It was still hard to believe Grandma was gone.
Some of the best summers of my life were spent at that big, creaky old farmhouse down south with her and Grandpa. Long, golden days that now lived only in memory. After she passed, everything felt like a blur—people offering their condolences, giving half-hearted hugs, the sound of quiet sobbing from relatives I barely knew. It wasn’t that I didn’t feel anything. I did. But in those moments, I was numb, floating through it all on autopilot.
I hadn’t even fully registered what had happened during the reading of her will. The house—her house—had been left to me, no strings attached. That part definitely raised a few eyebrows. Some folks in the family were furious, though they tried to hide it behind tight smiles and stiff nods. But she had wanted me to have it. She made that choice, and that meant something.
Still, what was I supposed to do with a 120-year-old farmhouse and ten acres of land? The stuff I’d collected over the past thirty years could barely fill my tiny studio apartment, let alone a single room in that place. And it had been sitting empty for years—ever since Grandpa passed and Grandma moved into assisted living. The thought of it gathering dust all that time was strange, almost unsettling.
But of course I’d take it. How could I not? It was filled with memories—good ones. Laughter in the kitchen, creaky floorboards under bare feet, the smell of fresh cornbread cooling on the windowsill. It was part of me.
And who knows? Maybe, just maybe, I could turn it into something to be proud of.
Pulling up to the house in the rattling old U-Haul felt almost surreal.
I hadn’t been here since I was a kid. Every visit after Grandpa passed had been to the care facility, not the farmhouse. I realized, with a strange pang in my chest, that I hadn’t actually laid eyes on this place in nearly twenty years. And yet, even in its weathered, neglected state, it was beautiful in its own way—familiar, comforting, and just a little haunting. The setting sun dipped behind the distant mountains, casting long shadows across the overgrown yard and painting the house in warm, fading light.
The steps groaned under my weight as I climbed them, as if they were tired and unprepared to do their jobs. The porch wrapped around the entire house, just as I remembered—a place where summer nights were spent chasing fireflies or sipping sweet tea while the crickets sang.
I made my way to the kitchen door. The old screen door had definitely seen better days—its white paint was peeling off in thick, curling flakes, and the mesh had a few holes that looked as if some kid had been using it for BB gun target practice. I slid the key into the lock, which resisted at first before reluctantly turning with a tired click.
The door let out a low groan as it swung inward, almost like it was annoyed to be disturbed after all these years.
And just like that, I was home.
Well… calling it home still felt strange.
It was a far cry from the warm, tidy place I remembered from my childhood summers, but it was familiar. Comforting, even. And as I looked around, I couldn’t help but feel a quiet sense of happiness rising in my chest. There was potential here. I could already see what the place could be, even if it would take a lot of work to get there.
I dragged a finger across the kitchen counter, lifting a thick clump of dust. Yeah. It had probably been seven or eight years since Grandma last lived here. Amazing what that kind of time can do to a house when no one’s watching over it.
I moved over to check the fridge, terrified of whatever mess lay behind the door. I cracked it open—and to my surprise, it was not only empty but running. The power company must’ve gotten the electricity back on ahead of schedule. The old fridge was humming along like nothing had happened. Had to be sixty years old, maybe more. They really don’t make them like that anymore.
As I shut the door, I heard something.
A tiny gasp. Then the quick, frantic patter of little feet scurrying away.
I froze, listening. I had half-expected some kind of critter to be squatting in the place. Eight years was more than enough time for something to move in. Maybe it was a stray cat, which wouldn’t be so bad. Could even be nice, actually. But my mind also flashed to less appealing options—rats, raccoons, maybe even a possum.
I followed the noise toward the back hallway that led to the laundry room, hoping to catch a glimpse of whatever it was. That’s when the smell hit me.
Oh no.
It reeked.
And then my shoe landed in something soft. And squishy.
Fantastic.
Whatever had moved in had been using the house as a bathroom. Of course.
I rounded the corner and flicked on the laundry room light—and froze.
Curled up beneath an old plastic hamper were two fluffy ponies. A little purple pegasus mare and a bright blue earthie stallion, both trembling in absolute terror. Their fur was matted, and the mare looked… pregnant. Very pregnant. So much so that she could barely move.
I knew a little about fluffies thanks to my friend’s sister, who had once spent an entire dinner rambling about them in exhausting detail. I remembered enough to know that the stallion was probably her mate—or as fluffies called it, her “speciaw fwend.”
I opened my mouth to say something, but before I could speak, the little stallion broke down in tears.
“Huhuhuuu! Su sowwy, mistah! Fwuffy nu know dis was yu housie! Nu huwt Fwuffy! Speciaw fwend am soon mummah! Nu huwt!”
I couldn’t help but feel sorry for them.
They looked so small, so fragile—especially the mare, who was clearly in no condition to run even if she wanted to. But alongside that pity, there was… something else. A feeling that twisted low in my gut, hard to name and even harder to admit.
I liked that he was afraid of me.
Not in a cruel, deliberate way—but the way he cowered, the way his tiny body shook with fear, the way he’d clearly do anything just to be spared… it stirred something in me. Something primal. Was that sick? Was it just a power trip—some dormant instinct scratching at the back of my brain?
I shook the thought off.
“Wait—wait, hang on,” I said, raising my hands gently. My voice came out louder than I intended, and I quickly softened it. “I’m not here to hurt you. Yeah, this is my house, but technically it wasn’t really anyone’s house when you guys moved in, right?”
They didn’t move, still huddled under the hamper, but their ears perked just slightly. I took a slow breath.
“Look, do you have names? Owners? Anyone I should be calling about you?”
The little stallion blinked at me through tear-filled eyes, sniffling.
“Nu hab ownah ow housie, nice mistah… but Fwuffy namsie am Bwuebewwy. An’ speciaw fwend namsie am Bwossom…”
I let out a long sigh, placing one hand on my hip and rubbing my temple with the other, eyes squeezed shut.
“Okay… so. You’ve made a mess, but we can clean that up. Doesn’t look like you’ve actually damaged anything. But how the hell did you even get in here?”
The little stallion blinked up at me, looking puzzled for a second before lighting up with realization.
“Fwew da fwuffy doow, siwwy mistah!” he chirped. He stood up and toddled past my feet on unsteady legs, his soft little hooves making leathery pattering sounds as he waddled down the hall.
I followed him as he led me into the living room, and sure enough—he stopped at the front door and pointed proudly with a hoof.
There it was.
The old cat door.
Of course. How could I have forgotten about Grandma’s fat old tabby? What was it’s name again—Terrence? Tabitha? Something with a T. Either way, it looked like the door had been left unlocked, and these two had taken full advantage of that.
“Alright,” I said, sighing again. “That explains it. Not your fault. But… what have you two been eating?”
Blueberry’s ears drooped, and his head slowly lowered in shame.
“Bwuebewwy nu can find nummies nu mowe,” he whimpered. “Had wotsa nummies, but dey awmost aww gone… huuhuuu… Speciaw fwend nee nummies tu make miwkies fow babbehs! Nu wan be bad daddeh!”
His voice cracked as he began to wind up into another wail, that familiar high-pitched pre-sob sound fluffies made when they were about to emotionally unravel.
“Alright—hey, hey, don’t cry,” I said quickly, holding my hands up like I was talking someone off a ledge. “Look, I’m here alone. No one else. And I guess… a couple pets wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world. I was kind of hoping for a cat, but…”
I glanced at him. Blueberry had bright, wet eyes and a desperate little tail twitch.
“I can get you guys nummies,” I said at last, slowly. “And all the weird shit you guys seem to like. If you want to stay. But you have to follow the house rules. Got it?”
Blueberry practically exploded with excitement before I could finish my sentence.
“Yay! Heaw dat, Bwossom? We hab nyu daddeh! Gon’ gib nummies an’ toysies an’ softie bwankies fow sweepies!”
He spun in a little circle, his little hooves tippy tapping wildly. Then, as if remembering something vital, he froze and gasped.
“OH! AN’ BABBEHS GON’ GIT MIWKIES! Yay! Su happ—”
“QUIET!”
The word came out louder than I intended. Sharp. Sudden.
Blueberry flinched, the joy draining from his face in an instant as he hunkered down low to the floor. His ears flattened, and his little body trembled. I could hear Blossom let out a frightened gasp from the laundry room, followed by the sound of her hooves rustling against the tile as she tried to shift her weight.
I exhaled, rubbing the back of my neck.
“S-sorry. I just… I really hate being interrupted.”
My voice was quieter now. Controlled.
“So that’s the first rule, I guess. Don’t interrupt… uhh… Daddy.”
The word felt strange in my mouth—unnatural, even—but it was clearly what Blueberry wanted to hear. I looked down at him as his eyes filled with tears.
From the other room, Blossom whimpered softly, unsure if she was next.
I rolled my eyes and made my way down the hallway toward the laundry room.
Blossom was flailing helplessly, trying to scramble toward the door. Her tiny legs kicked against the tile, but her enormous, pregnant belly kept her half-pinned to the floor—one side resting on the pile of old sheets they’d turned into a nest, the other splayed out on the cold tile. She wasn’t going anywhere.
I sighed.
“It’s okay, Blossom,” I said, trying to sound reassuring. “Daddy just has… some very minor control issues. Daddy really hates being talked over, that’s all. But Blueberry’s fine—look.”
I started to bend down, intending to pick her up, but stopped halfway. The smell hit me like a wall.
Her rear was absolutely caked in filth. Layers of dried, crusted mess around her tail, soaked into her fur, and god knows what else. The stench was unbearable up close.
“Uhh… Blueberry?” I called, straightening back up and stepping away. “Can you come here so Blossom knows you’re okay?”
I heard his little hooves pattering softly on the wood floor, and a moment later he appeared in the doorway, peeking around the corner.
“Bwuebewwy is otay, speciaw fwen! Nu wowwies!”
Blossom whimpered softly, but she settled down at the sound of his voice, her breathing a little less frantic now.
Honestly, I didn’t want to move her. She looked like she could explode at any second, and the last thing I needed was a litter of panicked foals dropping out all over the floor. I already had a long list of things to do—and now, apparently, “give a couple of filthy, semi-feral fluffies a bath” was on it.
I sighed again, this time deeper.
God, I hope the water company was as fast as the power company.
“Okay,” I said with a sigh, rubbing my eyes. “Look… something tells me this is gonna go over like a lead balloon with you two, but… you’re filthy. Like, genuinely disgusting. You both need a bath. Then we’ll go over the rules.”
Almost immediately, they started to whimper—Blossom with soft, breathy squeaks, and Blueberry with a whisper of protest building in his throat.
“Buh… daddeh,” he sniffled, “Wawa am bad fow fwuffies… nu wike baffies… nu wan!”
I sighed again. Louder.
“Dude. You’re gross. This isn’t optional. I have no idea how I’m going to bathe Blossom without her bursting open like a can of biscuits, but you’re definitely getting scrubbed while I figure it out.”
Without another word, I grabbed one of the sheets off the floor, stepped forward, and quickly wrapped Blueberry up in it like a makeshift sack.
“Nuuu, daddeh! Nu wike bad upsies! Chirp! Bwossom, hewp Bwuebewwy! Peep! Pwease hewp!”
His little hooves kicked helplessly through the sheet as he squirmed and squealed. That’s when Blossom finally spoke—well, wailed, really.
“Huuu huuuu! Nu nyu daddeh! Nu huwt fwend! Bwossom nu can hewp! Pwease, daddeh!”
Holy crap, these two could be annoying.
But… it was oddly cute.
And there it was again—that weird little twist in my stomach. The one I didn’t want to name. The one I secretly loved.
“Blueberry. Blossom.” I snapped, not yelling but sharp enough to cut through the noise. “This is happening. Baths are part of the rules. You’re both disgusting. This isn’t a punishment, and I’m not going to hurt either of you. But this is not optional. Got it?”
The room went quiet except for a few soft sniffles.
I gently set the Blueberry burrito down, then grabbed another sheet and laid it beside Blossom. Very, very carefully, I slid the sheet beneath her until her weight was resting on it instead of the tile. I didn’t want to touch her if I didn’t have to—one wrong move and she’d probably pop like a grape.
“Stop wiggling, Blossom. I don’t want to drop you,” I muttered, lifting her slowly, holding the sling steady with both hands. Then I scooped up the Blueberry bundle and started toward the bathroom.
It wasn’t far—just down the hall. I paused at the door, gently setting Blueberry’s wrapped-up form on the floor long enough to flip the lights on.
The bathroom was still in incredible shape.
Grandma had loved reading in the bath, and she’d made sure this space reflected that. There was a wide, carpeted step leading up to the edge of a huge whirlpool tub, the kind that looked like it belonged in a spa brochure. Waterproof cushions still lined the edge, and even the little bamboo tray she used to rest her books on was still propped up neatly against the wall, waiting for the next story.
I placed Blossom down gently on the step, just off to the side, making sure she was stable before turning back to Blueberry.
He was still wrapped up like a pillow burrito, trying to wiggle his way through the door. I could see his little snout poking out one side of the bundle while his hooves scrambled uselessly against the inside.
“Okay, look, little dude,” I said, kneeling down to undo the sheet. “Second rule: if you get dirty, you get a bath. No complaints. That’s just how it works. I’m not going to hurt you, and I’m not going to let the water hurt you either.”
He huffed. Sniffled. Sobbed a little more. Then finally let out a soft, whimpering: “Otay…”
I lifted him gently from the sheet and lowered him into the tub.
I remembered Grandma always kept soap in the cabinet under the sink, and sure enough, there it was—along with a bottle of kid’s shampoo I hadn’t seen in probably twenty years. The label was faded, but still legible. It was a 90s-style cartoon blueberry character with wide eyes and a giant smile.
Blueberry-scented shampoo.
I held the bottle up and raised an eyebrow.
“Well. That’s fitting.”
“Okay, buddy,” I said as I flipped the top open on the shampoo bottle. A faint pop echoed through the bathroom. “I promise you’ll be just fine. Let’s get this all done, and you’ll smell nice and clean.”
Blossom perked up at that, her ears twitching as she gave a soft coo.
“Mm… speciaw fwend wiww smeww pwetty!”
I chuckled. “See? Even Blossom’s excited.”
I turned on the tap and let the water run until it was warm, then grabbed a little plastic cup I spotted still sitting on the sink. Probably the same one Grandma used when I was a kid. I filled it and poured the first cupful of warm water over Blueberry.
He trembled at first… then let out a long, relaxed sigh.
“D-dis am… nicie, Daddeh. Bwuebewwy kinda wike dis wawa…”
“Good buddy,” I said, relieved. I kept at it, slowly pouring cup after cup over him, soaking his filthy fluff until it hung heavy on his little frame.
“Next comes the soap! It smells really pretty,” I said, squeezing a generous dollop of the blueberry-scented shampoo into my hand and working it into his back.
That weird feeling returned—low in my stomach. Familiar. Electric.
I started scrubbing.
Gently at first. Just trying to work the soap into the tangled mess of his fur. But then I scrubbed a little harder. And harder. And harder, watching the thick suds spread and swirl across his body as he squirmed beneath my hands.
Then he cried out.
“Owies, Daddeh! Nu scwubbies tu hawd! Huwt!”
I eased up, my hands slowing. “Sorry, sorry… just trying to get you clean.”
I gentled the pressure… but a minute later, I was back to scrubbing too hard again. Over and over. Hard enough for him to whimper. Soft enough to pretend it wasn’t too much. Was this that cute aggression thing people talked about? That weird, overwhelming mix of affection and the urge to squeeze something until it breaks?
What a twisted sensation.
I caught myself watching him struggle to stay standing in the slippery tub, his little hooves sliding around helplessly on the wet porcelain. It was… weirdly satisfying. I probably needed to call my therapist again.
Eventually, it was time to clean his underside.
I sat Blueberry back on his rump and reached for his belly, working the suds downward.
“Nu, Daddeh! Dat am Bwuebewwy’s Nunu pwace! Nu touch dewe, Daddeh!”
I grimaced. “Look, buddy, I don’t want to mess with your weird little twig and berry situation, but it’s filthy. I’ve got to get you clean.”
He winced as I gently scrubbed the matted fluff around his belly, sobbing softly.
“Huuu… owies! Daddeh, yu huwt Bwuebewwy’s speciaw wumps… huu…”
“Okay—okay, sorry, little guy. Didn’t mean to.”
I rinsed the rest of the soap away and gently lifted him out of the tub, wrapping him in a clean towel and patting him dry. Once he was no longer dripping, I laid the towel out on the floor and nodded to it.
“Alright, lay here and rest while I take care of Blossom, okay?”
He nodded through a few lingering sniffles and toddled over to the towel, laying down politely. He started licking himself dry in slow, careful strokes.
I turned to Blossom.
“Well,” I muttered, eyeing her massive belly and mess-matted fluff. “This’ll certainly be… interesting.”
“Hewwo, Daddeh! Bwossom tuwn?” she chirped, practically glowing with excitement.
“Yes, sweetie. Your turn.”
I crouched down and very, very carefully scooped her up, doing my best to keep her weight centered and held her out and away from my chest. She was heavier than she looked—her round belly pressing against the sling of the sheet—but she squealed with delight anyway.
“Wee! Wook, speciaw fwen! Bwossom am fwyin’!” Her tiny wings fluttered uselessly against the air as she dangled in my grip.
Okay… that was actually exceptionally cute.
“Alright, girlie—time to land,” I said with a smile, easing her slowly into the tub. I made sure to set her down just right, letting her settle into the warm water with as little jostling as possible.
She sighed contentedly the moment she touched the water, her wings giving a lazy flick as they got soaked.
Then I grabbed the cup again and began gently pouring water over her, one scoop at a time. Each time the warm stream washed over her back and wings, she cooed and relaxed a little more, sinking slightly into the tub like a satisfied marshmallow.
“Dis feww su nice, Daddeh… nu scawy!” Blossom said between soft, contented coos. “Bwossom wiww smeww pwetty?”
She really was adorable. Just a big, round ball of fluff, floating gently in the water like some kind of living bath bomb. Her legs barely reached the bottom of the tub—her huge belly did most of the work holding her in place. She was worryingly plump, honestly. One wrong move, and I had a feeling she might, uh… evacuate her cargo, right then and there.
“Yes,” I said gently. “You’ll smell much prettier than you do now.”
“Squee! Bwossom smeww pwetty! Babbehs be pwetty babbehs! Hab besest Daddeh! Fank yu, Daddeh! Bwossom wuv yu!”
That hit me harder than I expected.
I knew fluffies were programmed to say things like that. Most people with even a passing knowledge of them understood that they were genetically structured to form those bonds and form them quickly. There was something in her tone. Something genuine. She was clearly happy, and that warmed something in my chest I hadn’t felt in a while.
And it made me happy.
But right behind that warmth, coiled deep in my gut, was that other feeling. That quiet, sharp tension that came bubbling up when things got too cute. The one that made me want to squeeze them. Or poke them. Or upset them just a little. Just enough to make them whimper.
I didn’t want to hurt them. I really didn’t. But it was like that feeling only eased when they looked scared. Or squirmed. Or cried, just a little.
With Blossom, though… I couldn’t risk it. Not now. Not with her ready to pop. Even a loud noise might set her off like a confetti cannon full of wet spaghetti.
So instead, I focused on her words.
“Bwossom wuv yu.”
I swallowed, and after a beat, I said softly, “Daddy loves you too, Blossom. And you, Blueberry.”
Blueberry, still towel-wrapped and resting on the floor, gave a soft little chirp in reply.
“I’m glad you guys were here,” I added, almost surprised by how much I meant it.
“Anyway!” I said with a clap to my knees as I finished up cleaning Blossom. “Looks like we’re done here. Let’s get you dried off, Blossom.”
She gave a soft peep as I lifted her carefully from the tub and placed her onto a fresh towel. I had to be especially gentle—her whole body was like a waterlogged balloon, and the last thing I wanted was to trigger whatever chain reaction ends in me mopping up afterbirth off the bathroom floor.
I patted her dry as best I could, dabbing instead of rubbing, working around her wings and belly with the softest pressure I could manage. It wasn’t perfect, but she was mostly dry. The rest would have to air-dry.
I tucked her gently back into the towel sling, cradling her like a living casserole dish, and stepped out into the hallway. Blueberry toddled faithfully behind us.
“Wow,” I muttered as we passed the front room. “Time really got away from us, huh, kiddos?”
The sun had fully set, and the house was starting to get that chilly, uninviting stillness old places seem to collect at night. I felt the temperature drop in the air, the wooden floor colder beneath my feet.
“Well, fluffs,” I said with a sigh, “my plans for the day definitely changed.”
I turned into the kitchen and headed for the back door. “I’m gonna run out to the truck and grab a few things for the night. Just take a second.”
“Otay, Daddeh! We wait hewe!” Blueberry called after me in a chipper tone.
I stepped out into the night, the porch creaking under my weight. Using my phone’s flashlight, I made my way through the darkness to the U-Haul and popped open the back. I was looking for one thing in particular—my old sleeping bag. I’d brought it as a backup in case the mattress was unusable, and now it was officially the main plan.
I figured I’d set up in Grandpa’s old study. It had a fireplace, a few chairs, a dusty old desk, and a big couch I remembered napping on as a kid. I could make a fire to keep us warm, sleep in my bag on the couch, and let the fluffs snuggle into some folded towels nearby. It wasn’t ideal, but it would work—for tonight.
Later this week, I’d head into town and find a specialty store. I remembered enough from my friend’s sister to know fluffies weren’t exactly low-maintenance. They needed padded everything, bright colors, soft edges. Basically, a room designed like a toddler-proof sensory playpen.
But for now, it was survival mode.
I grabbed the sleeping bag, a small pillow, and a couple snacks I’d packed in a grocery bag, then hustled back through the chilly night to the kitchen door. The moment I stepped inside, I found both fluffs right where I’d left them.
Blueberry was bouncing slightly in place, but Blossom… Blossom was shivering.
Poor thing. I hadn’t been able to get her nearly as dry as Blueberry, and with her fluff still damp, the cold had already started to bite.
“Alright, let’s get you warmed up,” I said softly, scooping her back into the towel sling with both hands. “Blueberry, come on, buddy. We’re setting up camp.”
“Otay, Daddeh!” he chirped, trotting along beside me on stubby hooves as we made our way down the dark hallway toward the study.
Opening the door to Grandpa’s old office, I was hit with the musty, stale breath of a room that hadn’t seen daylight in years. The air was thick with dust and the scent of old paper, wood polish, and time itself. It was like walking into a memory—and one that hadn’t been touched since he was alive.
I started to plan another trip out back for firewood, but luck, or something like it, was on my side.
Right there beside the fireplace was a small, neatly stacked pile of logs. Dry, clean, and ready to burn.
Like Pops had known I’d be coming back one day.
I didn’t dwell on it too long.
I set Blossom down near the fireplace, gently placing her on a folded towel, still wrapped in her little sling. She was still shivering. Blueberry trotted in behind me, wide-eyed and curious.
I wrapped Blossom a bit more tightly and got to work building the fire.
“Nu, Daddeh! Fiwe bad fow fwuffies!” Blueberry suddenly yelped the moment I pulled out my lighter, his voice sharp with panic.
I held a hand up, trying to calm him. “It’s okay, buddy. I’m right here. I’d never let anything happen to you guys. I promise.”
His ears twitched, and he gave a hesitant little nod.
“O-otay… Daddeh. Yu vewy nice Daddeh…”
“And you’re a very good fluff, Blueberry,” I said with a small smile.
Once the fire was lit and the flames had started licking around the logs, the room transformed. The cold faded as warmth spread through the air, and the crackling glow painted the walls in soft, golden light.
I scooted Blossom closer to the fireplace—carefully—and nested her in a thicker pile of towels. She gave a contented sigh and nuzzled into the folds.
“Blueberry, come snuggle in,” I said, patting the towel beside her.
He wasted no time. He hopped up and nestled against her side, curling in like a puzzle piece. The little couple pressed close together in their “nestie,” as they’d probably call it, eyes soft and sleepy.
I handed them small bits of granola bar and scooped out a little peanut butter with my finger for them to lick. I didn’t even know if it was safe for fluffies, but they seemed to love it.
“Fank yu fow nummies, Daddeh,” Blossom murmured, her voice thick with drowsiness. “Now Bwossom be gud mummah… make gud miwkies fow babbehs soon…”
“Beses day eba…” Blueberry added softly, his eyelids beginning to drift closed.
I laid back in my sleeping bag, letting the warmth of the fire wrap around me. The room smelled like old wood and smoke—like the heart of the house had started beating again.
And as my own eyes grew heavy, one thought stayed with me:
The rules could wait until tomorrow, and maybe it would be nice… to not be so alone for a change.
End Part 1