Previous: Saximaphone's Fluffy RP (Part 7)
Such a lil rascal. I can’t be mad at him. At least he’s safe.
The little red pegasus gasps in surprise! “It da speshul chee fwuffy! Nyu daddeh founded da speshul chee fwuffy?!”
“Yus! Nyu daddeh gotted da speshul chee fwuffy! Gib Daddeh bestes suwpwisies! Chee fwuffy wemembah wingie babbeh! Chee fwuffy wa in speshul boxie! Wanded pway wif odah babbehs but meanie boxie nu wet!”
This is a cute little interaction. Nice to see them getting along so quickly! I get them all sorted snugly into the Fluffy Mart box for safety and put them in the front seat beside me.
“Nyu daddeh gib chee fwuffy nummies now? Babbeh wouwd wike miwkies pwease!” chirps the little golden boy. This starts a chorus of other requests of course.
“Vawentine fwuffy wouwd wike nummies too! Daddeh hab kibbew ow skettis? Gweenie nummies?”
“B-babbeh wan weggies AN miwkies!”
“Babbeh wan buwgie nummies!”
That last one caught me off guard, “What kind of nummies, little pegasus?”
“Buwgie nummies! Babbeh hab wowstes tummeh huwties su babbeh twy get miwkies fwom hooman buwgie nummies! Buwgie nummies taste su nummy! Bu meanie mistah make woud noisies an gib babbeh wowstes upsies!”
“You want a burger?” I eye the quarter of a burger I had left in my box, “Babies can’t eat solid food. You’ll hurt your teeth.”
“Babbeh nu chew nummies! Babbeh onwy wickie nummies! Pwease daddeh?”
Well it’s weird for a fluffy to enjoy meat (especially considering the type of meat the ‘meanie mistah’ had ordered) but it probably won’t do much harm to the little weirdo. I put the patty in the box with them and give the lettuce to the alicorn.
“Tank ou fo buwgie nummies Daddeh! Is bestes daddeh ebah!”
“Tank ou Daddeh! Wub gweenie nummies!”
“B-bu babbeh nee miwkies! Am onwy wittew babbeh!”
I crack open one of the cans of formula and take out one of the little bottles. I half-ass try to fill it without a funnel and it surprisingly worked without spilling much. I tuck the bottle into the corner beside the pillowfluff so it wouldn’t roll much. I stick the still-pretty-full can into my cup holder.
“Tank ou Daddeh! Gib weggies aftah miwkies?”
“Sorry, I don’t have your leggies. Fluffy Mart took your leggies. I can’t get them back.”
“D-daddeh can go back get weggies!”
“Just… have your milkies for now.”
There’s something in my bag I didn’t order…
Pacifiers, Binkies, Soothers, Suckies; they go by many names.
Looks like they give these away with purchases of $50 or more. They look cheap but maybe this will help sooth the pillow, or shut Tubby up for a short time.
While they are happily numming away, I head back to the shelter. I’m excited to finally get the others and see Mya again… for purely business reasons of course.
I pull up to the shelter and take the box inside. I’d like them to meet each other all at once and put them all in the same box.
Mya is at the front counter with my original cardboard fluffy box, minus the shitty towel. She lights up when she sees me, “There you are! Your new babies are excited to see you!”
The little ones line up at the edge of the box and chirp at me excitedly.
“Hewwo nyu daddeh! Twuffew wub ou!” spouts the alicorn, wrapped nicely in an old cloth of her own this time so as not to spook the other foals.
“H-hewwo…” comes the barely-audible raspy voice of my little lovecraftian fluff, “Babbeh miss nice mistah. Wub nice mistah!”
It was VERY hard to make out because of a certain other boy next to him shouting, “Dummeh Daddeh! Am bestes babbeh daddeh nao! Daddeh gib bestes babbeh awwwww da miwkies an toysies ebah!” I have to admit I find his demands and insults really cute.
‘Bestes babbehs’ have a high risk of developing Smarty Syndrome and he’s pretty much almost there. It ‘officially’ becomes Smarty Syndrome once the fluffy stats referring to itself as a ‘smarty’, though behaviours can appear earlier than that. Despite the name, not all smarties are smart. Above-average intelligence is linked to Smarty Syndrome as a fluffy can see itself as superior to the others and more entitled, and such thoughts lead to the progression of Smarty Syndrome. Being spoiled or having a bratty personality can lead to it as well, as the fluffy merely has delusions of grandeur that fuel the progression. In these cases, the smarty will have the personality of a smarty, but still have the intelligence of a normal fluffy, if not dumber due to its increased aggression and recklessness. These are the most common types people encounter, giving sorry poopies to stray dogs or demanding sketties from oncoming traffic. Intelligent or ‘true smarties’ are actually decent herd leaders that look out for the herd and can negotiate or be reasoned with. They’re aggressive, but not stupid and usually won’t pick a fight they can’t win. There’s also ‘hellgremlins’ but we don’t talk about hellgremlins.
It can be cured by lots of work, though it is difficult and most people just kill or release a Smarty rather than spend that effort.
I gently place the new fluffies from my Fluffy Mart trip into the bigger box to mingle and meet their new friends. I leave them be and have Mya ring up the adoption fees.
“Looks like you have quite the variety there. The pillow seems pretty sad though.”
“I know. She was so cute and I think I can maybe turn her life around. She’s young after all,” I say nervously, trying to keep my eyes on my wallet and not her.
“Well your heart is in the right place at least. Nobody would take these ‘special darlings’ but us.”
“Us?” I question.
“Oh yeah! I adopted Nephilim today while you were out! I’m gonna put a collar on him and keep him in the ‘baby jail’ while I’m at work. The ‘special’ ones look up to him and he seems to calm them a bit.”
“That’s great! I’m sure little shiny barfy over there will miss him.”
“Well… you’re always welcome to bring your fluffies over here to play. We don’t get much business and the foals would love it. I could also bring him over to your place if you want.”
“Like a… date? P-play date, right?”
She smirks, “Of course. Here’s your total. I’m also gonna wash the shit out of your towel for you if you want it back later.”
Funds: $914.21
At least it’s not in my car.
“Shit. I’ll help clean it up!”
“Don’t worry, it’s all contained in your box… but I don’t have another one to put them in right now. At least not a big enough one. People usually just take one fluffy and carry them out so we don’t keep a lot of boxes here.”
“Well… they can all just be nice and snug in this one for now.”
Mya and I clean up each baby and calm down the little culprit, then I wrap him up extra snug. I also make sure that Truffle and the Valentines alicorn are properly covered as well. Don’t want to give the little ones a heart attack. Tubby is an especially scaredy-fluff it seems (which is also adorable).
I snuggle all of them into a cozy fluffpile inside the courtesy box, then bid Mya goodbye.
“Before you go, take a few of these ‘profile cards’. They’re really good to give out to clients that want to decide later,” Mya adds while handing me a few blank cards, “Here’s the one I wrote up for Nephilim as an example.”
Cool! I can make these up later.
Now to find my way to the gas station and then home to show them the house, go over rules, and name them all. They will probably want nummies to replace what they just lost as well.
I pick the mare up and begin making some noise, stamping my feet and yelling at the rats until they disperse.
“T-tank ou nice mistah! Fwuffy wookin fo nummies so make bestes miwkies fo babbehs! Fwuffy find nummies bu squeaky munstahs chase fwuffy! Gib fwuffy bitey owies! Nice mistah wet fwuffy go back to babbehs nao?” I can see a cardboard box beside the dumpster with a few chirpies in it.
I think for a moment, “Would you and your babies want to go to a shelter?”
“Nu tank ou nice mistah! Speshul fwen awso wookin fo nummies! Nu wan weabe wifou speshul fwen!”
“How about I give you some good nummies instead? I will pay for my gas and give you some nummies, okay? Just wait outside.”
“Otay nices mistah!”
God, poor thing. His milk supply is probably empty and his shit container is definitely full. The ‘poo chute’ has forced it’s way out and there’s feces everywhere. He’s far from the only fluffy that needs help but god is he pathetic-looking. I have to keep reminding myself that I can’t save every fluffy I come across. I found that out the hard way already today.
I grab a unicorn filly that looks to be almost at the talky stage. She’ll be younger than everyone else but will hopefully be a good mate for one when they all grow up. I got the boy too because I am too fucking soft for my own good. I have a plan for him.
Only thing I have to pay for is gas. This doesn’t come out of my Fluffy Fund though.
I get outside with the mummah eagerly waiting for the promised nummies. I open a kibble bag and pour a scoop out next to her box. I then carefully open the foal can and let the little colt out.
“This baby needs a new mummah. He is older so he can help find nummies and watch your chirpies while you’re gone. He won’t need milk for much longer. Just what’s left in the can.”
“Tank you fo nummies an nu babbeh nice mistah! Mummah hab bigges heawt happies!”
I smile and get in my vehicle to start the drive home. My own babies are whining for their own milkies and I should get a start at naming them and filling out those little cards. I start my vehicle and roll the window down. It’s gotten pretty warm on this February afternoon and the kids might be hot. I hear a noise though.
“SCREEEEEEE”
“Mummah nu wan nyu babbeh! Nyu babbeh dwink too many miwkies an nu smeww pwetty! Miwkies onwy fo mummah babbehs! Babbehs get aww can miwkies! Nyu dummeh babbeh onwy gud fo be nummie babbeh!”
Fuck me…
Hugbox is a gift and a curse. You feel so happy doing great things for fluffies, but you feel even worse when bad things happen to them. I feel like laying this one out like I did to the ones in the park, but somebody is already honking to get me moving out of the spot. I glumly dive home trying to remind myself that the foal was going to die either way. No different from the rats I scared away earlier.
Once home, I feel a lot better at the sound and sights of the babies admiring their new home in astonishment. I take them to the saferoom and gently take them out one by one. I open the unicorn’s can and remove the ‘poo chute’, then I place it gently in the cat bed so she can back out on her own.
“D-daddeh? Whewe am make gud poopies?” asks the little vominator.
“Dummeh munstah babbeh! Poopie fwuffy wite dewe! Dummeh seeie pwacies nu wowk?” Tubby snaps at him.
“N-nu… seeie pwacies nu wowk… huu huu…” the little guy sobs.
Truffle slinks away and lowers her ears, “N-nu am poopie fwuffy! Am bwownie fwuffy!” she protests.
“Dummeh am poopie! Poopie fwuffy onwy gud fo num poopies!”
Truffle seems distressed now.
“This isn’t a feral herd. Brown foals don’t eat poopies here. Your poopies go in the litter box over there,” I gesture towards the corner, “Good fluffies make GOOD poopies in there. If you make poopies anywhere else, it is a BAD poopie. You will learn with practice.”
“Den poopie fwuffie gib bestes babbeh wickie cweanies!” boasts Tubby in a proud know-it-all sort of way.
“No. You make cleanies yourself. There is water and paper towel next to the litter box. You can use that. And be nice to everyone,” I gently pick up my little baby-out-of-space and take him over to the box.
“EEK! N-nu wike upsies! Wan downsies!”
“Shhhhh…” I pet his tiny head and put him down in the fresh litter, “Make poopies and let me know if you need cleanies. I can help you, then you and the little pillow will get diapers until you can learn how to find the box on your own, or with help from other fluffies.” The pillow is sniffling a bit watching the fast-food babies run and push the cat ball around. I pick her up, careful not to touch her sensitive nubbies.
“B-bu nu wan diapee!” she protests, “Wan make gud poopies in widdew boxie wike oddah babbehs!” She squirms a bit but of course gets nowhere.
“Sorry sweetie, You can’t move to the litter box on your own. You’ll need to wear diapers so you don’t make bad poopies.” I fasten her up and put her down on the soft cat bed. She mewls and wiggles her stumps, but eventually just sits and sobs. The bright red and yellow pegasus bounds up to the bed followed closely by the cheese fluffy.
“Nyu fwen hab bigges heawt huwties! Gib huggies fo feew beddah!” They lean in and give her a nice fluffy snuggle.
“N-nu touchie weggie nubbies! Nu wike…”
“Good. I think. Now I’ll put a diaper on you and we can get you and Truffle new clothes,” I smile as I pick up my little shiny runt again. He squeals of course but settles down a bit faster this time. He’s probably getting used to my touch. I take the to-be-clothed babies out to my ‘arts and crafts’ room I use for miniature painting and other messy things.
I forgot the fabrics so I come back into the saferoom to grab them from mom’s ‘donation bin’.
“B-bu why poopie an munstah fwuffy get speshul cwovsies! Bestes babbeh wan cwovsies too!” whines Tubby.
“Well… they get clothes so bestest baby doesn’t have to look at poopie and sicky colours.” I say quickly.
“Oh. Otay Daddeh!” he then trots off to be bossy elsewhere. He’s rather pleasant when you treat him with the respect he thinks he deserves.
“When I come back I’m going to give you all names and take some pictures! Then we’ll have some more food for everyone,” I call out, leading to the cheering of the select few non-sad babies.
I diaper up pukey-shiny and fasion a new outfit to hide his sickening fluff. I find a nice soft yellow scrap baby blanket and cut off a piece. With a bit of fitting, a few retries and a very confused baby, I finally have a reasonably secure robe for him to wear, complete with hood and little magnetic clasp to make it nice snug and secure. I even went the extra mile and put some flare on it from my bits box.
“Tank ou fo sof huggie bwankie Daddeh. Munstah babbeh wub nyu cwovsies,” he rasps out. Poor fella sounds so strained, but it is a pretty nice ASMR voice I do admit. I let him sit aside and feel out his new duds while I turn my attention to the two alicorns.
“Hewwo Daddeh! Daddeh wet Vawentine fwuffy ou of wappies nao?” He realizes what he just said, then glances at Truffle who was looking around my studio at the different junk I have, “Um… Daddeh? M-maybe nice Twuffew nu see wingies? Nu wan gib nyu fwen scawdies…”
I smile widely, “Don’t worry, I have a surprise for both of you!”
Truffle’s ears perk up and she bounds excitedly over, “Suwpwisies? Wub suwpwisies!” she squeals and accidentally steps on her own blanket. Without being tied on or anything, the scrap cloth comes completely off, leaving a panicked Truffle and a very surprised Valentine fluff.
“T-Twuffew am munstah babbeh?!”
Truffle lowers her head, she’s going to scare off a new friend AGAIN because of her pointy and wingie parts. She looks like she’s about to cry.
“Daddeh! Am bestes suwpwisies ebah! Pwease unwap babbeh nao Daddeh! Wan show Twuffew wingies!”
“W-wingies?!” Truffle gasps.
As quickly as I can, I untie the bow and release the colt from his pink prison. He stretches out his wings and runs at the shocked Truffle, “Twuffew nu make saddies! Am munstah babbeh too! Nu am scawed of Twuffew!” he gives her a big fluffy hug and they just sit and coo for a bit. It’s very heartwarming and I can’t contain my excitement!
I get to work once again and measure out a loose-fitting sash for the colt and a lovely babushka for Truffle. They look so adorable together that I almost forget to bring Lovecraft baby with me as I rush back to the saferoom.
[Interactive Portion! What are the fluffies up to when I return? Next entry will also be me doing up their profile cards. If there are any physical, mental or personality traits you can think of in the fluffies that I might find let me know!]
[IN ADDITION: Anybody that wants to use any of the fluffies I didn’t take is free to do so! If you do let me know so I can ‘cross them off the list’]