This is a Hugbox Ending to Herd Invasion, a post I made about two weeks ago.
Immediately the fluffpile catches fire, the flame rising almost to the top of the house before dying down to a normal size again. You watch the fluffies burn and scream, looking at the smarty every now and then. The smarty now has a look of sheer horror on his face. You turn back to the fluffpile, enjoying the fluffies suffering one last time. They’ve all died by now though, so you’re just watching a dead fluffpile burn. Suddenly, at the sight of the smarty and his ex-herd, your brain is flooded with a mix of emotions. Emotions that you’ve been bottling up and repressing, blinded and drugged by the ecstasy of seeing these little creatures tortured. Why? Why are you doing this? Is it the smarty? When the smarty had first come in, there had been no question, no decision. You had wanted to abuse the herd, you had wanted to show the smarty who is boss and you had wanted to see his herd suffer. No. There is another reason. There is another reason that abusing and killing fluffies gives you the satisfaction it does. And you know all too damn well what it is.
See, for a person like you, a person who despises human interaction, fluffies are perfect. They provide the perfect… entity. One that is intelligent enough to speak, but otherwise definitely not the smartest thing around, barreling head first into certain doom like our smarty here. You haven’t had any real social interaction for weeks and that is getting to your head. These fluffies had provided you with the perfect amount of well… semi-social interaction. But that isn’t enough. Your brain tells you that every day, making it clear to you that you need to head out into the world, head out and talk to people. Talk to your neighbors, talk to… anyone. It fills you with guilt at not being a functioning member of society, practically screaming at you to finally go and make something of yourself. However, whenever you oblige, whenever you do go out to talk to people, your brain goes into a panic-infused lockdown mode, robbing you of the ability to string together coherent sentences and it starts dumping hypothetical scenarios into your mind as to what would happen if you screwed up, what would happen if you said the wrong thing, did the wrong thing or just made yourself look weird. That doesn’t help anybody of course and it has even driven you to black out a few times. You shiver at the memories. Sitting down on the grass near the firepit, you hear some quiet, suppressed sobbing coming from the smarty on the chair. You look at the smarty a bit, the fluff below its mouth is caked with dry vomit. The ground is covered in the foul green substance aswell. All the bloodlust is gone, sucked from your body and replaced with crushing guilt. Guilt at having killed a whole herd of fluffies. Guilt at having robbed so many innocent creatures of their lives. Guilt at replacing that burning hole in your consiousness with unecessary torture. You begin to cry, pulling your legs in and wrapping your arms around them. You cry for several minutes, silently screaming at your unlucky lot in life, where you can’t even talk to people that might understand you, might want to help you. When you stop crying, you notice the smarty had stopped too. The smarty, right! You had completely forgotten what you were doing. You get up and walk up to the chair. You’re almost there when you hear a very exhausted little voice. A voice you hadn’t heared since you told it to shut up. “Pwease mistuh nu huwt fwuffy nu mowe”, it says, “Am bewwy sowwy fow come to hoomin housie. Wet gu an fwuffy neba come back. Pwomise!” You are about to comfort it - genuinely this time - when something strikes you. The smarty had called itself ‘fluffy’. Normally a smarty is very proud of its role and you doubt very much that the smarty was given enough of a lesson to stop considering itself a smarty. Nevertheless, you decide to inquire further. “What happened to ‘smarty’?”, you ask him. He looks up at you, a gross mixture of tears and more vomit dripping from his chin. “Fwuffy nu awways been smawty an fwuffy nu wan be smawty nu mowe” You are surprised. “What do you mean?” The fluffy sits down on his rear legs. “When fwuffy was babbeh, fwuffy hab bigges happehs. Hab gud mummah an daddeh an wots of nummies. Famiwy wive in awweyway an fwuffy wub wife. Buh den one bwite time munstah hoomin come an take fwuffies to housie. Housie am bigges meanie dummeh housie cawwed… uuuh… fawm! Den meanie munstah hoomins gib mummah an daddeh foweba sweepies an babbeh wun way. Den babbeh find fwuffies an gwow up wif dem. Buh fwuffy was stiww su angwy at dummeh fawm hoomins dat tuwn into smawty. Den fwuffy hewe.” Holy Fuck. You are legitimately dumbfounded for a few seconds before a wave of guilt and sympathy for this fluffy washes over you. “I’m… I’m so sorry. I didn’t know…” Immediately you mentally slap yourself for becoming so weak. Normally you wouldn’t give two wet farts about a fluffy’s life, let alone a smarty’s. You kneel down beside the smar… ex-smarty, stroking it along it’s orange fluff. The smarty flinches away at first, but he quickly succumbs to the joy of being touched and cared for for the first time in his life. A thought crosses your mind. You’ve always thought of abusing fluffies, but how about owning one. Feeding it, loving it and generally taking care of it. You scoop the fluffy up in your arms. “I’m sorry about the whole thing with your… herd… here, but how would you like to live with me now? I’ll be your new daddeh!” Wow. Just wow. That was probably the most heartless thing you could say and if that fluffy had a bit more IQ than a household potato it would have been extremely weirded out right now. Luckily he doesn’t, so he doesn’t give it much thought before starting to coo happily. “Weawwy? Wub nyu daddeh! Wan bestest housies an bestest toysies an…” “Oohkay…”, you laugh, “Let’s get you cleaned up first of all shall we?” With that both of you head into the house.
THE END …maybe?
Idk, I like where this is going so I might continue this if I’m not giving too many people brain cancer with my lacking, all-over-the-place writing style.
EDIT: I did! Here is Life of an ex-smarty Part 1