Your name is Surge the Tenrec, and you’ve got a bit of a problem.
It’s been about three months since you adopted a rust-colored bowl fluffy that you’ve now since named Lil’ Asskicker, due to his uncanny adaptability. You blame yourself, mostly; having breastfed him your own milk, he seems to have grown up more resistant to just about everything. He can move up to ten pounds by himself - an absolutely herculean feat compared to most fluffs - and dropping off the edge of a table doesn’t break his legs anymore. Technically, he’s the best fluffy you could’ve possibly found, because you like to play rough; vandalism, petty thievery, and assault are some of your common daily to-do’s when you get bored enough.
The only problem is what’s been happening the past three days; he’s been humping everything he can mount like a horny pit bull. You’ve never seen anything like it; not in the alleyfluffs you’ve taken to mulching in your spare time, nor on FluffyCommunity, where you’ve kept up on every story, article, comic, and lore you come across. And, as is befitting the weird mashup timeline you reside in, every fluffy variant that’s been posted about exists in your world now. Meaning that the more you read, the better off you are to deal with whatever the hell you stumble onto…except for the terminal case of horny your little bowl fluff seems to have come down with. Even those weird-ass XXL Fuckffies don’t seem to be as actively stir-crazy as your little dude is.
You went for a walk to clear your head and come up with a plan to deal with it. You left him somebody’s shoe, since you equated his behavior to a dog, but that was only a temporary solution. You needed something else, something that he wouldn’t get bored of, and more importantly, something that would provide you entertainment as well. As you turned a corner and spotted another damnable alleyway, the spawning place of all these little problems, you sigh; at least you might be able to find a Smarty or two to use as a fidget toy. Fidget, in this case, being something you can feel crunch under your boot as you think, since all the leaves were gone already. As you walk towards it, you briefly hear the soft, telltale "huuhuu"s of a fluffy in distress, and the brief babble of “Nu faiw”. Ahhhhh…perfect.
You round the corner, expecting to see a little family of shitrats; a smarty, a mare, perhaps a bundle of chirpy little babbehs you could either squish or - if you’re lucky - a poopie to adopt. You’d gotten a soft spot for them, and since you’ve got three of your own, you won’t even have to put as much effort in to train one more.
As a brief aside, you’d learned that not all poopies or alicorns were born “fluffy-perfect”; no, they needed to experience the neglect and hardship of being a poopie or “munstah” in order for whatever little bio-program in their brain finally flipped that switch to give them empathy. Otherwise, strict training was necessary to ensure they didn’t turn into your typical Shitrat.
However, as you turned that corner, full of expectation, you instead beheld a different typical sight; that of a mummah fluffy crying over her dead foals.
Her white fluffy coat had been stained by dirt, trash, and water. Her magenta mane was equally dulled by the same, and on the ground before her was a white foal with it’s backside crushed, a pink foal with it’s head smashed, a red foal that looked all right at first but with it’s neck bent at an angle, you knew it was dead already, and - ahhh, perfect! - a poopie baby, dark brown and chirping sadly with neglect, still covered in afterbirth. You stepped closer, and realized there was something else; a smear on the ground with bits of blue that you hadn’t noticed at first. You weren’t stupid; that was the remains of another foal, mashed so harshly it wasn’t even recognizeable.
And you quickly put two and two together; it was the mummah’s fault. ALL of it. But how? Even the most basic fluffy you’d met had some kind of protective instinct for it’s babbehs…unless…
You are Princess, and it’s just not FAIR. You wanted babbehs to play with, and after all the things you’d gone through to get them, they just wouldn’t play! All they did was chirp and peep, they weren’t good for anything at ALL! You punished each of the bad, dummy babbehs one by one, until you had no more babbehs left except the ugly, smelly poopie. You cried your little heart out; it wasn’t fair! You wanted to play! Those dummy selfish babbehs didn’t play at all, didn’t they know how hard you’d worked to get them?? NO FAIR!
“Nu faiw! Nu faiw!” you cried out, tamping your little hooves on the ground in frustration. Your weird lumps between your legs hurt with the movement, the poopie wouldn’t stop cheeping, and your mummah had left you all alone here. You heard footsteps coming down the alley, and turned; you expected it to be a human who could tell you why the babbehs were so stupid, or at the very least, someone who would take you home to your smelly daddy. You were SURE he’d learned his lesson when you ran away. Instead, you felt your breath catch in your throat, your eyes widen, and your little heart beat faster.
Looming above you was a munstah. Just slightly shorter than a human, but with a bigger head and much larger eyes, and three tall somethings held up above it’s head like some weird spikey mane. It’s large eyes glowed; while the cyan color was kinda pretty, they didn’t feel pretty as they stared down at you. You didn’t bother checking the rest of it out; the black tank top and yellow cargos didn’t even register. Instead, just below the eyes, set into a cream-colored muzzle, were teeth. It was smiling as it approached, or at least it looked like a smile, but within it’s mouth weren’t the flat teeth of mummah or daddeh, nor the small, soft rounded teeth of a fluffy; these were pointy, like the horn of a pointy babbeh, except wider, and longer, and so much MORE pointy! Bright-time head-pictures filled your little mind with visions of being torn to pieces between those teeth, and you let loose a torrent of scaredy-poopies before dashing into the cardboard box you’d made your home this past week, kicking the cheeping little poopie out to give yourself more room to hide. You placed your hooves over your eyes to hide, trembling in your boxie-home.
“Oi, get back out here.” you heard a voice say; a human mummah?? You peeked out from under a hoof, and realized it was the worst decision you’ve ever made; the munstah was crouching out in front, and it’s teeth were even CLOSER now. It’s large hand picked up the poopie, and you hoped it would go away after eating it; instead, it held the little thing, glaring down at it, then back up at you. “I said get out here, y’little cunt.” It’s teeth clicked as it spoke; it sounded like a mummah, but it’s voice was scratchy; the munstah could TALK!!!
You are Surge again.
You reach into the box containing the scared white-and-magenta mare, grabbing it by the scruff of it’s neck. Easily pulling it out and standing up, you held it at arm’s length as it shit itself in terror again. “BAD UPSIES! PUT PWINCESS DOWNIES! SCREEEEEEEEE!!! NU NUM PWINCESS, PWEASE! SABE PWINCESS FWOM MUNSTAH, SCREEEEEEE!!!” it cried, and you gave it one good shake; the motion was enough to make her dizzy with how fragile she was. “Shut the fuck UP.” you command, and blissfully, it does; it stares at you, legs curled into her body, crying and trembling. By this point, it’s crapped and pissed itself so much it’s run completely out of scaredy-peepees and scaredy-poopies, and all it could do was cry. Placing the poopie you’d picked up into your shirt atop a “Carefully”-constructed pocket of tissue paper and napkins, you let your bust and shirt keep it held to you as you pointed to the pile of dead, broken foals.
“Now, y’mind explainin’ what the fuck happened there?” you asked, turning to allow her to look at the bloody carnage on the ground. Slowly, the little trembling mare looked down to the mess, then back up at you. You could almost hear the gears turn in it’s head as it comprehended your question, and then finally it stopped trembling. “D-dose…dose aw…d-dummeh babbehs.” she says at last, quickly regaining composure. “Pwincess wan babbehs, buh daddeh say nu. Dummeh daddeh! So Pwincess wun way, wook fo babbehs! Find babbehs, buh meanie fwuffies nu gib, onwy gib huwties. Den, sky-wawa come down, an Pwincess meet uddah fwuffy, he gib owies tu no-no pwace, but den Pwincess hab babbehs! See mummah and big-mummah, but dey weave Pwincess behind! So den, Pwincess finawwy hab babbehs!!” She’d gotten more used to you over the course of speaking; or perhaps the events were just traumatic enough to relieve that she no longer cared who she spoke to. “Buh babbehs am DUMMEH babbehs! Pwincess wan pway, buh babbehs nu pway!! Jus’ make noisies, an’ nu mobe! Pwincess twy to make pway, buh dey DUMMEH stiww, an’ NU PWAY! NU BABBEH PWAY, NU FAIW! PWINCESS WAN PWAY, BABBEHS NU PWAY, DEN AWW BABBEHS SWEEPIES AND WEAB UGWY POOPIE!!!”
She flailed in your grasp as if trying to stomp around, going from scared to upset to angry in a matter of moments. She was full on complaining now; she kept repeating how it wasn’t fair, how she wanted babbehs to play, and they wouldn’t play. You looked back down to the remains, then back to her, and a fire lit inside you, the same way it did the instant you heard one refer to itself as “Smarty”. “So, let me get this straight.” you said, stopping her rambling with another shake. “You wanted babies to play with, but you didn’t know you had to raise them first?” “Nu wan waise dummeh babbehs, wan PWAY babbehs!” the mare stated again, puffing up her cheeks. You’d heard enough; the mare suddenly began to tremble again as a smile crept over your face, your bear-trap teeth revealed once more.
You wandered over to a nearby trash can and set her down, keeping a firm grasp on her scruff. You took one of her legs between your thumb and forefinger, getting a good grip right below the shoulder. “Wuh munstah duin’? Wet gu ob Pwincess wegg-IEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE” Her command was interrupted as you gave a quick flick of the wrist, and with a wet, muffled ‘pop’ you felt her shoulder dislocate itself. Moving an inch down, you gave another turn of the wrist, and her scree’s intensified as her upper leg snapped beneath the nonchalant weight you placed on it. Once more you move down, between her tiny knee and hoof, and once more you snap a bone, causing her to begin crying in addition to scree-ing, her sounds of pain echoing in the smalle alleyway. You plugged her mouth with your thumb to silence her, and her eyes snapped wide open, staring at you, tears flowing down her puffy cheeks. “Now then. Let’s teach you a thing or two about bein’ a mummah.” you say, and gently take the chirping poopie baby from the napkin-pocket, placing it down near a teat.
You are Princess again, and you have the WORSTEST hurties!! Not only do you not have any babies to play with, but your leggy no longer works; it hurts SO MUCH. You’ve NEVER felt something so bad in your life! And every time to try to move it, to get it to work, it just hurts that much more.
As your mouth is blocked off by the munstah, you see her take something from her shirt and place it down near your weird swollen funny-lumps; you never learned what they were called. You felt something attach itself, and a weird feeling washed over you. Even as you cried, you felt relief as something gushed out of your swollen place, and looked down to see…POOPIE BABBEH??? Your instinct suddenly kicked in; you didn’t know how, you didn’t know why, but you knew what this little thing was: A THIEF. A Milky thief. That wasn’t for poopies! You didn’t know what it was for, but definitely NOT poopies! You managed to turn where you sat and kicked the little turd-colored thief with your back hoof not even four suckles in, and it rolled along the lid.
The munstah put it’s hand beneath the rim, and caught it; despite having rolled only three whole times, it had gotten violently dizzy, and you saw it lean it’s head over and vomit. The munstah looked down at it, it’s nose wrinkling and the corner of it’s mouth pulling back as a soft “Euugh.” escaped it. Served it right! Munstah gets sorry tummy-ickies, and poopie gets hurties for being a nasty milky thief!!
Your thoughts are interrupted as your broken leggy is grabbed hold of roughly; a scree has barely left your lips before an even greater pain reaches you. Your voice dies in your throat as hurties even WORSE than before climbs up from your leggy, and you look down, trying to see why, WHY is your leggy hurting you…only to see that it’s no longer there. You wiggle the stump where it used to be, and boo-boo juice leaks madly from it, pouring down your side. You look up in time to see the munstah holding your leggy, and drop it to the ground. Then…the mustah puts the poopie back up near it’s chest and grabs hold of you again. The hand that took your leggy grabs your OTHER leggy, the one you kicked that nasty poopie with…and begins to pull. Harder, harder, and HARDER. You look up to beg it to stop, only to see that the munstah’s eyes are glowing, and those pointy teefies are in the biggest, scariest smile you’ve ever seen.
You are Surge again. You are pissed…and you are SO happy you’re pissed.
You grip the mare’s hind leg tightly and pull; you feel it’s leg dislocate once more, popping free of it’s socket amidst a fresh wave of scaredy poopies and crying and scree-ing. You grip tight and feel it break in several places within your fist, adding to the noise, and then place your free hand against the mare’s belly. You hold her in place as you - as slow as you can - increase pressure, pulling harder. Her scree’s grow more desperate, and you feel her skin separating; you had pulled the other one off so fast you hadn’t had time to enjoy it, but now you could FEEL it. Like pulling the leg off a rotisserie chicken, but rather than having to fight with it, the bone and meat separated easily. With a similar wet squelch and rasp of bone, you pull the mare’s leg off, and watch as she loses her shit, literally. You wonder how the hell these things shit so much even AFTER you were sure she’d voided herself entirely when you were holding her earlier. But, luckily, the trash can lid was slightly rounded, and it all slid off over the side away from you.
You stuffed her own leg into her mouth to silence her, and her muffled cries continued until you gripped her by the mane, tugging her head up - carefully, so as not to snap her neck yet - to look at you. “How’s that feel, you little cunt? You feel like kickin’ yer babbeh again?” you ask her, receiving only more muffled crying in response. “Now SIT there, and let the damn kid have his milkies, and you can KEEP your other leggies.” The mare focused her eyes on you then, and slowly nods. Good; she wanted her leggies. You placed the poopie back down at her teat, and watched it latch on once more. This time, she didn’t kick it off, watching as it suckled and finally had it’s very first milkies, gulping down it’s fill.
When it released the nipple, it coo’d happily, hugging the teat it was against; you tugged it away and placed it back in the pocket, making it peep and chirp again until it felt the warmth once more, and then hugged the outline of your breast through the napkin. You looked back at the mare, and slowly she coughed, spitting her own leg out. “P-p-pwincess gib ugwy poopie miwkie nao. P-pwease wet Pwincess gu.” she asked. You had the feeling this was the first time she’d ever said “please” in her life. You lifted her from the trash by her scruff again, and held her out, slowly lowering her to the ground; her remaining leggies, both on the right side, reached for the ground, and the bloody stumps wiggled futilely. “G-gib Pwincess udda weggies back.” she said, and you stopped. “What was that?” you asked, feeling yourself smile. “Gib Pwincess weggies back!!” the mare said again, turning as best she could to look at you, tears still running down her face. She saw you smile, her eyes went wide, and you leaned in. “One more time. Didn’t QUITE hear that.” You wished, oh how you hoped she would.
“Gib. Pwincess. Weggy. Back!” she repeated, and your heart nearly soared. “So even after being such a bad mummah and losing your leggies, you still have the fuckin’ nerve to DEMAND something?” you asked, and too late Princess realized her error. “You said ‘please’ just a moment ago, and now you’re just TELLING me to give your leggies back?” Sure, it was a flimsy justification; but it was all you needed. As you held her there, your free hand gripped her other foreleg, and you heard her squeal out in terror as it finally clicked in her head. Too late, you thought; you gripped tight, feeling the bones break again, and closed your eyes as you ground your thumb against your palm, the leg trapped between. Like little pebbles, you felt her bones shatter and grind against one another, around in her useless leg like a fleshy sack of tiny marbles. You held her in your hand and pressed your pinky into her mouth to stop the fresh wave of SCREE that had escaped, and tore off the foreleg, replacing your pinky swiftly with it instead.
The last leggy had to come off too, of course; you gripped, you broke, and you tore, and then dropped the mare with her own leg shoved in her mouth onto her back, standing up to look down at your handywork. It was the first time you’d ever “pillowed” one of these things, and you had to admit, it was cathartic as hell. Oh, but wait, you couldn’t let her bleed out…you leaned down, and the tips of your fingers began to spark. With your control over electricity, you formed a patch over the ends, heating up your fingertips, and pressed it to the bleeding stumps. Even past the leg in her maw, the mare managed to scree loudly as you cauterized each wound, ensuring it wouldn’t be blood-loss that killed her.
You stood up once more and rolled her onto her belly, watching her cry and move her useless stumps, and walked out of the alley, your new poopie-babbeh in tow. As your boot stepped one inch outside the alley, you stopped.
Shit…you hadn’t solved Lil Asskicker’s problem. You’d solved your need for abuse for the day, but he was still back home humping everything that moved. Not only that, but this new little guy would need at LEAST a week’s worth of milkies before he was strong enough to breastfeed from you, as you’d learned with the last two; the electrical current running naturally through your body was too much for a chirpy to handle, Lil Asskicker had been the true and only exception. You recalled having to run back and forth to figure out which formula to steal, and which ones actually worked with fluffies. You knew which one you needed, but the instructions and your lack of ability to actually cook anything beyond ramen meant the other two had grown up on either the wateriest or thickest formula there was, until they’d just barely managed to get the strength up to resist your current. You’d have to do ALL that again with THIS one, unless…
You looked back to the crying “Princess” at the end of the alley. Her leg had fallen out, and she was crying loudly again, repeating “Dummeh munstah!” and “Nu faiw!!” amidst other complaints over hurties, the cold ground, and wanting her leggies to work. And, you noticed, her fat, swollen tits lay on the ground behind her…both of them heavy with free fluffy-milk.
You turned around and headed back, smiling as gaily as someone who’d just found a free thousand bucks laying on the ground. You grabbed Princess by the scruff of her neck and picked her up like a bag of groceries before striding right back out of the alley with your screeing, crying prize in tow. You got to Pillow your first fluffy, AND ended up with a free Milkbag in the same day. And best of all?
You got Lil Asskicker his very first Enfie mare. He’ll be so thrilled~