In the spacious round room, a certain purple prince held the audience of an obscenely busty pink darling and her petite blue accompaniment. The second of these three was dancing on her hooves, excited over the sheer and harem-like costume worn (arguably) by her companion, who sat on a large pillow and covered herself as much as possible. It was little more than panties and socks, with golden bracelets that bore majestic streamers like the auras of foreign gods. Around each bracelet were mounted silver jinglebells.
"Dasher's lovely!!" the pink creature cooed, "Oooh, I want to try it on! Can I? Can I? C'mon Prancy!"
"Of course, Miss Dancer!" drawled Prancer. "After all, I know you can hardly abide an ensemble you can fit in, and this was designed for Miss Ruby and Dasher so I think --"
"Hurry up and put it on me!" Dancer chirped.
"-- that you'll find it to your liking," Prancer finished with a snooty pout, "Until you pop the top apart in the middle of the show, at any rate..."
Prancer turned his gaze to the side and jerked his head impatiently. A trolly rolled out from one of the many curtained-off passages surrounding the room, amidst a rattling of bells. Upon it was an ice sculpture of Dancer, clothed in a similar outfit to that renting Dasher's person, though much riskier around her far larger breasts.
There was an awkward pause, as Dancer beamed at the sculpture and its lewd couture with hands clasped, smile slowly widening and eyes watering like she was taking in her Kinsmend present.
"I give it a minute tops," Dasher volunteered from the corner, then mumbled in embarrassment, "Hell, I feel like mine's gonna give any second..."
Prancer glanced at her almost in concern before looking back. "Now Dancer --"
Dancer leapt to the trolly. "Move it, bimbo!" she yelled and hip-checked the ice sculpture of herself, knocking it down and shattering it into many pieces as Prancer yelped and dove out of the way, tugging his ears down against the assault of the jinglebells' cacophonous protest and Dasher's roar as she did the same. Rapidly snatching up the clothes, Dancer skipped off to the changing room (the location of which in this maze of fabric she knew far better than you or I) as her squeals of "yes-yes-yes-yes-yes" and the carol of the bells slowly faded.
After the silence had returned and Dancer was out of earshot, Dasher fidgeted and spoke. "I don't get it," she grumbled uncertainly. "Dancer's got more dignity than she's got big titties. Why's she always so happy to put herself on display like this?" She wriggled bashfully.
Prancer looked at her gently and spoke softly. "If you're very displeased with it, Dasher, I'm not comfortable forcing you to wear that in public, and neither is Dancer."
"She coaxed me into it..." Dasher grumbled as though pinning the blame for starting a fight.
"Well yes," Prancer admitted, "But she just wants --"
"Tadaaa!" Dancer yelled, skipping out of the changing room and leaping up onto one leg with mountains wobbling, striking a sensual pose and opening one of her fans. Prancer glared, unable to decide whether he was offended she snuck in her fans or pleased with how well his work fit with them.
Dasher however, clearly decided on offended. "Holy crap, Dancer!" she recoiled, "Your fat teats are bouncing out!" At her language, Prancer gave her a look mixing plaintive with aghast.
"Mm-hmm?" Dancer asked with a blush, apparently not understanding the objection, though she returned to two hooves and moved her fan to coyly cover her massive breasts (a skillful undertaking.)
There was a nervous pause. "O-okay, look, I can't do this," Dasher stuttered, red-faced and running to her own changing room. Dancer gasped and followed her, clearly concerned. "Wait, Dashy! What's wrong??" In the rather cramped closet, Dasher turned to her looking cornered and crying. Dancer immediately dropped any pretense of smiling, slowly closing her fans and setting them aside. "What's wrong, darling?" she asked in a softer, less whimsical tone.
"I c-c-can't d-do thiiiis," Dasher wailed, "The-posing-and-the-dancing-and-the-bouncing-and-I-can't-cuz-I'm-not-as-beautiful-as-yoooouuu." Dasher paused, realizing she had accidentally avoided avoiding the problem. "Oh-no. Please f-forget I said that-MMF!"
Dancer had already hugged Dasher tightly, enveloping her face in her considerable cleavage - on the plus side, allowing Dasher to not look her in the eye. She began to rant half-sobbing. "Oh Dasher! You ARE beautiful, sweetie, I'm so sorry, I knew you weren't comfortable with this year after year, I want you to be proud of yourself honey but if this isn't working, then you don't have to do it, okay, I'm so sorry!"
Dasher mumbled incoherently until Dancer smiled sheepishly and let her breathe. "D-do you really think I'm a pretty lady?" Dasher asked with a giant childish frown. Dancer beamed and nodded, stroking one of the droopy blue ears.
"But your boobs are so much bigger than mine," Dasher admitted.
Dancer giggled modestly and waved that off. "Th-that's not important! Um, Miss Ruby's a petite little thing like you too, and she's just darling, isn't she?"
Dasher nodded reluctantly, still pouting.
"You don't have to be, um, voluptuous. You just have to be you! And I think you make you look wonderful."
Dasher sniffled and hugged her, this time without suffocating. "Thank yooou."
A few minutes later, they left the changing room, Prancer faithfully awaiting and clearly worried, Dasher looking refreshed and properly bitchy.
"I'll wear the slut suit for one night, but I ain't fuckin' nobody," Dasher announced. Dancer and Prancer beamed.
