Your name is Chaplin, You’re a unicorn, you have a grey coat, a black mane and cream splitches upon your flank.
you’re a therapy fluffy, a service provided by the SAFE charity, and you served as a companion for others: fluffies, pets or humans who have tasted the shitty end of life’s stick.
You love your job, it fills you with purpose. You know how awful the world feels, you’ve experienced your own hardships, hardships that are far behind you now, and you can’t dwell upon them, you have your job, you are here for others, and through that kindness you have worth.
Your carrier crate was lowered into a pen in the new saferoom you’d be staying, you stepped out and were assaulted by clashing bright yellows, rich blues, warm greens, and vibrant purples.
You walked around and found a little play castle, a tiny toy box containing some stacking blocks, a miniscule stuffie friend and many tiny poopies in the adjacent litter box.
Based upon the lilliputian scale of everything, you expected foals to be your wards. That was fine, you can handle foals, you’re good with anyone, or at least, you always try your best to be.
You rested in the blanket pile in the corner, the communal sleep area, and waited. Clearly, the young ones weren’t ready to come say ‘hello’, so you’d be patient and speak on their terms.
You fell asleep while waiting and were assualted by terrible dreams, the worst dreams: Visions of big and mean stallions whom had cornered you in a pen, in an event that felt as if a lifetime ago. You were so small back then, so weak. You tried very hard to bury what happened next, you didn’t need to remember the rest. You woke with a startle as something warm pressed against your back, about the size of a stallion’s hoof. The sensation and the memory threw you out of slumber and back into the dim light of the night light by the blanket pile.
You smelled a stink, a bad stink, a terrible stink. It was an odour unlike anything you’d smelled before.
The pheromonal miasma was rancid to your nose. Like burning shit, like puked up spoiled sketties, like the worst things a fluffy could imagine.
You turned over and found a little brown unicorn filly pressed into your back, with a cream splotch over her eye, a light pink mane and dappling on her rump. She was so charming, so innocent… but the stink, it was terrible. You tried to go back to sleep, it wasn’t her fault, she just needed to rest, and so did you.
The sunlight hit your eyelids and brought you back to the waking world. You got up and got a drink from the nearby bowl.
You had a bit of a phobia involving water, having seen your little sister drown when young, so you always drank with your eyes closed.
Suddenly, the sound of water lapping doubled.
You looked up and there she was, the stinky filly, she was copying you.
“H-h-hewwo?” you smiled.
The foal just stared at you. A tiny frown and big inquisitive eyes were your only reply.
“Wat am namsie?” you asked, to which she just stood silent.
“Sissie nu can tawkies nu mowe.” a second filly said as she left the play castle, “Sissie am Nea.”.
“Hewwo, Nea.” you smiled at her sister, before turning to the little miss, “An wat bout yew?” you inquired.
“Am Spwink-ew~.” she said with a flirtatious wink, “Bu big hansum stawwion can caww Spwink-ew Wat-ebah yew wan~.” she said with a giggle. Brushing past your leg like an amorous cat.
You felt sick, gross, even. She was a filly, same age as her sister, but she was acting like a mare, and a very forward one at that. It was revolting to you, she was a foal, and foals should be thinking about huggies and love, not enfies and special friends.
She was a light pink pegasus, with a long silver mane and tail that glittered, and upon her flank she had a cutiemark: A ruby red star.
As she passed you by with a flick of her silky tail, you got a wiff of that stink again, that vile, horrific stink. It made your eyes water, like putrid pickles and raw, freshly bitten wild onions.
You bit your lip, it wasn’t their fault that they smelled bad, maybe they just needed a bath?
“Am Chapwin, am hewe tu wook after yew.” you introduced, to which the silent foal rolled her eyes and turned away, and her sister waved and blew a kiss in your direction.
“Hewwo, Chapwin~!” Sprinkle almost moaned, “Am yew hewe tu be Spwink-ew nyew daddeh, ow be nyew ‘daddeh’?” she giggled with bedroom eyes that quite frankly shrivelled your already flacid nu-nu stick to the sized of an anorexic raisin.
Everything about her behaviour made you feel filthy for being near her, but, you tried to look past it; she was your ward, and you were here to help her and her sibling.
You watched them for a while as they ‘played’. In truth, they were both acting strange. Not much in the way of traditional foal behaviors.
Sprinkle had retreated to the play castle and so you were really just watching Nea. She was constantly following you around, copying you. When you ate, she ate; when you laid down, so did she; when you sneezed, she mimicked you.
You actually found it rather endearing, she reminded you of the sister you once had, and then a cheeky idea crossed your mind. She had already used the litter box an hour ago, so you hopped in and dropped a load. When you hopped out, you watched with a chuckle as she attempted to copy you, but try as she might, nothing but a tiny squak came out of her rear end.
“Hehehe” you chuckled, she was a silly filly, but you liked her.
“he… hehe…” she repeated back. To which you actually froze in shock.
“Su, can Nea mayk wowdsies, ow jus nu wanna?” you asked.
She nodded.
“Wy yew nu wike tawkies? Chapwin bet Nea soundies vewy pwetty.” you assured.
She coward away and vigorously shook her head, even more so than her shivering body.
“Wat am wong?” you asked, getting to ground level with the shaking filly, disarming yourself, “Com an gib whispies in heawing-pwace. Chapwin nu teww, pwomis.”.
“N-n-nu mayk soundies… N-nu git huwties…” she whispered with a terrified rasp.
“…Otay…” you assured, “Weww, Chapwin am stwong, su Nea can tawkies wound Chapwin aww yew wan.” you smiled.
You left her with a stuffie friend and went to check on Sprinkle. You came to the entrance of the play castle and peaked in from the entrance. The sight inside made you feel queasy.
Sprinkle was bent down low into a submissive position, head down, rear end up. Her tail was brushed to the side and raised. She was staring into her reflection in a corner tucked hand mirror, that to her was full body. She was staring into her back end. Not making a noise, not smiling, crying, not giggling, not playing, just staring with a blank expression.
You backed away and cleared your throat, “Hewwo, Spwink-ew? Can Chapwin tawkies wid Spwink-ew?” you asked as you pulled away and knocked on the frame.
She suddenly came bursting out of the entrance with a lustful gaze.
“Chapwin wan Spwink-ew? Hehehehe, otay!” she smiled, leaning against you like a lovesick mare.
“Wan askies bout smewwies” you inquired, to which her flirtations ceased in an instant, and for the briefest of moments she acted as a filly should.
“W-w-wat smewwies?” she asked nervously.
“Yew wook scawedies, du bebbeh Spwink-ew nee huggi-” you went to offer with outstretched front legs.
“NU AM BEBBEH! AM BIG NAWE! AWW GWOWN UPPIES!” she declared before stomping her hoof and storming off.
“Oh Chaaaaaaplin~?” the owner of the two foals called out as he entered the room, followed by his two adult fluffies.
You walked up to your client and sat, awaiting your pills.
The man was in his early-mid twenties, nerdy, thick rimmed glasses, short hair with an innocent smile, utterly devoid of malice.
The Stallion behind him was beautiful, even if he was an alicorn. Pearlescent silver shone over a midnight black coat, his pupils were ice blue and the shape of diamonds, his hair was long and flowing white, fashioned in a style that would look right at home in one of the ‘an-ee-meh’ cartoons that the staff at SAFE watch on break sometimes.
The mare, the stallion’s special friend, was ruby red coated with a mane like fire, and spread across her body were countless lashing scars, old ones from a lifetime ago.
“So, any luck so far with the foals?” the man asked, “They haven’t been acting right since about a week ago.” he fretted.
“Daddeh, Owian am scawedies! Widdwe bebbehs am actin aww wwong! Biggest heawt wowwies.” the designer ex-breeding stallion sobbed.
“…Gawnet am biggest scawedies…” the mare added.
“Nu kno yet, bu nee mowe timsies. Wiww unastan soon.” you pondered, “bu, can Chapwin hab piww naow?”.
“Sure, and you just take one, right?” the human asked, to which you nodded.
He presented you your medication, you gently picked it up in your teeth and retreated to the saferoom pen.
You sat, stuck it behind your cheek, lapped up a mouthful of water and swallowed the orange and pink capsule.
“…Wat am d-dat?..” Nea asked.
After you cleared your throat and chased it down with a mouthful of kibble you tried to find the best way to explain your condition.
“Chapwin nee med-ee-sin su… su fwuffies… nu hayt an gib Chapwin huwties.” you explained awkwardly, looking away. You didn’t want her to see how upset your condition made you, a condition that was forced upon you, an illness that the nice veterinarian explained would never leave you.
“W-wy udda f-fwuffies hayt Chapwin?” she asked of you.
“Chapwin nu kno…” you lied.
She was a foal, she didn’t need to hear about that terrible day, the day you became an outsider to the rest of your kind.
You slowly got her to feel safe with you, comfortable even. She still stunk, terribly so, and so you took it upon yourself to initiate a bath.
You called Sprinkle to join her sister, and they both sat there, curious as to what you wanted of them.
“Hab bebbehs ebah hab baf timsie befow?” you asked, to which they both shook their heads.
“Nut eben wicky cweanies?” you added, and the answer was unfortunately the same.
“Weww, dat nu gun du.” you huffed playfully, “yew am pwetty fiwwies wid pwetty heawts. Nu can hab yew wun wound an nu smeww pwetty tuu.” you smiled warmly.
“Naow… Wish wun wan gu fiws-” you asked, to which Sprinkle tackled her sister out of the way with an expert shoulder check and interrupted you joyfully.
“OOooh! Pick Spwink-ew! Pweas!” she demanded giddily, throwing her hoof up into the air.
Nea had no objections, and so simply went over to the blanket pile to relax and wait her turn.
“Otay naow, am gun pick yew uppies, nu be scawedies, am gun be vewy cawefuw.” you promised.
You stuck your hoof in the water bowl and lightly dabbed her fluff until slightly heavy with moisture.
Being a foal, her brand new coat was far too soft for a true bath.
You held her in your hooves and begun the process of thoroughly cleaning her coat.
“Hehehe, dis tickwes” she giggled with a coo. Her reaction stayed solid, innocent and gleeful during the entire ordeal, until you got to the last part of the job, the part you were dreading.
As soon as your tongue made contact with her genitals and anus, you heard a tiny moan. The noise and affirmation made what should have been an innocent bath into a perverse act that made you feel vile.
“STAWP DAT!” you barked at her.
“Hehehe, oopsies, sowwies~!” she said in a way that made you gag.
You tried one more time, and once again, as the texture of your tongue collided with the region, you heard a soft “E-… En-… Enf…”.
Immediately you dropped her on the towel and spat into the floor.
“Oof! Hey! WAT WWONG? D-DID SPWINK-EW DU SUMTIN WWONG!?” she asked, less like a confused foal and more like a disappointed lover.
“STAWP DAT! STAWP AWW OB DIS! WAT YEW AM DOIN AM WWONG! AWW OB ID!” You finally snapped. You had it with this filly and her vulgarity. You were her therapy friend, her nanny, her confidante. And instead her behaviour made you feel like a pervert or an enfie pal.
You would never do to her what those stallions had done to you, never!
She stared at you as tears welled up in her eyes.
“A-… Am sowwies…” She said as her lip trembled and a puddle of urine began to form around her legs.
“Jus wan be big mawe, cuz big mawes am stwong… Nee gwow uppies! Huuuhuhuuhuhuhuuuuuu!” she began to cry.
“Yew nu nee be mawe, jus be fiwwy, nu fwuffy nee Spwink-ew be mawe yet.” you tried to comfort.
“YUS DEY DU!” She said, puffing her cheeks and running away to sob in the comfort of her play castle.
You decided that it would be best to give her some space, And so you turned your attention to her sister as you slowly shook her awake.
“Pssst, hey, yew nee cweanies naow.” you explained, and she did as told. You went through the same rigmarole and the same process. Once her fluff was lightly damp, you lifted her up and this time you felt as if holding a foal shaped rock. She was stiff, so incredibly stiff, unable to move. If you didn’t know that she was a foal when you picked her up, You’d have assumed that she was one of those porcelain knick knacks your old clients have on their shelves. And the only give away that she was in fact still Nea, was the subtle but constant shaking of her muscles.
You started with her back, then tummy, then legs, neck and head, and slowly she began to relax and soften. For a moment, you were even fairly certain that you saw her smile. Then you got to the rump and she did not mimic her sister in the slightest.
You placed your tongue and got to work, at first it seemed like there’d be no problems, non at all, and then she began screeching.
“ScreeeeeeeeEEEEEEEEEEEE!” she cried, “Nu am mawe! Am onwy widdwe bebbeh! Nu wan gwow uppies! NU AM MAWE!” she screamed and begged between rapid chirping.
You put her down and she tried to run, but she was clearly blind with fear, so you had no choice but to restrain her. You hated that you had to.
“Shhhhhh-shhh-shhh, id am otay! Baf am obew, nu nee du gain.” you assured, “Am su sowwies! Pweas nu be scawedies!”.
“NU-WAN-NU-WAN-NU-WAN-NU-WAN-NU-WAN-NU-WAN-NU-WAN-NU-WAN-NU-WAN!” she screamed and squeaked madly!
You held her tight until the fight left her and she went limp, sobbing softly.
She gave up, a chirping mess, but safe.
You held her close and kept assuring her that she was fine, she was safe, that you won’t hurt her.
You rested for the night and skipped dinner. You weren’t hungry, neither were the fillies. They both snuggled close, although you had to keep a leg on Sprinkle, due to her trying to touch you in the night.
Both of these fillies were weird, their reactions were wrong, their behaviour was erratic, and although they were clean, their stink persisted.
The morning came and you got up, got your pill and walked over to the water bowl. The sheer anxiety of yesterday had twisted your gut in knots and you needed to get to a litter box. You dropped your pill by the bowl and took off, relieved yourself and then walked back.
“WAT AM YEW DOIN!?” you screamed as you charged at Nea, who had just swallowed your medication.
You were seeing red, you pushed her to the ground and stomped right beside her head, scaring her frozen.
“YEW STOOPID DUMMEH BEBBEH!” you snapped, “FWUFFIES AM GUN HAYT CHAPWIN WIDDOU MED-EE-SIN!” you cried, terrified of the prospect of being a target again, just like when you were a colt.
“A-am sowwies! CHIRP! J-jus wan med-ee-sin tuu…” she sobbed.
“W-wy?” you asked, baffled at the statement.
“C-c-cuz… Ib tayk med-ee-sin wike Chapwin, May-beh nu fwuffies hayt an huwt Nea nu mowe…” she trembled with teary eyes.
“Wy wouwd aneh fwuffy hayt Nea, siwwy fiww-” you went to say, and then you realised, her retched stink was gone… The pill worked.
You had taken the pill for so many years that you had forgotten that smell, the smeww you were starting to detect on yourself without the pill. It was the smell that denoted a very specific type of abuse.
“Nea… Wish fwuffy huwt Nea? Pweas teww.” you requested calmy, feeling a heaviness in your chest that hurt and ached.
“N-n-nu can t-teww!” she trembled, covering her face with her hooves. “Dey, gun, gib, speshew, pwace, huwties, gain, ib saysie!” she began to hyperventilate.
“Pweas. Memba wat Chapwin saysie befow? ‘Can teww aneh-ting’.” you reminded, trying desperately not to boil over.
She stayed silent.
“Pweas, Chapwin pwomis dat yew am nebah gun git huwties wike dat gain.” you begged to know, biting your lip until blood pooled in your mouth.
“N-Nea… Wish dat Nea hab daddeh… wike yew.” she sniffled while turning on her side, curling into a fragile little ball.
You turned and ran, you ran harder than you had ever in your life. You left the saferoom and you combed the house for the offender, you had your own blood in your mouth and by the end of the day, you wouldn’t be satisfied until it was someone else’s as well.
As you scanned the kitchen you saw him through the glass sliding door, in the garden, sitting there by the pond, smiling, as if he were without guilt, grinning just like those stallions that cornered you as a colt. You walked out through the cat flap and blocked it behind you with an empty plant pot.
When you turned to face the parents again, Garnet was confused, impressed, and a little scared that you had mustered up the strength to push a plant pot, and even more so scared as to where you placed it.
You began walking towards them, no, stomping. You saw him, Orian, chuckling in mid conversation with his special friend. He looked so oblivious, so smug, like he had gotten away with murder, and as far as he was concerned, he did.
You hadn’t even realised that you had taken off into a sprint, not until his fancy, diamond shaped pupils shrank to dots and he scrambled to his hooves.
“OWIIIAAAAAAN!” you roared, head lowered, horn pointed.
You felt a puncture, you smelled iron, your mane turned wet. You looked down, the screaming of Garnet behind you was a distant mumble, your head rang as if guns had went off by your ears.
Orian was scared, bleeding profusely from his chest, shivering, you were very sure that your horn had punctured his rotten, black little heart. He had realised, finally, that he was found out. But no, this was too fast, too kind. He deserved to suffer and his daughters deserved their pound of flesh from him, and you needed to deliver, you HAD to deliver.
His breathing was laboured, his face was full of fear and he was fading. You needed him to know real terror, just like you had, just like those fillies have. You were short on time, you looked down at his genitals, his sack only had one lump, where the other aught to be was a gnarly surgery scar. You wished that you could smash both, but you’d make do.
You stomped, stabbed, chewed, ripped and teared his nut into a visceral paste.
His screams were exquisite, his manic fear was intoxicating, his last thoughts before death were ones of helplessness and bewilderment.
“Ack… Ack… Ack…” was all that escaped him as he went limp.
As you got up, you looked down on the frozen face of fear and felt pride. You kept your promise. He would not hurt the fillies again.
You felt Garnet’s back legs strike the side of your head, and the world went black for the final time. You died that day on July the 7th, 2019, and you died happy, vindicated, helpful. You died with worth, You were of service.
-The End-
