You are Actiasu, and it’s been quite a while since you stepped back into the Fluffy worlds.
A while ago you were observing Surge raise a little rust-colored bowl fluff, and it was entertaining enough to keep you occupied while you milled about, until one day there came The Itch. A curiosity that overpowered you, and made you hop into one of the worlds inhabited by these little abominations to satisfy a literal hunger for knowledge. The eldritch entity you made a deal with to view these worlds amped up your curiosity just to see what would happen, and you unwillingly obliged, devouring a fat Mummah a couple months ago to discover what they tasted like. That day, you realized they tasted like duck, and for a while your curiosity - and hunger - were sated, plucking random fluffy strays from their world and roasting, baking, even grilling them like so many different ways to prepare a much tastier Thanksgiving turkey.
But eventually, it stopped being enough. Soon you were browsing stories once more, but now instead of wanting to see the suffering of Smarties or the happy endings of good-behaving poopie fluffs, you couldn’t help but think how delicious they’d be. How much better of an ending it would be if instead of being left to die in the cold, a pillow could be taken in and used to feed someone else, even being mulched into meat and fed to ANOTHER fluffy. You had to quiet the voices; you NEEDED them to shut up and let you read your damn comics and fanfics in peace. But what exactly could you do?
The answer, as it had so long ago, came to you as a whisper in the back of your mind: “Eat them.”
You stroll forth from a hole in reality, feeling the rain pelt your chitinous hide; you close your eyes and face skyward, the coldness of those water droplets slowly rolling back over your dark grey face, wetting your wild mane. Facing forward again, you carefully stride down the quiet night streets, peering down every alleyway you come across and making sure you didn’t cross any human paths. Not because you were afraid; no, coming across YOU was like coming across a jungle panther. Moreso, you couldn’t be bothered to deal with the annoyance of some dumbass human wanting a piece of you, thinking you were some mutated breed of these little abominations. Forget being the size of a real horse, humans were really, most of the time, absolute retards who swung their bats first and asked questions later.
You would’ve thought more on the subject, comparing the last time you got shot to the time someone bent their aluminum bat against your reinforced hide, but just then you heard a noise, and the more feline-esque instincts that existed in you kicked in, making you hunch down and crawl forward, prowling, sneaking up to the entrance of the next alleyway.
“Mummah! Babbeh suuuu cowdies!” “Mummah! Peep! Hungwy! Cheep!” “Mummah, pwease, nee’ miwkies!” came the cacophonous cry of little babbeh Fluffies. Your stomach rumbled, your mouth salivated, and you peered carefully around the corner. Your eyes went wide at the sight, and your hoof curled, digging into the cement sidewalk beneath you.
Deep within the alleyway, huddled around a carboard box already half soaked by the light drizzle of rain, was a big, fat purple mummah fluffy, a garbage can overturned nearby and spilling week-old pizza, chinese food, and other leftovers no one wanted onto the ground. It was clear where she’d gotten so fat from; the can was only half empty, and still, peels and used napkins and molding foodstuffs rolled out from the torn bags. But she wasn’t what you’d seen that sent drool spilling from between your fangs; it was the absolute squirming mass of at least fifteen fluffy babbehs huddled around her, each one climbing or squirming over one another in an attempt at getting to their mummah’s fat, swollen, veiny teats. Milk was leaking so profusely from her, several babbehs at a time were able to lick up their desired milkies from them, and she was so fat that the small babbehs that had learned to climb were huddle up under her fluff-covered folds for warmth. She panted like a dog just sitting there, picking up one babbeh that had had it’s fill and licking it clean before setting it down and taking a minute-long breather before picking up the next.
Your eyes roamed across the vast patch of tiny chirping babbehs; a multitude of colors, each one more insulting to your eyes from the last, even the poopie-colored ones being allowed to sup from the obese mare. Dark yellows, bright obnoxious pinks, reds, blues, violets, and no less than three that were very nearly the same shade of purple as their mummah. You expected her to deal with them first, the “Bestest” clearly, but as you watched they got in line like all the others, were cleaned, and set aside for the next. A true and honest miracle of nature, a fluffy mummah taking care of ALL of her foals equally, without regard for color or race, and with enough food by her side to do so. You even saw her lift an alicorn to her mouth, sure she would bite it’s head off, but she sang to it instead; “Mummah wub babbehs~ Babbehs wub mummah~ Eben scawy babbeh, get wicky cweanies~” A true and honest paragon of a mare taking care of all her babbehs without question or prejudice. A sight like this had never been seen before in the history of Fluffykind.
And it never would again.
You sat and waited for the dark grey sky to turn nearly pitch black. The lone streetlamp on this road barely illuminated half the alley, and the mummah and her 15 well-behaved foals huddled together for warmth and comfort. Your eyes, accustomed to seeing in the darkness of caves, saw each and every one of them distinctly…as well as the lone, untorn grocery bag a few feet away. You stepped into the alley, carefully picking up each babbeh by the middle to cause the least discomfort; a couple of them peeped in surprise, but when you placed them next to their bwuddahs and sissies in the grocery bag, they huddled up and went back to sleep again. One of the ones you picked up - one of the purple would-be Bestests - cheeped and blinked awake, eyes widening as he was lifted into the air. “M-mummah? Babbeh nu wike upsies!” it began, and then it turned up to look past your muzzle and into your face. To the little one, your glowing cyan eye was the most terrifying thing it’d ever seen, and you saw it’s mouth open and eyes widen, drawing in a deep breath as you felt it’s pulse quicken. “MUH-” it began to scream, but then your jaws snapped shut, slicing through it’s body. You felt lungs punctured and rip, you felt bowels void - luckily, sideways as it was, they fell to the cold concrete of the alley instead of on you - and as it gasped, soundlessly upon the ground, the Mummah didn’t stir a single time.
You chewed the section of Fluffy you’d segmented it’s head and rear from, and tilted your head back as an entirely new taste flooded your maw; it wasn’t duck like last time, instead being closer to lamb now. You had a hard time shaking yourself back to reality, but you needed to be quick; you chewed it harshly, quickly, swallowed the piece down, and shuffled the remaining two thirds of Bestest into the shopping bag. Hoisting the bag up, you heard the chirpies peep in surprise, and quickly dashed out of the alley and back through the hole you’d made in reality, closing it behind you.
The rest of the night, you tried new dishes; after cleaning them in the sink, you tore legs, bisected bodies, twisted heads off necks, and threw them all into various cookware. Pots, pans, an oven, even an air fryer you’d managed to find, they were all put to use. Five of the babbehs you shaved clean and left in a bowl of garlic parmesan sauce, letting them roll and flail uselessly in it - AFTER squeezing them empty, of course - until they were marinated. You patted butter and onion seasoning into them, making it stick to their shaved bodies; they cooed and peeped as they relished the supposed pampering, all the way until you plopped them in the air fryer, listening as their skin began to sizzle and their peeps turn to screams. Two of them you cut open, removed the spines, salted, and popped into the oven to bake like potatoes. Three of them, boiled in a pot, and after they were done, cut up into cubes and used to garnish your own spaghetti with. The final two you simply cut into thin strips and fried in a pan.
And the rest of the night you devoured, and gorged yourself on the softest, most vibrant lamb substitute you’d ever tasted.
You are a New-Mummah, and you are just waking up.
Your pretty purple fur was damp from the night’s rain, but the sun felt sooooo good against yourself as it dried you off, you gave a weak stretch and stood on wobbling legs. You were big and round, and had lots of milkies to give your babbehs, and surely they would be hungry today. “Otay babbehs, come tu mummah, an get miwkies!” you said, yawning as you opened your eyes…and stopped.
Your babbehs…were GONE! Three of them remained; a purple babbeh, the pointy-wingy-babbeh that scared you a lot, and a dark green one that reminded you of the weird bitter round thingies you’d eaten from a glass jar in the trashies. You closed your eyes; when you opened them, they’d be back, you were sure of it! But when you opened them, there were still only three. The purple babbeh woke up and looked around, peeping in confusion. “Mummah? Whewe aw aww dah bwuddahs an sissies?” she asked, and you dashed - or rather, waddled - two feet to the left of your box, and then to the right, panting. “Babbehs?? BABBEHS! COME HOMSIES! PWEASE! MUMMAH HAB MIWKIES! PWEASE COME BACK!” you called, racing back and forth over the same three-foot patch of ground until you couldn’t stand - which only took about two minutes - and you flumped on your butt, sobbing even as the scary babbeh and bitter babbeh came over to suckle their milkies. “Huuhuuu, mummah wose babbehs…am wowstest mummah…huuuuhuuuu…” you cried. Your purple babbeh came over, hugging your chubby leg. “Nu cwy mummah! Babbeh gib huggies! Bwuddahs and Sissies foun’ nyu homesie, mebbe! Am suwe nice mistuh ow mummah foun’ babbehs and gib dem wotsa wubs!”
You picked up your purple babbeh and hugged it close. “Mummah suwe hope so, babbeh. Mummah suwe hope so.”
As you and your sole purple babbeh hugged each other, you had no way of knowing how delicious the other purples had been. But far away, in a world you’d never know about, the last surviving purple cried as it’s fried body was devoured one small bite at a time.
