Warning: This is a NON-CANON side-story in The Stables AU. Heavy focus on extreme consensual cruelty, humiliation, degradation as an expression of love, and dark BDSM dynamics. Not representative of the main AU tone. Reader discretion is strongly advised. Be Fluttershy. The Ponyville branch of the Stables is quiet this afternoon. Your twins—your precious filly with her soft pink wings and your sturdy little colt with his father’s gentle eyes—are safe at home with your husband. Two years old now, full of questions and tiny hugs. He kissed your forehead before you left, whispered “Take your time, love. I’ve got them.” You smiled, kissed him back, and stepped out into the crisp autumn air. But the smile faded the moment you reached the hidden entrance. You still bring mares here. Young ones mostly—exhausted from another heat season of searching, hoping, failing. Some arrive defiant, others terrified. Over time, most form families. Hybrids with impossible eyes and manes that shimmer under moonlight. Ponies pure and strong. New life. New hope. But some… some freeze. Fear wins. They come once, twice, then vanish—stuck in the same lonely cycle, too scared to commit, too proud to stay. And now the numbers are falling again. You push open the inner door to the founders’ chamber. The room is warm, lit by floating orbs of soft gold. Thick cushions arranged in a loose circle. Red Hearth reclines on one, her deep crimson coat gleaming, mane like banked coals. Minty Breeze perches beside her, blue coat fluffed with anxiety, green mane and tail twitching. Two others—quiet, watchful—complete the ring. In the center: Cheerie Star. The earth pony matriarch sits upright, hooves steady on a low table. Magical screens hover above it—charts, graphs, birth records from every branch. Red lines slope downward. Steeply. Cheerie Star doesn’t look up at first. She simply speaks. “Ridiculous.” Her voice is calm. Almost bored. But everypony in the room feels the storm beneath it. “Four years ago we finally stabilized. Relief. Actual relief. Births climbing. Hybrids thriving. Ponies thriving. Families forming.” She taps one screen; the red line spikes briefly, then plummets again. “And now this.” Minty Breeze’s wings rustle nervously. “What’s causing it? Have we found any pattern at all?” Red Hearth leans forward, voice tight. “I was the first to see the surge. New life. Pony foals. Human children. Mothers cradling them both with the same love. A real cycle—sustained, renewed. If we lose that…” Cheerie Star finally looks up. Her eyes are flat. Dangerous. “Tell them, Fluttershy.” You feel every gaze shift to you. You swallow once. Then the words come out sharp, angry—angrier than anypony has ever heard from you. “New Eve.” The name drops like a stone into still water. “Ever since that company arrived in Equestria,” you continue, voice trembling with fury, “human stallions have started reporting fertility problems. Overnight. No warning. No explanation.” Minty Breeze’s ears pin back. “But… they screened them so carefully—” “Vaccines,” you snap. “The only common factor. Their ‘health program.’ Their ‘mandatory boosters for integration.’ Every stallion who took the full course… the numbers match. Sperm count drops. Motility fails. Conception rates crash.” Red Hearth’s face darkens. “Rumors have been circulating for months. We thought it was coincidence. Stress. Magic interference. But the data—” Cheerie Star cuts in quietly. “The data doesn’t lie.” You feel your wings trembling. Your children. Your filly’s tiny wings. Your colt’s soft laugh. The thought that someone—some thing—would dare harm your little ones, would dare poison the very stallions who helped rebuild what Equestria had lost… Your voice cracks. “If I could… if I could tear that company apart myself…” Cheerie Star raises a hoof. “Not yet.” The room falls silent again. She looks around the circle—each founder, each matriarch, each pony who fought to make this place work. “We cannot act rashly. Not yet. But we also cannot ignore this. Births are falling again. Families are stalling. And somewhere, someone is making sure it stays that way.” Her eyes meet yours. “Fluttershy… you brought the first wave of hope here. You still bring mares who need it. Keep doing that. Keep the heart of this place beating.” She turns back to the screens. “But the rest of us… we start digging. Quietly. Thoroughly. Because if New Eve is behind this—if they are sterilizing our stallions on purpose—then they are not just hurting numbers.” Cheerie Star’s voice drops to a whisper that somehow fills the room. “They are hurting our children.” The orbs dim slightly, as if the light itself recoils. You feel the rage settle into something colder. Harder. You nod once. And in that moment, you know: The Stables were built to save Equestria. If someone is trying to undo that salvation… they will find out exactly what happens when Fluttershy stops being kind. The meeting ends without another word. But the war has already begun. - - - - - - Be Fluttershy. Two weeks have passed since the meeting. The public level of the Ponyville Stables feels different now. The air is still thick with the familiar sounds—wet slaps of flesh, throaty moans, sharp cries of release—but something essential is missing. You walk slowly through the dimly lit corridors, wings folded tight against your sides. The humans you pass are still strong, still eager, still capable of bringing mares to shattering ecstasy. But they are no longer fertile. The ones who took New Eve’s “treatments” now doesn't need to carry potions—small, glowing vials clipped to collars or belts. Anticonceptive elixirs, administered daily. They helped to prevent conception completely. Now the chance of accidents is extremely minimum. No hope. Only pleasure without future. The few humans who never took the vaccine—those who arrived before ando me after the program began or who refused it outright—have been quietly relocated. Urgently. They now occupy the revamped VIP sections, renamed “Hearth Chambers.” No more casual rotations. No more anonymous nights. Assignments are deliberate: mares who explicitly seek bonding, courtship, family. Meetings are chaperoned at first. Conversations required. Gifts exchanged. Romance is no longer allowed to bloom organically—it is engineered, scheduled, tracked. You hate it. Every step through the public level reminds you why. A mare cries out in bliss as a human drives into her from behind, her tail lashing, wings trembling. Another begs for more, voice breaking into sobs of overwhelmed pleasure. Pain twists into yearning, lashes into caresses, humiliation into worship. They are happy in the moment. But the moment ends. And nothing grows from it. You turn into the new private wing—individual alcoves for mares who want discretion. The rooms are beautiful: soft lighting, silk sheets, soundproof walls, private baths. They look almost like the old VIP suites. But the stallions here are the affected ones. The potions, full, glow faintly on bedside tables. The mares know. They still moan, still arch, still climax until they tremble. But their eyes—when they open—carry a quiet, hollow sadness. You pause at one open doorway. An earth pony mare—sturdy, chestnut coat, mane braided with wildflowers—is cradled in the arms of her assigned human. He carries her gently from the bed to the bath, her legs wrapped around his waist, head resting on his shoulder. She laughs softly, blushing, tail swishing with pure joy. He kisses her forehead, murmurs something too quiet to hear. She nuzzles him back, hooves stroking his back with tenderness. You feel a pang in your chest—sharp, unexpected. Kindness is your element. You are the gentle one. The one who soothes, who understands, who forgives. And yet, in this moment, you want nothing more than to find the pony—or human—responsible for New Eve. You want to pin them down, press your hooves to their skull, and crush until you hear the crack. You turn away from the doorway, wings trembling. The passage to the founders’ chamber is short. You push through the final door. Cheerie Star looks up from the low table. Screens still float above it, red lines still falling. Red Hearth and Minty Breeze are there too, expressions grim. Fluttershy,” Cheerie says quietly. “Any news?” You shake your head once. “Nothing new. The affected humans are holding steady on the potions. No breakthroughs. No reversals. And the fertile ones… they’re bonding. Slowly. Carefully. But it’s not the same.” Minty Breeze’s wings droop. “We’re saving what we can. But it’s calculated now. Cold. No more… no more magic in it.” Red Hearth’s voice is low. “We traced three more supply routes. New Eve shipments still coming through the mirror portals. Disguised as medical aid. We’ve intercepted two crates—same vaccine formula. But the source… it’s buried deep. Corporate layers. Shell companies. Human bureaucracy.” Cheerie Star meets your eyes. “We’re close, Fluttershy. Closer than we’ve ever been. But we need patience. And we need to keep the heart of this place beating.” You nod. But inside, the rage simmers. You think of your twins—your filly’s laughter, your colt’s tiny wings learning to flutter. You think of the mares who come here hoping for more than just release. You think of the humans who believed they were helping, only to have their future stolen. Kindness is your element. But even kindness has limits. And when the time comes… you will not be gentle. You turn back toward the corridor. There are still mares waiting in the public level. Still hearts that need mending. You will keep bringing them. Until the day you can bring justice instead. The door closes softly behind you. The sounds of pleasure rise again. But beneath them, something harder echoes in your chest. A promise. And a countdown. - - - - - - Be Celestia. The Council Chamber in Canterlot is hushed, the air thick with the scent of aged oak and nervous sweat. Sunlight filters through stained-glass windows depicting ancient pacts and victories, casting fractured rainbows across the long table. You sit at its head, mane flowing in its eternal ethereal breeze, crown heavy but steady. Ice Pebble stands to your right—gray coat impeccable, dark blue mane pulled back, sapphire eyes sharp as ever. She has been your quiet anchor in this storm for weeks. Across the table, the nobles shift in their seats. Lord Silverhoof, Baroness Gleam, and Duke Ironclad—representatives of the old houses, faces polished with entitlement. They have come prepared, scrolls unrolled, arguments rehearsed. Silverhoof clears his throat. “Your Highness, the proposal is simple. All incoming humans must undergo the New Eve integration protocol. It is not coercion—it is prudence. Public health. Safety. The treatments ensure they are… adjusted to our world. Fertility is a delicate matter. We cannot risk uncontrolled population growth.” You keep your expression serene, but your magic stirs faintly beneath your skin. Ice Pebble’s voice is low, measured. “The humans who have taken those ‘treatments’ are now sterile, my lords. Their seed produces nothing. The birth rates we fought so hard to restore are collapsing again. This is not prudence. This is sabotage.” Gleam waves a dismissive hoof. “Sabotage? Nonsense. The treatments are voluntary. And beneficial. They prevent overbreeding. Humans are… foreign. We must protect Equestria’s delicate balance. Too many hybrids dilute our magic. Too many stallions mean fewer opportunities for our own colts.” Ironclad nods vigorously. “Exactly. And think of the mares back on Earth. The poor dears are suffering from the exodus. This levels the field. A fair exchange.” The words land like a slap. Your magic flares—unbidden, uncontrolled. The stained-glass windows rattle. The table creaks under the sudden pressure of your aura. “A fair exchange?” Your voice, usually the gentle chime of dawn, cracks like thunder. The nobles flinch. Ice Pebble remains still, but her ears flick in approval. You rise slowly, wings half-unfurled, sunfire crackling at their edges. “You dare stand here—in my presence—and suggest that sterilizing the very stallions who saved our race is ‘fair’? That limiting their fertility is a public service? That we should sacrifice the future of Equestria to soothe the wounded pride of a distant world?” Your horn ignites, and the scrolls before them burst into harmless golden flames, ash drifting to the floor like falling stars. “I have forbidden those treatments for a reason. The humans who arrive here do so as guests. As allies. As fathers to a new generation. Their fertility is not a threat—it is a gift. A miracle we prayed for through a thousand barren winters. And you would poison it? For what? To ‘protect’ your bloodlines? To keep your daughters from competing? To play goddess over a crisis you helped create by clinging to outdated traditions?” The room is silent except for the faint crackle of your magic. You lean forward, voice dropping to a lethal whisper. “This law will not pass. It is denied. Furthermore, any attempt to force unapproved treatments on any individual—human or pony—without their explicit, informed consent will be illegal. Punishable by immediate exile from court and forfeiture of assets.” Ironclad stammers. “Your Highness, the houses—” “The houses will answer to the diarchy,” you cut in, eyes blazing. “If any noble family attempts to resurrect this filth, to endanger Equestria’s future for their own petty gain, I will strip them of titles, lands, and privileges. The diarchy will seize their holdings. Their names will be erased from the rolls. And they will spend the rest of their days in the crystal mines, reflecting on the cost of arrogance.” You straighten, wings folding with deliberate grace. “This meeting is over. Leave my sight.” The nobles scramble to their hooves, bowing hastily, faces pale. They flee the chamber like shadows before dawn. The doors close with a heavy thud. You exhale, the fire in your veins cooling to embers. Ice Pebble steps closer, voice soft. “You held back more than I expected, Princess.” You manage a faint, weary smile. “I almost didn’t. But we cannot afford civil war. Not now.” She nods once. “The humans in the VIP chambers are safe for now. But the fertile ones… they’re being assigned with care. Bonds are forming. Slowly.” You turn to the window, gazing out over Canterlot—your city, your burden, your hope. “Then we buy time,” you murmur. “And we find the ones behind New Eve. Because if they think they can starve our future from afar…” Your eyes narrow, the sun itself seeming to dim in sympathy. “They will learn what happens when the Sun turns her gaze upon them.” The chamber falls quiet once more. But the war has already begun. And you will not lose it.