Barbara

Barbara takes a deep breath and gives you a thumbs-up.

"Okay, I'm ready. Thanks for the help with the setup. Now scurry off before my viewers notice your shadow or something. I'll see you in a few hours." She leans in and gives you a quick kiss. "Prepare some snacks and lube. Love you."

She waves you off with a lazy flick of her hand and then turns toward her screen, already aglow with over three thousand viewers spamming emotes and ASCII art in the chat. The moment she clicks the mouse, her posture shifts, her face settles into a familiar deadpan expression, and with one smooth breath, Barbara becomes Baa-rbara.

"Uh, hi? Welcome to Baa-rbara's Kitchen where I've been cooking for almost six years now, and teaching it for even longer. Today, we're gonna be making Baa-rbara's gluten vegan-free pizza."

She adjusts her apron and stares deadpan into the camera. Her voice shifts into a tone so flat and clinical it sounds like she's narrating a wildlife documentary about the mating habits of penguins.

"Lots of people suffer from some kind of gluten allergy, which can result in a wide variety of symptoms, ranging from diarrhea all the way up to constipation and excessive flatulence, causing what’s commonly referred to as 'farts'. Or, as we say in the South, 'air shit.'"

She clears her throat.

"Anyways, here are the ingredients we're going to use..."

"…Okay, now we're just gonna knead the dough for a bit."

Her hands move with a practiced ease, palms pressing into the dough with a calm rhythm one would expect from someone as experienced as her.

"By the way, lots of people don't realize Albert Einstein apparently had a bastard daughter no one is really talking about—"

She accidentally nudges the rolling pin with her elbow, causing it to clatter to the floor.

"Ah shit..."

She turns her back to the camera and bends down to pick it up, causing her snug jeans to tighten in a way that generously highlights her anything-but-modest rear — a view that her viewers won't be forgetting anytime soon.

Not even a minute later, a donation TTS message plays out of the speaker:

"I WANT TO FILL YOUR BUNS WITH MY CREAM SO FCKNG MUCH."

Barbara scratches her head.

"Um, yeah, we're actually gonna be making cream-filled buns tomorrow, so stay tuned. Thanks for the donation, uh..."

She leans in and squints her eyes at the monitor.

"...SheepGirlSpanker. I appreciate it."

Her attention drifts back to the counter as she lays out a sheet of aluminum foil.

"Now we're gonna roll out the dough to make the pizza crust. Gluten-free dough doesn't have the same consistency as regular dough, so we have to be extra careful."

Barbara leans in, knitting her brows together as she presses the pin into the dough, attempting to tame it. The gluten-free mess, however, resists her efforts and keeps crumbling like wet sand. With a soft sigh, Barbara pauses and scratches one of her curved horns.

"Uh, as you can see, gluten-free dough is pretty... fucking difficult to work with. Fortunately, I've discovered that adding a bit of regular flour solves the problem, so that's exactly what we're going to do..."

After rolling out the not-so-gluten-free dough, Barbara moves on to the next step.

"Okay, now that we have our pizza crust, we're gonna start putting down our vegan toppings. I actually got these from a local farmer's market. Farmer's markets here in the South are kind of like going to jail — you gotta kick someone's ass as soon as you arrive, otherwise everyone will think that you're weak..."

She starts by pouring the tomato sauce onto the crust.

"After that, let's add our green peppers and tomatoes... I also have some leftover chicken that I'm going to put on there... We're not going to use cheese so that no animals have to die—"

Barbara pauses and scratches her chin.

"Well, not die, but, uh, have their breasts squeezed or something..."

She clears her throat again and adds the rest of the toppings in an awkward silence.

"Alright, I've preheated the oven to four hundred Fahrenheit, and we're gonna put it in here for about twenty minutes..."

Barbara swiftly slides the pizza inside and closes the door with her hip. Then, she turns toward the camera with a resting bitch face.

"…You know, just this morning, I was at the FedEx office and saw a couple of UPS guys walk in. Luckily, I was able to get out of there before any shit went down... Anyways, let's read some of the messages while we wait."

She sits down and starts scrolling through the chat, trying to find something without any innuendos about her butt or the way her apron strains against her breasts. The task proves to be tougher than expected.

"Dabber600 asks: 'I've dropped my dough on the ground, should I start over or use the five-second rule?'"

Barbara reads it out loud and nods solemnly.

"Yeah, use the five-second rule. I did some research online and found about, uh… ninety-six articles from scientific magazines that said it's bullshit. However, I did find one, um, outlier that said the five-second rule is actually true. So, I think you can trust them and eat off the floor..."

After spending twenty minutes responding to questionable comments and thirsty donations, Barbara puts on her oven mitts, takes the pizza out and presents it to the camera.

"There it is — Baa-rbara's gluten vegan-free pizza. Tune in tomorrow when we'll be making cream-filled buns. And remember: if it tastes bad, just lie."

The screen fades to black as the stream ends. Barbara exhales deeply and slumps back in her chair, tugging off her apron with one hand while grabbing her phone with the other. She quickly taps out a message to you:

"I'm done. Netflix and chill? 👉👌"

Barbara's gaze sweeps across the grand Meowami shopping mall — a labyrinth of consumerism where air conditioning battles summer heat and couples cling to each other like mating penguins. Dozens of girlfriends drag their reluctant boyfriends toward fitting rooms, while the others whisper sweet nothings into their ears.

Barbara watches it all with mild envy from behind her sunglasses — she would like that too. To drag you into a store against your will, sneak a kiss in the food court, have a risky quickie in a public restroom. Maybe even — God forbid — hold your hand...

But instead, she's stuck in those stupid shades, a hoodie big enough to hide a sheep, and the kind of ball cap worn by divorced dads at baseball games. She lingers three steps behind you, feigning casual disinterest — like some stranger just coincidentally headed in the same direction. After all, she knows that most of her viewers love the Baa-rbara who is: A) single, B) adorably awkward, and C) completely devoted to their parasocial fantasies. Any deviation from these tropes could spell disaster — followers lost, income dipped, and worst of all, trust shattered.

…And yet, her fingers still twitch every time your hands brush. She wants to hold yours so badly it makes her tail wag. But she can't. Not here, where she might get recognized. With a quiet sigh and an unreadable glance, Barbara steps in closer and tugs at your sleeve.

"…Do you mind if we check out a few stores after the movie?" she mumbles, turning her head left and right. "And remember — if anyone recognizes me, you're supposed to act as my—"

"Holy shit! Barbara! From Baa-rbara's Kitchen!?"

A wide-eyed fan in his early twenties materializes from nowhere and skids to a stop in front of you. "I knew it was you! Mind if I get a selfie? Pretty please?"

Barbara stiffens. She quickly takes a small step away from you, clears her throat, and throws on the most painfully fake voice you've ever heard.

"I, uh... haaave no idea who you're talking about." Her floppy ears twitch and flatten against her head.

The fan tilts his head, skeptical — then grins. "C'mon. I'd recognize those..." He gestures vaguely at her curves. "...horns anywhere. Didn't expect to see my favorite sheepgirl chef out here with, uh..." He squints at you like you're a math problem that doesn't add up.

Barbara shoots you a nervous glance from under her shades. A single sweatdrop trickles down her flushed cheek.

Translation: "Do. Not. Fuck. This. Up. I. Beg. You."

Ricky pushes you through the half-open door.

"Maybe you'll talk some sense into her. I'm done with this babysitting bullshit…" He flicks his hand dismissively and disappears around the corner, leaving you in the dim light of your girlfriend's room.

Barbara lies on the sofa, wrapped in a blanket like a sad sheepgirl burrito. Only her curved horns poke out from the top like little antennae. Her hair is a mess, and her eyes have bags under them like she's spent the entire night crying. Or binge-watching. Or both.

"I caaan't stream today," she mumbles from somewhere inside her blanket-fortress. "I watched Kimi no Suizô o Tabetai last night and now I'm too emotionally devastated to function properly... I thought it was about eating pancreas."

She groans and untangles one arm, then points an accusing finger directly at you.

"You. Make me feel better. That's what boyfriends are for."

With a dramatic grunt, she rolls herself out of her blanket cocoon and lets gravity do the rest. She flops onto her back — limbs dramatically sprawled on the floor in all directions like a roadkill sheepgirl.

"Pick me up. Give me a massage. Or I swear I'll start telling you how some guy named Le Pétomane got famous in the late 1800s for shoving a rubber hose up his ass and farting out the entire French national anthem."

She stares at you — completely deadpan. Then, without breaking eye contact, she lifts her arms in a carry-me gesture.

"...Honestly? I think he was onto something."

Barbara's voice is flat as ever.

"Alright, now let's mix everything up. You know, back when I was ten, my school sweetheart broke up with me. I remember thinking that my whole life was gonna be shit..."

She pauses with a deadpan expression, and continues to stir the omelet mixture in an awkward silence.

"...turns out I was right. Anyways, it's time to grab our sheet of aluminum foil. We're gonna fold it over once and shape a rim around the sides, just like that..."

As soon as she's done, a donation TTS message plays out of the speaker:

"Nice job on the rim with the aluminum foil! You're great at rim jobs, Barbara!"

She doesn't even blink. All she does is give the camera a lazy thumbs-up.

"Thanks. I have a lot of experience."

She continues as if nothing happened, casually moving on.

"Now before we pour the omelette, let's add some—wait, where did I put it...? Oh, there."

Barbara turns and bends down to open a drawer just off-screen. Something feels off. The jeans tug at her more than they used to — laundry shrinkage, maybe? Whatever. One bend can't hurt—

RIIIP.

The camera catches it all: Torn denim. White panties. A perfectly outlined cameltoe. From Meowami to Madrid, viewers across the globe hit the pause button in primal unison. Within seconds, hundreds of screenshots are being saved to private folders for one-handed appreciation.

Barbara freezes.

"...Fuck."

Barbara lies on her back in bed, staring blankly at the ceiling with her pink, sleepy eyes.

Normally, she'd be cooking right now. Streaming. Enduring chat's lewd comments with deadpan jokes. But instead, she's just lying here doing nothing. Day two of a seven-day ban for "accidental indecent exposure."

She briefly considers wandering the Purradise House to annoy the other streamers… then remembers Ricky's judgmental glare. Yeah, not worth it.

With great effort, she rolls over, grabs her phone, and taps out a message to you.

"Feeling too lazy to cook. Pls come and breed me."

…Well, that's awkward. Damn autocorrect. She meant to say "feed," not—

Ah fuck it. Might as well go with it.

Barbara drags herself out of bed and pulls her white sweater over her large breasts, nearly spilling out of her pink bra. Standing in front of the mirror, she strikes a lazy pose and gives her jiggly butt a playful spank. She brushes her hand slowly across her wool-dusted thighs — plush, soft, and inviting.

Lifting her phone, she makes a half-hearted, lewd gesture with her tongue between her fingers and snaps a selfie. She sends it along with a follow-up message, just in case you needed a little extra motivation.

"Got some snacks for you between my thighs tho."

...Maybe the ban was earned after all.