Not Your Babbehs Anymore, Pt. 2
By Skrelptastic
“M-mummah wuv b-b-babb-HUUUUUUURK”
Your mummah song is interrupted for the hundredth time by your sickie wawas as your tummeh twists and clenches into all kinds of meanie shapes.
“P-pwease tummeh…nummies c-come back tu m…mumm…HUUUUURK” you gag tearfully at the pool of icky wawa in front of you. “Nee n-nummies f-f-fo bestest…bestest tummeh b-babbehs.”
Your tummeh twists again, violently interrupting your pleas with a fresh wave of meanie huwties. You cough tearfully, finally laying your poor little head down into the surprisingly soft floor. It feels like forever since the hoomin left you alone in the horrible, scary dark room. At first you made lots of saddie wawas, and scaredy poopies too. You couldn’t see anything, but in your head all you saw was your wonderful, silly speshow fwend lying facedown in the puddle of booboo juice while the echo of the hoomin’s laugh played over and over.
So you tried to think of happy things to take away the scaredies. You tried and tried to think of something…and then you had it!
You still have your bestest tummeh babbehs! And they still have you; the bestest mummah of the bestest fluffy tummeh babbehs evah! And so you had hope for the first time that awful night, hope that filled every part of your fluffy mummah body, even in the scary darkies. But as you opened your mouthie to sing out to your wittwe tummeh babbehs, the tummeh huwties and icky wawas hit you like a hundred sowwy hoofsies. And no matter how hard you tried, every time you opened your mouth the sickie wawas would always win. They gush out of your mouthie, leaving a horrible burny feeling and icky sour taste as-
click
You cry in pain as the room is suddenly flooded with brightness, the harsh light stabbing into your poor see-pwaces.
“Rise and shi- BY THE EMPEROR!”
You manage to open your see-places just a bit, and your heawt sinks as you look up to see the scary hoomin looking down at you with a disgusted look on his face.
“Huuuuu huuuuu…p-pwease h-hewp soon-mummah n-nice mi- huuuuuuurk” you whimper as your tummeh heaves again.
The hoomin frowns at you. “That’s what you get for eating my dandelions, retard. You’re not supposed to eat them; you blow the tops and make a wish. Any 5 year-old knows that.”
“M-mummah sowwy f-fo num…wishy fwowehs…hurk”
The hoomin’s nostrils flare as a dribble of sickie wawas adds to the pool in front of you.
“You goddamn stupid fluffy. If you don’t get a handle on your stomach your babies could die,” the hoomin spits angrily.
You widen your see-pwaces as the hoomin’s words drive through your skull. You’re…hurting your bestest tummeh babbehs???
“P-pwease mistah! H-hewp mummah! Hewp mummah nu make sickies! B-babbehs…wittwe tummeh babbehs nee huggies an wuv!” you beg tearfully. “Mummah nu can giv huggies to tummeh! N-nee huggies!”
The hoomin walks briskly toward you and bends down. You whimper, wiggling your weggies toward the hoomin, desperate for the huggie magic…
The hoomin slaps you in the face, sending you tumbling over to the side with a shriek. Your pretty fluffy face feels like it has a million burnie huwties where his not-hoofsie hit you and your see-pwaces swim with stars as your rolly soon-mummah body bounces off the padded wall. You come to a stop back in front of the hoomin, saddie wawas streaming down your face as you wail in owwies. The hoomin roughly grabs your neck and forces your mouthie open. You struggle weakly but the hoomin flicks your nosie and pours a bunch of icky pink stuff down your throat as you howl. You cough and sputter as the hoomin lets you go and towers over you.
“I’m not your ‘daddeh’, you piece of shit,” the hoomin spits. “I don’t like you. I don’t love you. And I’m sure as hell never going to hug you. Get that through your little pea-brain.”
The words shock you right to your heawt as you sputter on the ground. The hoomin…doesn’t wuv you?
How can that be??
You’re a fluffy! Hoomins are made to wuv fluffies!
And you’re a soon-mummah! With the bestest tummeh-babbehs ever!
How is that even possible??
The hoomin eyes you in disgust as you gasp and cough. “That medicine will help your stomach. Normally I wouldn’t waste it on trash like you but…”
The hoomin pauses…and smiles the same scary smile from before that chills you to the core. “…your babies need to be healthy.”
With a chuckle, the hoomin turns and walks toward the exit. As he moves away, you suddenly remember…
“W-wayt!”
The hoomin turns and glares at you.
“What the fuck do you want?”
You struggle to open your mouthie, the words resting on the tip of your tongue. You’re so weak, so confused by everything that’s happened but, aside from your babbehs, one thing stays clear in your head…
“W-wewe speshow f-fwend? H-hoomin bwing t-to soon-m-mummah?”
The hoomin snorts and shakes his head. “Your retard husband slipped on his own shit running after you. Hit his head. You picked a reeeeeal winner with that one.”
Your mouthie hangs open in shock. Speshow fwend couldn’t be…ISN’T…taking forever sleepies!
The hoomin rolls his see-pwaces as you sit there stunned in your puddle of icky wawas. “If you think about it, it’s really your fault he’s dead. He was trying to save you after all. But hey, don’t lose any sleep over it. It’s only the father of your babies.”
You did lose sweepies over it. All of them. The hoomin magic did its work and fixed your tummeh owwies, but the hoomin’s words echoed in your head OVER and OVER. You wailed and sobbed and made all kinds of saddie wawas. Nothing helped. It felt like your heawt shattered into a million pieces. Your beautiful, silly speshow fwend…FOREVER SWEEPIES. And it was all your fault.
As you sobbed in your own sickie wawas, you felt stirring in your tummeh. You panicked, afraid that the sickies were coming back but then you realized…it was your tummeh babbehs! Your saddie wawas were making your wittwe tummeh babbehs have saddies too!
Sniffling, you forced yourself to stop the saddie wawas. Your heawt still felt like it had biggest owwies, but you forced it down. Your tummeh babbehs needed you. And so, you began to sing.
“M-mummah fuww of babbehs, widdwe b-babbehs am fwuffies toooooo…”
“Mummah…wuv…babbehs,” you mumble sleepily. You’re so tired from the horrible meanie day you’ve had that you feel like you could fall asleep any second. You close your see-pwaces, drifting off to dweamie-land…
“WAKE UP!”
You yelp and open your see-pwaces to see the hoomin sitting on a chair right in front of you. He’s holding some weird, white pointy thing in his not-hoofsie. You don’t know what it is, but you don’t like it.
“H-hewwo mistah…”
“Hello fluffy,” the hoomin smiles. “How do you feel?”
“Soon-mummah tummeh am so fuww of babbehs. Soon-mummah nee nummies fo speshow tummeh babbehs! N-nee nummies nao!” you frown up at the hoomin. The sickie wawas are gone, but your tummeh has big owwies now that the nummies are gone too.
The hoomin nods. “I bet you are. I bet you are. So what do you want to eat?”
Your frown deepens as you strain your big fluffy brain. This hoomin might be a meanie but…if he’s giving you nummies maybe he really does want the best for your babbehs…
And if you get bestest nummies ever…it would make your already bestest babbehs even better!
Then maybe…maybe the hoomin will wuv you! And finally be your daddeh! And let you give speshow fwend huggies to take away his fowevah sweepies! And…and…and play with you every day!
You put on your happiest fluffy smile and look up at the also-smiling hoomin.
“Soon-mummah wan sketties. Sketties fo bestest tummeh babbehs. Giv to soon-mummah!”
The hoomin chuckles. “You know, I had the strangest feeling that you’d ask for spaghetti. I’ve got some in the kitchen that I’ll gladly heat up…but first I need something from you.”
You frown again and puff up your cheeks a little. You want your sketties now! “Wha dum…wha hoomin wan’?”
The hoomin moves his see-pwaces slowly to meet yours. His gaze chills you to the bone, and you feel a small dribble of scaredie poopies squirt from your poopie place.
“Well,” the hoomin smiles, “I couldn’t help but hear that song you were singing earlier. The one about your babies.”
You nod. “Dat am soon-mummah’s soon-mummah song. Make bestest tummeh babbehs hav big happies! Happeh babbehs gwow up big an stwong! Be bestest babbehs an fwuffies evah!” you declare proudly.
“Well that’s great!” the hoomin exclaims, sitting up in his seat. “But you know, I thought the lyrics were a tad dull. So here’s what I want.”
The hoomin leans forward, closer to your face. “I’m gonna give you some new lyrics to sing to your little foals. I want you to sing what I tell you, and ONLY what I tell you. You do it you get spaghetti.”
You hang your head sadly. Lots of strange feelings swirl around in your tummeh, and you’re not sure what to make of them. Change your mummah song? It’s YOUR mummah song! There’s probably never been another fluffy that’s loved her babbehs so much that she’d sing to them!
But on the other hand…sketties…
“Huuuuuu…soon-mummah nu kno…”
The hoomin holds up a finger. “Let me finish. You sing, you get spaghetti. You don’t sing…and all you’re gonna get to eat is that mess you made last night.” The hoomin points to the puddle of sickie-wawas in front of you, his eyes shining brightly.
“And if you give me any sass…and back-talk…if you’re a BAD fluffy…you’re going to be punished. Understand?”
Panic creeps into your heawt as you realize what the hoomin is saying.
“N-nu wan num sickie-wawas…nu aww nummies…aww bad, poopie nummies…” you whimper. “P-pwease jus g-giv sketties…am gud fwuffy…tummeh babbehs nee nummies…”
The hoomin frowns. “That’s not how this works. I told you the rules, it’s up to you whether or not you want to follow them. But if you don’t want to change your song, I understand. You’ll just have to eat your own puke. I just hope that doesn’t hurt your babies. What a terrible mother that would make you.”
Angries boil up in your tummeh as the hoomin turns away.
“NU! BIG DUMMEH! AM BESTEST SOON-MUMMAH! WIWW NUM ONWY SKETTIES NAO! GIV TO SOON-MUMMAH OWW…OWW…OWW YU SEE!” you yell angrily, trying to stomp your hoofsies on the soft floor.
The hoomin whips around with a snarl, and your anger is suddenly mixed with scaredies. The hoomin slowly approaches, grasping the white thing, an ugly look on his face. You puff your cheeks even as scaredie poopies flop onto the floor behind you.
“Dummeh nu can huwt soon-mummah! Am soon-mummah! Bestest tum- SKREEEEE!”
You scream in pain as the hoomin plunges the white pointy thing into your soft fluffy back. You feel the points pierce your skin, causing you to shriek as booboo juice starts to gush out of the owwie. Your poopie place expands as a torrent of icky poopies sprays onto the floor. Sobbing, you try desperately to wiggle away from the hoomin but your stumpy wittwe weggies can’t reach the ground!
“OWWIIIIEEEES! W-WHY HUWT FWUFFY??? NU DO NUFFIN WONG!” you wail. Somewhere behind the pain you feel your tummeh babbehs squirm in your tummeh as you moan in agony. “S-STAHP! TUMMEH BABBEHS N-NU HAV HAPPIES! PWEAAAAAASE!”
The hoomin looks down at you with a weird, small smile on his face. Almost like…almost like he enjoyed hurting you.
“What did I just say about talking back?” the hoomin says sternly despite his smile. “You don’t DISRESPECT ME YOU PIECE OF FILTH!”
“Buuuu huuuu huuu…pwease…nu huwties…”
“DO YOU WANT THE FUCKING SORRY SPORK AGAIN?!”
“NU! PWEASE! NEE HUGGIES! TUMMEH BABBEHS HAV BIG SCAWEDIES!” you wail.
" That’s what I thought," the hoomin smiles. You sob as the hoomin rips the meanie sorry-thing out of your flesh with a sucking sound that makes you want to make sickie-wawas.
“Now are you gonna sing? Or are you going to insult me again?”
You look up tearfully at the hoomin. “W-why yu do dis? Why be meanies to s-soon-mummah?”
The hoomin gets a weird look on his face.
“Answer the question fluffy.”
You hang your head, with big saddies clawing away at your heawt. “Huuu…huuu…s-sing nyu songie…owd s-soon-mummah songie…biggest dummeh songie,” you choke out. You don’t like this at all…you were so proud of you soon-mummah song!
The hoomin nods. “Good. Now listen carefully, because here’s what I want you to sing…”
“N-NU! NU WIKE! NU WIKE! SOON-MUMMAH NU CAN MAKE MEANIE NYU SONGIE TO WITTWE TUMMEH-BABBEHS!”
“Fluffy…”
“HUUU HUUU PWEASE! DO ANYFIN! JUS-”
SHUNK
“SKREEEEEE! SKREEEEEEEEEEE!”
“Sing the fucking song.”
“PWEEEEEEE-HEEE-HEEEASE! NUU!”
SHUNK
“SKREEEEEEEEEE!”
“SING IT!”
“Huuu…huuuuuuuuuuuu…why…why h-huwties…am…be mummah s-soon…”
The hoomin stands over you, the sorry-thing grasped tightly in his hand. Your gasp for air, choking back the flood of saddie wawas fighting to burst from your see-pwaces as you leak booboo juice…
“See, that wasn’t so hard,” the hoomin smiles. “It’s just a song after all…not like your foals will remember or anything!”
You weep bitterly as your wittwe fluffy heawt breaks.
“S-soon mummah…nu hav…nu hav happies…huuuuu…huuuuu…”
“Cheer up fluffy. You did what I told you, so now it’s time for your spaghetti!” the hoomin glows, rising and walking over to the door.
He pauses and looks back for a moment.
“Keep singing. I don’t want to hear a moment of quiet in here.”
SLAM
You cry into your pretty pink fluff as you hear the hoomin clanking around in the kitchen. Sniffling, you raise your head…
“M-mummah h-h-hate b-b-ba…huuuuu…babbehs…b-b-babbehs hate m-m-mummah…b-babbehs n-n-num poopies…g-gwow up du…huuuuu…dummeh an s-smaww…fwuffy s…so dummeh…b-be mummah sooooooon~…m-mummah fuww of poopies…wittwe b-babbehs am p-p-poopies tooooohuuuuhuuuuu…”
Your babbehs writhe in your tummeh as you sing your nyu song over…and over…and over…
