The excessive moisture made the space beneath the blankets humid—uncomfortably so—and the dark, moist confines had become a breeding den for antagonistic aromas.
Gasping, he thrust his head out from beneath the blankets, or tried to do so. A great deal of effort went into nosing his way free and he had to peel apart a few layers of red-stained bedclothes that had glued themselves together. The air on the outside was no better than the inside, but at least it was cooler and far less… moist. Snorting, he filled his lungs with cool, stinky air and tried not to think about the damp, soiled wad of cloth resting heavily against his eyelids—which were now squeezed shut.
Again, he heard the sound that had caused him to awaken, a low rumbling bassoon-like note that reverberated and shook the bed. It was a sound that one felt more than heard, and the ominous rumble was accompanied by a sulphurous musk that seemed to permeate reality itself, leaving it sullied and forever ruined. He was trapped! There was only a vague, hazy recollection of the events of last night in his half-awake mind, and his wings made feeble half-flaps against his sides, one of which tugged on the stuck-on sheet.
Never had there been a more disgusting morning in all of existence.
Like a filthy, dirty, squalid, skeevy butterfly, Gosling emerged from his crud cocoon. Wiggling, squirming like a caterpillar, he pushed his head through the moist, clinging fold of wadded, soggy, encrusted bedclothing, and he might have been free if it were not for Celestia. With yet another deep, lingering woodwind note, the befouled behemoth rolled over and came to rest atop poor Gosling, thus ending whatever malefic metamorphosis awaited him when he emerged. One leg, stained pinkish-red, was thrown over Gosling’s neck, and the bulk of Celestia’s barrel come to rest upon his upper body.
Now, Gosling truly was in a pickle.
Celestia too had underwent a malefic metamorphosis and now, crushed beneath his pickled princess, Gosling listened to the slovenly slumberer. Gone was whatever beautiful swanlike grace she had, for now, she snorted and even oinked with each breath. Gosling trembled, aware of the dreadful fate that awaited him, and he could almost hear his mother’s shrill, nasal voice scolding him.
What happened when a pegasus indulged their lurking porcine nature?
Why, they became a pigasus, that’s what.
Now, on top of feeling dirty and disgusting, Gosling was ashamed.
Celestia was stretched out to her full astounding length, her neck unkinked, her spine straight, and she was almost too long for the bed. Gosling, pinned beneath her front leg, could see her head quite some distance from him. Her majestic skull had come to rest upon a pillow that had been folded over at some point in the night, with the thicker folded side resting just below the corners of her delicate jaw. She was bigger than he by far, at least when measured from snoot to dock. Even the pillow seemed small by comparison, and Celestia had folded it over just to be useful enough to support her bulk.
A mostly empty jar lay upon its side a few inches from his nose and Gosling sniffed, trying to determine what it had once held. It was a futile gesture, for there were a myriad of miasmas, each more overwhelming than the last. There was something in his ear, Gosling realised, and it was annoying. He flapped his ear, tried to shake his head, but nothing brought satisfaction. Whatever it was remained wedged in the fuzzy, velvety folds of his mid-ear, only now it was dribbling some sort of juice down into his inner-ear after his attempts to dislodge it.
Last night, after the midnight hour had come and gone, he and Celestia had transformed into foals that had stayed up way past their bedtime. There had been kissing, tickling, foreplay, and there had been… pretend. It was embarrassing to even think about now in his current state, and his cheeks grew warm while his mind rushed to provide all manner of provocative memories. At some point, he had been a submarine commander, prowling beneath the sea of blankets, prowling in the dark, and depth charges had been dropped upon the lurking leviathan.
With a warm wet pop, a pickled pearl onion shot out of Gosling’s ear and plopped upon the bed beside him.
Did a submarine even have depth charges? Gosling wasn’t sure and all he had to go by were the many cheap matinee movies he had seen. Submarine movies were popular and easy to make. They were dark, gritty, and full of tense drama. Sitting in a dark theatre, it was possible to get lost in the film and Gosling had become a stowaway upon so many submarines.
Celestia snorted, her eyelids fluttered, and from deep within her throat there came an oink. For a moment, it appeared as though she might wake, that her fluttering eyelids might open, but she remained trapped in her state of slumber. In a muted mumble, she began to murmur, “No, Sinister, we cannot do what is best for them, for that is tyranny. Let them find their own good, just as I have let you find your own good. Reflect upon your lessons, my student.”
Gosling listened and watched as Celestia’s ears perked. She made a face, a very specific face, a face that she only made when challenged. “Of course I made you stick to your studies, it is for your own good. No, that is not tyranny, you silly filly. That is being a good teacher. No, you can’t become a teacher of society at large. What do you mean why not? Because I said so—no, this isn’t tyranny, this is for your own good. Sinister, if you do not stop this at once, I shall be forced to give you a tickle. Now stop. No, there is a difference… shush, Sinister Dark.”
Somehow, Celestia’s wing snapped free of the sodden bedclothing and with tendons creaking, she waved it to and fro overhead in a threatening gesture. Gosling wiggled a bit, fearing that he might be a target, but then Celestia slipped back into a deeper sleep. Her wing sagged, easing down little by little, until it came to rest upon the foreleg that pinned him to the bed.
A dull heaviness tugged upon Gosling’s eyelids and his drowsiness soon overcame him.
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The morning after seems to contradict this statement.
8730032
Just good gut fermentation, that's all.
So majestic.
Gosling got Dutch Oven'ed
There's absolutely nothing wrong with refrigeration, Celestia.
If anything, the reason why your little ponies are having more gut problems than ever before is because you haven't been doing your duty and making sure they're drinking enough beer.
I hope poor gosling gets recompense for the wars crimes he just faced.
8730083
Here comes the funny... Celestia brought up a real world issue that we humans face.
There are people who don't have the gut flora for proper digestion and need it from pickled or fermented foods. We became so dependent upon it that our biology got lazy and was content to outsource vital functions to things we ate.
How graceful
The birb pone and royal birb pone species will never cease to astound me in their culture and habits.
That was disgusting . . funny, yes . . but also . . eeww . .
More like The Perilous Digestion of Swans.
8730087
I contest the notion that our biology got "lazy," and rather it just decided that, since we were eating and drinking all this stuff that was taking care of gut flora already, it could instead focus its energies toward other things.
What I saying is that without pickled and fermented food, we wouldn't have cat memes. That is literally what I'm saying.
8730159
Who needs cat memes when we can have pone memes?
8730165
Pone memes had to evolve from something.
[ADDITIONAL COMMENTARY REDACTED. REASON: SENSITIVE CONTENT]
Behold the mighty Piggycorn!
8730386
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This might be one of your best chapters ever.
I hope the vinegar or whatever those things were pickled in didn't damage Gosling's ears any further.
i would guess pickled fruit would taste sweet?
This chapter leaves me feeling sticky and gross. And I want some Devil's Spit pickles.
"Yes, we've both squeezed you out of us at some point."
(Sorrynotsorrylittlesorryreally)
8731695
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Sounds like Gosling is...
(Wait for it... )
...in a pickle!
Such grace.
As someone who becomes nauseated from more than a touch of the scent of vinegar, this chapter has very thoroughly grossed me out. Farts are one thing; pickled anything... eeeeuuuuuguhehuhuggghhhhhhhhhhhhhh *shudders with revulsion*
So I am re-reading it with the idea of sweet syrupy canned pie fillings now. Because strawberry pie filling is amazing and no one ever pickles strawberries because that would be silly. Right? Right?
img00.deviantart.net/5ac1/i/2015/179/3/f/pinkie_pie_hugs_vector_by_thefrostspark-d8vcca4.png