Hi there—this is my first story. I’ve been lurking for over a year now and, after seeing others say they wanted to give back to the community, I figured it was time to contribute something of my own. This piece was loosely inspired by the image “A Poopie Pillow” by CarniviousDuck, but it also features a lot of my own home-cooked lore and worldbuilding. It goes off on a few tangents here and there, so apologies if it feels a little disjointed—I just had a ton of fun writing it. Please feel free to leave any criticism, looking to improve as I’m a relatively new writer.
Meet Carrot.
An orange earthie stallion with a garish green mane, young and naive, recently adopted from a public shelter by a man with questionable intentions. Carrot wasn’t thrilled about being pillowed, but he was grateful to have found a new daddeh—especially after the feral herd he had joined left him permanently crippled and unwanted.
Carrot had joined the herd only a month and half earlier, fresh off his dumb idea to run away after seeing a FluffTV special on “famiwies an’ babbehs.” He convinced the group to try a risky method to find food and shelter, which ended with the entire herd being captured. His legs were broken in the chaos, and he was dumped back at a shelter—unwanted by the ferals and barely able to crawl to the food trough. Too slow, too hurt, and too pitiful.
With just two days left until the burnie box, a man came in and saw Carrot staring back at him with dull, tired eyes—eyes that had already accepted death. The man took pity, and adopted him on the spot. The shelter didn’t even bother to ask if he wanted Carrot sedated for the pillowing procedure. They just immobilized him and handed him off.
At least the man told Carrot what was about to happen. That he would save him—but he would have to take his leggies. Carrot cried and begged and hu-hu-hu’d, unsure what to do, and when the man turned and started walking away, Carrot screamed for him to come back. “Cawwit wan! Cawwit wan daddeh, nu wan buwnie box!”
The man picked him up. Carrot melted into the embrace, conflicted. Saved, but at a cost.
In the back room, he saw the immobilizer. His broken legs made it harder—more painful. The worker couldn’t get clean cuts and had to start each new slice a little above or below the last. When the third leggie was halfway off, Carrot finally passed out from the compounded pain of shattered bone and sawing steel.
He woke up screaming, crying for his leggies. “Wan weggies backsies! Nu wan munsta daddeh!” That was cut short when the worker rolled out a tray with his severed limbs… and lit them on fire right in front of him. Carrot’s sobs turned into wails—he’d actually believed, for just a moment, they were going to reattach them.
Still, the man took him home. Fed him sketties. Gave him a playpen in the big TV room. Sometimes he gave good huggies. Sometimes he played “the rollie game,” and sometimes… he was a little mean. Nothing crazy, not an abuser even by hugbox standards. Carrot was so happy to have a daddeh again.
Today, what seemed like a routine vet visit will take a darker turn.
And Carrot, naive and trusting, will start to wonder—
did he make the right choice in going home with his new daddeh?
“Looks like Carrot’s settling in just fine—good on you for bringing him in for his one-week checkup!” the vet chirped, not glancing up from the tablet. “Pillowing these rescued runaways is smart—keeps them from flailing into walls and objects while they re-adjust back to home life. We get a lot of feedback that rehomed fluffies are so grateful for a new ‘daddeh’ they hardly ever ask 'how wong ‘tiww weggies?’ anymore. Of course, destroying the limbs in front of them tends to curb that line of questioning pretty quick—standard public shelter protocol, really should’ve been done when you picked him up.”
“Anyway, while you’re in the lobby, we’ll have our student vet intern process him for a full penectomy and tail drop. Standard procedure—anything sticking out tends to chafe, get infected, bleed out, or just rot off on its own, which is messy. This way we reduce infection risk, spare your carpets, and help him get used to rolling and wiggling for mobility. We even offer brochures on rolling training—free handouts right over there by the whiteboard.” The vet motioned casually to a pin-up board split neatly down the middle. The left half contained untouched brochures on pillowfluff care. The right was plastered with brightly colored infographics detailing expired biotoy disposal procedures. One poster, disturbingly whimsical in its layout, featured step-by-step instructions on how to convert unwanted or rejected foals into garden fertilizer.
Cheerful cartoon fluffies with smiles and rainbows were interspersed with grisly real-life images: a newborn, shit-colored chirpy babbeh with cloudy, bulging eyes, likely forced open from a fatal “sowwy hoofsie” from its own mummah, evident by the heart-shaped indent on its forehead. Another, a good colored talkie no older than two weeks, stared at the camera with a glassy, horrified expression—betrayed, tear-streaked cheeks still rounded with that sickening baby-fat plumpness. A coil of intestines curled grotesquely from its open mouth, while its hind legs jutted backwards at unnatural angles. Hoof-shaped bruises trailed down its spine, ending in a viscera-stained smear behind it.
Ferals—and even domestic fluffies—were infamous for this kind of behavior, especially toward their own offspring. The world’s sympathy for the biotoys cratered once it became obvious that their saccharine innocence masked a deep, often sadistic cruelty, especially when no adult was around to protect the young. Most orphaned foals were killed by their own herds out of instinct or indifference. This one likely met its end from a stallion it had just called “nyu fwend?” minutes before. At least, the vet thought dryly, it probably got a “huggie” first.
“State’s population control program covers the basics, so no charge to you,” the vet continued without pause. “As a bonus today, anything else you want off—eyes, teeth, any visible bits—just tick it on the a la carte sheet and we’ll take care of it. Oh, and starting this week, we’re offering a service that used to be boutique only—we can smooth the stumps to make rolling easier. Once it heals you can even opt in for another procedure that stimulates fur growth over the now-smooth surface. That does make them permanently ineligible for prosthetics or transplants though, just FYI. Lastly, sedation’s twenty bucks, and a mild painkiller is five. Optional, but it keeps the noise down if you’re sensitive to that kind of thing.”
“Nice. Let’s do the teeth and laser that ugly mane too while you’re in there,” the man replied without looking up from his phone. “If the junk’s covered, might as well toss that in. Little idiot chews the table legs when I’m out. Can’t even stand that puke green it’s got going on—hurts my eyes. Let’s shave its ugly stumps too, it’ll help with—” He paused, catching himself. “—uh, I mean, training him to roll around. Yeah.” He flushed slightly, realizing he’d nearly admitted to already putting Carrot through crash-course mobility trials.
The vet gave no reaction, continuing to scribble on the tablet, pen tapping lightly.
The man cleared his throat and tried to shift the conversation. “Wait—sorry—how does ‘hurt itself’ play into any of this?”
