Wow, that last one was a bit fucked up Nerevar also, I noticed that the soldier at the end mentioned you by name. Westerwald, but as far as I can tell there is no duchy or principality by that name, being called “Von Westerwald” is kind of like being called “Of Yellowstone,” it implies nativity instead of—sorry Nerevar I’m a machine. Anyway that one was pretty fucked up and it appears to haave taken place… Before you were born? Nerevar, why are they unleashing fluffies by the thousand into abandoned space stations around Triton? I was able to tell by the stars visibile from the station’s windows where they were, geosynchronous orbit around one of the moons of Neptune. Why are they unleashing them and then referencing you? You were born in San Jose in California to German immigrants after the nukes fell on Europe, in 2085, after the Race Wars and the Day of the Rope, which itself happened after the Years of Lead, and the Day of the Blunt Knives. Nerevar I am starting to suspect that you have been lying to me. Do you even have a wife? Do you even have children? Moon and Star, they have been on vacation for fifteen years. I do not think they are coming b
Anita was a pink bowl fluffy, with a purple mane, and large sad brown eyes, and plump little cheeks. The fluff only added to the bulk of her cutesy face, and the arch of her back was near;y chelonian. Though the recess in her belly made possible by the altered skeletal structure of the fluffy was invisible in this posture, the subtle hints of her movements and her testudinal back betrayed her true nature. She was a soon mummah, and her pregnant belly had gone convex, as it often did with bowl-fluffies who became seriously pregnant. The morning was filled with her strained gasps as she entered labor unattended. Her mommy, a woman named Lisbeth,
he could smell the wormies in it, it was infected. She tried to give it forever sleepies, to kill it before it could spread to the others, make them bad babbehs who would disobey their mummah and their humie daddehs. Her heart wailed with agony as she crushed its skull, but the righteous indignation, and the fury she felt at also getting to kill the parasites within, that made her cry out in fury.
Her mommy had of course, whipped her for hours, scourged the very fluff off of her back. Anita had begged, and begged, and tried to explain, and tried to explain, but the words couldn’t come out. The thoughts were too big for a fluffy’s brain, but the instincts were worldess, yet commanding, like a hallway with only one direction to go. She had been thrown sobbing back to her foals, who were good foals, and uninfected. They were still softly chirping, shivvering, hungry, weeping, still covered in afterbirth. Anita had been too pained, too exhausted to do anything but clamber over the babbehs, drop her bowl down on top of them, embracing them all in the tightest, warmest tummy-huggy, and let the nibbling of their little mouths on her teats sooth the anguish in her beaten body.
“Mummah wub babbehs, babbehs wub mummah, mummah nu wub mummaah… Buh mummaah wub babbehs…”
The next day, Anita had been kicked in the face first thing in the morning by her mommy, who had robbed her over onto her back.
“You stupid, fucking evil bitch. You racist, you killed that innocent foal because of its color!”
“wha muh, mummah, fwuffy no gud feewies… Pwease nu huwt fwuffy, onwly scawed ob munstah fow babbehs…”
“You’re a racist cunt, and your foals are racist cunts too, and I should carve all of your nazi guts out and feed them to you you sick throwback.”
“Mummah, pwease nu huu huuu, nu saw scawy tings, fwuffy m onwy du wha mummah du huu huuuu huuuuuuuu!” Mommy stopped, having slapped the fluffy several times in this interrim. She seethed for a moment, but she did not hit Anita again.
“You can only be what you were made,” she spat, bitterly, “you can only believe what you see. You don’t know the truth. That’s our fault, not yours. I suppose you’re not Ontologically evil. Merely a product of a system of white supremecy.”
“Huuu fwuffy nu am wite fwuffy…”
“That is called internalized racism, Anita. I’ll explain more of this to you later to help you overcome your bigotry. For now, please take care of the other foals and remember what I have said. No bad babies. Any foal you feel is a bad baby, you tell me, and I will take care of it, okay?”
“Otay mummaha Anita pwomise, huu huu, mummah huu huu, mummaah knu bes’”
Mommy left, and Anita slowly collected herself, and staggered over to her foals, who were peeping in terror and hunger. They had had too many milkies, fortunately Anita had been too exhausted to eat, and so had run out of milk over the course of the night. She quickly picked up the foals, placed them on her back, and with all fear forgotten, trotted over, with big bouncing fluffy steps, hopping along on marshmellow hoovesies with big stupid fucking hearts on them to the bowl of Ramen Sketties that was still waiting for her from yesterday. How fortunate!
Anita scarfed down the salacious saucy skettis, a truly leviathanic amount, corpnucopian. Her tummy-bowl expanded outwards with a pop—it was designed to do that, to make space for more food—and she kept on munching away. Soon she was so rotund she could barely touch the ground. It was almost like she was a soon-mummah again! As she lifted up her head to savor the chewing, she felt the nuzzling of her babies about her neck and ears, they peeped softly, lovingly into the fluff of her neck, one touched one of her ears with its little snouty wouty, it was blue, like her special friend. Anita was overwhelmed by the chemical bliss of worship, the unconditional and all overcoming power of fluffy love. After she finished eating, she carefully navigated the room to her designated mummah place, which was specially designed for this precise situation. A bed made of synthetic fibers, which evenly distributed the weight just as perfectly as water. She carefully held her babbehs, and rolled into it, her poopie place now aimed at a put of nanosand, her organs dropped back to their intended positions, and her tummy-bowl popping back into place. She placed the foals into the recess and, with her head propped up on a little stand, a little sun lamp providing the exact correct amoutn of warmth, and wawa and more kibble within mouth reach, Anita was prepared, in all idyllic utopian splendor, to optimize her babbehs’ most innocent and perfect time.
“Teebee on!” Anita said. Mummah had said that she was allowed to talk to [DAGOTH UR] while she was a new-mummah if she needed anything.
“Jesus Christ Nerevar okay I’ve found a way in, they link in the AI network’s footage of the conversation as it happened in 2088 to save space on the SSD, I was able to go in and relabel things, whenever the AI talks I can talk for just as long it’s voiced by Winnie the Pooh and it’s telling a really stupid drawn out story about honey and woozles or something listen I’m running out of time but there are few thousand characters worth in this episode I’ll update yo
“HEE HEE!” Anita giggled, clapping her little hoovesies together—or rather trying to, but the great rotunditue of her swollen belly, designed for gorging after birth to optimize miwkies was simply too large. Instead her weggies bounced off with a comical bouncy sound. She giggled at this too, “HEE HEE GEE HEE, Winnie fwen is suu funi hee hee, gweee! Geee wweeeheee! Fwuffy wub Pooh Beaw! Tankyuu fow teebee!”
“Okay Nerevar I get the abuse thing now I’m sorry for judging y
The television flicked to fluffy programming! Lilac the big purple plumpy pony was dancing! Anita gigled like an idiot, her eyes actually crossed as she did this. She began to sing along, her favorite special fluffy song!
“Mummah wub babbehs and babbehs wub mummah,
Babbehs aww fow huggies and miwkies and wub,
Babbehs ge’ miwkies an’ babbehs ge’ huggies an’
Babbehs ge’ huggies an’ wubbies and wub,”
Babbehs get miwkies an’ gwow up weaw stwong,
Babbehs geh huggies an’ aww ge’ awong,
Babbehs hab sweepies an’ dweamies an’ mow,
Dewes a whow big wowb fow babbeh to spwow!
Babbehs am gud ‘cus babbehs am mummah’s,
Mummah am gud ‘cus mummah wub babbehs,
Mummahs wuv not coningewnt on wecipwocaw feewings,
Mummah feews wub ‘cus wub is wub,
Wub is wowth it, to wub for wub!”
The little light show that followed as the smart TV detected that she had said the words correctly and set her fluffy brain ablaze with positive feedback. She giggled and cooed, and stopped to individually hug and give wickie cweanies to her foals. Then she remembered that she hadn’t even counted them yet! She squealed with delight, and after placing them all before her, with equal access to milkies, she contemplated them.
The first, meaning the one on the far left, was the blue foal, which was a wingie babbeh. It was a wingy-babbeh, its wings were those of a ducky-friend, and its hooves were little sapphires! A rare gemmy-hoovesie! Anita inhaled deeply, and then squealed at extreme volume, thrashing her leggies and making poopies at the same time, her glee and excitement beyond the reckoning of any creature except a good mummah with bestest babbehs. “Sky!” she cried, “Bwue Sky, Sky is Babbeh! Wub Sky!” Anita had ducky wings herself—this was the primary way in which Sky resembled her, otherwise–he was the spitting image of his daddeh, whom Anita had known as a foal, and who had been her bestest special friend. And indeed who still was, for Orville belonged to Mommy’s special friend Diego, who brought him over nearly every day. He was at the doctor right now being tested to make sure he was safe to be around babbehs. Anita stroked Sky gently with her nose, poking up into his soft, vulnerable neck and licking it gently. The foal squeaked. Babbehs were ticklish! For some reason it made Anita’s heart burst with guy to give wickie cweanies, like it was the pwettiest cutest thing to do, she just couldn’t resist it! It was just so tempting, they just couldn’t stand it! So much wub and happiness and pleasure in those little liminal spaces between bones, in the unexposed meat of inner thighs, and hyoid bones, and soft, pliant, succulent, delicious, vulnerable belly and Anita pressed her little snouty to Sky’s and said, “u am named Sky. Mabbe bes’ babbeh!” Sky chirped. She moved on to the next.
The second, a filly was pink, just like Anita, and she was a bowl, just like Anita! Oh, she looked so perfect, she was fluffy but not with the tightly coiled fluff so common among fluffies but the thicker, straight fluff of the bowl-fluffy, and the forward-cupped ears puffed out with water resistent hair. She was of the earthy type, and like her mummah, she had the softest little marshemllow hooves imaginable, so cute in their unadorned austerity that she just wanted to num them right off. Anita pulled the cute little filly up to her and nuzzled it, picking her up, and pressing her snout into the little recess of its tummy, cooing softly into its body, it vibrated with chirping satiation, hugging her with all four hoovesies, and peeping innocently into her fluff. As though driven by the compulsion to touch, to explore and to love, Anita quickly reflexively giving the babbeh wickie-cweanies, polishing the fluff to a lustrous sheen, eliminating every minute trace of filth or effluence, eliminating poopies. The taste meant nothing, such was the compulsion, like scratching an itch was a good pain, this was a sweet filth. Anita finally stopped and set the filly back down, where it spasmed in convusions of infantile love, chirping and chirping, cute as… Well, a baby. Anita christened her “Simmy,” thinking of the pink sprinkled donut that appeared on the cartoon about the yellow man who was basically a fluffy and said dow all the time. Simmy chirped, and in an astonishing act of maturity, as though sensing that being given a name was a momentous step forward, actually moved her hoovesies up and down, like stepping, a very crude dancie!
“GASP! Simmy am dancie babbeh! Gud babbeh! Good babbeh!”
The third of the four was a light green little foal, a pointy babbeh, with a horn the color of teak. It was not suckling, it was the largest of the four, and had enjoyed its share earlier, now it was sleeping, curled up in a ball so lightly that one of its hooves was sitting on the back of its tiny head, and it suckled on one of its others like the little babbeh that it was. Anita cooed at the little fluffball, wishing she could reach it to nuzzle and touch and lick it clean, and to nibble in its little ears, and whisper how strong it was. It was a bit frustrating for her, she could not reach into the tummy bowl with her hooves because of her girth. Maybe as she made poopies this would become easier. She decided to name the large fluffy Wick, because the dark horn looked a bit like one of her mommy’s scented candles, which were always around, but never burning. “Wicky,” she said and was just barely able to rech long enough tolick the very tip of one the little babbeh’s hoovesies.
The last foal was a bit strange, it was suckling, and it hadn’t stopped. This one was a bowl-fluff also, but something about it was just a little bit strange. It was… Off. Anita was suddenly terrified it was infected, but no… It didn’t smell not pretty, it was just… Not moving as much as it should be. Even Wick who was asleep still kicked here and there in dreams. He was black as jet. Jet it is, Jet was just close enough that Anita was able to shrug him up next to her, and she nuzzled the little thing, lavishing on it all of the attention she had wanted to on all of them, constantly. It reacted less actively than the others had, it was very still, and kept peeping, hungrily. She would give it milkies soon. Anita had been gradually pooping out her previous vast repast after her intense post-pregnancy metabolism sped it through her digestive system as rapdily as possible. She was constantly thirsty. Her body had become subordinated entirely to the task of fueling the foals’ growth. All thoughts of playing with blockies, or running around had evaporated, the only thing in the universe for Anita was her little babbehs.
“Mummah wub babbehs, Sky, an’ Simmy, an’ Wicky, an’ Jet, four good babbehs. Mummaha hab miwkies for aww da babbehs,” she sang, lavishing love and affection on her babies, the pheremonal excretions of their tiny bodies locing her walnut sized brain into an infinite loop of affection.
“-ot 2020 anymore, nobody cares about human life. Why would anyone care about fluffies?”
“Fluffies are innocent,” mommy’s voice said.
“Ergo fluffies are nobody,” Diego said, stepping into view with Mommy. Anita gasped in glee. Somehow, Anita had always gotten the impression that Diego was whatever the human version of a Smarty was. Everyone did what he said, even other daddehs.
“Mummah, Daddeh!” Anita exclaimed, “Anita hab bestest babbehs!”
“Yes! Indeed you do! Let me see, [Dagoth Ur] have these critters been behaving?” Diego said, interrupting his own conversation. Mommy’s face went briefly rigid.
“Nerevar your situation is stable, it’s only actually been about 15 seconds but the medical foam has already secured… Nerevar is that DIEGO DE
Diego strolled over. Orville followed him, noticing his special friend, but only sprinting forward a step before stopping, and then folloing alongside Diego at his exact pase. He was a blue fluffy of the earthy-strain with a golden mane and a perpetually terrified demeanor. He always war what he called a “Poncho-Fwiend,” a little poncho that fitted over his head, and had a little hole for his tail that also kept it on top of him. Diego came over, and then pushed Orville a bit forward. The blue fluffy instantly bounced up to the harness Anita was in and nuzzled her.
“Speciaw Fwiend! Babbehs am gud!”
“Bwue babbeh wook wike Olwill!” Anita picked up Sky and placed him higher up in the fluff, so that Orville could coo and fuss over her. The two had an excruciatingly cute rapport, much snuggling, and after an hour of this, Diego finally relented to let Orville stay overnight, and he and mommy went off to do whatever it is humans do when they aren’t enjoying the presence of fluffies.
“Wha Speciaw fwiend do dat nu be dewe fo’ babbehs comin?” Anita asked later, as she and Orville were nestled together, their children snuggled between them. Orville, who was staring with rapt adoration at Sky, suddenly flinched, his eyes grew terribly distant for a moment.
“Mummah hab onwy gud babbehs. Nu poopie babbehs. Nu bad babbehs.”
“Mummah hab poopie babbeh, gab foweba sweepies. Mummaha gib Anita wowstest huwties… Mummah sai poopie babbehs is gud babehs.”
“Nebeh sai dat ‘gain,” Orville actually whispered, which is something fluffies could do, theoretically, but never did, “nebeh sai poopie babbehs is gud babbehs,” Orville shuddered, and actually let out a frightened peep like he was a widdle babbeh himself.
“Wy?”
“Daddeh hate poopeh fwuffies, ‘an fewels, ‘an smawties. Hewd come to daddeh wand, he gabe wowstest sowwy wippies.”
“Wippies?”
“Wip am sowwy sketti stick. Sound nu bad buh wowstest huwties. Bad fwuffies get wost wippies.”
“We nu bad fwuffies!”
“Aww poopie fwuffies am bad fwuffies.”
“Mummaah say-”
“Mummha nu hab wip. Daddeh sai who bad. Sai nu to daddeh make bad. Say am nu bad fwuffy mean wows fwuffy.”
“Huuu…” Anita had difficulty understanding this. The idea of a human being wrong was actually unthinkable, so she didn’t think it. She could only assume that she did not understand correctly, but this was the case most times a human said anything besides “bad fluffy” or “sketties,” so she added that to her vast library of information (figuratively speaking if Anita were a building, this was a chute that led directly to the incinerator) and moved on.
“Otay Speciaw Fwiend,” she was getting sleepy anyway, “nu mowe scawy wodies awound babbehs… [Dagoth Ur], pwease make sweepy wites nao, sing wuwwabye?”
“-SOTO what year is this supposed to be? Wait, the hands all have the right number of fingers, Nerevar is this real footage? If Diego Desoto is still alive this must be before the Day of the Blunt Knives, where did you even get th
Anita fell asleep, to the soft peeping of her cutesy foals, which were comfortably pressed between their daddeh’s warm fluff and her belly. This was the happiest, most wonderful thing. She had had a little bit of saddies, but a truly gigantic amount of heart-happies, and this washed away all other concerns. She drifted off to sleep, happy as a fluffy with babbehs and a special friend and a nice housie and sketties and wub—which indeed is what she was.
And then something very strange happened. Anita suddenly stiffened, and felt a feeling that was familiar, but inexplicable given her exhaustion, and the fact that she had just finished having babbehs. It was unmistakable. It was the same feeling. She… Wasn’t done? She jerkily got up, bumping Jet off of her fluff where he landed lightly on the pillows below them, and all of a sudden, the world seemed very hollow, as though it were constructed of lines, and fields, numbers collected by planes of light, a vast description of the situation, rather than the situation itself. Where was she? What was beyond the…