Mom Was... a Furry?
Was I really drawing commission pieces just to drown out the deranged conversation between my balls friend and Mom?
Apparently they had wrapped it up at some point, because Mom settled in right beside me and started watching me draw.
Of course, she did it while burying her face in my thick, luscious tails and nuzzling them like a maniac.
"Heeeh... You're drawing something almost normal today?"
"I draw plenty of normal stuff, you know? The way you say it, people would think I only ever draw weird crap."
"But on stream you always draw the weird stuff, don't you? Last time it was that... what was it? The one where you made a ferret look human..."
"Stop! Just stop!!!"
Exactly how much of my streams had she watched?
And why was she completely immune to furry art? From what I remembered, that piece mixed in a solid sixty percent animal. It was high-concentration furry material.
Any normal person would have recoiled in pure revulsion.
In fact, nearly half of my almost two hundred viewers had openly expressed disgust over it.
So how was she sitting there completely unfazed? Anyone who wasn't a genuine furry would feel at least some rejection.
...No way. Was Mom a furry too?
Impossible. That couldn't be right.
Out of the whole family, Mom was the one relatively normal person. There was no way she was a furry.
No— the possibility was more than real enough!
If the reason she married Dad—who overflowed with so much wild beast energy he might as well have been an actual animal—was simply because he "looked like a beast"...
And if the reason she loved my tails to a suspicious degree and let out those vulgar little moans every time she got surrounded by them was because she was a genuine furry...
I looked at Mom with pure dread in my eyes and carefully asked the question.
"Mom, just asking out of curiosity. What did you think when you saw that weasel picture?"
"What did I think? Just that it was cute. Oh! And that I wanted to pet it the same way I pet your tails. Why do you ask?"
"Ah, nothing. And one more thing—this might be a little rude."
I asked her in the most stern, serious voice I could manage.
"Why did you marry Dad? Even as your son I think you're way too good for him."
I'd said something similar before, but at best it was a live-action Beauty and the Beast.
No—since this was reality, it was worse. Dad looked so vicious and terrifying that even a mafia enforcer would flinch.
When every single person who met them said "Why would someone like her be with someone like him...?", the answer was already clear, wasn't it?
I was starting to seriously doubt Mom's taste in men.
I knew I shouldn't say it, but honestly, Mom's eye for guys seemed a little lacking.
"Logically speaking, a guy who looks like he could survive the Stone Age barehanded marrying a woman who could put most actresses to shame just doesn't make sense. Tell me the reason, please?"
I tickled her with a soft tail to lower her guard. Mom let out a sigh and answered.
"Because he looked like a bear and it was cute. His face was bear-like, and the way he acted was just as dense and clumsy as a bear. Super adorable."
"...That was it?"
"If I have to give a reason, about that much? The rest is, well... as you know, at night Dad eats Mom like a ferocious bea—"
"There she goes again."
I sealed Mom's mouth with a thick, luscious tail and went back to drawing commissions to calm myself down.
The possibility that Mom was a furry... that the refined, elegant woman I knew could fall into furry corruption...
What a horrifying reality.
I was sighing and drawing when Mom, finally freed from the tail, panted hard and made a pitiful face.
"Haa... haa... Using something that thick and luscious to torment your own mother... isn't that a bit much?"
"Could you please stop saying things that are so easy to misunderstand? Keep it up and I really will kick you out of the house."
"Mean."
Mom pretended to sulk and chomped down on my luscious tail. I scolded her in a thoroughly fed-up voice.
"Hey, could you leave other people's tails alone for once?"
"No. I came here for tail healing. How am I supposed to leave it alone?"
"Then at least don't bite it. Getting spit on my fluffy tail fur is seriously gross."
If someone asked what it felt like to get spit on your tail, it was roughly the same level of ick as going out in white clothes and spilling not just a little but a whole bowl of red soup all over yourself.
And if it was a favorite outfit? Of course the ick would tip over into pure irritation.
That was exactly what I was feeling right now.
Extreme anxiety and irritation.
If the person chomping on my tail had been my balls friend instead of Mom, I probably would have beaten him unconscious with a frying pan.
I was busy shoving that irritation down when my balls friend wandered over and started staring with great interest at Mom, who still had her teeth sunk into my thick, luscious tail.
"Oh... that actually looks kinda fun."
"Don't you dare. If you do it, you might actually die."
"Heshmmr, if you do it you might acshually die."
The bastard mocked me while simultaneously coating my fluffy tail in spit. Without a second of hesitation I yanked a frying pan out from under the desk and smashed it into his skull.
CLANG!!!!!
Hit by the vigorously swung frying pan, my balls friend collapsed still holding the tail in his mouth. Mom, watching the whole thing, dropped the thick tail she'd been biting and stared blankly.
Shocked by the violence? After showing her something like that I was definitely going to get an earful.
I put the frying pan back under the desk with a miserable expression, and Mom...
"Why on earth are you keeping cooking tools in places like that? Do you have a brain or not? Put every single one of them back in the kitchen!"
...started scolding me about something I had never expected.
Well, fair enough. Using perfectly good frying pans as self-defense weapons deserved a scolding.
But Mom, listen.
I can't put every frying pan in the house back in the kitchen.
Because...
Including the spares, there are over forty of them.
"No more, right? That's all of them?"
"Of course, Mom. Why would anyone buy five or more of the same frying pan? I'm not some frying pan collector."
"Suspicious... If I check a few more places, a whole pile is going to come pouring out, isn't it?"
"No. Under the bed, under the desk, inside the shoe cabinet by the front door, inside the wardrobe, and finally inside the bookshelf. Only the necessary spots, right?"
"And you think those are places cooking tools belong? And why exactly do you keep frying pans in places like that?"
Why?
Obviously so I can deal with any burglar using excellent non-lethal weapons.
I almost answered that way, but Mom's expression looked dangerous, so I scratched my tail with an awkward face and said,
"Uh... just in case of unexpected danger?"
"You prepare for danger with frying pans? What if you accidentally hurt someone?"
"Why should I care if a criminal gets hurt? And beating them with a frying pan and chasing them off feels way better and is better than using a knife, right?"
I tilted my head like I genuinely didn't understand. Mom heaved a deep sigh and hugged my fluffy tail tightly.
"My gloomy, timid son turned into a frying-pan violence girl... Give me my son back."
"I'd like to go back too, you know? But Mom, if I go back to normal, all these luscious tails will disappear. Are you okay with that?"
"Ah."
Mom stared at the luscious tails in front of her like she was seriously deliberating, then after a long moment shook her head.
"Honestly, before I experienced these ultra-giant soft tails I didn't know, but once you've had them you become a body that can't live without them."
"...That means 'don't go back,' right?"
"Ah, no! Just kidding, just kidding... Hehe, you think Mom would actually think that?"
Yes, Mom. From every angle it looks like you actually thought that.
Right now disappointment is dripping off your face. At least put the tails down before you say that.
With my mood thoroughly unsettled, I went back to commission work.
Mom slowly approached me again. This time, instead of the tails, she wrapped me in a tight hug and spoke gently.
"Son."
"Yes, Mom."
"This mother doesn't care what form her son takes. The gloomy, timid version, the glamorous fox-girl version—whatever it is, you're still Mom's son."
"Mom..."
On the surface it was pure moving speech.
It meant she would treat me as her son no matter what I looked like and give me the same love as before.
But the real meaning hidden underneath was every bit as sly as a fox.
"You just mean this form is better, you evil mother."
"Ah."
"What do you mean 'ah'! Seriously, not a single normal person in this family except me!"
"Son? Watch your mouth. If we're being precise, you're the most abnormal one."
"No way. Dad and Sis are genuine gym rats, and Mom is someone who likes animal fur to a suspicious degree! So a perfectly ordinary adult-art artist like me is the most normal one!"
"Since when is drawing dirty pictures ordinary, and you don't even draw ordinary ones, do you?"
Mom opened her phone gallery again and showed me "some" of the pictures I had drawn. With no defense left, I just shut my mouth and slumped my shoulders.
Instead of fighting with fair propaganda and fabrication, she just dropped the heavy facts first.
Using such a cowardly method—did she think I would just sit still?
"You're right. I'm the weird one, Mother. It's all my fault."
Of course I sat still.
Who knew what Dad would do to me if I talked back for no reason.
I crawled in front of Mom like a dog declaring submission, and looking at me like that, Mom said,
"Good boy, good boy."
She was treating me less like a son and more like a dog.
...Whatever. As long as Mom was happy, that was enough, right?
She said she came for healing, so doing this much should be fine.
And so, while getting petted by Mom, I focused on my commission work once more.