Big Babies Pt. 1 (by fluffysomething)

You are a fluffy named Orange, and you want your mummah! You know you’re a big fluffy now, and she has her new babies, but you’re still mummah’s baby! You want mummah!


“Mummah! Gib miwkies nao! Wan miwkies!” You thud your hoof loudly on the ground, trying to run at the babies with your fattened body.

“Nu scawe babbehs! Am onwy wittwe chiwpies!” Your mummah whisper-shouts, covering her new babies with her fluff.

“Nuuuu! Wan miwkies!” You yell, scaring the chirpie-babies and causing them to make bad poopies in your mummah’s box-housie.

"See? Wook wha’ 'ou du! Dat’s it, 'ou nee tu weave! “Ou am big fwuffy nao!” Your mummah shouts, kicking you out the box.

“Am stiww mummah babbeh… Hay-te aww odda babbehs hoo tay-ke mummah wub!” You metter to yourself, walking away to go find a new mummah who’ll let you drink her milkies.


You are a Bestest Sickie Friend, and you’re pleading your parental virus to still give you their juicesies. You want them!


“Sowwy, sickie-juicesies am onwy fo’ bay-bees. 'Ou am awmosh big sickie-fwiend nao!” Your parent sighs, since this is the fifth time you’ve asked.

“Gib wight nyo! Am su donesie wif pawent… Wan juicesies!” You cry out, stomping your stubby legs on the ground angrily.

“Nu! Am awmosh big sickie-fwiend! Nu ask aneemowe! Aww ‘ou sibwings hab bay-bees an’ speshew-fwiends, buh not 'ou! 'Ou nee gwow up!” Your parent snaps, stomping their stubby legs back and hitting you in your fat face.

“That am it! Am su done! Gu fowevew-night-nights!” You yell, taking the nearest object you could pick up, which happened to be a small brick, and bludgeoning your parent with it.

“Nuu-” Your parent tries to scream, dying after the fifth hit.

“Nyo, nee’ nyu pawent. Wun who gib sickie-juicesies tu big bay-bee.” You walk away from the mess you’ve made, looking around to see if anyone saw.


You are Orange, and you are still looking for a new mummah! Until, you run into a monster! Not just any monster, a sickie-monster!


“SCREEEEEEEEEEEE! AM MUNSTA!” You scream, pointing your hoof at it and running until it catches up to you.

“Nu am monstah, am sickie-fwiend. 'Ou am big bay-bee, jus wike sickie-fwiend!” You hear it say behind you, patting your fluff as you turn around. Did its mummah kick it out, too?

“Weawwy? Dummeh mummah maek 'ou weave housie, tuu?” You ask, motioning to an alley and sitting down.

“Nu, gib dum-mee pawent fowevew-night-nights bee-cus nu gib juicesies.” It answers, which seems understandable. You should have done that to your mummah!

“We be fwends? Hab biggesh thinkie-pwace pwan.” You giggle as they nod back, then you whisper something to them.

“We gib foweba-sweepies tu aww da babbehs su we da onwy babbehs weft, den mummahs hab tu gib us huggies an’ wub.” You whisper to them, as they nod again.

“Aww the huggies?” They ask, putting their stubby not-hoof up.

“Aww da wub.” You confirm, tapping their not-hood with your hoof.

“Knyo whewe we gu fiwst, fowwow sickie-fwiend. Aneeways, wha’ am namesie?” It asks you as you reply and follow it to a nestie with babies in it, no mummah or daddeh in sight.


“Ou gib them stompies, sickie-fwiend gib sum of them wepwication-huggies an’ the west be sickie-fwiend nummies? Nu wowwy, sickie-fwiend knyo how tu shawe.” It says quietly, picking up a baby as it wakes up and sticking one of the pointy things attached to it in its mouth before it can chirp or speak.

“Oh-tay.” You whisper, starting to stomp on one of the babies.

“Peeep! Peeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep!” The baby peeps in pain as you crush its bottom half with your hoof, trying to crawl away from you.

“Mmmmm! Mmmmm!” One of the babies tries to chirp and peep, being muffled by your friend’s pointy-things in its mouth.

“Peeep! Chi-” Another baby peep and squeaks before getting stomped in the head by you, its body twisted on the ground.

“Gib twee of them wepwication-huggies, the west am nummies. Wan sum?” Your friend hands you a baby, nodding at you to take it.


This was your routine for a few bright-times, until you got caught by a nice mister!


“Oh, God.” The nice mister mutters to himself, walking over to both of you.

“Gib fwend an’ Fwuffy miwkies NAO! We am babbehs, tuu!” You yell at the nice mister, causing him to look at you both.

“Oh, well. Guess I just have to now. You’re quite big babies, huh?” The nice mister asks, nodding his head in interest.

“Yeh, nao gib miwkies!” You shout, trying to jump up and down.

“Oh, alright. I’l give you milkies.” The nice mister sighs, picking you and your friend up.


AN: What happens to this disastrous, baby-killing duo? Comment!

8 Likes

Do what comes natural

1 Like

they become exterminator fluffies, each helping track and kill HUNDREDS of foals each year, they bond but don’t share those ‘kind’ of huggies and live happily ever after…

Or they just get thrown in a box and thrown into oncoming traffic.

3 Likes

Those are both what comes natural

2 Likes

They do not, it seems to me,have the most stable basis for a partnership.

THOSE BABBEHS NEED MIWKIES!!!

3 Likes