Fluff and Co. Part 2: by roguesoul

Fluff and Co.
by roguesoul
Part 2, carries on right after part 1
(also I couldn’t find a tag for it, but forced labor/premature birth)

You look down at the fluffy. She’s got the round belly, and you reach down, probing her gently the mare cooing at the soft touch. There were two obvious spots, and the other felt mushy- not a technical term- but that meant there was at least two-maybe three foals. You remember Max, vaguely, you’d sold him two years prior. Alicorn, monochrome, expensive- James was one of your best customers and longest, he helped put Fluff & Co. on the map.

“Alright Dove, lets go-” she peeps, but hangs limp in your arms- something that must have been trained into her. You’re careful of her foals, and lift her up, carrying her into the display room. The mare looks around, taking in all the playing foals.

“Dis- dis am gweat pwace,” there are tears in the mare’s eyes, “Tank yu mistas, tank yu-tank yu,” she buries her face in your side, and you carry her into the back room. The room is darker than the rest of the store, less brightly colored, yet the table was still safely padded. It was the ‘surgery’ room, and it smelled like hot iron. The mare sniffs as you set her on the table top. “Nu wike dis woom,” she sniffs, “Nu smeww pwetty.”

“Lay down Dove, I just need to take a look at your babies, I need to make sure they’re healthy,” you send a text to Alex, briefing them on the situation. The mare glances at you, before laying down on the padded table.

“O-otay, be cawefaw pwease,” you smile before taking the leather straps from the side and wrapping them firm around her legs, “Eee, nu can moobe,” you run your hand down her back, trying to comfort her.

“It won’t hurt, Dove, I just need you to hold still, I don’t want your babies to get hurt.” The mare nods, she doesn’t want that either. You carefully pull her back legs apart, making sure to keep them seperate as you take a clip and pinning her tail up and out of the way.

“Wha- wha, doin?’” There’s a ding from your phone, and you hear the bell. Alex had come in early for training, and was covering the desk for you.

“Don’t worry, Dove, I’m here to help you,” she’s uneasy, you don’t blame her. You grab gloves and a plastic apron, covering yourself before grabbing a package from the shelf. It was plain looking, but homeade nonetheless and one you weren’t ‘offically’ selling. You dump out a treat, it looked normal, hand baked and it smelled like parsely with flecks of it throughout it. “Here, why don’t you have a treat, Dove,” you open your hand and she looks at it nervously, before taking it from your hand.

“Tank yu fow tweat, wub tweats- neba hab dis tweat befow-” she mumbles, crumbs flying from her lips and you hand her another one.

“It’s a special treat, homeade.” You step over to the side to a old CD player, pressing play, classical music starting.

“Tank yu-ph- wike moosic-” she spits more crumbs and you move back behind her. You are careful as you pull a needle from your set, hiding it in your palm as you move your hand up to her back. You place your hand on her scruff, “Wha- wha hoomin doin?” You don’t answer, counting her vertebrae down before moving the needle up. With practiced percision you stab the needle easily through her flesh and into her spine. “EEEEE!” the mare’s voice is grating, and her head whips trying to look at you. “Yu awn’t gud hoomin! Yu-yu munstah!” she whimpers loudly, and you see she’s crying again.

You shove the needle deeper, and her front hooves go still, though her eyes blink wildly and she tries to look back at you again. “Don’t move, you’ll disturb the needle-”

“Needa?” She tries to look at you again.

“It’s keeping you from moving, if you drive it deeper you won’t be able to walk ever again,” the mare whimpers, crying.

“Nu-nu Dob wub w-wawkies, wub wunnies- wub-wub huggies, wan-wan-wan gib huggies tu babbeheeEEEHHHS” There it is. “IH-IH HUWTS!”

Her water breaks, and you move to see afterbirth and blood dripping from her vagina. You take a little petroleum from the side, greasing your hand and moving up to the mare, fingers moving to loosen her and spread her a bit.

“NU! NU WAN, IH HUWTS, PWE-PWEEEE!” with a scream her contractions start, it’s a familiar sound at the shop- but it would be dulled by the music. A little shit dribbles from her anus and down onto the table, and then she starts to heave, her breath heavy. “Ih-ih- hih, ih huwts, pwee-pwe- hewp Dob-?” You spread her further, just as she begins to push, her body following its natural instincts. “Eee, hee-HIGG!” she braces and in a flopping sound the first foal comes out. You catch it in your hands, a small weight in your palm. “ih-hi-hi, ih dat- dat Dob’s babbeh?” she asks, voice hoarse. Heh.

You take a papertowl, wiping the foal of the afterbirth, making sure to wipe its nose to help it breathe and the foal peeped wildly as you do so, happily alive and wriggling in your hands. Its wings flutter, splattering your apron with afterbirth with a dark navy coat underneath. “Can-can Dob hab babbeh, nee wiwkie cweans?” the mare pants, and you glance at her before laying the foal down on a nearby blanket, watching it peep as it searched for milk. “Pwease- gib bab-babbEH-EH!” She began to scream again as the contractions start again.

You get more petroleum, spreading the mare open with practiced ease and the mare screeched loudly, “Keep pushing, Dove, the next baby is coming,” you felt afterbirth slickly fall over your fingers and down onto the table, and she groaned as the foal began to come out. “Damnit, keep going, Dove,” you say, the foal’s head was half out, it’s mouth gaping as it sucked in trying to breathe.

“Nu-nu, tu muts huwties, tu-tu-tu muts, pweEEE!” the foal is fully pushed out now, and your nose wrinkles as you hold the little thing in your hand. It’s too small, it’s ribs poking against your skin, and you hold the little thing’s head, feeling the lump on it’s head. An malformed horn, or mass- and while it’s lungs still heaved, it was dying. It’s little heart still fluttered, as did it’s small wings. “Ih, ih babbeh gud babbeh, ih nu peeping, nu tawking-” you take the foal and pinch it’s throat, easily crushing its windpipe. “Wan see babbehs, wet see!”

“You have one more to go Dove,” you throw the mishapen dead foal away, looking to the mare, your hand moving to gently probe her stomach, there was one more mass there.

“Buh-Dob-Dob wan see babbehs, wan see!” you move to pet her, mussing her fur, but she still melted at the touch, “Pwease,” she chokes on a sob and you pet her gently. You move back to her vagina, spreading her again, the mare groaning.

The mare pushed, and it took longer than the other ones, and you were there massaging the mare carefully until the foal was pushed out in a wet flopping sound. You catch it, and it starts crying with ease, even before you wipe it clean. It’s coat was similar to it’s mothers, that soft grey and its wings fluttered as it whipped it’s head around, a small horn stubby on it’s forehead. You pet it gently, moving to lay it with the foal’s sibling. You move back to its mother, she was laying her head down on the table. “Hu-hu, ih huwts, awe, awe babbehs ouh?” She looks back at you as you reach a hand up pulling out the needle, “EEE!” It’s a short, sharp sound and you lay the bloody needle on the table. You reach around, undoing the leather straps.

Her hoof moves, but it’s a slow movement, and her head shifts. “Dob, dob can moob, buh- buh am su sweepies,” she shuffled forward, before flopping onto the table. “Can-can hab babbehs nao?” You take a wash cloth and clean the afterbirth onto the floor, you’ll wash it down later. The mare tries to stand up, only to stumble and shiver on her legs.

“Not yet, how do you feel about alicor-”

“MUNSTAH! WIKE FWEN, FWEN GIB BAH SPECIAW HUGGIES!” She runs now, stumbling, before falling off the table. You reach to grab her, only to miss as she hits the ground, “REEE! WEGGIES!”

“Oh, fuck,” you swear, looking down at the mare. You want to hit your head, you shouldn’t have undid the straps this soon, but you were too used to your mellow mares. She had landed hard on her right foreleg and side, a snapping sound having resonated in the small room. You had thought about keeping her, she really was quite pretty, and seemed sweet enough- sweeter than Nightshade anyway. The plan had been to give her foals to Jersey, then pair her with Montgomery, train her to make sure she would be like your other mares. But now- she was dragging her left hoof, trying to walk, screeching as she did so.

“Pwease, hewp, hewp Dob-” you step over before placing a foot on her throat, “Wha, wha do-” she gurgles as you crush her throat, blood pouring from her mouth, and there’s a crushing snap as you kill her. The foals are peeping louder now, having sensed the danger, and you pick up the dead mare, dropping her unceremoniously in the trash. You strip off the plastic apron and gloves, throwing them out as well and turn off the music, the CD having begun to loop.

“Too bad, shame really,” you say offhandedly, going over and picking up the foals, tucking them- blanket in all, under your arm. You carry them from the back room, and through the far door into the breeding area. It smells of chamomile, something more soothing, though it barely covers the fluffy smell.

“Does aw babbehs!”

“Whewe babbehs com fwom?”

“Can Gawa see babbehs, dey su witta!?”

You glance between the pens, before stepping over to the closest pen. Rose and Lucille, were playing together,sisters, and still too young to have foals or a need to have them yet. They were holdbacks, both gorgeous pegasus’ Rose had a red and pink pinto coat with a white and red mane and tail, while her sister was a bleached calico- a rare morph with a white, grey, and light blue coat. It would be wonderful to see what foals they’d produce. In the corner Selena was sleeping with a blue fluffy shaped stuffy friend, her pregnant belly barely a swell. Then there was Jersey.

“Fwen! Aw does babs, su coot!” Jersey was as dumb as they come, possibly even derped, but she was a great mother-great breeder, and great milk producer- it’s why she got all the extra foals the others can’t take care of.

Besides, “They are your foals Jersey, don’t you remember?” The cow spotted mare tilted her head before looking down at her grey colt, only about 4 days old, the fat baby snuffling at her tits. “They just had to go get some medicine because they’re so little, see?”

Jersey nodded, “Jewsee membaw nao, com hewe witta babbehs!” she motions with her front hooves, and you set them down. You check their genders as you go, both colts. They easily join their ‘brother’, though Jersey’s foal tried to shove them out of the way. Luckily, Jersey corrects it, giving her colt a boop- “Nu babbeh, hab shawe wit bwuddas.” You grin at that.

The foal cheeps in distaste, “Wan-miwk!” Jersey grins, but doesn’t let the foal take over. Instead you looks at you, smiling widely.

“Babbehs say fiwstest wowd, wah goo babbeh!” You smile watching carefully as Dove’s foals nuzzled at Jersey’s nipples, beginning to nurse fervently.

“That’s a good girl,” the mare preens at the comment, “You take good care of those babies now, they need to grow up big and strong so they can have good homes.” Jersey nods, and moves to clean the alicorn foal off. Good old dependable Jersey.

You step away, before leaving, going up through the display room and into the main shop. Alex glances at you. “Hey, how’d it go?” You shake your head, grimacing slightly.

“Mare didin’t work out.”

“Dumps never do.”

“Good foals, an alicorn even,” Alex’s eyes widen, “I gave them to Jersey, she already thinks they’re her own.”

“Awesome, hey if you want to go try running the training course with Gala’s foals again, I can handle up here?” You nod, and grin at them.

“Thanks, let me know if you need anything else,” You say stepping away, seeing someone coming in, a dark stain on his coat. You knew that one, he came in once or twice a week. You catch Alex’s eye, “Try to recommend one of Juniper’s alicorn foals, you know how they are,” you say in a rushed voice.

They nod, and you walk back through the store and into the breeding room, opening your phone as your reminder of the training notes. Gala’s were the eldest, almost done weaning after all, and you wanted to iron out their personalites. No more sour little brats like the one in the main shop. You still weren’t sure what happened with that one. It was just a bad apple, compared to her sweeter sister.

You’re in the back for awhile, Gala’s foals are good- but they still need to learn about sharing their toys and treats. When you eventually come back up, it takes you a long moment to look about the display room to see who the abuser had taken- though he might have been a chef, it was hard to tell. All you knew was he came in at least once a week taking either the lower priced fluffies or the most ill tempered (though there was usually overlap there) and always bought the expensive bulking food. Your eyes moved through the display cases, the older weaned foals- the few adults, the alicorn sisters. A sour faced alicorn looked up at you, and she was alone. “Dummeh hoomin tay stoopid sissie, nu tay bestest fwuffy!”

You look down at your hands, they’re trembling slightly, and you feel your mouth tighten in a line. You look back up at the filly. “Wha wong wit yu dummeh?!” the filly insults, or questions and you want to slap her upside the head. You want to yell.

Instead, “I wish he’d taken you instead,” you say, voice flat as you reach in and roughly scratch the top of her head.

“Wha-weawwy?” she stumbles, looking up at you with surprise, “Dummeh nowmawee su meanie tu fwuffy?” You don’t respond, you just pet her mane before walking back into the breeding room and over to Pen 2. Gala and Simon are cuddling, special friends after all, and their weaning foals are playing after finishing they’re training for the day and you lean against the plastic wall, watching the older colts playing huggie tag while their sisters were ‘reading’ a fluffy safe picture book. You don’t say anything, just watching them play.

“Mistas, wha doin?” You look over, a dead look in your eyes as you meet Juniper’s gaze. She was one of the best looking breeding mares Fluff & Co. had, an agouti morph alicorn with a mostly ebony coat with flecks and freckling red spots throughout her coat and a mane and tail in the same shades. “Wook saddies,” she reaches a hoof up trying to touch your arm, and you move your hand down to meet her.

“I-” you clear your throat, moving a hand down to pet the alicorn, “I am a bit sad-” she looks alarmed, “But I’m better now, thanks Juniper.” You compliment, watching her look down and grin to herself. Her daughter did the same thing, her best one did.

“Junipaw am best ah hewping, su happies!” she lifts her back like a cat, leaning into your hand. “Du-du fwend wan huggies?” Your eyebrows raise, and you almost take her up on the offer, before a loud peeping catches your ear. You and Juniper look up to see that one of Juniper’s foals was peeping and cheeping- one of Gala’s older ones looking sheepish with his hooves pulled behind his back.

“Babbeh nu way wittwa babbehs,” he says quickly, wings fluttering nervously, and Juniper rushes back over to her foals giving the older colt a boop on the nose, “EE! Sowwy, just wanned see witta babbeh!” Gala looks up, at this, watching her son gallop over to hide behind her.

“Bah babbeh!”

“Nu huwt babbeh!”

The two mares cry out in unison, and Gala swats her son with her hoof, chastising him. And you grin. These two were why you didn’t have to worry as much about they’re foals. Juniper might be a bit nervous and Gala might be a bit ditzy, but together they made fantastic mothers. And between the two, you felt, a little lighter.

You didn’t get a say in what happens to the fluffies you raise up. You are able to raise them, train them, help them as best you can so that they would get to have good lives out in the real world. And even then, it wasn’t a fair world- not for fluffies.

But you had to try. For fluffies like Juniper and Gala, like Jersey.

You take a deep breath and pull away from the pen, heading back up front.

You had work to do.

End of Part 2


Well that was a rollercoaster. First I thought he was aborting them. Then he was nice. Then he murderized that mare.


I mean…not really. In fluffies broken limbs means losing the limb. Which (if it’s more than one), means less activity and depression, which leads to the “wan die” loop. So he was saving her from a horrible fate later


This is a very good story. Loved the fluffspeak in this and how it seemed authentic to these chimeras. Also, all the color and pattern combos are cool and would definitely make fluffies a hot commodity.

Rose sounds like a gorgeous little pony


Wow. I was expecting this guy to be a bit more of a hugboxer than that.

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