Me and My OC, now in Text™!

With a start, I wake up and look at my blaring alarm, half coherent. Twelve in the afternoon. Thank god it’s Saturday. Rubbing the sleep from my green eyes, I slide on some fresh boxers, jeans and a hoodie before going over to the litter corner of my bed. Funnily enough, I feel like there’s something I’m meant to do now that I’m up-

“Mummah! Tummy huwties! Nee’ miwkie bot-bot!”

That’s it. I turn to the little foal in the corner of my room, who’s eagerly tapping the tiny walls set up for her safe pen with his minescule hooves. This little goober’s name is Kid. I found him when I was walking home one day during a nasty bought of snow. Her entire family had died from a combination of the odd abuser, exposure and neglect, with her being the last one to survive. I should have given her a quick neck snap, but honestly I don’t even have it in you to kill a regular rat, so I took her home. Dad didn’t approve at first, but I managed to convince him by saying that I won’t let the dog in your room and that I’d let her go the second she’s old enough to fend for herself. Honestly though? I’ll probably see if you can keep her. I’ve had her for a few days, and she’s surprisingly well behaved for a previous ‘bestest baby’, along with being pretty cute. Her pink fur certainly helps, seeing as it’s in my favourite shade.

Anyways, that’s enough thinking about the past. I grab the formula bottle from the top of my gecko’s tank, and fill it with warm water from a thermo flask I had set up, before mixing it around with some vigourous swirling. Afterwards, I crouch down, sticking my hand into the pen, to which Kid immediatly leaps upon, nuzzling and cooing at it. Adorable. Lifting her out, I gently boop her nose, before placing the bottle near her mouth before she starts to vigourously suckle.

“Hey, slow down. You’ll get a tummy ache.” I gently warn her, before she pulls out with a pop.

“Buh owd mummah say get bestest miwkies befowe poopie babbeh stowe dem?”

“And what did we say about what old mumma said?”

“… Dat it wong? And dewe nu such fing as poopie babbeh?”

“Close, but not quite. Brown, green and yellow coloured fluffies are just like every other fluffy.”

“Oh, otay! Fank yu mummah!”

“No problem, Kid. Now, get back to drinking.”

Kid starts to suckle much slower on the bottle, as I gently place her and the bottle onto my desk. I pick up my glasses and put them on, before combing my neck length, dirty blonde hair. As I do this, Kid pulls herself off the bottle with a loud pop, before speaking.

“Mummah? Can yu gib Kid bwushies tu?”

“If I find a comb your size, sure.”

“Fank yu! Kid fuww of bestest miwkies nao!”

You take the bottle and quietly sigh to yourself; if you don’t put in too much powder or too much water, you sure as hell make too much instead. Oh well. Placing the bottle back, you adjust your hoodie so the actual hood is in front of you, placing her inside of it. Just like mum did with the cat when they were kittens. God, you miss them. Regardless, you go to brush your teeth and make some cereal, getting ready to start the day.

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There’s not enough hugbox stories of a Bestest being rescued and taught to not be a jerk.

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