Just a random little idea I had and jotted down on my phone.
Your name is Buttercream, and you are a fluffy mummah. Not just any mummah, though… you’re the bestest mummah. You know you’re the bestest mummah because you always say that you’re the bestest mummah, and your daddeh never corrects you. You’re such a good mummah, you give you milkies to all your babbehs; you even let your dummy ugly poopie babbeh have milkies sometimes, even though he isn’t pretty like his bruddas and sissies.
(You don’t let him sleep in the fluffpile, though; one of daddeh’s old sockies is good enough for him.)
Today, daddeh is at work again. You don’t know what that is, but you do know it means that daddeh won’t be around to play with you. That’s okay, though, because you have your good babbehs to keep you from having heart hurties. You give them milkies and licky cleanies, and the bestest mummah huggies, and when they take sleepies, you play with your blockies and watch the pretty white sky fluff pile up outside.
Suddenly, you hear a loud scary noisie. It’s so loud, you make some scaredy peepees, but it’s okay, you’ll just blame it on the poopie babbeh, because daddeh would never give a babbeh hurties. You go back to playing with your blockies, and after a while, you start to notice that it’s gotten a lot colder in the housie.
Too cold.
Your babbehs are making lots of scaredy chirps and peeps; the housie is too cold for them. You try to curl up around your good babbehs to keep them warm in your fluff as you roll around a ball with your hoofsies, but it’s not enough. They’re still chirping… but they sound so sleepy now.
You know you need to give your good babbehs warmies so they don’t take forever sleepies, and you know you need to do it quickly. You think and think and think, until your thinky place has hurties, and eventually, you have an idea: you remember that when daddeh gives you can sketties, he always gives the sketties warmies in a magic boxy in the nummies place. Maybe the magic boxy can give your babbehs nice warmies too?
You carefully gather your good babbehs up in the thin little blankie they’re lying on and pick it up in your mouth, congratulating yourself for being such a smart mummah. You don’t bother with your poopie babbeh, because you don’t want him stealing your good babbehs’ warmies. Besides, his socky will probably be warm enough.
Probably.
You waddle into the nummies place, being extra careful not to hit your babbehs on anything as you climb up onto a chair and then the table where daddy keeps the magic boxy.
You gently set your babbehs down and nicely ask the boxy to let your babbehs in so that they can have warmies, but the boxy is a dummeh meanie and doesn’t listen, so you demand it to open like a smarty would, puffing your cheeks and stamping your leggies. But the boxy still won’t open.
You get mad, and give the boxy sorry hoofsies, repeatedly hitting it with your soft hoofsies until you feel something push in with a clicky sound, and the boxy pops open a bit. You nudge it open more with your smell place, and gently place your babbehs inside. Once the door is closed, you try to remember how daddeh makes the magic boxy give warmies; you know he pushes something- you’ve seen him do it- but you don’t know what, so you just give it sorry hoofsies again until you hear a loud beep and the boxy lights up. You watch in excitement as the round thingie your babbehs are on starts turning.
For a moment, everything seems nice, but suddenly, your babbehs start making the worstest scaredy chirps. Wait… no, these are hurties chirps! The boxy is hurting your babbehs! You try to stop the boxy, to make it let your babbehs out, but you have no idea what you hit to make it start giving your babbehs warmies and no idea how to make it stop. Their chirps turn into agonized little screes, and then-
POP!
You watch in horror as your bestest babbeh pops like a balloon, spraying the inside of the boxy with booboo juice and poopies. You frantically pound on the boxy with your little hoofsies, screaming as the rest of your good babbehs follow in their brudda’s hoofsteps.
POP!
POP!
POP!
POP!
Your good babbehs all took forever sleepies, and it’s all your fault; you have the worstest heart hurties.
All you can do is scream.
Your name is Carl, and today was an absolute clusterfuck.
Your boss was even more of a dickhead than normal, and every single customer you had to deal with today was such an absolute fucktard they made Buttercream look smart. And now, you come home to find that the heat in your apartment is broken, and since it’s six on a Friday, the fucking office is already closed for the weekend.
Great, just great. Well, at least things can’t get any worse, you think… for all of five seconds.
That’s how long it takes for the smell to hit you, the pungent odor of something burnt.
And then you hear Buttercream wailing; her voice is cracked and raw, like she’s been at it for hours. You walk into the kitchen and Jesus fucking Christ, if there wasn’t a blizzard going on outside, you’d be sticking your head out the window to escape from the rancid smell of rotten death that permeates every inch of the kitchen. You gag as you’re beaten over the head with the unmistakable smell of microwaved shit and hair.
Buttercream is in front of the microwave, sobbing about being the wowstest mummah as she rocks back and forth, sucking her hoof like a goddamn foal. And beyond her- oh.
God.
Fucking.
Damn it!
Your microwave is ruined, the inside absolutely covered in foal gore. Even if you scrubbed all of it out, you’d still smell it every time you nuked something, so now you’re going to have to throw out a two hundred dollar microwave- that you liked- because an eight dollar shitrat- that you used to like- cooked her fucking babies in it!
You’re seeing red as you walk towards her, comforting visions of her suffering the same fate as her foals playing in your mind. You settle for throwing her off the counter; she doesn’t even notice you until your hand closes around the nape of her neck, and by then it’s too late, she’s already sailing through the air, screaming and pissing as she goes.
There’s a satisfying crack as she hits the wall, and when she drops to the ground, you can tell that one of her legs was broken on impact.
You’re not done with her yet.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?!”
She whimpers at the sound of your voice, trying to hug her tail with the one foreleg that isn’t shattered.
“Buh-Buh-Buddacweam sowwwwyyyyyyy! Buddacweam’s babbehs had cowdies, s-so B-Buddacweam wan’ gif babbehs wawmies an’-”
“And you cooked them to death, ruining a microwave that’s more valuable than your entire fucking species!”
She pisses herself again, earning a punch to the gut. As she sits there, huu-huuing and whining about no longer being a mummah and daddeh giving her huwties, you grab a butter knife and a bowl, and stomp over to the microwave. You scrape as much burnt gore into the bowl as you can and slam it down in front of her.
“Eat, you fucking shitpig.”
She refuses, wailing that she “nu wan’ num babbehs,” so you grab her broken leg and twist, drawing a scream out of her that rattles the window.
“I said, eat your fucking foals, since you already cooked them. You better eat your fill, too, because it’s the last meal I’m ever giving you; you’re spending the night in the sorry box, and tomorrow, I’m pillowing you and bringing you to a shelter.”
Sobbing, she starts digging into the bowl, eating what remains of her beloved foals.
You gather up the ruined microwave and put it back out in the hall, and as you come back in, you hear a soft peeping from the living room. Following the sound, you find her brown foal, the one she always treated like shit, hugging one of your balled-up socks for warmth.
Wow.
She didn’t even love this one enough to kill it with the others. You guess that having a shitty mom worked out in its favor for once. Or not; you grab the foal, open the window, and pitch it out into the blizzard before slamming the window shut.
You almost feel a little bad for what you just did, but if you’re not keeping its mom, why the fuck would you keep it? Besides, it was practically a mercy kill; you’ve seen what happens to poopie babbehs in fluffy stores and shelters, and quite frankly, quickly freezing to death- if the fall didn’t kill it- is probably better than spending weeks begging anyone who will listen to adopt it, only to age out and get put down anyways because no one wants a shit brown fluffy.
You head back into the kitchen with a bundle of blankets under your arms, and you see Buttercream sobbing over the empty bowl, her face smeared with foal guts.
Perfect.
You roughly haul her up by the scruff and begin wrapping her in blankets.
“F-fank ‘ou fo’ wawmy bwankies, daddeh, Buddacweam wub-”
You silence her with a smack to the face.
“I’m not doing this because I care about you, I just don’t want you freezing to death overnight before I chop your legs off, got it?”
You slam her into the sorry box and lock it, prompting a squeal of terror. You kneel down so she can see you better, and you grin.
“Man, you really are a shitty mom… you haven’t even given a single thought to the foal you didn’t blow up.”
She perks up immediately.
“B-B-Buddacweam stiww hab poopie babbeh?! Stiww am mummah?! Pweeeeeaaaase, daddeh, gib Buddacweam wastest babbeh, babbeh nee huggies an’- eep!”
She flinches as you kick the sorry box to shut her up.
“Mmmm… nope. Threw the little fucker out the window. If the fall didn’t kill him, the blizzard will. Now, get some sleep… you’ve got a big day ahead of you tomorrow.”
You head to your bedroom and plug in the space heater you aren’t really supposed to have, but you literally couldn’t give less of a shit about that right now. You get settled for the evening, listening to the soft sounds of Buttercream huu-huuing, broken up by the occasional wan’ die. You smile; yes, tomorrow is definitely going to be a better day.
hope that helps