(Originally written on January 24, 2024.)

Imagine feeling a bit of a fullness in your gut. You haven’t eaten anything but you still feel bloated. You look bloated too, a little. You feel like you’re filling up with something.

And you are, in both a physical and metaphysical way. The stuffing pushing your softening tummy out (and out, and out!) from within might not have much mass, but its conceptual weight is undeniable. As it grows, it’s squeezing out concepts like “biology”, “muscles”, “organs”, “fluids”, shoving it all aside until only “fluff” remains.

This isn’t a violent destruction (the concepts of “violence” and “gore” don’t have enough room to intrude here). Rather, things are simply being tucked away somewhere that can’t be seen. They will return in time, so for now, just enjoy the gentle pressure of your body puffing up, skin-turning-fabric rubbing against your clothing. Doesn’t it feel nice when your joints get eaten up? Or is “dissolved” a better word? I know I said they aren’t being destroyed, but for now, they might as well be.

Your thickening arms lifting up at your sides just a little, stretching your sleeves just a little… your hands pudging into, oh, wow, your hands, just pop-pop-popping out into whatever you want, really. Paws, or hooves, or just nothing, just the thick, bappy ends of your tube-like arms. The notion of “dexterity” was squeezed out so quickly…

More stuffing is makes its way down your legs, which surge out with growth, your skin stretching with a teensy bit of tension before it grows synthetic fur and changes to fabric, its surface area expanding to compensate for your greater volume. And your tail blossoms out in a fluid motion, inflating like a balloon. None of that fancy “you feel your spine extending” nonsense. Your body doesn’t have room for it. What kind of tail do you have? Long, short, stumpy, floppy, puffy, fluffy, bushy? Or maybe none at all? Thanks for sticking around and considering the tail, either way :P

Your feet go the way of your hands, but this time there might be footwear in the way. Not for long, though, because this time there isn’t any physical room for them. They are easily blown apart by whatever now marks the ends of your glorious, cylindrical plushie legs.

The stuffing is filling up your head. Your ears inflating and pushing out into new shapes. Your mouth going dry and maybe even sealing shut, if you’re so inclined. Maybe a bit of extra material padding out behind your mouth and nose give you a cute muzzle. Your eyes become glass, or plastic, or buttons, or stitched-on details, or some other impervious thing. Your hair remains, or doesn’t. Your head is blowing up to cartoonish proportions and your brain isn’t sticking around for it. Don’t need it to think in this state, anyways. Or do you? Does this rob you of motion? Speech? Thought? It’s up to you. Being conscious to experience this form could be quite lovely, but so could the nap.

Imagine, though. Imagine being a plushie. Becoming a plushie. The process, the destination. No more room for anything that isn’t softness.

Isn’t that nice?