Reel 1: The Infection Election
It all started with a song. A cheerful little ditty anybody could hum.
It wasn’t modern but it had a certain timeless charm. It filled the head with images of another era, mainly in black and white. It filled the head with images of dance parties and fabulous art-deco ball rooms. It filled the head with the urge to put on a good pair of shoes and dance the night away. It filled the head with words like classic and glitz and glamour. It filled the head with the urge to make that shiny, nostalgic, anachronistic world…and do wonderfully dark, primal things to each other in its shadows. And the urge to keep it in the shadows didn’t last long.
It filled the head.
And just as instantly, it was in the blood.
***
Pinkie Pie’s Pinkie-Sense has been going off all day. A strange variation she’s never felt before and she can’t quite put her finger on why she isn’t more worried. In fact, she’d swear she’s never felt quite this…chipper!
It was that song she’d heard Fluttershy whistling at that party, catchy little number. Ever since Pinkie’s been tapping her hooves to it as she whips up a batch of cupcakes, half wishing she had a proper pair of heels so she could make it a real tap dance.
“Yeah, a couple of nosebleed heels, those’d suit me-down-to-the-ground, yes-siree…“
She shakes her head, blinking. Wasn’t there something she was supposed to do? She always loves hanging with the girls, but did she have to tell them something? Ugh, if only her new Pinkie-Sense tingle would stop going off, it keeps interrupting the song in her head. How’d it go again?
Helpfully, Derpy passes by the open window whistling it and… man, she looked amazing, she must have a hot date.
“Oh yeah!” Pinkie resumes whistling and skips over to her mixing bowl. What she has so far doesn’t need much more but it feels like the most natural thing in the world for her to bend over, as much as possible, so much her caboose is practically an air traffic violation, one hand on her hip as she pours. “Mmmm-yeah.”
She coughs. “Uh, I mean…what do I mean? Mmmmm.~” She whistles some more and looses her mojo. Dumb Pinkie-Sense! “I mean this’ll-be-my-best-batch-yet, mmhmm, real- humdingers…what’re humdingers? Ugh, geez-mmm-whooo-tell-ya-what-I’d-kill-fer-asmoke-right-now, hmm, boy-that’d-hit-the-spot, you-betcha.~”
She stands up, indulging the urge to sway her hips then registers a No Smoking sign above the door and pouts. She tosses her mane at the boring health department. “Hmph!~”
She blinks, pushing her fringe out of her face. It seems determined to droop over her eye today. Not that she minds, mind you. “Hang on a minute…I don’t smoke…”
She puts a finger to her more full, pouty lips. “…don’t I?”
A bell rings up front. Pinkie leaves her mix to simmer and skips out to the counter. Well, she meant to skip, her body decided to turn it into a catwalk slink halfway through, so she staggers and falls over. When she springs back into view, there’s something different about her, under her apron. She didn’t put on that much makeup when she got up this morning, either.
“Blah-blah-blah, mmmmm, yabba-dabba, yip-yap!” Pinkie beams. Then feels her jaw. “Guh…um, I mean…” Why did she do that? It’s not one of her bits, it’s not even funny. “Sorry, what can I…Oh, hey-ya-guuuuys!~”
It’s Fluttershy, her best Gal, still all dressed up in that fabulous golden-orange evening dress she wore at last night’s party, swayin’ slightly in the heels of her new black thigh high boots and lookin’ kinda outta it, but not to worry, she’s got that absolute hunk Discord to support her. Pinkie crosses her legs under her apron-skirt at the sudden warmth the sight of those snazzy duds he’s wearing starts in her.
“And a good afternoon to you too, Pinkie,” Discord smirks, leaning down to examine her. Pinkie is surprised she finds batting her lashes at him so surprising. Why wouldn’t she? Whatta dreamboat!~ “Just thought we’d swing by to see how you’re doing.”
“Oooooh!~” Pinkie coos at such consideration, then shakes her head to clear it. If she can get the balance in her head right, she can hold an actual conversation, not blather like a Splatoon character, and keep that lovely song playing in her head at the same time. “Uh, actually…blah-blah-hmmm~…m-my Pinkie-Sense has been k-kinda jabba-jabba-hmm-boopboop-be-doop--”
“Ah yes, that bothersome sense of yours,” Discord nods sympathetically. “I may have a cure for that…well, not a cure exactly. Ah, but I’m being a scatterbrain, aren’t I, darling?”
“Heh-heh-blah-blah-that’s-why-I-love ya, baby, whooo-hoo,~” Fluttershy giggles, suddenly coming alive enough to snuggle up against Discord’s black tuxedo. Pinkie wonders why she perfectly understands what her friend means (specifically that’s she’s Discord’s, all Discord’s) when only the half of that was actual speech.
Discord pulls what looks to be a business card out of his pocket and with a flick of his wrist it becomes an unfurling poster…of himself, sans an arm-candy Fluttershy, doing the same thing. The text on the Escher sketch posters is a series of blurs that might generously be called shorthand, but even with her fringe permanently over one eye, and man alive does she need a smoke, Pinkie can understand it’s perfectly reasonable statement: DISCORD FOR MAYOR
“You don’t mind if we paste a few of these up in here, do you?” Discord asks. “After all, with so many creatures swinging by to sample your…cupcakes, this feels like an ideal place to spread my good word.”
“Mmm, heh-heh, my-cupcakes, mmm-hmm, tasty-yeah,~” Pinkie babbles. She goes cross-eyed trying to stare at her own mouth. “B-blah blah, woooo, mmmm, huh?!~”
“Yes, I wouldn’t have seen myself going into politics either!” Discord beams, holding Fluttershy closer and holding up her gloved arm to show a ring, its diamond a replica of his face, on her finger. “But a Chaos Spirit’s gotta do what a Chaos Spirit’s gotta do to keep his new lady wife in the style to which she shall surely become accustomed, isn’t that right my snuggle bunny?”
“Awwwww, hmmm, boy,” Fluttershy drawls, nuzzling his chest (what she can reach of it) and, in a move Pinkie knows should shock her but feels as natural to her as sashaying, slips her hand into her new husband’s pants, “ooooh, watta-man-watta-hunk-watta-Fella, lucky-me, mmm-hmm, yep.~”
“Awwww!~” Pinkie coos then grips the counter top to try and grab control of…herself, even though she’s worried the sugar will stain her own gloves and when did she even put on gloves? “N-no…I…”
“I know that’s not what you meant, my Gal, just teasing,” Discord chuckles, waving a dismissive lion’s paw. “Yes, I can understand you perfectly, as I shall all my Gals and Fellas. I’ll know what you mean even when you don’t.”
“G-Gals?” Pinkie moans. It feels like there’s a lovely pink cloud that unfortunately weighs a bajillion tons squatting on her brain, flattening everything, and the only thing stronger then her craving for a fucking cigarette is the beautiful, jazzy song humming in her head. “Gals an’ Fellas?”
She bites her lips, her eyes lighting up. “Mmmm, Fellas…~”
“That’s what my little virus makes you,” Discord beams, patting her on the head then using the same hand to slap Fluttershy’s ass. “Here’s a not especially funny joke for you, Pinkie. What do a brainwashing, jazzifying, transforming, bimbo-and-himbo-fying, toon-ifying virus and a song have in common? They’re both catchy.”
Pinkie thinks that’s the lamest, not to mention maybe most evil thing she’s ever heard, but if that was what she really thought then why is she letting out a giggle and effetely wagging a gloved hand to show whatta wag she thinks the big guy is?
“Of course, everyone at my little soirée was infected by my songbird’s singing,” Discord continues, “take a bow, Fluttershy.” Fluttershy giggles and does so. “And it’s gotten to most of Ponyville by now, Canterlot and Cloudsdale will take a bit longer, and of course it’s why I invited those snobs from Manehattan, why pass up an opportunity to spread it to an entire train…which must be quite the cartoony little choo-choo by now, come to think of it.”
He leans in even further, still gripping Fluttershy to him and adjusts the pouty, smiling Pinkie’s little hat, the one that rose up out of her hair like a sapling a few minutes ago. “But I’m only checking in on you, my dear Kinky Pie, because if it can infect you, then it can infect anyone and anything. So why don’t you step out from behind that counter and let me admire my handywork?”
Unable to resist, not finding the outright order weird, Pinkie sashays her new bod out from behind the counter, now complete master of her heels, and gives her master a little twirl before freezing in the perfect pose, showing off everything she can show off without stripping out of her red French maid outfit.
Not that she wouldn’t if Discord told her to, of course.
“Hmmm, interesting, a variation,” Discord muses, looking between her and Fluttershy, though what he’s really doing is checking out their cleavage. “No matter, your wardrobe shall be full of dresses, gloves and etc within seconds of you stepping into your room.”
“Mmm-hmm, uh-huh-whatevah-ya-say-sugar, mmm,~” Pinkie concurs. From outside comes a sudden yell of “WHOOOOOO BABY-DOLL!” Pinkie’s ears perk up and she begins to strut towards it only to be held back by Discord putting his non-Fluttershy arm around her waist.
“Nooooot yet, my pet, not yet!” he chuckles. “You Gals, it’s like herding cats, I swear. I just need to take a few notes before we’re done, and I leave you to spread my song to even more Gals and Fellas.”
“Blah-blah-yuh-huh,~” Pinkie agrees, playing coyly with his beard with one finger.
“You’re…let’s say unique,” Discord explains. “If anypony could shake off my spell it would be you. The more prim and proper that you are…” He stops to roll his eyes and shudder. “…the more powerfully my virus will Gal-ify or Fella-fy you. But you, my funny bunny, have you noticed any…undesirable side effects?”
Pinkie hesitates, her new bedroom eyes fluttering in a way that has nothing to do with trying to lure Fellas to her.
“M-m…my…Pinkie-Sense…” she manages. She puts a glove to her head.
“Oh, of course, how remiss of me!” Discord lets go of Fluttershy to take her by both shoulders, rocking her gently as he puts his eagle talon to her forehead. “There we go, no more silly sense, Pinkie, common or otherwise…well, I think we can leave you your sense of occasion, eh?” He grins, his snaggle tooth sharper than usual. “So what do you say now, my Gal?”
Pinkie pouts thoughtfully, then produces a holder from between her new double-Ds. As if by magic a cigarette has appeared behind her ear.
“Gotta-light, Handsome?~” she asks, winking.
***
Half an hour later Spike is back from a trip to the Dragonlands and wondering if he stepped into the wrong universe.
Most of Ponyville’s buildings are…bigger? Happier? He can’t quite describe it, but they don’t make sense anymore. There’re lopsided skyscrapers now! It’s like the village is trying to be half Manehattan!
Chimneys spew either smoke in the shape of hearts or actually fluttering pink cartoon hearts, which come in geyser like eruptions. Shop signs sway even when there’s no breeze and share space with winking neon art deco signs which are all groan inducing puns. Every single radio, TV and street performer is playing the same damn song, catchy but omnipresent, and it’s making him even more lightheaded than the sense of uncertainty.
Adding to that uncertainty is the fact Ponyville seems to have become a red-light district overnight. Or worse, some kind of hipster convention: Spike hasn’t seen a single person who wasn’t wearing a suit and fedora. And the mares! Spike’s 19, he and Sweetie Belle had that fling that wore itself out, he likes to think he’s an open-minded guy, but he’s almost embarrassed by the amount of heels, stockings and cleavage he’s seen since stepping off the train.
He’s got a cheek-reddening intuition where all those chimney hearts are coming from, not to mention when the occasional building roof blows off and floats happily back down.
He's been trying to get to the castle, which also seems jauntier and to be swaying musically, but it’s been difficult. For one thing the strange new buildings mean strange new streets, full of lurid posters. Spike can’t read most of them but knows they’re promising a good time in several contexts. The only variation seems to be for beauty products or Discord.
What’s also impeding Spike’s progress is that even though most of the town seems to be…busy right now, there’s also enough ponies moseying (or in the case of the mares, languishing in alleys and doorways) to force him into constantly correcting course.
No one’s been hostile, in fact they’re laughing a lot, the prostitutes (if that’s what they are?!) even wink and blow heart-with-question-mark smoke signals at him, but Spike has an odd instinct not to touch them. Something about the glossy texture of their clothes, of their very skin…
***
He uses an alley wall, bedecked with ads for cigarettes, to launch himself into a glide, hoping it’ll speed up his progress. He needs to find Rarity. Well, he needs to find Twilight, or either of the Royal Sisters, but he has this feeling in his gut that it has to be Rarity. If anything’s happened to her…
Why isn’t he more scared? It’s almost like he’s rushing over to see if Rarity is…like everypony else. It’s that damn song coming from everywhere, it makes you feel so positive! He can even hear a saxophone variant of it now, as he swoops over a roof terrace.
A flash of familiar colouring catches his eyes and Spike turns, startled, to see if he’s seeing what he’s seeing, so of course he smacks into a cartoon weathervane and gets spun around so much he smashes into the terrace.
“Whabba-bwuh?! Say-mmm-hey-buster-wassa-big-idea, see, hmmm, eh?!” someone demands.
Yeah, that’s another thing. Nopony can fucking talk anymore! It’s like all of Ponyville decided to learn Banjo-Kazooie speak, and forget everything else….except for cheesy innuendos! Spike’s lost track of how many of them he’s overhead by now. Every restaurant and bar has some variant of “Say (baby/sugar/honey/doll) , you sure (are thing/look like/do thing) that kinda makes a Fella wanna (basically sex)!”
The babies/sugars/honeys/dolls in question seem to like it, or at least they laugh a lot and give their fair share on innuendos back, but everything else is either gibberish or basic “Yes/No” noises.
Spike rolls over and wishes his vision hadn’t cleared up so quickly. He’s looking at Button Mash, dressed like as much of a slicked-back-hair douchebag as every other grinning loon in this town.
The black suit makes Button, who’s Spike’s always had mixed feelings about at best, look like he’s an academy freshman on picture day more than a made man, but the fedora that’s replaced that stupid propeller beanie of his does actually suit him.
What’s making Spike uncomfortable isn’t just that Button’s suit pants are missing and that he’s getting a close up of the gamer’s fully erect chocolate brown and Turkish delight pink cock. It’s that, in defiance of physics and biology, Button’s cock is the same size as the saxophone he’s carrying.
Then again, assuming he’s not popping some kind of pills, maybe this explains why Button was always such a snot. Spike knows he was pretty damn confident when he found out how solid his own dragon stiffies could get.
“Button, man, what’s going…on…” Spike is halfway to his feet and feels like he’s about to drop again. He’s not the only one getting to his feet. He did see what he thought he did…
Sweetie Belle blinks at him, head tilting to one side from her place on the terrace floor. Something’s happened to her proportions just like every other mare. She’s the same age as Spike and Button but now looks older, more…worldly, even with her clueless blinking. Maybe it’s the old school quality of the evening dress she’s wearing, the same greyish mulberry of her hair.
Spike can’t stop himself from staring: even bowled over by his landing Sweetie looks like a million dollars, especially dressed like that, but, well, from here he can see right up her dress. Sweetie isn’t wearing anything except for a garter belt for her stockings and Spike can see the familiar warm magenta shape of her labia.
He never expected to see it again, and Sweetie seems more surprised to see him than what she should be, outraged that she’s inadvertently flashing him this way, that he isn’t doing the proper thing and looking away. She even winks at him. She’s started wearing light blue eyeshadow and it stirs things in Spike he hasn’t felt since their last night together.
“Hrmph!” goes Button, hands on his hips. “Wocka-wocka-grrr-whadda-ya-think-I-am, frickafraka, big-man-huh, gabba-wabba, comin’-in-here, bustin’-up-practice, hooo, wadda-noive, I-oughta-bop-ya-right-on-top, yeah-boy-fugh!”
Spike now on his feet looks right at Button. Is it his imagination or is there something weird about his and Sweetie’s pupils? “What the fuck are you talking about?” he asks, numbly.
Button fumes and points to Sweetie Belle, who’s somehow acquired a cigarette, in a holder no less, even though she always complained about the smell of smoke around Spike, and taking puffs.
“Rrrr, hmm, lotta-nerve, dubba-yubba,” Button fumes, pointing at Sweetie. “Hrrr, mess-with-my-muse, my-Gal, my-Sweetie, in-the-middle-of-practice-bippity-boppity-wham-bam, hmph!”
Sweetie walks over to Button like she’s trying to pop out of her dress and massages his shoulders. “Wooooo,” she coos, “aww-hmm-don’-be-mad-Fella, hickory-dickory, c’mon-zips-lick, yeah.~”
Button backs down and starts making out with Sweetie right there in front of Spike like it’s nothing. Spike’s always wondered what Sweetie saw in Button Mash but kept his distance, and now wonders if that was the smart thing to do. Apparently, they’re literally crazy for each other, given the spirals that’re in Button’s eyes when he opens them. Sweetie trying to sit on his cock while they’re both standing up is a bit much.
“Sweetie, where’s Rarity?” Spike asks urgently. “Can you understand me? Do you remember who I am? Who Rarity is?”
Sweetie stops trying to mount her boyfriend and nods at him, in that rapid way everypony he’s seen moves now. “Mmm-hmm,” she assures in between puffs of her cigarette and pressing her tits against Button’s chest, “yep-yep-yep, big-sis, sure-I-knows-her, whatchawanna-know, her-dress-size, what-can-she-do-I-can’t, huh? Hmm, blah-blah, flim-flam.~”
She steps towards him, which makes Spike flap his wings hard enough to shoot backwards onto the terrace ledge. He’s still not sure about touching anypony, and he’s got a pretty good idea where Sweetie’s been touching Button. He’s also worried he’s starting to adapt to the language barrier: their babble still comes fast, but he figures Button was practicing that stupid song and Sweetie just gave an affirmative about Rarity’s whereabouts.
“Okay, okay…” Spike sighs and runs a nervous hand through his fin. “Everything’s all twisted around, do you know where her shop is now?”
“Bing-boom, yuh-huh, sure-can, you-betcha,~” Sweetie gabbles. She takes the biggest puff Spike’s seen so far and sloooowly lets it out between her luscious, almost strawberry sized lips. The smoke curls into a copy of her face, which winks at Spike, then turns into a Cupid’s arrow and takes off, winding its way between the odd angled new buildings.
“Uh…thanks?” Spike calls, jumping off the ledge and into a glide to follow.
“Hmph,” Button goes again as his purple tail flicks around a skyscraper with a DISCORD FOR MAYOR billboard, “Whadda-maroon.”
Sweetie blows out a last stream of smoke as she whistles the song, the one playing everywhere, their song, the one that showed them how to have a good time. Next to a massage from her gloved hands, it’s the best way for a Gal to sooth a Fella.
“Aww, blah-blah-c’mon-Fella, hmmm,” she coos as a wobbly grin spreads across Button’s face, “grumpy-wumpy, nuh-uh, no-way-Josie, splish-splash, gotta-gig-tonight, mmm-kay, practice, letcha-lil’-muse-put-some-gas-in-yer-tank, okie-dokie-lokie?~”
“Yowza,” Button concedes, nodding almost fast enough to dislodge his fedora, “mmm-whackity-schmakity-gotta-trumpet-for-ya-right-here, baby, yer-da-best, lips-an’-hips, blah-blah-BLAH!”
Sweetie coos and giggles, sinking to her knees. Button resumes practicing the literally viral song on his saxophone, occasionally hitting higher and higher pitches as Sweetie’s luscious lips suck his ever-hardening cock.
Ain’t love grand?
***
When Sweetie’s smoke signal finally poofs out of existence Spike feels his heart speed up from nothing to do with the exertion of flying.
What was once Ponyville, the parts he cared about like Sugar Cube Corner, the castle, Sweet Apple Acres, even what seems to be a restored, yet caricaturist version of the library have all been pulled together into some kind of patchwork plaza, a huge Times Square style theme park. In addition to the winking (in some cases literally, forming grinning animated faces) neon displays, the once rural area is surrounded on all sides, even Sweet Apple Acres and a somehow…cute version of the Everfree Forest, by tower blocks of billboards, old school painted ones that shimmer in Spike’s vision as if they’re about to move.
Mares he recognizes dressed like tarts wink their shadowed eyes at him and invite him to try assorted foods and cigarette brands, while ever few rows a stallion in a suit and fedora is practically leaning out of his own advertisement, frozen in the act of drooling or wolf whistling at the mare in a totally unrelated one. The only difference every so often is a DISCORD FOR MAYOR billboard.
Spike squints at the top of one of the towers, above a billboard for the Great and Powerful Trixie’s new magic show, featuring a disappearing dress. There’s some kind of temple or mansion thing at the top but he’d swear the façade, nestled between two waterfalls of musical notes (probably for that fucking song coming from everywhere) is…Fluttershy’s cottage?
A loud AROOOO-WAAAGH sound startles Spike and he dives aside just in time to avoid being mown down by an antique police van that’s jovially bouncing so much it should come off its wheels. He’d swear its grill and headlights were just one more grinning face.
A face under a helmet sticks out the driver’s window, a cartoon constable in a blue uniform and goofy helmet, and Flash Sentry shakes a fist at Spike. “Blah-blah-blah, wowie-zowie, getoutta-the-road-why-don’t’cha, unga-bunga!”
Spike stares as Flash’s van swerves out of sight around a corner, then comes rocketing back, screeching to a halt in front of Twilight’s castle. A drawbridge it shouldn’t have drops suddenly and Spike can see a waiting figure. He can’t quite make her out from this distance but from the sheer purple of her outfit he knows who it is.
Flash springs out of his van through the roof and drops into Twilight’s arms. Just as quickly they’ve switched places, making out the whole time, and Flash’s feet blur and whistle as he carries her over the threshold. The drawbridge slams shut, and a mailbox bursts out of the front lawn. Cans on strings sprout out of the rear axle of Flash’s van and a banner reading JUST HITCHED drapes itself from nowhere over the front of the castle.
Spike whirls as something briefly blots out the sun. A figure is towering and still growing over a Canterlot that now rests on an impossibly high hill, somehow even bigger than New Ponyville. Spike squints, unable to make out the strange figure, and experiences a strange kind of vertigo as his perception inexplicably zooms in on it.
***
It’s Princess Celestia! Dressed like every other mare in this seemingly worldwide madhouse, she sports a black pair of evening gloves, a dress in every shade of her mane, and judging by the leg she’s flashing from under it, a pair of stockings stretching all the way down to her impossibly pointy high heeled shoes.
Instead of her crown, Celestia now sports a ringmaster’s stovepipe hat, although it does have a crown insignia just above the brim. The princess stands stock still, a parody of Manehattan’s statue of Destiny. Clutched to her ample cleavage is a copy of the Karma Sutra, and in her raised left hand she holds a feather duster like a torch.
Spike isn’t sure if he’s having some kind of out-of-body-experience, or if Celestia really is a giantess now, or if the perspective is just as warped as everything else, but he’s definitely seeing the most powerful being in Equestria, maybe on the planet, posing like a Stepford Wife parody or herself. His somehow all-encompassing POV notices she has a cigarette holder stashed in a holster on her showing garter.
Celestia stares dead ahead, her mane covering her face so that only one eye is visible, her expression blank except for a perpetual pout. Her sole visible eye flicks towards Spike suddenly and winks.
He’s close enough now to hear the almost imperceptible sound Celestia is making in her new role as statue and self-parody; she’s humming that fucking song under her breath.
***
Spike snaps out of it, finding himself back in the square just in time for a factory whistle to go off somewhere. Doors burst open and suddenly the world around him is flooded with mares, some he recognizes, their dresses shimmering as their hips sway and their heels click. The air fills with babble and smoke. Just as suddenly stallions in suits erupt from every alleyway like salmon upstream with cries of “WHOOOOO MAMA!” and “HAMMINA-HAMMINA-HAMMINA!”
Spike manages to launch himself into the air again, perching on one of the billboards to look down on the jabbering hordes. Mares and stallions swarm around each other, small pockets of come ons and make out sessions, even blatant handjobs and fingerings forming like coral in the torrents. Lines that aren’t hollering and babble waft up to him like the strangely pleasant-smelling fumes of all those cigarettes. He can make them out perfectly, even though the song is getting louder.
“Call the fire brigade, Sugar, you're so hot my hose is about to blow!”
“Hey, I don’t mind gettin’ wet, Fella, just make sure ya don’t put out my cig, mmm-kay?~”
“Have I got somethin’ on my dress, Handsome? Why don'tcha take a real close look fer me?~”
“Gimme a sec to warm up my mitts, Baby, an’ I’ll run ’em all over ya!”
“Say Gal, mind openin’ yer jaws of life, yer so gorgeous it’s KILLIN’ me!”
“Sure I'll take ya to Heaven, Sugar, just don't die on me!~”
“I love me some fur, Fella, so why don’tcha getcha paws all over me?~”
“Cutie pie, YOURS is the only rug I’m interested in cuttin’!”
“I can pay or play, Baby!”
“Nah, just drop your pants, Honey, an’ I’ll take me a lil’ free sample!~”
“You look like this Fella I know, lets see if ya feel like him.~”
“One look at you, Sugar, an’ all I can feel is beneath my waist!”
“Say Gal, my pants are real tight all of a sudden, mind givin’ me a hand?”
“No problem Fella, everypony sez yours truly is the loosest Gal around.~”
And on and on and on. Spike claps his hands over his ears. If he could just find somewhere quiet, get his bearings… There! Rarity’s shop, as grotesquely over proportioned as everything else is, which is why he didn’t recognize it at first. Its new tower has an open window, a shape moving around up there. Spike spreads his wings and shoots for it.
***
“R-Rarity?! Is that a new outfit or have you caught this crazy bug too?
“Hmmmmm?~”
She turns and looks him up and down, then sways her way over to him. Despite the fact there's something clearly wrong with her Spike can't look away, frozen in place as she runs a gloved finger over his chest. Her dress is the same colour as her hair and her one visible eye is somehow even more blue than before. Her elegant tailor’s fingers fidget slightly, light shimmering off the cornflower blue gloves she’s wearing.
“Huh,~” Rarity drawls in that strange, somehow too fast speech everyone’s started talking in. “Mmm, boy,you-look-like-you-could-show-a-Gal-a-good-time, yeah, whaddaya-say, Fella, how-’bout-it, huh?~”
“W-what?” Spike takes her hand, feeling the burning blush on his checks. "Look, I think we better take you to the hospital, toots."
He blinks. ‘Toots?’ Who says toots anymore?
“Oooooooh,~” Rarity drawls, in that way that's not speech. She starts feeling his free arm with
her free hand. “Blah-blah-hmm-yeah-boy-whooo.~”
“R-Rarity...” Spike puts a hand to his head, suddenly feeling lightheaded. He adjusts his necktie, then blinks and yelps. When did he get a tie?! He looks down at his suit and takes a while to figure out what feels so off: he wasn't wearing a suit!
...why wouldn't he wear a suit, what is he, a bum?
“Rarity, what's happenin’?” he asks. “Ha-happenin’? What’s happenin’ toots, you look...what the...”
Why can't he suddenly pronounce the letter ‘G’? What's up with his mouth? Why is he calling her that? Why is he wearin’ jeans with this suit, what is he, a palooka?
“Mmmm, hmmm,~” Rarity murmurs, batting her heavily eye shadowed eyes at him. Her lashes are driving him crazier than usual. “Wassamatta,-Handsome,-yer-suit-too-tight? Lemmee-help-ya-with-that.~”
“W-wait...” Spike tries to back away, staggering slightly as his sneakers finish morphing into spats, then turns around and almost puts his eyes out with her cleavage. “R-Rarity, doll, ya gotta...”
“Fresh!~” Rarity giggles as his nose makes a HONK noise and sets her cleavage bouncing. Even though it shouldn't be possible, should kill him stone dead right there, Spike is keenly aware his heart is mimicking each breast bounce for bounce.
...and why wouldn't it? Whatta broad! Whatta dame!
“Wassthematta,-Handsome,” she says, putting a hand on her hip, “nuthin'-to-say?~”
Spike stares at her and feels his mouth stretch into a grin way too broad at the same time his new fedora drops outta nowhere onto his head.
”WHOOOOOOOH MAMA!” he declares on his fresh, new instincts. “Hammina-hammina-hammina!”
Rarity yelps then giggles as he shoots forward to grab her, running his paws over as much of her as he can. Spike feels his tongue lolling like a wolf’s.
“Oooh, fast-an’-fresh, mmm, yeah-baby-oooh~” Rarity coos. It's not language but Spike understands it perfectly. Infect. Fuck. Infect. Fuck. Infect. Fuck.
And now he's one of the infected, a Fella to her Gal.
And he couldn't be happier.
“Say, Doll,-ya-wanna-play-sometime,” he drawls in his husky new voice, honkin’ her hooters, laying claim to her, “mmm-like-right-now-fer-instance, whaddaya-say, hmm?”
“Oooh-wooo-mmm-fast-yeah,~” Rarity drawls, reaching down to grip the eleven inches (and growin’!) hard on slippin’ outta his zipper. “Found-me-my-very-own-Fella, my-widdle-Spikey-Wickey-mmmm…~”
***
The virus spreads so fast Discord doesn’t even have to run an election, not that he ever intended to do so, mind you, but it’s so sweet how all his Gals and Fellas just accept him as their leader without thinking about it. Not that his virus leaves them much to think with. That’s the whole point.
But if they did, they’d probably think quite kindly of the man who made them essentially immortal and indestructible. Falling pianos and anvils? P’shaw! A handy bike pump and a Fella’s back in pursuit of the fast walkin’ Gal, who’ll never break her heels. Just one of a million perks to being one of Discord’s toons!
Such as cigarettes that don’t give you cancer or sex that doesn’t get you pregnant. Hell, the entire planet can now carry a tune! Well, the infected portions of it anyway, but Discord’s working on that. Hmm, tell a lie, no he isn’t. His Gals and Fellas are. But he trusts them to bring everyone around, the lil’ scamps! Speaking of which, he is mayor for life around here, time to do some work. With his favourite secretary, of course.
He makes a show of producing a pocket watch and jumping with an alarm noise. “Good heavens, Ms. Twilight, we’re behind schedule! That’s what I get for spending an extra five minutes inside Fluttershy this morning. Oh dear, how shall we ever get in our afternoon blowjob and dictate that letter to the general at the same time?!”
Twilight looks up from her typewriter, who’s keys consist only of little hearts, and happily lifts her cigarette holder from between her lips. “Aww, hmm, don’t-worry-Mistah D,~” she coos.
“You have a solution, Ms. Twilight?” As if he doesn’t know.
“Uh-huh, right-a-roonie-, you-bet,” Twilight babbles, strutting over with her pen and pad. She poses for him, gesturing between him and her mouth with her pen. “Blah-blah-blah, ya-see, mmm-hmm, yabba-dabba-, up-up-’n-away, ding-dong, whoo-hoo, so-whaddaya-think?~”
Discord strokes his beard as he considers his nemesis turned notary. “Both at once, you say…?”
“Mmm-hmm,~” Twilight agrees with sultry enthusiasm.
“I don’t know, I’m not sure I’m properly motivated…”
“Oooh, I-gotcha,~” Twilight says, and peels her dress off with a reverberating twang that coincides with Discord’s instant foot long erection.
“Brilliant Ms. Twilight, simply brilliant!” Discord grins, admiring that violet Alicorn body in nothing but her black gloves, garters, stockings and thigh highs. “Ah, isn’t this so much better than when we used to argue ethics and so forth?”
“Hee-hee-hee, fer-sure-,Mistah D, mmm, aww-yeah,~” Twilight agrees, thrusting her double-D tits as far forward as they’ll go without carrying her over. She poses a few more times so he can take her in from as many angles as possible, then lets her luscious tongue slide from between her lips to lick her pen, posing with it over the pad and raising an eyebrow.
For the past few months, Twilight has been happily married to her Fella, Flash Sentry, Discord’s chief of police. Somepony’s got to make sure there are bands of roaming constables to chases Fellas who’ve gotten themselves into whacky scrapes, after all. For the same amount of time, she’s also been fucking and been fucked by her boss without a second’s hesitation. Flash Sentry and Fluttershy are fully aware of what their respective spouses are up to and consider it perfectly natural. Twilight’s a secretary after all, what else would she do all day?
“Alright,” Discord decrees, leaping into his swivel chair and rotating a few times so his pants and shoes fly off, “on your marks…”
Twilight uses her horn to levitate her pad and pencil and drops to her booted knees before him.
“…get set…”
Twilight opens her mouth wide, tongue just pressing against his head, hands around what she can reach of his shaft, waiting.
“…go!” Discord declares and leans back as wetness and warmth envelopes everything below his waist. Twilight’s quill swishes in perfect time as he speaks. Its scratching mixes with her slurping and gurgling.
***
Dear General Ember,
Regarding your recent demands to surrender and reverse everything I’ve done to reality, I can only say;
ZOINKS!
HAMMANA HAMMANA!
NNNNNGH!
WOOOO HOO HOO!
WAKKA WAKKA!
AROOOOOGAAAAA!
YAKAA YAKAA!
WOOF WOOF!
GYOIIIIII!
WOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!
ATTA GIRL!
ALMOST THERE, BABY!
UUUUUUUUUUGH--
Yowza, whatta babe!
Sincerely,
Mayor for Life Discord
