(I’ve been an occasional fan of the fluffy community since the booru and 4chan days, but never posted before. I looked for the booru a few days ago, saw it went down, and found this site instead. Finally got the itch to write something.)
It was a hot, wet autumn. A dry stretch in August had given way to pouring rains in September, and the air was thick with moisture. Heat and humidity were the norm, and the former only let up at night. The streets never seemed to dry fully, and there were puddles - a half inch or so deep - in every gutter and crack of the asphalt. In the alleys, away from direct sunlight most of the time, moisture accumulated constantly and would form as misty condensation in the twilight hours. As night fell in one alley, a light fog settled in an almost serene way.
In this alley was an upturned cardboard box. What was the bottom of the box now serves as the “roof” of an impromptu den, the thin plastic tape along the seams almost-but-not-quite keeping the omnipresent moisture out. One of the box’s flaps had been nearly torn away and hung limply to one side - this was the entrance. The greasy, damp remnants of a take-out bag (some kind of Italian food, judging from the caricature of a pizza chef) were laid against the larger box. A glance at the stamped logo on the front-facing side of the box reveals that it was once shipped to a Ranjit Sangapur and contained saline enemas - but the outside of the box is of less importance than the inside.
A hushed, murmuring sound can be heard as one approaches the box. Almost childlike, but not quite. The tone was artificial, the speech slurred. Bright and cheerful and utterly vapid. It was like Sesame Street playing on TV, but overheard from two rooms away. Fluffies. A feral mother and a handful of fuzzy, wriggling young, in a peaceful reprieve from the struggle of daily existence in an urban environment.
Nearing the box, one begins to recognize what the fluffy inside is saying. A crude, childish song. “Mummah wuv babbehs, babbehs wuv mummah. Babbehs go sweepies and mummah giv huggies…”. The lyrics did not rhyme, but were hummed in lilted imitation of the melody to some half-remembered lullaby. Preprogrammed, likely. One can draw nearer to the box and hear faint birdlike peeping sounds. This was the first dark-time in too many bright-times to count without sky-wawa. Not only that, but she found bestest nummies near the entrance of the alley - saving her the despair of having to travel too far from her young in search of food. This was a rare moment of genuine bliss.
Sometimes the fluffy heard the sounds of humans, but she did not see them curled up in her nest. She knew that there were good humans and bad humans, so she tried to stay quiet - but she just couldn’t help herself from singing a mummah song to her babbehs. They were so happy, and so was she! Although it sometimes made her sad that she didn’t have a human to care for her, she had seen what happens when a fluffy meets the wrong kind of human. Her special friend… it gave her a moment of saddies to think about what that meanie human did to him. But the fluffy became happy again when she remembered that she was able to escape with her babbies.
The fluffy, preoccupied with singing to her mewling spawn, did not hear the footsteps drawing near. In an instant, a man closed on the box, grabbed it by its corners, and pulled it off the ground. Exposed was a technicolor mass of feral fluffies - a mare, lying on her side, and several newborn foals huddled between her four stumpy legs. It seems that the foals were in the midst of feeding. The man tossed the box aside, and the warmest home the feral had ever known was suddenly lying damp and crumpled in a puddle. The man observed the fluffies wordlessly. The mare was a maroon color with a matted cream-yellow mane. For a feral, she was remarkably well fed, and bereft of injury as well. Not one of the foals was old enough for a mane to grow in. One was a reddish-orange color; another was yellow; a third was teal, bordering on green; and the fourth was a ruddy pinkish beige. Their eyes were closed shut, and they shivered and mewled as they clung to each other and to their mother. Subverbal trills of alarm erupted from the mass of fluff-spawn, turning to chirping and peeping as a draft blew into the alley.
In the damp of the night, the mare curled protectively around her young. Sad wet eyes looked up at the man, and a pulse of fear - and deep, primal longing - shook the biotoy’s entire body. Fluffies are incapable of throwing off their programming, even in circumstances like these. This man was not the one who hurt her special friend - probably, the fluffy can’t remember the specific details - which means he might be a new daddeh who would take her and her precious babies into a warm house. And a warm house meant a saferoom, and toys, and love. The fluffy instantly associated the man with all these things. A fluffy who has known nothing but poverty and the putrid life of an urban feral cannot help but hold out its biologically predetermined hope. “Nice mistah? B-be nyu daddeh?” But the man did not respond. There was no reason to answer. Actions spoke louder than words. “Pwease nicie mistah giv’ huggies? An’ housie, and toysies, and luv?” The fluffy mother started to rise so that she could give huggies to her prospective new daddy. The foals, feeling their new exposure to the elements, chirped in a panicked manner. It was still muggy out, but fluffies are sensitive to the slightest change.
The man squatted down to be nearer the fluffy family. The fluffy sat on her haunches and raised her forelegs - this is the programmed “huggies pose” that all fluffies knew. The man did not reciprocate. Human eyes looked into inhuman. “N-nicie mistah? Gib huggies to fwuffy?”. The biotoy could not resist its programming - the slightest interest shown by a human triggered bonding responses, context be damned. The man, for his part, was deaf to any kind of pleading from the fluffy. He was here to do one thing. One nasty, foul thing. It was time to do that thing that makes him feel like God.
The man rose out of his squat and to his full height. He poked at the mare’s side with the toe of his shoe (“Huggies weggie?”) before giving a ‘gentle’ kick (“Huwties!”) which bowled the fluffy over. The blow wasn’t strong enough to break bones, but would surely bruise the biotoy’s weak flesh. A second blow sent the mare skidding a few feet across the pavement (“Ooh-HUAGH! Huu, huu huu huu…”). This one knocked the wind out of the fluffy. The foals were now exposed.
The fluffy was in shock. In an instant, her nest was gone, she had been hurt by a human she though would be her new daddy, and now her precious babies were away from her. Her programming once again governed her conduct. The man was now registered as a possible threat (since he had yet to do permanent damage to her), and that meant she had to take care of her babies. “Buh… Babbehs nee’ mummah! Dew just wittow chirpie babbehs!” Pwease nicie mistah nu huwties!". Tears began to well in the mare’s eyes as she struggled to rise. The three feet or so between her and her babies might as well be miles. The fear let some urine trickle out of her, and it mingled with the dirty puddles of rainwater in the alley.
Ignoring the mare’s pleading, the man bent down and grabbed one of the foals in two fingers. It was an off-tone red, sort of halfway between red and orange. He was careful to hold it by the scruff of its neck, and not too close, lest it release its waste down the front of his shirt. It squirted brown liquid anyway, and the diarrhea splattered weakly against the asphalt. Its stubby little legs squirmed in the air, wiggling towards the man’s fingers in desperate need of warmth and hugs. The man shook the foal back and forth in midair.
The foal began chirping frantically - this was far rougher treatment than what the biotoy had been designed for. For an agonizingly long moment, the man studied the chubby little foal. Red little legs wriggled and writhed in the air. The mouth opened and closed in frantic peeping noises. It must be newborn, and the mother clearly had no trouble finding food - the foal bore no symptoms of starvation or ill treatment. Yet. Foal in hand, the man took a few steps away from the remaining foals, who chirped in distress, hugging each other desperately - comprehending nothing of their situation but a vague fear and a sudden chill.
The fluffy mare was on her hooves now and watching in fear as the human grabbed one of her foals. She needed to save that baby! But there were three other babies still chirping away, and they needed her just as much! She can’t save them all at once, and she can’t choose! The dilemma was too much for her to bear. The human walked further and further away from her nestie, but he still had a baby! She sat down on her hind legs and begin to weep to herself. “Nicie mistah nu giv’ bad upsies! Huu huu huu, pwease mistah nu huwt babbehs, babbehs fo’ wuv, nu huwties…”
After gaining about three yards from the now-ruined fluffy nest, the man stopped. With an expert underhanded throw, he sent the reddish foal flying through the air towards the building opposite him. Disappointingly, the foal did not splatter on impact. Instead, it hit the wall a few feet off the ground with a wet crack - like dropping an egg. It slid down the brick wall slowly, sticky with blood, bodily fluids, and its own waste. Just about every bone in the foal’s body was broken - cruelly, it had not yet died. The foal gagged and chirped, blood seeping from its wide-open mouth and shattered torso. Why did it exist at all? Just to suffer? The foal’s last thoughts were of unplaceable, all-consuming pain. Then, finally, nothing - its spine had shattered and the paralysis set in mercifully quickly after the foal slid down onto the damp pavement. Total organ failure and hemmorhage soon followed.
The swift and merciless execution of a foal set the mare into a fit. “Nu! Nuuuu!”, she wailed. Her tinny, high-pitched voice would fail to carry beyond the alley, and if it did, no one would care. The fluffy’s shrieks quickly petered out into crying. “Huu, huu-huu-huu, huu… wai nicie mistah huwt babbeh… sniff”. Suddenly, the mare remembered that she had other babies - not only did they exist, but they needed her protection, and urgently! She got back up on all four hoofsies and tottled over to her babies, curling around them protectively. She felt a soreness in her side where the human kicked her, and she needed huggies to make the hurties go away. Her foals relaxed in the presence of their mother, and one began to suckle instinctively. The nursing foal - the teal green one, the man noticed - kneaded softly against the mare’s teat. The others clung to their mother, little legs spread wide in a hug against the warm flesh of the mare. The mare mourned between her tears. “Huu huu huu, am sowwy wed babbeh, huu huu huu”. The mare’s tears did not dry, but the pleasure-chemicals released by the sensation of hugs and nursing began to drown out her pain, and her bleating stopped. The man observed the scene with a fascination equal parts stoic and perverse. The mare’s fluff rises and falls rapidly with wet, mucus-laden breaths as she cries. The emotional cocktail of grief from the loss of her foal and pleasure from her remaining foals seems to have led the mare to forget that there’s a human watching her. Reaching towards her.
Once again, the fluffy is separated from her dear babies as the man’s all-powerful arm with its iron grip lifts her - delicately - by the scruff of her neck. Up, up, and further up she goes as the man raises her to about eye level. The height is dizzying. (“Bad upsies!”) What’s worse than the sudden upsies is that the mare has just remembered - this human hurt her babbeh! The mare empties her bowels onto the asphalt. These are bad scaredy poopies - so she looks down in shame. Splashback from the wet feces hitting the pavement lands on her foals - her two foals. “Nu! Mummah nu’ mean gib babbehs sowwy poopies! Am su sowwy babbehs, huuu!”. Wait, two foals. She had more than that. Where is her teal babbeh, the one who was drinking milkies?
“Cheep! Cheep!” The squeaking sounds of a newborn fluffy foal answer her question. Teal babbeh is - like its mother - being held by its scruff in the man’s other hand. Milkies dribble down its chin and waste dribbles out of its posterior. The foal wiggles its legs helplessly in the air, vainly seeking something to hug. The sight drives the fluffy mare into another fit of tears, tears which drop onto the asphalt as the man carries her and her foal a few feet. He stops near a pothole filled with rainwater - unbeknownst to him, this was the fluffy’s preferred “drinkies wawa” spot. Even if he knew, he probably wouln’t care. The man squats down in front of the pothole, still holding both fluffies.
“Huu huu, nicie mistah wet mummah an’ babbeh down? Babbeh nee’ mummah, nee’ huggies!” The mare bleats out pleas for mercy as her legs swing futilely in the air. (“Bad upsies! Bad fo’ babbeh an’ mummah!”) The man is holding her such that her hooves are just a couple inches off the ground, keeping the fluffy utterly helpless. The foal, he drops into the puddle with a light plop.
“NU! WAWA BAD FO’ BABBEHS!” shrieks the mare, more forcefully than anything else she’s said on this terrible night. The preprogrammed fear of water coupled with the need to protect her spawn has sent the fluffy’s heart into palpitations. This is the worst night of her life, and it’s far from over. The mare shrieks and cries, pawing in the air, legs outstretched towards her baby. The infant foal flops uselessly in the inch-deep puddle. “Cheep! Chearp! Peep!” It raises its short, infinitely fragile neck out of the water, and its chin falls back as the foal’s mouth opens in a perpetual cry of fear and discomfort. It shivers as it peeps in despair. The foal’s little tongue - like the pit of an olive - flickers as it cries, mouth wide with despair.
The man lowers his arm enough to let the mare touch asphalt, but does not release her. The mare, frantic, scrapes as she “runs” towards her foal but gets no closer. “BABBEH! NEE’ SABE BABBEH! MUMMAH CUMMIN’!” shrieks the mare between frantic sobs and uneven breaths. If this continues, she’ll rub her hooves raw against the pavement. With one hand forcing the mare prone on the rough, abrasive asphalt, the man presses the squirming, cheeping foal into the water with his other. (“Huu-OUGH! Huwties! Wowstest huwties! Babbeh, hewp mummah!”) The foal wiggles its torso and flails its legs wildly as its tiny head is held under. It releases the last of its milky waste into the puddle as bubbles rise near its submurged snout. He’s drowning it. He’s drowning this days-old foal and forcing the mother to watch. (“NU! WAWA BAD’ FO BABBEHS! WOWSTEST HUWTIES!”) Mare and foal both feel delightfully warm against the man’s hands as the night grows just a little chilly. The mare struggles and writhes but cannot lift herself up - humans are just too strong.
In short order, the fluffy mare is forced by her own fatigue to give up the struggle. She mewls and weeps as she paws uselessly against the pavement. “Huu, huu, huu, huu! Babbehs! Wai… babbehs!”) A stinging pain comes from her milkie-places as the sensitive skin is ground against cracked asphalt. Tears sting the mare’s eyes, and she closes them - unwilling to watch as the water near her foal stops bubbling. The foal’s struggles stop soon after.
Two. Two babbehs destroyed by this nice mister - no, a not-nice mister. “Puh-puh-pwease m-mistah… wet fwuffy mummah gu’ an’ nu huwt babbehs nu’ mowe”. Tears flow like waterfalls down her dirty face. The night air stings her hoofsies where she scraped them against the pavement. Her neck is sore and bruised, and her tummie has hurties like she’s never had before. “Huu huu huu, PWEASE mistah! Nu giv’ huwties nu mowe’!” The mare seems to be petering out. This has been a very difficult night for her, after all. Suddenly, a plaintive, high-pitched wail breaks the cacophony of the mare’s tears.
The other foals are crying. Foals often do, when they’re cold, and hungry too. The man stands up, releases the tormented mare, and turns his attention to the two remaining foals.
The mare catches her breath (“Huu, bweavies huwties! Miwkie pwace huwties!”) in time to see the man’s blindingly swift strides towards her other babies. The babies! She must save them! She ignores the stinging pain in her hoofsies as she gallops as fast as she can towards her foals (“Nu! Meanie hummen no huwt babbehs nu mowe’! Mummah sabe 'ou, babbehs!”).
The man considers his options, then braces against a wall with one hand as he raises his foot. Illuminated by a distant streetlamp, the dark shadow of his almighty boot looms over the two foals. The foals chirp and wail as they hug each other. They didn’t have the chance to feed before the man came, and as his assault on their family wore on the foals increasingly feel the pain of hunger. Not to mention, they’ve been apart from their mother for almost the entire time - and nearly fluffless foals like these have no real capacity to regulate their heat. In all likelihood, the foals will die from exposure unless they get hugs and milk soon. The man pauses with his leg raised, watching the mare bravely trot over to protect her young, tears and mucus streaming down her face.
“NU HUWTIES BABBEHS!” - the sonorous war cry of a desperate biotoy, as she puffs out her cheeks and raises her weggies up against the meanie human’s weggie. Her hoofsies are almost raw and little flecks of blood smear across the boot as the mare struggles with all her might to stop the man from giving sorry hoofies to her babies. (“Mummah sabe ou’, babbehs! Mummah pwotect!”) The mare continues to weep as the struggle takes a grievous toll on her already traumatized body. (“Uuuh! Huwties! Weggies huwties!”) The man has not even begun to lower his leg; he’s just standing there with one leg raised, almost like he’s mid-step in a marching band. That changes. With all the inexorable force of a normal footstep, the man lowers his leg over the squirming, chirping foals. He shifts his angle slightly - he only wants one foal to die this way. The mother screams as she realizes the futility of her struggle, and the man lays his boot on her yellow baby. “PWEASE! PWEASE! NU SKISH BABBEH! PWEASE!”)
The foal cannot comprehend the danger, and turns to hug the dirty sole of the boot. Sadly, the boot has no comfort to give. The mare’s leathery soft hooves bat uselessly against the man’s leg as he presses his boot lower and lower onto the yellow foal, semiformed bones beginning to crack under the light pressure. Like trying to go 25 in a 20, the necessary force is both light and precise. He’s not trying to burst the thing like a ripe tomato, but squash it flat like a beer can. Light brown filth seeps from under his boot as the foal evacuates its bowels. Soon, the feces and urine is joined by a trickle of red, sticky blood. After a final, torturous moment, the man sets his weight into the step and utterly flattens the foal. A delightfully sickening cruch ends the foal’s misery and redness spreads beneath the man’s boot.
The mare’s second wind has just about ended. Her voice is hoarse, her eyes red from tears and bloodshot from strain, her legs scraped and tired. “Huwties… wowstest huwties… huu… mummah nu can sabe babbehs… huu huu huu”. The man nudges the fluffy mare with his boot, then callously begins scraping its foal-fouled sole against the mare’s exposed stomach and teats. This sends new pain through the mare’s body, but she’s too exhausted to resist. After he’s satisfied - and the mare is covered in the sticky remains of her child - the man rears his boot back.
The man gives the fluffy mare another kick - this time, hard enough to break a rib or two and send the biotoy careening into a brick wall. (“HUAGH! HUWTIES!”) A quick stride over to the broken mass, and he had braced his hands against that wall. The mare opened her eyes just barely quick enough to see the man’s boot - still partially stained with the viscera of her foal - lift up. “Nu, pwease nu!” WHACK. The mare wheezes and shrieks with pain. Again. WHACK. The mare vomits, with plenty of blood mixed in. Again. CRUNCH. That last kick shattered the mare’s rib cage. She coughs and sputters, but cannot force air out of her lungs. A trickle of blood from her open mouth quickly becomes a steady flow. Probably spinal and nervous damage too, since urine begins spilling from her crotch - oh, bloody urine. Add kidney damage to the list. The mare cannot draw enough air into her lungs to scream, and only wheezes as tears pool near her bloodshot eyes. Her little heart is beating furiously, desperately trying to pump blood into numbing limbs - but merely exascerbating the mare’s internal bleeding. By this point, the mare is a leather bag of broken bones and viscera, with just enough life in her to feel pain. Her spine is broken in two places, and her immobility forces her to watch as the man grabs her last foal, the creamy beige one.
Like the others, he holds this foal by its neck scruff to allow it to release its waste (“Peep! Peep! Cheep!”). It does so, showering its paralyzed and dying mother in feces. The mare can only weep now as a chill rises up from her numbed limbs. The man lays the beige foal on the asphalt about a foot away from the mare, and with two fingers, snaps its legs - one after the other. This brutality makes the foal send up an earpiercing, constant shriek (“EEEEEEEEE! EEEEEEEE! EEEEEE! EEEEEEE!”). Snapping a newborn foal’s legs is easy, like breaking a toothpick. Easier, probably. The foal frantically sniffs the air between shrieks, its snout twitching in the direction of its mother and her teats. There’s still milk there, and the foal is cold and starving. It squirms, but its legs do not respond. It writhes, convulsing its tiny bean-shaped torso, but cannot muster the force needed to propel itself towards its only hope of life. The foal’s cries weaken into chirps, then weaken further into peeps. The peeping, too, peters out as the foal exhausts itself. It will die there, immobile.
A fluffy family is dead now. The man wordlessly leaves the alley, the power trip finally complete. With any luck, another family will show up in a few days, and he can do this nasty thing again.
Glad you like it!
