#fluffikin

[spacewombatty]

Anakin begins every movie upright, is leaning dangerously to the side halfway through, and ends the movie with his head in Obi-Wan’s lap without fail. The Jedi is unfazed everytime, and just moves to set his popcorn bowl on his padawan’s forehead. When he wants his food salted, Obi-Wan puts on Anakin’s favorite space telenovelas.

[princessevajacks]

you know who truly needs to make a grand return in a curse for true love???

PRINCESS OF THE FLUFFIKINS.

[eyes-of-mercy]

All this talk about cats reminds me that Anastasia has two cats*!

Fluffikins, a large fluffy white cat who is used to consoling patients in the Sacrosanct Hospital 

and Creamsicle, a playful orange tabby that sometimes gets into mischief

[xxxbabyinatrenchcoatxxx]

It just dawned on me that Bark Bark von Barkenstein exists in the AFTG universe BEFORE Sir Fat Cat McCatterson and King Fluffikins.

Now, I refuse to believe that Andrew and Neil did not get their inspiration from a cardboard cut out of a dog.

I am just imagining that Andriel 'meet' Bark Bark and think it's just so funny, and it's like a little inside joke for years until they find their two dumpster kittens and name them appropriately.

[mothiir]

the hand that feeds

So I’m really sorry to the anon who inspired this for two reasons: one for deleting your ask accidentally, and two for taking “leman russ puts the reader in a collar” in a direction you did not mean.

cw: violence against wolves, dubcon

—

—

Long ago, the people of Prospero were famed for their hunting dogs — great rangy animals designed to run on the burning sands for days, tireless in the face of famine and thirst, tracking down long-extinct beasts. Later, as the people discovered farming, the hunting dogs became livestock guardians instead; their limbs thickened over generations, but their teeth remained sharp, and their eyes keen. Later still, when hardship was but a tale to tell children, you were born, a squirming red bitch, the only living pup of a litter of four. Your mother was the beloved pet of a sorcerer named Ahriman, and it was he who gave you to his father, and his father who gifted you to his lover as a birthday gift. “Her name,” said the wizard’s father; a one-eyed man you would later know as Master, “is Hathor. After an ancient farming goddess.”

Hathor is your name, but your mistress calls you all sorts of things — sweetie pie, darling, fluffikins. She feeds you treats from her table, and sleeps with you pressed to her breast, even when you are larger enough to lick her face when you stand on your hind legs. In a throwback to your fierce ancestors — or perhaps as a result of your indulgent diet — you grow larger than your mother, larger than your father; a red-furred hound that glitters with jewellery, the only discomfort you know is when Mistress puts you outside of her room so that Master and her can try to make a pup. They try often, and enthusiastically, but have yet to manage it.

All that is to say that you live a coddled, cosy life — and then one day you wake, and the entire world is burning. Black ships blot out the sun; great palaces crumble under the assault of shining lights. All is chaos and screaming, fear-stink and blood-stink and Mistress calling for her mate, over and over. She calls for him as her armoured guard herd her deeper into the palace, to shelter; she calls for him as the park you used to run in explodes in a shower of black dirt and blue-red flame.

She calls for him as she is shut away into a small guard room that smells all wrong, and once inside she calls for him one last time, a weak guttering sob into your fur. You do not know how to tell her what you instinctively know to be true: that Master is Master no longer. You can only lick the salt from her cheeks and whine, switching fretfully from foot to foot.

Your ancestors were livestock guardians once, and hunters before that, and their blood runs in your veins, even if you have never raced along the golden flank of the dunes, eyes fixed on distant prey. You have never prowled the edge of a night-dark field, sheep bleating at your back, watching for the hungry eyes of would-be monsters.

But you remember. You remember.

The four-legged wolves sniff you out; the two-legged ones open up the door. Thick black smoke billows into your hiding place from behind them. The palace is burning. It is all burning. But you do not think of that, because the palace is not — was never — your home.

You do not know that the goddess Hathor was a goddess of war before she hammered her sword into a scythe; you do not know the irony in your name.

You only know that there are wolves, and behind you is your flock.

The four-leg wolf enters first in a hairy fetid spill. He is larger than you, but you surprise him, dropping your shoulder to hit his legs with your full body weight, bowling him off his feet. He was not expecting a fight, and it is his arrogance that costs him his life. Your teeth find the soft flesh of his throat before he can so much as whimper, and crush down.

Blood froths between your teeth and paints your front as you wheel to face his mate; your hackles up, your body bristling. But the she-wolf never attacks; instead, the coward retreats, whining at the loss of her companion.

The two-leg wolf enters instead: larger than most, stinking of battle. His yellow fur is matted with blood and ash. He shows his teeth in a clear threat, and says something in the two-leg tongue, addressing your Mistress. You know a few words — “Easy…girl…” — and these normally mean an attempt at peace-making, but then he reaches for her, with those great hairless paws.

What other choice do you have, but to lunge forwards, and to bite?

—

—

“I am not going to kill your mistress,” says the two-leg wolf, a while later. A new leather collar has replaced your former gem-encrusted one, and you feel vaguely guilty — insofar as a dog can feel guilt — that the leather is more comfortable against your flesh than the gold ever was. “She’s not a witch like Magnus, and she came along quietly enough. We’re just going to keep hold of her to make sure he behaves.”

You huff, and paw at the muzzle around your snout. Unlike the collar, you resent this new hardware mightily. The two-leg wolf chuckles.

“Oh, don’t sulk over that. You have to wear it. You bit me, you vicious bitch.”

He waves his hand in front of you. Much to your displeasure, the wound your fangs left healed almost instantly, clean flesh sealing over the raw red tissue.

“You’re one of a very lucky few to say that they have drawn blood from me and lived!”

He guffaws again. You hate the sound of his laughter; it reminds you of a wolf choking on a bit of meat.

He ruffles your nape. You try and snap at his fingers, knowing you cannot bite them, but wanting him to know how desperately you want to.

“Easy there. Magnus’s girls really don’t like me, do they? You. Your mistress. She almost bit my ear off when I tucked her into her quarters.”

Magnus is not Master, you snap.

“Ah. Of course. A pack leader who cannot defend his pack is no leader at all.”

You understand? you say.

“Of course I understand! Dogs, wolves — you all speak the same tongue. I was raised by wolves.”

Can tell, you say. 

Again: that ugly, ugly laugh. 

“You’re a vicious little thing. I like you.”

He takes a sip from the foul-smelling tankard held loosely in his left hand.

”I was going to bring you over to her. You can share the same rooms. Would you like that?”

Your ears prick up despite yourself. See your Mistress? There is nothing you would like more. 

“You must wear that muzzle. I don’t want to kill you, but if you draw blood on me a second time I will not hesitate to do so.”

—

—

The wolves have at least made an adequate den for Mistress, with a big bed bedecked with skins, and a roaring fire. The smell of smoke reminds you of the burning city, and the battle that still haunts your dreams — what if the wolf had been stronger, what if, what if — but you swallow down your fear and nestle close to her. She pats your ears, and hugs you close. Her eyes are red-rimmed and it is clear she has cried herself empty. The sour reek of her despair is worse than the smoke. The thick, rancid smell of despair; of a heart wrung dry. 

But she is like you: born and reared on Prospero’s ochre sands — not like once-called Master, who tumbled from the stars, and belonged neither there nor anywhere else. She is a survivor, the child of famine and destitution; her grandmothers survived warlords and raiders and worse. 

As you lie in paw-twitching slumber, you hunt wolves, chasing them down and tearing throats loose from shaggy grey fur. You wake with the taste of iron on your tongue, and the hum of exertion in your limbs. And she dreams as well — of other things, of wolves with human forms, of the stories told around campfires, and the things women do to survive. “You’re my family,” she says to you, often. “The only family I have left.”

—

—

The two leg wolf’s name, you have learned, is Leman Russ, and he is the ruler of these wolves, and of more besides; a pack large enough to span the stars. You are not impressed by such vague numbers. He still tries to bribe you with chicken legs, despite you steadfastly refusing to eat a single thing he offers you. 

But he is strong, and steadfast, and ruler here, and you are not surprised when Mistress invites him to her furs. Wolves, humans, dogs: all are lost without the protection of a pack, and Magnus is long gone, lost in the ashes of Prospero. Russ is here, and when he clambers atop your mistress you avert your eyes. He does not bother to lock you outside, as Magnus would have done, but you still feel it is impolite to watch. 

It takes him a while to satisfy himself. Hours pass, and eventually you fall asleep to the sound of the headboard banging against the wall, and Russ’s groaning and effusive praise about your Mistress’s nether regions. 

Honestly. Wolves. 

When you wake, it is to Russ fiddling with the lock on your muzzle. 

“There,” he says, easing it away from your snout. The firelight gleams on his fangs. “I think I can trust you not to bite now, eh? You’re a clever girl.”

He is talking to you. He is talking to your mistress, who lies in the furs, dozing.

When he offers you his hand, you very gently lick his palm. 

[beardedmrbean]

Out here droppin sick beats with my partner DJ Princess Fluffikins,

[aelinpav]

Imagine a scene where Eva sees the fox that was playing with Jacks in the first book but doesn’t remember it.

Evangeline: She’s so cute, does she have a name?

Jacks: (barely audible) …Princess of the Fluffikins…?

[chubbyreaderchan]

Will there her any Sesshomaru/reader soon pleasee I miss them 🥺

Probably! I'm just in my last month of college so I'm kinda not having a lot of free time so I've been posting some head canons and such but yeah I will definitely try for more Lord fluffikins soon. 💗

Maybe a Valentine's day thing?

[anxious-scrambles]

Since the pre period insomnia is hitting and my OCs are rotting my brain here are some universal truths/headcanons about married life with Professor Dreuer Wildfel (BG3 and Warcraft versions).

1. He is lazy. Incredibly lazy. He will flirt and wax poetic to get out of doing things. Don’t let him.

2. He’s the ‘lie down and put his head in your lap’ type and likes to have his ears scratched.

3. Don’t let that prick in the kitchen, he can’t cook to save his life, he will burn the house down.

4. The man brings home stray cats without warning and gives them ridiculous names. He is deadly serious about their names. They must be referred to by their full name at all times (Mr Fluffikins fanclub rise up).

5. He dances. He will always dance.

6. His tail is mischievous, it will interfere with your day to day life as his spouse. It will get in the way of your work and he will deny all knowledge. The tail is autonomous (this is a lie).

7. He snores. Not in an earth-shaking, impossible to sleep through way, but you don’t get to go around with lungs that shitty and not honk through the night.

8. He will literally walk through hellfire to pick up a scrap of paper if you ask him to do it using your very best big sad baby cow eyes.

9. He uses insults as a flirting technique, verbal sparring is basically foreplay to him.

10. He refuses to get dressed unless you force him to leave the house. This man lives for pyjamas. Or even just swishing around in his floral bathrobe du jour.

[sweetingseva]

Imagine if Princess of Fluffikins will make her appearance in ACFTL.

Like on they're (EvaJacks) wedding? Or helping Eva remember something?

I mean she didn't seem like an ordinary fox, I feel like there's more on to her besides being a ghost. But I might be just overthinking it-

I hope she makes the return! It would be so cute if Jacks remembered the name Evangeline gave and said something like, "This is Princess of the Fluffikins. That's what you named her."

You right! That fox was different from all the foxes. More corporeal. 🤔

[princessevajacks]

reading sorcery of thorns and getting princess of the fluffikins flashbacks🥲🥲🥲

[pokeology]

how do i tell my friend’s little sister that her beloved “rapunzel fluffikins” is NOT a jigglypuff and that she should NOT be taking it to preschool with her without making her feel bad or ignoring it. i dont even know how she got that thing but it’s absolutely terrifying

You forgot to mention what it actually is if not a jigglypuff. Either way, unless it is an exceptionally dangerous pokemon, there is nothing wrong with a child's pet regardless of your own opinion on its appearance.

Do make sure she is actually taking care of it, though.

[figjelly]

I'm Not Feeling Well (it's the endometriosis. Let's not kid ourselves) but I've got my private team of medical professionals to make sure I'm doing well.

Dr. Fluffikins, MD (Sally): almost 20 years of experience alone

Nurse Charles, RN (Charlie): a decade of nursing experience

[skatermusic]

Blades recharges with a blanket and his teddy Mr. Fluffikins

[one-bowl-of-soop]

PACK UP, WE MOVING

HELLO. I LIVE

I’m moving my nonsense back to my main acc, @spoopyghostbones, because it’s been a Harry Potter account for far too long and my whimsy can’t be contained to just one digital plane :) so if you’d like to keep being influenced by my sense of humour, mosey on over there and give me a follow if you please!

A thousand thank yous, and may your coffee stay warm 🙏

(Small reminder that I also have an All For The Game sideblog, so scooch on over there too if you would ;) @king-fluffikins )

[eyes-of-mercy]

This blog turned six years old! Six years of uhhh the Best Spencer Ever, and the Worst Stanley Ever

Highlights of this blog include:

Stanbot

Fluffikins the Cat

Anastasia being Anastasia

Stanbot becoming human

Mysterious Leader Name Reveal

Spider Psychiatrist

Smol eyes appearing everywhere, on walls and people, to Watch™

Spying on Demeter (and the creation of Twinnyson/Frederick)

Ariel and Mili joining the group

Anastasia kissing Dr Money, apparently??

The discovery of Vir.EXE

Wild!Franky staying around for a bit

Stanley Jackson is an annoying jerk

Healed!Cornelius

More of Anastasia being Anastasia