“Feral Friends.”
Warning: This is weapons-grade hugbox. It contains chubby, cute fluffies inspired by Bad_Roomie’s designs, a human in need of a pack of cute pets/friends, and it will descend into the comedy of teaching a pack of feral fluffies and their defensive mother about the civilized world.
Part 1:
You are Theo, 29, male.
Bored, lonely, and out for a walk on your favorite trail
As you pass a stand of tall grass along the trail, you hear chirping and peeping, which quickly stop, and you swear you hear a hushed voice.
You bend down, and part the grass. “EEEP!” squeaks a rotund, brown fluffy with a white mane. “BABBEHS, BEHIND MUMMAH!” she squeals. The baby crawl, with great effort, behind her. They’re chirpies, blind and unable to walk yet.
“Hey, no….it’s alright.” you say, somewhat taken aback by her fear of you. You thought fluffies liked humans? “I’m not going to hurt your babies!”
She eyes you cautiously. “Mummah see hooman munstas befow, no take babbehs like take special fwiend!” The mare says, puffing her cheeks at you. You blink, realizing what she just said. “Somebody took your special friend? That’s….horrible. What happened?” You ask, crouching down onto one knee.
“Mummah have special fwiend, hims most pwetty fwuffy, then one day, munsta hooman come and find him. They give special fwiend foweva sweepies, now Mummah onwy have babbehs….” she says, looking sad.
You feel a deep sadness. Fluffies have always been creatures you were fond of. Even if other people don’t like them, you find them cute, and smarter than people think. The idea of killing one’s mate in front of the other makes you sick.
“I’m sorry about your special friend.” you say. “Your babies are very pretty. Are they his?”
“Yes. Dey his.”
“Then you always have part of him with you.” You say, trying to grief-council the small, distressed bio-toy. She thinks for a moment about that, and smiles. “Yes……Babbehs are good just wike daddeh was good……Babbehs wiww aways wemind mummah of him…. You smawt hooman.”
The compliment is unexpected from a feral, as is her disposition becoming softer. One of the babies chirps incessantly.
“Babbeh hungwy!” She says, picking him up with her hooves, licking some dirt off his fluffy, and placing him on her teat. The other babies sleep quietly as the small, chocolate brown foal nurses.
“Do you mind if I look at your babies?” you ask, whispering so as not to wake them. She looks at you carefully, but seems to trust you after talking a bit. “Wook, but no upsies. Babbehs awe too wittle.” she says. You nod, and she shuffles over slightly to let you see them. All earthies, you can’t tell if they’re male or female, but all save one are fairly drab. There’s the chocolate brown foal who is nursing as his mother coos gently to him, an off-white foal who is a bit chubbier than the rest, though not unduly so, and then the standout of the bunch: A Tri-colored foal, white with brown and pink splotches on it’s fluff.
All 3 look healthy, and she clearly takes excellent care of them. You can tell none of them have been given special treatment over the others, and all look like they’re cleaned regularly. “You have very pretty babies!” you say, smiling at her. Her face lights up. “Mistah think babbehs am pwetty?” she asks, clearly delighted at your appraisal of them. “Yes, I do.” She smiles.
A fluffy smile is one of the cutest things you’ve ever seen. “Gives Mummah big heawt happys to heaw dis!” The brown foal finishes suckling, and peeps softly. She picks him up and hugs him to her chest. “Dis am Mummah’s bwown babbeh. He is vewy gud babbeh, wiww be big and stwong wike his daddeh someday!”
You reach out, then stop, looking at the mare. “May I pet him? I won’t pick him up, I just want to pet his head.” you say. She nods. “Mistah am nice hooman, wiww wet you pet babbehs.” she says. You reach out and gently stroke the foal’s tiny brown head with your index finger. He’s soft like velvet, and reaches up to grab your finger with his tiny hooves, sucking on it gently. “Babbeh wikes yu!” She says, beaming.
“I can see that. He’s a very nice baby.”
She lets the foal suck on your finger and nuzzle it, then gently pulls him away and sets him down so he can sleep. “Sowwy, babbeh is tiwed. Needs sweepies for good heawth.” “It’s fine, I know babies need to sleep a lot, he’s very sweet. What about the other too?”
The mare stands up and walks around her sleeping foals softly, careful not to wake them. She points to the white one. “Dis am mummah’s cwoud-cowor babbeh. She am dancie babbeh, if nice mistah stay wong enough, mummah wiww show you babbeh’s dancies!”
“She’s a little chubbier than the others, do you know why?” You ask, curious.
She shrugs, as much as a fluffy can, anyways. “Cwoud-babbeh aways just wittew biggew” she says “Is just dat way, but mummah no cawe, gives mowe to hug.” You smile. “I would love to see her dancies.” you say.
Finally, the mare moves to the tri-color foal. “Dis am Mummah’s thwee-cowor babbeh. Have cowors fwom Mummah and Daddeh, is vewy speciaw babbeh.” She says.
“Is that one your favorite?” you ask, deciding to hardball her.
“No. Mummah have no favowite babbeh. Mummah wuvs aww babbehs with aww her heawt. Dis babbeh am Speciaw because have thwee cowors, and Mummah neva see dat befowe.” she replies.
“I see. You know I’ve never seen one like that either.” The mare nods. “Makes babbeh one of a kind! Mummah think she gwow up to be pwettiest mummah ebah!”
You think for a moment. You like this mare. Her foals are cute and don’t seem spoiled. You should probably just be on your way, ignore them, and keep going……but something about that feels wrong. What if the humans who killed her mate come back? This shouldn’t be your problem, but for some reason, you can’t help but feel it is.
You reach out and the mare lets you stroke her head gently. “You’re a very polite fluffy.” You say. “Thank you, hooman.” she says, letting out a contented noise as your scratch her chubby cheeks. “I don’t feel right leaving you and your babies out here, so I want to ask you something.”
You pause, and she looks at you expectantly with bright green eyes.
“Would you like to come with me, and be MY fluffies? You can live in my house, I’ll feed you and keep you and your babies clean and safe.” you offer.
She looks like she’s going to cry. “H-Hooman wet mummah’s babbehs wive in housie? And gib nummies and huggies and wuv?” She asked, her voice shaking. “Not just the babies, you too. Babies need their mother.” You say. “Eben Mummah’s bwown babbeh, and Bwown Mummah?” she asks. “You no think bwown Fwuffies is poopy?”
You shake your head. “You’re not poopy. You’re a very pretty brown color, and so is your little foal. I want ALL of your to live with me….That is, if you can follow my rules.”
The mare stops “What am wules?” she asks, clearly wanting to know everything before she agrees to go with you. Smart little thing, this one.
“First rule is: No “bestest baby” nonsense, first of all. And no “bad baby” either. All your babies are beautiful and good, if you treat any of them bad, I’ll be very angry.” you say. She puffs her cheeks at you “Mummah wouwd neba tweat babbehs bad! Aww babbehs is good babbehs!” she says, indignant. That’s a good sign, no bitch-mare here!
You look at her for a moment. “You know what, you’re right. Sorry I said that to you. It’s just the rule, but I can tell you’re a good mom.” you say. You’ve just apologized to a chocolate-colored, waddling puff-ball pig-horse creature for insinuating it’s a bad parent. Today has taken so many weird turns.
“Second rule is: Always poop and pee in the litterbox. I don’t want it on my floors, that’s nasty and will make you, your babys, and me sick.” you say. She tilts her head quizzically. “Nice Mistah?” she asks, interrupting you politely as she can. “What am Wittabocks?”
There’s a long silence. You realize that she has absolutely no way of knowing what you are talking about.
“Fuck…” you mutter. “Uh….well, a Litterbox is a thing where fluffies that live in houses go poop and pee.” you answer. “It’s a flat box filled with this sandy stuff. You go and then you bury it in the sand.”
A look of understanding crosses her face. “Oh. Mummah habe poopie spot oba dere where mummah do dat.” she points off the left with her hoof. “Is like dat?” You nod “Yes, yes, exactly like that.” you say, patting her on the head. She nods. “Babbehs no can use it yet, is otay?”
“Yes, that’s because they’re just chirpy babies still. But you’ll teach them when they can walk and talk, right?” She nods in agreement. “Poopies no smeww pwetty, need to go in poopie-spot, wiww teach babbhes dis.”
This is good. Incredible, actually. She seems relatively smart for a fluffy, and well-mannered at that. She’s clearly never been a house fluffy, but she’ll make a fine one as long as she stays like this.
“The final rule is to always listen to me. If I say no to something it means no. If I say you do something, you do it. If you want something, or your babies want something, you are to ASK me, not demand, but ask. Understand? I’m in charge.”
She taps her hooves together. “YAY, NEW HOOMAN DADDEH!” she cheers. The babies wake and begin chirping and peeping, crawling to their mother, seemingly drawn to her happiness
You’ll take that as a yes. “Okay, very good then……”
The babies chirp and she proudly holds out each one for “Nyu Daddeh” to inspect and “Make fwiends” with. You pet each one and tell her how pretty you think they are. The little white fat one “makes dancies.” for you, sitting up on it’s little rump and waving it’s arms back and forth.
It then hits you that you’re not altogether sure how exactly you’re going to get this brood out of the woods, and back to your car.
Maybe this was going to be harder than you thought? Nah! How hard could caring for a doting mother and her 3 baby puffballs be?