abuse abusive_fluffy_owner explicit gullible lying manipulation neckbeard pegasus private_scraps thorns trained_fluffy

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Saving Private Scraps

"You know what you need to do, right Private Scraps?" you ask your closest companion, who nods his head and smiles back up at you with wide eyes. Time had passed and supplies were growing thin in this dire time, and due to your size the pickup mission was impossible for you. As for Scraps, well, he was the top choice for the job-that job being a scavenger Fluffy Pony.

Scraps himself was give or take the size of a small dog, with an olive green pelt and brown mane that was trimmed to be more manageable to groom and not get tangled up in brush or the like. He wore a small pack on his back filled with a few essentials-Kibble, a Sippy Bottle with water, a VERY small first aid kit, and the currency needed to give to one of the final trading outposts left in the world.

"Pwivate Scwaps weady to hewp yu, Captain Daddeh, siw!" he chirped up to you, giving a small salute before you dismissed him to go out into the world and retrieve the supplies vital to your survival. As for yourself, you had some meetings and troops to organize as you retreated into your bunker.

*
You are Scraps, a Pegasus Fluff raised by your parent who insisted you refer to them as 'Captain Daddeh' or 'Sir'. You had been told from birth that the world was filled with horrors beyond your wildest imagination after a horrible war wiped out much of humanity and fluffy pony-kind, leaving only yourself and your father amongst hordes of raiders, mutants, and predators. But luckily, you were trained to be a valuable asset to your loving superior officer, and have since been deployed to procure a nutritious liquid of sorts that your father needed to drink for survival.

Already, you were making good time-by sticking close to the path you've since marked and maintained from many previous trips (or, the ones you remember) you're almost at the trading outpost that always carries the mysterious beverage that gives your adoptive father so much strength and energy for hours on end, alongside the freeze-dried rations he liked to eat.

Still, in spite of your agility, you were always alert to the dangers above and around-you remember the lessons about the jaws of the horrid 'Barking Beasts' that could break you in half like you could crush an 'Ant' as your father called them. Or the Swooping Horrors that could carry you off in knife-hooves to eat with their speared mouths, if you were lucky-often such catches were given to their ravenous offspring.

What made you shudder the most, however, was that these were only two of DOZENS of varieties of mutated horrors that roamed the woodlands that surrounded the bunker you and your father called home. In fact, you already heard approaching danger in the way of 'Hoo-Mans'; a race of creatures that LOOKED like your parent, but wanted to kill you.

"Dude, check out this faggy looking fluffy!" laughed one of them.

"I know right? C'mon, let's squash 'im!" suggested the other, who was already raising his laced, multi-colored boot to bring crashing down into your head.

You cry out in terror and flee, your tail managing to get caught by the sole of the shoe, though thankfully you managed to pull it free as you sprint for a bush. Said tail is now mangled and screaming with bolts of pain, but that's the least of your problems-the Hoo-Mans are chasing after you with long strides that outpace even your quick little legs.

Dipping and swerving as best you can to avoid their stomping boots or grasping 'tentacle hooves', you manage to avoid them and tumble into the bush, hearing them beat around it to get at you before recoiling in pain...for a few moments you wonder why until you feel the pain too.

"Gyah! Sonuvabitch ran into a thorn-bush! Motherfucker, I'm going to pulling these fucking thorns from my hands all day!" howled the first one, his cursing intermingled with whines of pain as felt the sharp protrusions impale him every which way.

"Quit bitching, let's just go home..." moaned the other one as he nursed his aching hands, turning around and walking off.

You're silent for about three more seconds before you scream and rip your way out of the prickly patch-your fluff is torn off in massive clumps, as well as your skin being lacerated beyond belief to the point you're a bleeding, raw looking mess who can barely hold back the tears as you limp towards the trading outpost.

You've only got an hour or so left until dark by your guess from the surrounding brightness and position of the sky-ball to reach the outpost and make it home before you die, but mercifully you reach your destination.

It's a large place, well-lit and pristine with invisible steel by comparison of the stony bunker your Captain calls home-as you pass through the magically opening doors and adjust to the familiar, humming lights you rap at the desk to get the merchant's attention.

"Hm? Oh, it's you again, weird little shit-rat. Lemme guess, another six-pack of Mtn. Dew and a family size bag of Cheese Puffs?"

"*GASP* Yes, dose tings..." you cough out, weakly handing him the green currency before he hands you back the merchandise. You take a brief moment to take a gulp of water and eat a single piece of kibble while you haphazardly wrap up your wounds with a couple of band-aids.

When your break is over, you stuff in the bag as best you can into the pack so it's secure but still hanging out due to it being over-sized by comparison. As for the drinks, you just start pushing them out the door with every ounce of your strength as the other traders watch in confusion and curiosity - save for the pock-mark skinned merchant with the squeaky voice. He just sort of looks at you with both annoyance and toleration for your presence.

Making your way back, you slowly realize that the only way you'll be able to make it back before dark so the night-monsters don't get you is that you'll have to trek through the spiked plant once more.

While transporting big, heavy supplies twice your size.

And ensuring they aren't punctured and ruined by the air.

Poopies.

*
(Owner's POV)

It's about 8:00 PM when you eventually hear the squeak of the pet door opening, followed by the familiar thud of your dumb-shit rat dropping in exhaustion. You clear your throat, prompting him to rise to push the supplies to your Control Room so you can focus on your meetings.

When he does so you give a brief groan at having to get up and grab them, prompting a weak kick to send the heaving Pegasus sliding along the smooth wood floor and onto his bed-he's starving and dehydrated from the looks of it, and probably not going to be able to do another run for a day or two.

Whatever, at least he got the stuff you wanted without you having to go out and deal with all those lower-level plebs. Thinking up some dumb military jargon you say to him in a half-caring voice.

"Good job, Private Scraps-you are now on leave from your duties for about...uh, two days-ish. Dismissed."

Closing your bedroom door behind you, you turn on your video game console and load up the hottest new War Simulator game or something, reaching over and grabbing your bottle of Mtn. Dew while munching on a hand-full of Cheetohs so you can make this a long gaming session. Maybe you'll even pop in some Hunie-Pop.

People might say Fluffy Ponies are useless, but you disagree.
Uploader Boogeyman123,
Tags abuse abusive_fluffy_owner gullible lying manipulation neckbeard pegasus private_scraps thorns trained_fluffy
Rating explicit
Source Unknown
Locked No

Comments


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favelour: >hunie pop
And he has the AUDACITY to call others plebs
- Reply
Anonymous1: That is something you could use a fluffy for, though another story did something like that, but I don't think it had a ending...
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Anonymous2: Hmm...not a bad story. I guess that's a creative way to get your fluffy to be useful.