You are a fluffy and you are trapped in a sorry box, trying to remember how you got here.
Everything is fuzzy in your thinky-place. Your thinky-place has the biggest hurties. It tries to show you old thinky pictures and all you can do is let it drag you back…
You remember hearing words but you don’t know what any of them mean. Every sound is scary and you can only cheep and peep in fear and confusion, trying to give voice to your fear. Your see places haven’t opened yet and you can barely move your clumsy leggies. One moment you’re cuddled against your mummah’s warm, soft, safe fluff and drinking her sweet milkies and the next you’re being pulled away from her by something unseen. You don’t know where she is or where you are, but you can hear your brothers and sisters suckling not far away, their chirps of hunger silenced. Your belly is full and you sleep. When you wake again, you’re pressed against your mummah’s warm, soft, safe fluff and drinking her sweet milkies… The same cycle repeats over and over again for what feels like many forevers until it doesn’t.
You’re cuddled against your mummah’s fluff and you can drink all the sweet milkies you want. You don’t hear the hungry chirps of your brothers and sisters anymore. All you hear is your mummah. She sings about how much she loves you and how much you love her and how you need to drink all her milkies to grow up big and strong. She also calls you her bestest babbeh. You don’t know what any of that means, but the melodies make you feel good in your thinky-place and give you the biggest heart happies. Your belly is full and you sleep. When you wake again, you’re pressed against your mummah’s warm, soft, safe fluff and drinking her sweet milkies… The same cycle repeats over and over again for what feels like many forevers until it doesn’t.
One bright time, your see places open. Everything is big and bright and blurry. You see your mummah for the first time. She’s so pretty, with blue fluff and a red mane and tail. You chirp and speak your first word: “M-mummah?” But something is wrong. She doesn’t hug you or tell you how proud she is that you’ve opened your see places or tell you that you’re a talkie babbeh now. She doesn’t say anything at all. She isn’t even looking at you. Her see places are staring off in different directions. After being so very quiet for so long, she finally talks and her voice isn’t like what you remember hearing before your see places opened. She stammers and stutters. “B-b-babbehs… huuu… b-b-babbehs… huuu.”
You’re so focused on your mummah that you don’t notice the shadow that falls over you until something wraps around your tubby middle and pulls you away from your mummah’s warm, soft, safe fluff. You cry out and kick your clumsy leggies, calling out for help from your family. “Mummah! Bwuddahs! Sissies!” You can’t help but make scaredy poopies and peepees.
“Derped and dead,” the human stallion holding you tells you in a deadpan voice.
“Nyu daddeh?” You chirp, wiggling your weggies. You’re not sure why you asked that. It just came out.
“We’ll see.”
He sighs and lifts up a black blockie that makes a clicky sound, then spends a long time looking at it and using his not-hoof to make more clicky sounds. He doesn’t talk to you or look at you for many forevers. Then, he smiles. It isn’t a happy smile. You don’t like it and you make more scaredy poopies and peepees.
“No, I’m won’t be your daddy.”
You squirm and start to whine. This human doesn’t love you. You need to go back to your mummah. You want your mummah and her milkies. “Mummah? Miwkies! Nee’ mummah! Nee’ miwkies!”
The human stallion makes lots of rumbling sounds. When he talks again, his voice sounds different. “Nu! Nu mowe miwkies fwom dummeh mummah! Dummeh bwuddas an’ sissies gib mummah wowstest huwties in thinky-pwace and make mummah dummeh. Bwuddas an’ sissies go foweba sweepies. Bestest babbeh nee’ nyu mummah. Emwys gib bestest babbeh nyu bestest mummah.” That… makes sense. You’re too hungry to argue, anyway. You have to keep drinking milkies so you can grow up big and strong.
You look down at the drooling mare with blue fluff. “Dummeh mummah.” You say and wiggle your leggies again. “Miwkies!” Your tiny demand makes the human chuckle and you feel yourself being lifted and carried, then wrapped in something warm and soft. Is this what riding on mummah’s back is supposed to feel like?
You don’t know where you are or where you’re going. Everything is dark while you’re wrapped up in soft not-fluff. You can’t even hear right. Everything is muffled. You can hear talking, then the soft not-fluff is lifted and everything is bright again.
You’re laying flat on top of the human’s not-hoof and, just below you, is a fluffy reaching her hoofsies out for you. She has dark fluff like yours! Is this the new mummah the human told you about?
“Mistah Emwys find bestest babbeh? Gib bestest babbeh to Cawbon ow get wowstest sowwy hoofsies!”
You reach your little leggies out towards the mummah reaching out for you but the dummeh human not-hoof takes you further away from her.
“Hmm. I don’t know. Are you /sure/ this babbeh is bestest? You have a lot of pretty babbehs already.”
“Nu! Bestest babbeh am wike Cawbon. Bestest babbeh am dawk wike Cawbon. Dawk babbeh nee’ bestest mummah an’ bestest miwkies. 'Ou gib babbeh nao, dummeh hoomin!”
The next thing you know, you’re being held in your new mummah’s hoofsies and snuggled into her fluff. She gives your face lickie cleansies then puts you against her milkie places. “Dwink aww miwkies, bestest dawk babbeh. Gwow up big an’ stwong!” She coos. “Mummah miss bestest babbeh.”
Once again, you’re cuddled against your mummah’s warm, soft, safe fluff and drinking her sweet milkies. You can hear the hungry complaints of your new brothers and sisters begging for milkies. Your milkies. But mummah tells them that they’re dummy, ugly babbehs and they’ll get milkies only when you’ve had enough.
When you’ve finally had your fill, exhaustion takes over. It’s time for sweepies and you have the bestest place on top of mummah, cuddled in her warm fluff. Your dummy, less pretty bwuddahs and sissies have to sleep close to mummah in their own fluff pile. Before you close your eyes, you vaguely remember something from many forevers ago that feels like dawk time pictures. But these brothers and sisters aren’t the same brothers and sisters and this mummah isn’t the same mummah.
It doesn’t matter, though. You’re her bestest babbeh.