(Sorry for the wait y’all, my computer has been in the shop for over a week)
Fluff & Co. Part 3
by roguesoul
It’d been two weeks since Dove had given birth, and her foals were growing quite well. Jersey’s son was quite bigger than them, a few days older after all, but Jersey treated her “Smaw babbehs” just as well. The navy pegasus colt was extremely playful, almost too much, and he raced circles around his older ‘brother’, much to the bigger colts chagrin. And with that snow white mane and tail if he kept that attitude the colt was going to go far.
You’d been careful to keep an eye on the grey alicorn, his brother was a bit nervous with him- but Jersey made sure the colt was never bullied. You kept a look on him as well, just in case, you didn’t want to come in to a dead foal. He was a dead ringer for his mother, same grey coat- same soft white tail, and it almost hurt to look at him. He was more mellow, and seemed to almost have a crush on Selena. He was sitting next to her now, nosing her food closer and pressing his head softly on her side.
You were checking on the mare, her pregnant stomach now swollen with foals, and she laid on her side, legs spread for you as you checked her belly. “Be cawefuw,” she said softly, and you meet her gaze. She was a fantastic mix of colors, white with a pastel pink, lavender, and wintergreen mane and tail, and the earthie mare had always seemed to have a level head- even as a foal.
“Selena how many times have we done this? I’m always gentle,” You chuckle a bit as her eyes screw up at your question, and her face tightens, before looking back down at her stomach. You are gentle as you push your palm over her taunt skin, counting the masses as you go.
“Wun, twu, twee-uh,” she looks down at her hooves, looking over them, “Fouw, uh- um, seben?”
“Five is next, Selena,” she nods.
“Fihb, an den-”
“Six,” you feel a mushier mass, frowning slightly. Usually that meant the foal wasn’t fully developed, or was dead. Considering this was Selena’s first litter, you weren’t surprised. You tried to make it a good experience for the mares, the new moms especially since they were more prone to premature labor.
“Den wha?” you grin, this had ended up being a better distraction for her than you’d thought.
“Seven, like you said before,” you look up at her pulling your hands away. “And now we’ve done it seven times.” You smile at her, and a pair of violet eyes meet yours.
“Weawwy, dat wots of times-” she looks down at her belly before looking at you in surprise, “Waih, we done?” You nod at her and she rolls onto her stomach, trying to shift herself to look at you, “Wowie, dat-huff-dat wah fast!” she huffs and heaves as she moves, her heavy belly a deterant in her movements. She was ready to pop any moment now, within the next few days if the shop was lucky. They wanted the furthest she would go, whether that was 25 days or even four weeks. Selena huffed, whipping her mane around and out of her face.
“EEP!” you look over sharply, watching the grey colt blink his eyes rapidly, “Mane huwtie!” it was one of Dove’s- well Jersey’s, the colt having been too close to the mare. “Why huwtie?!” tears drip down his face slightly.
“Oh, sowwy babbeh fwend, nu mean tu!” The mare tries to move over, but she’s quite slow, and you reach down and shift the blanket around, pulling her in the right direction. “Tank whu!” she squeaks out, reaching her hoof out to pull the colt into a hug and you can practically see the embarrassment on the colt’s face.
“Am nu babbeh!” he squeaks, wanting to still seem cool for the mare and you reach down petting the small colt.
“To be fair, you-”
“MISTAS!!” the colt is bowled over as Rose runs over, and you frown, reaching and and catching the mare before she steps on the little one. Her legs flail, still running and her wings begin to flap, “WOWIE, WOSIE AM FWYING!” You sigh, looking down and looking at foal. He was alright, as far as you could tell, and was just lightly rubbing his head.
“Bab- er, fwuffy, fwuffy- goin’ pway,” the colt runs off catching up with his brother as he played huggie tag.
“Glad your alright,” you watch him run off, before glancing back at Rose- who was still flapping her wings and running in mid air. “Rose, can we help you?” She looks at you, and finally goes still.
“Nu nee hewp? Way?” the mare goes still, before reaching a hoof up and tapping her chin, “Du Wose nee hewp?”
She was so dumb. Hilariously dumb, but dumb nonetheless. As she tapped her chin, you set her back down in the pen and Selena swatted her. “Wose neawee huwt babbeh!” Rose glanced at the other mare, before looking back up at you and over to the playing colts.
“Babbehs obaw dewe,” she pointed, and you chuckled, so-so very dumb. And you laughed a little harder as you saw Selena press her hoof to her own face.
“Rose, what do- you know what nevermind,” you say, before the mare runs over and puts her front hooves up on the plexi wall.
“Wai! Wosie hab ques-shun,” you straighten your back, meeting her gaze, “Wen Wose an Sissie gun git babbehs, wan own babbehs tu pway wit!” Your eyebrows raise, and you take the clipboard attached to the pen, looking over it. Jersey- 8 months old, her foals- 14 day and 17 days, no- then Lucille and Rose, 13 weeks old- huh. They were of age, ready to be paired. But, you look back at Rose, “Wose wub pwayin’ wit Jewsey babbehs, wan pway-wan pway!!” You look over at Lucille, who was carefully helping Jersey’s other son into the litter box.
“Gud babbeh, use witta bots wike gud fwuffy!” she clapped her hooves together, “Yay! Babbeh am sut gud babbeh!”
Okay, how did that happen- they were sisters, yet so-so very different- huh.
“You know, Rose I had a better idea for you, come here,” you reach down and pick her up, tucking her under your arm carefully. Her wings begin flapping again.
“Yay! Wose fwying!” You want to hit your head. You carry her into the display room. It’s quieter, the evenings usually were, the fluffies knowing they’d be going to bed soon- already having had their dinner. That, and in the last two weeks four fluffies had gone home- and only one of your holdbacks had come in to the room, and with Gala’s foals still weaning- there had only been a few coming into the display.
So, with Rose being at age- but, well- not quite ready for foals just yet. Maybe it was best she moved up here. “This is your new home, Rose- and hopefully you’ll get to go home with a new mummah or daddeh!” You lighten your voice in fake falsetto, and the mare claps her hooves together in delight as you set her down in an empty display pen.
“Yay, nu can wai fow nuw daddeh ow mummah, su happies!” She starts grinning widely, and suddenly the whole room in alight with cheering.
“Nuw daddeh?”
“Mummah?”
“Ih nuw daddeh ow mummah comin’?”
“Wan gu tu nuw housie wit huggies an wub!”
“Huggies? Gib huggies!”
You hit your forehead, “Guys, GUYS!” you don’t yell- but speak up loudly, clapping your hands together, and suddenly there’s six pairs of eyes on you. “You are all going to get mummahs and daddehs soon,” there’s cheering, “BUT-” the eyes look back at you, “But only if you are good fluffies, herd one,” you point at the 12 week olds, the unicorn and earthie adolescents glancing at eachother, “Can you tell me what makes a good fluffy?”
The unicorn colt tapped his chin, before raising a hoof, he was the most expensive of the store at the moment. A melanistic coat with an fantastic personality to boot, “Use witta bots?” You nod, and the colt claps his hooves.
His sister raises her hoof, nearly falling over as she did so, “Ee numbies?” she said in the familiar slight lisp of a derped foal.
“Yes, when you eat all your nummies and not ask for more. What about you herd two?” There was only a single fluffy in there, nearly an adult with a beautiful blue coat and a horrible dusty brown mane and tail.
“Waise hoobies?” you almost chuckle, even though she didn’t raise her hoof and you nod before pointing at the third herd, a pair of adults. The eldest was a handsome, well mannered fellow and he raised his hoof.
“How bout shawin toysies wit fwends?” as he says it the stallion gives his stacking block to Omar, a former holdback, just like Rose.
“Tank yu fwend!” Omar hugs his friend, before raising his hoof, “How bout bein’ nice tu odda fwuffies!”
“Yeah, these are all ways to be good fluffies, and you know that good fluffies also know when it’s time to go sleepie and get ready for bed, and not yell and make lots of noises,” the smarter fluffies, make an ‘o’ shape with their mouth, “And only good fluffies get good homes.”
“Sowwy fow wewwing.”
“Am gud fwuffy, am sowwy.”
“Omaw be coo-wyatt an gu tu sweep.”
You grin, watching most of the fluffies start getting ready for bed, and the ones that don’t start following the other fluffies’ movements. It wasn’t exactly a lie, when families came in or first time fluffy owner, you would always try to show off the most polite fluffies first- it didn’t work for everyone. Some wanted that very specific colored foal or fluffy, the specific morph or breed- and while you offered training classes and tried your best to drill the behaviors of good fluffies into their little brains- there were always hellgremlins whose programs couldn’t be broken. Only a reset could fix that behavior, and even then there was a huge risk of accidently derping the fluffy- or killing them.
That’s why it was so important to break that behavior before they hit adulthood, once that happened- it would get ten times harder to break them of it.
You look over the display room, smiling as you took in your fluffies, watching them plod over to their beds and tuck under their blankets. The few fluffies in display cases alone grab a raggedy looking stuffy friend or two, dragging them into bed. You pull your phone out, it’s well past nine’o’clock and the was closed for the night, register and front door locked.
You go between each herd, checking each water bottle, and over each display case- before stepping between the display area and back room. “Goodnight fluffies,” you say in a slight sing-song voice, before flipping the switch- there’s a chorus of ‘goodnights’ back to you, and you here an ‘oooing’ sound from Rose as she looks up at the glow in the dark stars that Alex had set up last summer. They were faded slightly, but still good enough for the fluffies, and you shut the door as you walked into the back.
“Whewe sissie gu?!” You look over at Pen 3, Lucille looking up at you with a worried look- Jersey was looking up at you as well, concern on her face.
“Well, Rose is going to join a new herd,” Lucille’s face fell a bit. It was odd, how you had to treat the display room. Have it not be a scary place, especially when it was time for foals to move in, but not to make the back room feel like a bad place either.
“Why nu say bye?” Jersey looks up at you, before being distracted by her son crying, “Bih bab, nu hit witta babbeh!” Jersey leaves, properly distracted as she breaks up the fight. Lucille however was not swayed.
“She was so excited, and guess what you,” you reach down and tap Lucille’s nose teasingly, watching the pegasus’ eyes scrunch up to try to see it. “Should be excited to!”
“EE!” she lets out a surprised noise before playfully swatting your hand, “Why Wuciwwe be escited?”
“You, are going to get to have babies!” you grab the clipboard, noting that Rose had moved to the display room, you’d move her paperwork over in the morning. Lucille’s jaw drops, and you glance up at her as you note that you’re pairing her with Montgomery- he was the best with the new moms, he was a tool- but a great breeder.
“Git-” her voice is low, almost a whisper, and Lucille looks between you and her mom in disbelief, looking back at Selena’s pregnant belly and at her little siblings, the foals now hugging- their differences seemingly solved, “Git-git hab babbehs?” Her voice starts getting louder now, and your smile stretches, “Git hab babbehs, an gib huggies an wub, an-an,” her happy voice falls into a whisper again, and she suddenly gets quiet and makes a ‘come closer’ motion with her hoof.
You chuckle, “Alright,” you lean in, half leaning into the pen and the young pegasus scoots closer, “What is it?” You ask, and she sits up, almost pressing her muzzle to your cheek.
“Git-git tu hab,” she seems nervous, " ‘speciaw huggies?’" She says it like it’s a secret, and you laugh.
“Yes, yes-that to,” you look back at her and she seems to shift on her back hooves in a little dance to herself. “Are you ready then?” You laugh as she does a bigger dance.
“Git tu hab babbehs, git tu hab ‘huggies’,” she’s singing to herself now, though she says huggies in a hushed voice as if it’s a dirty word, “Git tu gib huggies an hab wots ub fun!” Your lip twitches a bit, and you clear your throat, getting her attention.
“Now it’s not all going to be fun,” she stops dancing and looks at you closely, listening intently, “You need to teach them how to be good fluffies- how to use the litter box, and how to share, and how to be good with horn and wingie babies, like your little brother.” You point to the small grey alicorn, the colt now snuggled against his ‘mother’ with his siblings, getting ready for bed.
Lucille follows your finger, and she lifts a hoof, tapping her mouth, “Buh Wuciwwe aweady du dat, hewp bwuddas aw da time!” Her head tilts from side to side, as if she’s thinking it over, “Knu big wes-wes, wes-ponce-sa, sa-bitteh,” it takes you a minute for you to realize what she’d just said, and your eyebrows raise, wondering where she learned the word ‘responsibility’. Though you knew Alex had said it to the trainees more than a few times, it was a part of that big speech they had for them. “Buh, Wuci am weadie, wan be gud mummah!” She grins at you, and for a moment, you really believed her.
“Alright then, come here, Lucille-” she raises her hooves up and you lift her up, carrying the young mare on your hip. You had been excited since Lucille had been born to see what kind of foals she reproduced. Calicos were a rare morph- and with that in mind, dilutes like her were even rarer. A tricolor coat, mainly light blue with white and grey patches and a mane and tail a shade lighter of pale blue, silver and white. It-it did have some complications- colts and stallions with that morph (as rare as it was) were almost always sterile.
Lucille sings to herself, but it’s mostly nonsensical as you carry her over to one of the empty pens, “Wait here, be right back.” She is still singing, and dances to herself happily. You go over to the door to the surgery room, stepping inside. It was freshly cleaned, but it still smelled vaguely of iron. It wasn’t just the surgery room, but the dish room with a clear sink- food and litter pans scented with bleach drying on the side. You grab a food dish, and a water bottle, humming to yourself as you fill it.
Part Four will be out soon
