Wowstest Babbeh, by Swindle

A feral fluffy mare lay all alone in an alley, hidden behind a dumpster and a pile of bulging trash bags. She cried, screamed, and begged for help, but if anyone heard her they didn’t care.

Eventually, she gave birth to a litter of four foals. She picked up the first one, licked it clean, and examined it.

It was a filly, pink like her, with a pretty pointy on its forehead like her. This, she decided, was a good baby, and she placed it on her miwkie pwace to suckle.

The next foal was a purple filly, with traces of the same red/pink/white mane and tail as the mare, and another pointy bit. This too, she thought, was a good baby and took its place at her other miwkie pwace.

The third foal was a royal blue colt, with delicate little wingies. Wingies weren’t as good as pointies, but they were still special and the baby was really pretty, so it was a good baby. It sat on her tummy and waited for its sisters to finish drinking before it would get its turn.

So far, the babies were ranked in order of most favorite to least favorite.

The trend continued with the last foal. It was a little colt, with fluff the color of fresh shit and the beginnings of a puke green mane and tail.

“Eugh, ugwy babbeh!”

She sniffed it extra long to make sure, but it didn’t smell like a bad, dummeh babbeh. She considered squishing it anyway, but after some time waffling over the decision she placed it on her tummy; it would get miwkies last.

This was her first litter, but she’d learned from her mother and was going to keep the ugly foal. In times of scarcity, you never knew when you might need a set of self-propelled emergency rations.

You’re babbeh. Your siblings all have names, like “Pwetty”, “Udda Pwetty”, and “Wingie”, but mummah just calls you “ugwy babbeh”, “dummeh babbeh”, or “bad babbeh”. She yells at you a lot. Whenever you beg for miwkies because your siblings drank it all and you didn’t get enough, she gives you sorry hoofsies. If you try to drink miwkies before your other siblings, she gives you sorry hoofsies. If you’re sneaky and drink miwkies while she’s asleep, she wakes up and gives you sorry hoofsies. You wish mummah loved you. She sings to your siblings, but never you. Your bwudda and sissies get hugsies and upsies, but you never do. As soon as you could walk, mummah refused to let you ride on her back like the others; you had to run to try to keep up, and your weggies didn’t work so well. You chased after mummah everywhere she went, crying and begging to be let on her back, but she just yelled and gave you sorry hoofsies and called you mean names. She never even gave you a lickies bath; she gave lickies baths to your siblings, but never you, so you were always dirty.

Why didn’t mummah love you? You never got any attention, you always got miwkies last and never enough, she was mean to you, and she always said you were bad. You weren’t bad! You were a good babbeh! You tried so hard to be a good babbeh!

Even your bwudda and sissies didn’t love you. They laughed whenever mummah was a meanie to you, they wouldn’t play with you, sang songs about how ugly you were, and gave you sorry poopies while you slept. Mummah wouldn’t even let you stay in the fluff pile anymore; you always slept alone in the corner of the box, shivering and crying from the cold. Every morning you woke up covered in sorry poopies from your bwudda and sissies and they called you a bad, poopie babbeh. Once you even woke up with MUMMAH’S sorry poopies all over you!

Why didn’t they love you? Why was everyone so mean to you?

Finally, mummah called you over and you trotted over eagerly, glad for the attention. Maybe she would finally hug you and tell you she loved you!

“Mummah haf pwenty uf nummies, nu nee ugwy dummeh babbeh fow nummies babbeh. Yoo gu way, ugwy dummeh!”


“Gu way! Yoo bad, ugwy, poopies, dummeh babbeh! Nu wan! Nu wuv! Gu way, ugwy babbeh! Gu way ow git fowevuh sweepies!”

You cried while your siblings jeered and laughed, then mummah smacked you, HARD.

“OWIES! Why huwt babbeh?! Am gud babbeh! Jus wan huggies an wuv! Huuhuu!”

“Nu! Nu huggies ow wuv fow ugwy babbeh! Yoo wowstest babbeh! Nu wan! Gu way!”

Mummah puffs up her cheeks and stomps her hoofsies and you run away, scared.

“Huuuhuuhuuu! Why nu wuv babbeh?! Huuuhuuu!”

You can hear your siblings chanting in a sing-song voice as you run away down the alley, “dummeh babbeh, dummeh babbeh, dummeh babbeh!”

Hiding in a pile of trashies, you sob and whine. You have such terrible heart hurties! And tummeh owies! You need miwkies! You need mummah! You love mummah! So why… why doesn’t she love you?

Something rustles through the trashies and you squeak in fright. Suddenly, something looms over you!

“Munsta! Nu huwt babbeh, pwease!”

“Nu am munsta, am fwuffy!”

Fluffy? You open your eyes and it’s a bright orange pointy stallion with tan mane and tail. He’s looking at you curiously.

You’re so relieved you crawl out of the trashies and hug him. He doesn’t hug you back, but that’s ok; this is the first time you’ve gotten to hug another fluffy since mummah kicked you out of the fluff pile.

“Pwease hewp babbeh! Mummah nu wuv babbeh, say meanie fings, teww babbeh gu away ow git fowevuh sweepies! Huuhuuhuuuuuu! Nu wan fowevuh sweepies! Babbeh haf wowstest tummeh owies, nee miwkies!”

You sniffle and look up at the stallion, tears staining your fluff.

“Nice fwuffy hewp babbeh? Pwease?”

“Babbeh aww awone nao?”

The look the stallion is giving you is… it makes you feel uncomfortable. You can’t say what it is, but there’s something about him that you don’t like. You back away, stopping when your rump encounters the pile of trashies you were hiding in.

“Pwease nu huwties babbeh! Am jus widdwe babbeh!”

“Nu, nu, nu!” The stallion says, chuckling, as he approaches and puts his legs around you in a loose huggie.

“Yoo enfie babbeh nao.”



“Enf enf enf!”


“Enf enf enf! Enfie babbeh gif gud feews, bedda dan mawe! Enf enf!”


“Enf enf enf enfenfenfenfenfenfenf!”


You hear a rustling in the trashies and open your eyes-


It’s her! It’s really her! Mummah’s here! She’s going to save you!

Wait- why is mummah laughing? Why are your bwudda and sissies laughing? Why is mummah walking away? Do… do they LIKE IT when you get the worstest hurties?"





The stallion finally stops hurting you and flops down on his side in the trashies, breathing hard. You’re sobbing incoherently, hiding your eyes with your hoofsies. You feel awful.

After a while, you try to stand up and walk away, but your poopie place hurts too much. Your rump and back weggies feel sticky and wet too. You gasp in pain and try dragging yourself away with your front weggies, crying. Why? Why does everyone hate you so much? Why do they give you nothing but hurties and bad feelings?

You’d just managed to drag yourself away from the pile of trashies and started to stand on trembling legs when you feel yourself grabbed in a hug from behind by a big fluffy. You look down and see orange weggies wrapped around you, suddenly realize the stallion has gotten up too, and then the pain enters your poopie place again.


“Enf enf enf enf enf!”

You have no idea how many times the awful, meanie stallion gave you bad special huggies. Lots. Your poopie place hurts even worse than your empty tummeh. You had booboo juice in your poopies and cried. He finally fell asleep though, and you snuck away.

You washed the poopies, booboo juice, and the stallion’s nu smeww pwetty huggies juice off in a puddle, then limped away down the sidewalk and into another alley, crying. You felt weak from the lack of miwkies, and you were so sore. So tired. And you had such terrible heart hurties. Why was everyone so mean to you? What had you ever done to deserve this?

You crawled under a pile of trashies and wept for the longest time, but eventually you just couldn’t cry anymore. You stared off into space, not seeing, and wished that forever sleepies would come for you, if only to make all the hurties stop.

“Ah, shit! I knew I shouldn’ta ate them damn ribs outta the dumpster! No way they’s fresh! Urgh…”

What… who’s that? You hide yourself carefully, hoping that if you can’t see them, they can’t see you.


“Aaaaaaaaaaah! Damn, that feels better! Oh, nope, wait-”


“Ugh! There we go! Geez, that reeks worse than I do!”

The stench of poopies makes you wrinkle your nosie and you open your eyes, peeking out.

It’s a hoomin! You’ve never seen a hoomin before, but you know what one is!

Hoomins are wonderful, magical giants who can make anything possible! They give fluffies love, and huggies, and warm, safe homes, and delicious nummies! Your heart leaps in hope and you burst out of your hiding place, tears of joy forming.

“Hewwo! Nice mista, pwease hewp babbeh?”

“Eh? Oh, great, another damn shitrat. Well, any port in a storm.”

He picks you up. Oh, how wonderful! You hug his warm not-hoofsie and cry happily. He’ll save you! Finally, someone will love and care for you!

“Yeah, you’re the perfect size. Real soft, too.”

The hoomin stands up and holds you behind him. What is he doing? Are you supposed to ride on his back like mummah? You don’t think that’s how hoomins work, but you’ve never met one, so-

Oh no. No. Nononononono!


He wipes his poopie place with you, getting nasty, icky, nu smeww pwetty poopies all over your fluff.


“Ugh, shut the fuck up! You’re lucky; the only reason I’m not stomping you flat is because I don’t want shit all over my shoes.”

He tosses you roughly and you bounce off the wall of the alley, hard, and land on a trashies bag. You sob and hold you weggie, which is now hurt, while he pulls his pants up and walks out of the alley.

After a while, you mostly manage to stop crying, just sniffling now and then, and gingerly test your weggie. It hurts, but you can walk on it. You find your way to a puddle and wash the poopies out of your fluff, then rub against some paper to dry off.

That was terrible! Why would he do something like that?

You lay down, tummeh hurting from emptiness, and give a silent yawn of hunger. You don’t feel strong enough to go anywhere. You’d rather just lay down and-

“Dewe yoo awe! Fwuffy wook aww ovew fow yoo!”

What? Who is-


“Enf enf enf enf!”


The stallion finally finishes with you and walks away. You look up, glaring at him, and scream, “BABBEH HATE YOO! BABBEH HOPE YOO HAF FOWEVUH SWEEPIES! YOO SOUW AM POOPIES!”

Suddenly, a hoomin reaches out and scoops up the stallion.

“YEEEEEK! Nu huwt fwuffy! Am gud fwuffy!”

“Yeah, yeah, shut the fuck up. Heard it all before, asshole.”

The hoomin takes some sort of white stick with nu smeww pwetty smokies coming from one end out of his mouth and presses it repeatedly to the stallion’s special lumps and peepee place, making him scream, writhe, and beg for mercy.

That… That’s kind of fun to watch. Fun to listen to. You LIKE watching the stallion suffer. Yes, make him suffer like he made you suffer! Like mummah and your siblings made you suffer! Like the bad hoomin!

Then the hoomin takes a little glass bottle and shoves it up the stallion’s poopie place.


“Not yet, it doesn’t.”

Then he sets the stallion down and kicks him in the poopie place, hard. You hear a POP! and glass goes everywhere. The stallion screeches, like you screeched while he did those awful things to you, and you see glass, poopies, and booboo juice go everywhere. The stallion runs away huuhuuing and the hoomin puts the smokey stick back in his mouth. Then he turns his attention to you.

“Wha happen tu bad fwuffy?”

“What, him? He’ll bleed to death eventually. Take a long time though. He’s gonna hurt like a son of a bitch until he finally bleeds out a few hours from now.”

“GUD. Babbeh hope he haf wowstest owies an haf wongest sweepies! Wan mummah an bwudda an sissies tu haf huwties an fowevuh sweepies too!”

The hoomin is silent for a long moment, the tip of his burnie stick glowing bright for a moment, then a puff of nasty smokies blowing in your direction.

“You know, I think I like you. C’mon, let’s get you cleaned up. I have a project that needs doing, and you’re just the guy for the job.”

He picks you up, wipes you off with a napkin, and puts you in his coat pocket.

Finally. Warmth. Softness. Security.

It’s not love, but you’ll take it.

It’s been days since nice mister took you in. He bathed you, fixed your owies, and gave you miwkies from a bottle. He never gave you huggies, but when he held you in his hand and helped you drink miwkies, it was sort of like getting huggies, so you didn’t complain.

You’ve been getting bigger and stronger. You feel better than ever. But nice mister says you have to earn what he gives you. You’re not sure what he means, but you’ll pay him back however you can.

You’ll pay them all back.

“Nice mista? Wha dose? Nummies?”

“No, those aren’t nummies. Those are hexamine tablets.”

“Whu dose do?”

“Normally, you burn them to make food hot when you’re camping. But I’m going to grind them up and mix them with this nitric acid.”


“So I can make C4.”

“Whu C4?”

“Don’t worry about it. I need you to do something for me. I need to make a dirty bomb, so I got these old smoke detectors and stole this x-ray machine. But the stuff inside them that I need will give me bad sickies. So what I need you to do is open them, like this- no, press here with your hoof- like this, and then you take this part, scrape it out with your teeth, and spit it into this box over here. Ok? When you finish getting all of them, then you need to close the lid of the box and tell me you’re done, got it?”

“Otay! Babbeh know whu du! Babbeh du gud job fow nice mista!”

“Maybe when you’re done, I’ll even give you skettis.”


“Yeah, really. Now get to work, I’ve got to start making the C4.”

You press like the nice mista showed you, pop the thing open, and use your teefies to scrape out the stuff he said. Bleagh! Then you spit it into the box and move on to the next one.

You’re a good fluffy! You’ll show him what a good fluffy you are!

Maybe then somebody will love you.

“You know what to do, right?”

You nod, suppressing the urge to cough. Your fluff is starting to fall out and you have booboo juice leak from your nosie sometimes. You have bad sickies. But it’s ok; nice mister says you’ll be allright soon. Your sickies will go away, you’ll feel better, and when you come back he’ll give you a nice bowl of skettis. He even says that if you do this one favor for him, he’ll even love you forever and give you a nice home!

You love nice mister. He’s the only one who’s ever done anything kind for you. You don’t want to disappoint him, so you have to do a good job.

Nice mister opens the door and you slip inside, then watch to make sure nice mister has gotten in his vroom-vroom and gone away. He has to be far away when you do this. How will he know if you’ve done a good job though, if he isn’t there?

You shake your head, adjust the VERY heavy load on your back, and shuffle deeper into the building. Yours is not to reason why; nice mister will know. He’ll know what a good fluffy you were, and you’ll finally have someone to love you.

You look around, seeing, hearing, and smelling hoomins and fluffies. So many fluffies!

You look at the cage directly in front of you and your booboo juice runs cold.

It’s mummah. She’s in the cage, giving lickies baths to Pwetty and singing about what a good babbeh she is. Udda Pwetty and Wingie are suckling from her miwkie pwaces. They’re much bigger than the last time you saw them, they’re almost big fluffies now. They look so happy. Loved. Warm. Well fed.

You grind your teefies together in hatred and grip the pull cord in your mouth, never taking your eyes off them.

You’re Philip. You’re so flamboyantly gay that even Liberace once said he wanted nothing to do with you. You’re also a massive hugboxer. You love fluffies so much!

Sometimes a little too much, but that’s what Astroglide is for.

You run the bestest, prettiest, happiest fluffy shelter in the city. You’re in the back, fondling the special lumps of a feral stallion someone dropped off while he nervously squeezes into the corner of the cage and asks you not to touch him there with that adorable whine in his voice.


Oopsie! There’s a customer!

“I’ll be back for you, big boy!”

You sashay into the front of the store and look around, then look down and spot a fluffy. Shit brown with a puke green mane and tail; no way you’d ever sell him, but you might find… other… uses for him.

You’ve never seen a fluffy with a backpack before though.

Without even acknowledging your presence, the fluffy smacks his hoof against a cage with a recently acquired mare and her foals, screams, “YOU AM BAD FWUFFIES AN YOO DESEWVE FOWEVUH SWEEPIES AND FOWEVUH HUWTIES IN DA HUUHUU PWACE!”

Then he takes a shit all over the front of the cage, looks up at you with every indication of spite, and says, “Da Phantom sens his wegawds!”

The nameless fluffy grips a cord in his teeth and pulls, there’s a hissing sound from his backpack, and then-

You smile as the glass storefront bursts outward from the explosive force. Then you put your blinker on and casually merge into traffic, driving away smoothly with no one the wiser.

Your dirty bomb was only just powerful enough to kill the feral foal carrying it, but the radioactive material it scattered all over the shelter is enough to slowly kill every fluffy in there from radiation poisoning. The shelter’s owner can get treatment for any injuries from the blast and from the radioactive material, but there’s no sense in wasting money saving all the fluffies.

Every one is doomed. If the owner gets enough radiation to become ill and seek treatment, then the fluffies will all be put down, every one of them. If he never becomes sick, then no one will realize there’s something wrong until the fluffies all show signs of radiation poisoning, and by then it’ll be too late. Each and every one of them will die slowly and horribly, fluff falling out, puking and shitting blood, skin and organs burning from the inside out…

Regardless, once they find out that it was a dirty bomb, the shelter will be closed down forever and the building demolished. One less place peddling fluffies and making them happy with new homes instead of suffering and dying like they deserve.

You just hope that little shitrat remembered his line; you want the cops to be looking for that Phantom guy, not you, because this is some serious shit.

You’re mummah. You’re still in shock at what just happened. Your bad babbeh somehow came back! You thought that dummeh had taken fowevuh sweepies long ago, but there he was! He yelled meanie things at you and gave your cage sorry poopies, then he disappeared in a loud bang!

It distressed your good babbehs terribly. Pwetty, Udda Pwetty, and Wingie cried and cried, and you tried to calm them down even though your ears were still ringing and you were more than a little upset yourself. You started with Pwetty, your bestest babbeh, hugging and cooing to her. Oh… oh, gross!

Your babbehs are all covered in some strange dust! It’s all over your fluff too!

You begin giving Pwetty a wickies baff to clean her up, convinced that the bad babbeh is somehow responsible for getting you all dirty. Stupid ugly bad babbeh! You hope it’s gone for good now.

Udda Pwetty and Wingie start giving your fluff wickies too, chirping about helping out their mummah. Whatever; just so long as they’re good babbehs.

Wingie has been getting on your nerves lately, thinking he’s as good as your bestest babbehs and wanting to drink miwkies before Udda Pwetty. He just better be glad you’ve got plenty of nummies in this place, because with the ugwy dummeh babbeh gone, he’s next to become a nummies babbeh if you need to make miwkies for Pwetty and Udda Pwetty.

Ugh. You just have to lick all this dust off of Pwetty, then everything will be ok…


This story also isn’t part of my head-canon. Sort of a commentary on the then-popular trend of nummies-babbehs, enfies-babbehs, and dudes fucking fluffies in the ass for some reason. I dunno, male fluffies getting cornholed without their consent was a thing in 2015, and this story cashed in on that. It also references the Phantom, a fluffy hater who committed mostly-harmless terrorist attacks on fluffy shelters and, depending on who wrote him, was either successful in tormenting the fluffies up for adoption (I remember one story where he shat all over a cage full of foals) or haplessly foiled (another story where he got pepper-sprayed by a cashier and racked himself in the balls fleeing the scene of the crime); either way, his catch-phrase was always “the Phantom sends his regards!” as he left the shelter. So of course there would be copycats among other fluffy haters, which logically means the different versions of the Phantom different authors wrote about were probably different people.


This was an interesting read. I like me some heavy handed sadbox. But this got way too outrageous to feel sad. It definitely wasn’t bad, though. It basically got so ridiculously bad for that foal, the sheer absurdity felt funny. Like how that stallion jumped out of nowhere and raped him for a third time. And basically the entire end where he got radium poisoning and got trained as a suicide bomber.


Cross the line, and you go from funny to fucked up. Cross the line twice and it’s so fucked up it’s back to funny.



1 Like

So this phantom hates fluffy and always plans to kill them anyway possible just cause he hates them? And diff ver depends of the writer.


I’m having trouble articulating this but is this how people wrote fluffies on the booru? I get where hellgremlins get their name now.


Actually, he rarely kills fluffies. Mostly just tries to traumatize or upset them. Like shitting on a bunch of foals.

It’s how some people wrote fluffies, yes. Fluffies seem to go in cycles.

Haven’t seen “the phantom” in awhile. Nicely done

“…( Thei )rs but to do & die”.
Did not expect Tennyson in a fluffy inner monologue :face_with_monocle:


A brown fluffy pony being raped, abused, hated, and turned into a suicide bomber?
Great stuff.

Loved it