There’s certain emotions that are hard to express with words. In these moments, actions speak volumes. You’ve always wanted a fluffy though, but not a grown up one. No, you wanted a foal. A little creature that will be utterly dependent on you. Something small, fragile, and completely malleable to your every whim and desire. To provide all the love that you never got, to never abandon you, and ultimately something that can endure the complex feelings that welled within your chest. It started with a visit to the local pet store.
It started at the Fluffy cages, scoping out the hopefuls, the dejected, the forlorn and the forsaken. They stare back, some quickly press themselves onto the plexiglass, wagging their tails and begging for you to take them. They’re just passed over, and forgotten. It’s not long before your eyes catch the nursing mares, and their foals. A multi-color assault to the senses, it’s amazing that you aren’t starting to develop a migraine from staring at them. A young man walks up to you, dressed in his work apron, flashing a fake grin upon his face, “Welcome to Fluffbarn. What can we do for you today?”
“Are any of these foals for sale?”
“I’d recommend the weaned ones. Not many people are able to provide the attention that it takes for hand-rearing. Not to mention, the mothers tend to go crazy when you try to take their babies.”
“Hrm. I’ve been told that hand-rearing is the best way of raising a perfectly obedient Fluffy. That’s actually what I’m hoping for.”
It may not be true, but trying to validate the reason for getting a completely dependent fluffy tends to work well for hugboxers. He doesn’t seem to mind though. Immediately accepting the pseudo-science as fact, “Oh, I didn’t know that. Okay, pick your poison.”
You don’t respond, just gaze upon the lot of them in the large cage, it’s a large plexiglass housing that works for multiple animals. With a bedding of wood chips, some litter trays, kibble bowls and those hamster water bottles. Toys are scattered here and there, mostly blocks, but there’s a couple small balls perfect for foals to play with. If there’s one thing that makes you not want a mare, it’s because of their crotch tits. That might be a trait they gain during pregnancy, but you’ve always viewed them with disgust. Something that never really faded with time. A trait that seems to show their origins. After all, only humans know how to make such disgusting traits in a product.
There’s only one thing you’ve got in mind. A foal of indeterminate color, but happy and content in his station. One lavished with adoration by his mother, fed and wanting for nothing. It must have something to lose in this deal. And be painfully aware of that loss. You want the fall to happen. Nothing else can do.
“I’ll take that green one over there.”
He points over towards the solitary tiny foal still nursing on its mother’s tits, lavishing in the glow of love, the song of their people and everything that makes you want to puke. All the saccharine bullshit that they love to make up on the spot. With how plump it is, the nice emerald shade of its thick downy fluff, and the fact that it’s pretty much given free reign over the milk sources, it might be the favorite child. Or… otherwise known as “bestest baby”.
“Yes.” ‘No shit, Sherlock. It’s the only green one in this fucking nightmare.’
He goes to unlock the top of the see-through pen, and it seems to instantly trigger the mothers. They start to happily cry out for the option to be taken by the nice misters. Little chorus of “Nyu daddeh?” and “pick mummah!” came through, the ones that weren’t really interested in being chosen were too fixated on their foals. A few of the little ones join in, bouncing up and down on their haunches, more mimicking their pleading mothers than actually understanding it’s meaning. You stop the clerk from reaching in, feigning concern in your voice.
“No, let me. You’ve gotta keep working with these things. It might be a good idea for someone else to be the focus of their ire.”
More importantly, you want to handle this your way. Breaking a happy family, relishing in their despair and feeding upon it. That’s the only way you’re going to be satisfied with it. After all, you love it. And it has to be you that does it.
There’s no hesitation, he accepts your proposal without question, and you reach in. The mother of the green foal is so engrossed with her singing, on the little nursing whelp that she doesn’t see your hand descend upon the little green creature. It lets go from her teat with an audible pop, milk dripping out from its lips as it chirps within your grasp. She notices the sudden loss, frantically rolling off of her fat ass in desperation, “Bad upsies! Babbeh too smaww fo’ upsies! Nee’ mummah! Gib babbeh backsies!”
It’s just a tumbling of words from her utterly terrified mouth, waddling after you with her hooves occasionally trying to reach up to take back her little baby. Yet, she is still moving so she just falls over herself in a clumsy attempt to get onto her hindlegs. There’s no words, there’s nothing to console her, the other mothers begin to cry about their friend and the foals start to piss and shit themselves in absolute terror. All that you can think of is how exhilarating instigating such chaos can be.
“Are you sure you want an unweaned foal though? They’re much more work.”
Staring down at the little green guy in your hand, clearly noticing that he’s a male now. The first thing you do is offer your thumb. He takes it with his tiny little hooves, eyes still completely shut, blind and defenseless to the world. Without his mother, all he has now is this strange thing, but it is warm and he can hug it. So, he does, tears running down his shut eyes, chirping and peeping a storm as the mothers sob to themselves. The one you’ve stolen from has her hooves against the plexiglass barrier, tears running down her face, her pleas going on deaf ears.
“I’m sure. Now, can you gather up everything I’ll need for raising this little thing. I’ll make it worth the effort.”
He walks away, leaving you to lean down with the tiny thing still in your hands, staring at the mother pawing at her invisible barrier. A sadistic grin creeps over your lips, holding the foal up so she can see him once more.
“Pwease, nice mistah. Gib babbeh tu mummah. Babbeh too smaww. Nee’ mummah fo’ wub an’ miwkies. Dewe oddah fwuffehs dat nee’ nyu daddeh, bu’ babbeh nee’ mummah. Pwease.”
It was a sound argument, there’s no question about it. If you were a hugboxer, or a more… pleasant person, the compassion and reasoning in her words might tempt you. But no, there’s nothing that she can do. Wasted effort.
“Hrm… No. I don’t think so.”
Her eyes widen at your reaction, the cold smile that you provide her, and how her child is being held like a toy rather than as a living creature.
“Den… take mummah too. Babbeh nee’ mummah an’ mummah nee’ babbeh. Nyu daddeh wan’ mummah an’ babbeh?”
She pushes her face against the glass, whimpering out, “Pwease.”
“I’ll tell you what I will be doing. He’ll be coming with me, and you will get to stay here and sob like the little bitch that you are.”
Those words shattered her, she falls back in defeat, her voice cracking as the pain in her heart just grows. Oh, it’s just too easy. You tap the glass, trying your best to “reassure” her, “There, there. I’m not a heartless monster. I’ll give you a chance to save him.”
“Wha can fwuffeh do?”
“You see the other mummahs? I bet they have babies that might be better than this one. A wonderful chirpy baby that might make me decide to give yours back. You just need to find it, and bring it to me. Get me a bestest chirpy, and I’ll give yours back.”
“I promise. But you must get me the bestest you can find. If you bring a poopy or dummy baby, I’ll be angry and I’ll do something terrible to your baby.”
To give her a little taste of the threat, you give the tubby colt’s belly a little press with your thumb, not too hard, but enough to make the tiny thing let out a shrill squeal. Throwing up a small amount of milk that dribbles down his chin. Not much, but a sharp enough point to spur her into action. Acting purely on adrenaline to save her child, she turns to the other mares, all beside themselves in anxiety and dread for their own fates. Completely oblivious to her machinations.
One clerk, far enough away to not be able to hear all of this, or happy to ignore it. And in the part of the day where few others are frequenting the place to complain. Perfectly unnoticeable. Even the threats are done well enough that the cameras can’t catch much of your side of the abuse. After all, you’re just holding a foal and they’re acting absolutely unreasonable. A cruel grin creeps over your lips, the mother is already upon the others, she was remarkably quick when it came down to saving her foal. One of the mothers offers to hug her, and she just moves past them. Going for a mummah that has her little foals still in her arms.
She snatches it, pulling it free with a swift and careful bite, the foal squealed in horror and pissed itself while dangling in her mouth. The foal in your hands is just a little pegasus, nothing really special, but she found the real diamond among these pebbles. An alicorn. The mother screams in horror, reaching forward to grab her child back from the thieving mare, throwing some of the other babies aside in her efforts. They all chirp and cry, everything quickly descending into chaos, the subject of your torment goes back to you and offers the colt, “Take babbeh.”
Happily, you accept it, smiling down at her as your hand descends to receive it. It is done, and she has made the deal with the devil. Now awaiting her reward, she sits back hopefully with her hooves wide open to receive, “Pwease, gib babbeh.”
“I change my mind.”
“I’ll be taking both of them, best of luck.”
She can only watch as you just walk away with the pair in your hands, the other mothers are quick to lunge for her, their anger palpable and their fury justified.
“BAD FWUFFY STOWE BABBEH FWOM GUUD MUMMAH!”
“WOWSTES’ FWUFFY! HATECHU!”
It quickly falls apart, righteous fury blinding them even to their own children. Knocking them down, trampling some, their cries going to deaf ears as they started to kick and bite the mare. She tried to cover her face, squealing out, “Nu! Nu am bad fwuffy, nu am bad mummah! SQUEE!”
Calmly, you carry the two towards the register and wait for the clerk to return with your things. When he does, he has a decent assortment of things, a litter tray, a couple of bowls for water and kibble, even a bag of fluffy kibble that he quickly pointed out is a fair price and recommended for when they get bigger. Formula, bottle, and some toys. Everything that a fluffy parent can ever want. He did take notice that you’ve got an extra in your hand alongside the first.
“Yeah, they attacked this poor little guy. I felt bad for him so I took it upon myself to save him. We better get this going, they’re going a little crazy in there.”
“God dammit, I hate them so fucking much. To be honest, I could care less about what they do, but I have to clean up after their shit.”
“Yeah, I agree. They’re a problematic handful, but that’s why I’m hand-rearing these. I’m hoping that it might curb some of their… shittier traits.”
He ran everything through, the price isn’t great, but some of the shit you’re getting are one time purchases. Although, he did point out, “If you give me a minute, I’ll get you another litter tray.”
“Do they need their own?”
“I’d recommend it. That and bowls, male fluffies tend to be territorial about certain things and it’s easy for them to develop behaviors if they need to share with each other. Even siblings can be prone to it.”
“Alright, charge me for another set.”
You are a man of your word though, he was going out of his way to help you out so… you made sure to follow through on that tip.
Your house isn’t very big, but it’s a home that you adore. A small little rustic house that isn’t hard to take care of. Unfortunately, it’s size does make it hard when it comes to allocating space for a pair of fluffy foals. The closet is the closest thing that might be available for a safe room, but it’ll be cramped. Kitchen, living room, master bedroom, bathroom, and a small spare room. That small extra room could have been an option, but it’s full of shit that you haven’t had the time to sort through. And I mean, full of junk. Boxes of things.
So reallocation of existing space is really all you can offer them. Sorry boxes aren’t hard to make, you had a decent sized plastic bin with a lid that you could easily use. Just need to have it be in the closet for maximum darkness. From what you saw of their mothers, they’re not destined for greatness. More rotund, but they’ll just be chunky masses of fluff. One thing you learned in your research is that the Generations of Fluffies tend to greatly differ in their intellect and appearance. People that wanted more MLP type Fluffies spoke nothing but praises for the Second Generation due to their more faithful adaptation. Yet, there are still fan of the First Generation, they may not be as bright and certainly have their own inconveniences with being able to perform basic tasks, but they make up with their stupid brand of sweetness and love.
There’s just one thing that you need to do. It’d be annoying if they had free reign of the house. It’s the real goal you had in mind with getting a foal. Luckily, you still have your father’s cigar cutter, a perfect guillotine that can function perfectly for your intentions. Your ideal pet needs adjustments.
Little foal limbs are so fragile, easily severed from their host and a foal’s mind is easy to mold. Especially when they can’t see or really understand their surroundings. The part of your brain that speaks devious plans and nefarious wishes happily grew giddy over the idea of twisting their perspective on reality. Oh, you want love and all that. Who doesn’t want love? Never be alone. Something that adores you, that will die for you, that will do anything to please you. It needs to deal with adversity, experience the pain that you’ve always known. Something broken like yourself. A twisted and shattered thing that can’t find love with anything else other than those like itself.
Gently, you cradle the pair in your hands, blind to their partner and unfamiliar with the sudden sensation of another, practically rubbing against them, but their instincts took over. They hug each other, and let out little coos of affection. It brings forth an ugly emotion; jealousy. You figure that getting a sibling is ideal for development, but it also takes away from the love you want. There is one thing you love in particular that might be a boon. That stupid bitch got you an alicorn. It may have cost you a little extra, but that’s something that will work to your benefit. You can’t have them love each other more than you.
Fluffies are instinctively prideful creatures. They were made specifically to appeal to children, and ideally only the best are worth making more of. That meant conditioning them to hate certain colors, finding types of traits inferior and not worth protecting. For some reason, they have an instinctive ingrained hatred for alicorns. Some do try to fight over their pre-programmed conditioning, but it is something to consider with these two. That the purple one might trigger his new littermate to hate him, and that might push him more to loving you.
Setting the alicorn down, your attention goes to the emerald green pegasus. His little hooves raised up in an adorable gesture, you smile down upon it, and stroke his velveteen fluff. Leaning down, you kiss his snout, he lets out a cheerful coo, waving his limbs uselessly as he attempts to grasp your face. Even offering a tiny lick upon your lips.
“Babbeh need to be strong. So daddy give baby lots of love so he won’t cry. Don’t cry baby.”
The little foal lets out a questioning little chirp, if he could sound confused, well… that might be the closest a fluffy baby can get to a “wha?” sound. You take the cigar cutter, turn on the stove and get ready for the fun. Resting the back of a spoon right on the coils, heating up and you set the little guy on his back. He flails his limbs, unable to right himself, and you kiss his tummy. All the love and attention that you give him is enough to ease his fears. He just cries for more attention. More love.
“Daddy will give baby all the love in the world, but baby needs to be strong. Be a strong baby for daddy.”
He doesn’t seem to understand, until the cutter slips around his hindleg, gently moving down to the base of the leg. You kiss his snout, and whisper, “And… SNAP!”
There’s a loud squeal, he throws his head back with his mouth wide open with shock, “This little leggy goes… SNAP!”
Tears pouring down its little cheeks, squirming as it lets out terrible cries of pain. Even the alicorn in the sink is sobbing, little currents of urine and feces dribbling between his legs. You get the oven mitt and slip it on, grasping the searing hot spoon, you whisper, “And now, we give kisses to make it all better.”
He spreads his arms out, desperate for huggies, they fix everything, don’t they?
No, he found a different sort of love in the red-hot spoon, letting out shrill squeals of agony as it kisses his bloody stumps The second kiss from the hot spoon elects a silent howl, he slams his head back in futility, fatigued by the pain and the shock. It ends with a perfect example of a huggyfluffy. His rear completely caked with filth, you carefully lift him to the sink and turn the water on. It takes a second to realize that the head is right over the alicorn, pouring down cold water into his face. Practically waterboarding the little guy, you shift it away, enough that it’s just his back getting wet. Whoops.
You wash away the filth from the pegasus, cleaning him up before focusing your attention to the alicorn. You could turn him into a pillowfluff, but that would be such a shame. An alicorn is something to treasure and exploit for ones own personal benefit. Perhaps, you can turn him into a stud for some breeders. That would be a good option, but there’s no telling what he will look like when he gets older. Their manes haven’t come in, you don’t even know what their eyes will look like. It’s too early to really make estimates on what you want to do with them.
There is one thing that you do like, having two means that you can cycle between them for abuse and use them against each other. Psychological and emotional torment are invaluable tools for producing the ideal fluffy. It’s really the only reason you wanted more than one. If it works out that the pegasus can become the perfect fluffy, you can sell the alicorn to a breeder. If he doesn’t go as planned… you still have a spare.
So you shift gears to lavishing them with love. At least, you give the pegasus enough attention that he starts to forget the amount of pain that he went through. Kissing his snout, whispering gentle affectionate words of love and praise, “What a good boy you are. You are a brave fluffy for daddy, aren’t you?”
He lets out his little cry of desperate love, forgetting his hind-legs are gone quickly since his arms still work fine. They’re so weak and fragile, tiny little things that feel like nothing even when they wrap around your nose, but he’s giving everything that he has. All the love, all his heart. And you smile. A genuine one. It’s what you desire. This is what you want. Of course, your lack of attention towards the alicorn doesn’t go unnoticed by the little colt, he tries to chirp for attention, frantically holding his arms out for love. Love that you don’t reciprocate. He hasn’t earned it like your little guy. You can’t break him, not just yet.