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fiber-optic-alligator · 9 months ago

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Desperation vs. Domestication (Pt. 2)

Pairing: IDW Drift x Human Reader

WARNING: This story contains soft vore. If this makes you uncomfortable, please do not read this story.

Word Count: 4431

Summary: Though you have been lulled into a deep sense of security by Drift's kindness and comfort, you still haven't completely lost the need to be free. A terrible nightmare refuels your desire for escape...but Drift isn't someone who wants to let you go.

HEEHEEHEEHEE I REALLY WANTED TO WRITE A PART 2 OF THIS...so I did. It's because Drift is my all-time favorite Transformer and I absolutely LOVE putting my favorite characters through angst. If you enjoyed reading part 1, then I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it! Likes, comments, feedback, and reblogs are never expected, but always appreciated! Enjoy! :D

Here is the link to pt. 1 if you haven’t read it!

Also available to read on AO3!

Two months later…

You dream of Earth tonight.

There are fields; you are standing in one. Long Bermuda grass tickles your ankles with the gentle presence of the planet recognizing its own. The endless green is splattered with occasional droplets of color: pink poppies, yellow sunflowers, marigolds, dandelions. It is warm. There is a slight wind blowing, playing with your hair. You turn your face towards the sunlight and bask in the relief of knowing you are home.

All of a sudden, you hear a sound. Thumping. Steady, rhythmic. Loud. You feel the wind die down and suddenly the sun is gone, and there is only darkness. A massive shadow blots out all of the light. You see a figure looming over you, red-and-white with bright blue eyes that stare into your soul and make you feel terror.

You try to run, but find you cannot move your legs. There is nothing you can do when you watch a giant hand reach down in slow motion and pluck you up, holding you between titanic fingers. The monster’s mouth opens, and then you are tumbling down, right into an abyss of metal and isolation. The Earth melts away forever. You are trapped. You are alone.

Shooting forward out of your nightmare, you hear yourself scream. The squishy floor underneath you makes you lose your footing when you scramble upward in a blind panic and fall into Drift’s stomach wall. Everything moves, the organ grumbling unhappily at you being awake. Your hands scramble at the mesh cables. Little pink bubbles of cybernetic blood pop anxiously beneath their semi-transparent surfaces. The walls close in to squeeze, holding you in a secure hug, attempting to keep you still. But you cannot think. You are scared, and you feel trapped, so you desperately begin to thrash and fight against the stomach.

Drift’s voice booms above you, panicked. “Little one? Little one?!”

“Let me go!” you shriek. “Please, letmegoletmegoletmego!”

The walls loosen up, freeing you. You collapse into the fetal position, gasping while sweat beads your brow and your heart goes crazy.

Drift presses his hands over his middle. “Little one, little one, shhhh, shh, shh, shh,” he hushes frantically. “Safe, safe…safe, all is safe...no need for fear…”

Gradually, you calm down. Only when you are no longer trembling does Drift tentatively begin to squeeze you again. In and out, slow kneading, like he’s silently coaxing you to continue breathing at a healthier pace. “Little one…okay?” he asks.

Your voice quivers. “I-I’m fine. I’m okay. It-It was a bad dream. A nightmare.” You sit upright and lean into the stomach wall. Drift holds you close, the undulating muscle relaxing you with its constant massage. His biolights pulse and flicker, a clear sign of his stress. You woke him up with your screams. It makes you feel bad, so you snuggle his cables further. The robot’s stomach is not a big place, but Drift likes to be conscious of you. The support you provide him in completing this task is obviously appreciated, because he hums softly and pats his hand over where you are.

There is peace again. Peace and warmth. But you don’t feel the usual safety. There is a lingering pit of dread growing deep within your gut, foul roots clawing their way through your body, leaving you jittery, uneased. Your nightmare is the first one in months, and it’s a sure sign things are not right.

It has been such a long time since you thought of your possible escape plan. You don’t know how long, but you do know that you can’t be comfortable here anymore. Your mind is sending the signals loud and clear.

No more stalling, you think to yourself. No more being complacent.

You are not domesticated yet.

When Drift lets you out of here…you will go through with the plan to take an escape pod home. For real this time.

It takes you weeks to perfect your plan. And when you do finally have it all figured out, you come to the conclusion that things may end up being more complicated than you thought. Escaping a spaceship filled with giant alien robots is hard enough, yes. But then there’s the issue of what will happen when you return to Earth. You don’t know how long you’ve been abducted. It could be months. It could be years. What if all of your family and friends are long gone by the time you get home? What if things are so different that you’ve been completely left behind?

No. You can’t think like that. A sharp patting to your cheeks snaps you out of it. Keep it together. This is the moment you have been waiting for. Regardless of what awaits you on Earth, you will be there to face it.

You’ve packed everything you own into a small fabric knapsack your mech gifted you during your first days here (Who knew robots are such good knitters?). It’s not much, not much at all: snacks Drift gives you, strange pellets that clean your teeth, three cans of filtered water…but that’s all you really require for the trip you are going to embark on. You don’t believe it will be particularly long. The escape pods need to have some sort of device that allows them to leap through lightyears to their destinations. You believe this because you’ve watched the mothership do it from the observation windows Drift likes to bring you to sometimes. Hyperspace will occasionally be activated, with stars and planets blurring together into dazzling white paint streaks before coming to an abrupt halt in a totally new galaxy.

Now, do you know how lightjumping works? Absolutely not. Last time you were on Earth, no such human technology had been invented yet. So you don’t exactly know how you’ll get the escape pod to lightjump like the ship does. But you’ll find a way. You have no choice.

Now for the hard part: getting away from Drift long enough to activate the escape pod and blast away. He’s not going to make it easy for you. Drift doesn’t like letting you out of his sight if you aren’t in his room, and hardly lets you roam free. You’ve spent hours, both within his stomach and out, pondering how to go about this. It’s left you with the agonizing decision that you’ll just have to wing it somehow.

The door to his room slides open. You’ve been sitting on his berth with your hands beneath your head and one leg crossed over the other, thinking, thinking, thinking, that at first you nearly didn’t hear him come in. You sit up to greet him with more eagerness than you’d like to show. The nightmare didn’t stop your affection for Drift from rearing its persistent head.

There’s no waiting for him to give you his time today. When he enters the room, his focus is immediately on you with no prior distractions. Drift walks with a spring in his step, his finials perking up like an enthusiastic dog. You notice a small white box he holds in one hand, and think nothing of it. Drift’s room is decorated with countless knickknacks from other planets. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s brought some strange little souvenir home.

“Hey, big guy,” you murmur happily when he kneels down before you. He settles the box to the side and cups both hands behind you, humming his typical car engine-purr greeting. You hug him when he draws you forth so he can nuzzle his nose into your middle. “I’m guessing you missed me?”

Drift beep-boops excitedly. He gives you an affectionate tickle to your side, causing you to giggle. Your reaction delights him. He keeps it up, and pretty soon you are laughing so hard your stomach hurts. “D-Drift, s-stop! I-I can’t breathe!”

He gives you one last light prod, then ends the bout of torture with more cuddles. You recover from the laughter, feeling airy and light like nothing else matters except for the giant robot holding you.

“Little one,” he coos. “My little one.”

“Mhm,” you mumble goodnaturedly. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m yours.”

He suddenly looks like he’s remembered something very important, and he straightens, chirping rapidly. You watch as he grabs the white box and, to your surprise, presents it to you. You glance at it, then turn to him. “For me?” you ask, pointing at yourself.

He chirps again and nods.

You take it from him and open it with a slight air of confusion, because he’s never given you something like this before. You think it might be a piece of jewelry, or some sort of charm. But what you see inside is neither of those things. You suck in a sharp breath of pure disbelief and go numb.

It’s a collar. A damn collar. Sleek and narrow, its solid red with a single white stripe circumnavigating it. On one side is a strange symbol of a boxy red robot’s face-the same symbol he has on his chest. These are his colors, you realize. He’s making us match. He wants the other mechs to know that he owns you.

Drift rumbles expectantly. When you remain frozen, unable to pry your eyes away from the collar, he gently pries it out of your now slightly shaking hands. With extreme carefulness, he clasps it around your neck. It fits comfortably and locks with a quiet click.

“My little one,” he repeats. “Mine.”

He’s not trying to scare you. You know he isn’t. Yet your throat is dry, and the snug weight of the collar makes you feel sick.

You need to get the hell off of this ship.

You spend the night feverishly trying to break the collar off, working yourself up like a caged animal driven mad by captivity. But no matter how hard you yank at it, it remains stubbornly fast around your neck. You refuse to eat the food given to you and cry yourself to sleep within a very concerned Drift’s belly, who can’t seem to console you no matter how hard he tries.

Drift doesn’t know what to do with you.

You’ve been moping ever since he gave you the collar. Over the next few days, any sort of drive to escape has left you. You're depressed and disappointed in him for what he’s done. You don’t want to talk to him. You don’t want to accept any of his gifts. Blanket after pillow after plushie-all made by him, with the crude markings of homemade love-are ignored. You shy away from his touch and reject his attention. When he swallows you at night, you give him no inclination you care. You sit like a stone within him and just…stare off vacantly, unable to ignore the collar around your neck.

He’s brought you to the ship’s doctor multiple times. On the first trip, the old red medic bot looked you over and finished his checkup with a shrug and dismissive chuff. The second time, he growled at Drift and waved him away. And on the third time, he didn’t even let him through the door. There’s nothing physically wrong with you. But mentally, how could they know? How could he know he’s hurt you? You trusted him to treat you with some level of respect despite your situation, and he had, until now. The collar was your breaking point. There truly is no way for him to ever see you as anything more than a pet, and it hurts you, because by god, you love him.

“…Little one?”

Drift calls out to you with a soft, sad tone. You huddle up tighter beneath one of your blankets and give no answer.

You hear him shift at his desk. There’s silence between the two of you that is not wanted. He heaves a low sigh and tries again. “Little one…please?”

Damn your heart, you can’t keep giving him the silent treatment when he sounds like he’s about to cry.

You push the blanket off of your head. Drift slouches in his chair, back bent like an old man’s. His finials are drooping, and the glow from his biolights is dimmer than usual. He’s obviously been letting his personal hygiene go for the sake of finding a way to help you, and it hurts to know he’s in this state because of your shitty attitude towards what he simply sees as a gift. The collar is a curse, but you can’t exactly tell him that, can you? This entire situation is all your fault.

It's the treacherous part of your mind which attempts to convince you of this. It partially works. Giving in, you sit up slowly, drawing the blanket tightly around your shoulders and tilting your head while giving him a questioning look.

He’s surprised by your action, like he genuinely wasn’t expecting you to respond to this extent. But he takes advantage of it. Drift offers you a hopeful smile and picks something up from his desk. He stands and walks to you, going slow. You don’t flinch when he crouches down to your level. The warm light of his eyes leaves a kind feeling on your skin.

Tentatively, Drift extends his hand. In his palm is a piece of chocolate, one of the many treats he has at his disposal to provide you with when he feels you are being especially good. It’s an olive branch. A reach in the right direction.

You hesitate…and then you think, Oh, what the hell. Staying mad at Drift when he has no clue he’s done something wrong in the first place won’t get you anywhere. So you accept the candy and take a small bite.

He sags with relief, exhaust whooshing from his nose as he watches you eat. When you're finished, he moves his hand closer, twining the palm around you and resting the tips of his digits against your head and sides. You hold his index finger, resting your forehead against it and closing your eyes as a sign of trust. But you feel guilty.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, knowing he won’t understand. But you say it anyway. “I love you. I love you so, so much. But you're destroying me. I can’t stay here anymore.”

A tear slips down your cheek. You don’t notice it until Drift gently brushes it away.

“I have to go.” Your voice breaks. “I need to leave. I hope you’ll learn why. And I hope you won’t hate me for it. I-I don’t think I could handle it if you did. Please don’t hate me. Please don’t think I hated you.”

Drift coos. His reply is indecipherable. You think he’s trying to comfort you…but you’ll never know for sure.

He doesn’t swallow you tonight. You don’t know why; maybe he thinks you need a break. Maybe he just wants to hold you in a different fashion this time. You stay awake hours after he falls asleep, your little form nestled in the crook of his neck while he snoozes on his stomach with his arms crossed beneath his massive pillow. You peer off into the darkness, listening to his quiet breaths.

For the longest time, you’ve thought of this room as yours and his. A space the two of you share together. Ours. It's fed into your delusional ideations of a future in which the two of you learn each other’s languages, where you stand on equal ground, you belonging to him and him belonging to you. A future where mechs and humans join hands and say “I see you. I know you. I understand you and you understand me. Neither of us is higher than the other.”

But it will never happen. The collar around your neck is physical proof. There is no future between the two of you anymore. If you want to be you again…you need to let Drift go.

You shuffle away from the bot’s neck and stand. The only parts of him that are lit up right now are the red symbol on his chest and the soft blue of his mouth. He’s so peaceful. This giant alien, who you know has fought in many battles from the scars you can see, is soothed by your presence. You, an insignificant little human being. The dynamic is honestly quite hilarious. You're like his very own version of a chihuahua.

You want to hug his nose, knowing you will never have another chance again. But Drift is a light sleeper, and you're testing the waters enough already. You can’t risk it. It pains you, but you drop your arms and turn away.

Using the metal ladder he made for you so you’d have easy access to his berth, you climb down and grab your knapsack. Quietly padding across the long expanse of the room, you make it to the door. It senses your presence and slides open. You force yourself not to look back when you walk out.

You wonder if he will cry for you when he wakes up and finds you gone.

The spaceship is ominous at night. The only thing you can hear as you traverse the hallways is your heartbeat pulsing in your ears. You're trying to be quiet; passing by multiple rooms with slumbering bots inside has you holding your breath and then letting it out in a forcefully slow, reedy wheeze. You are, after all, a mouse in a prison filled with cats; slow and steady and silent wins the race.

You survey the elevator when you get to it, at a loss of how you’ll possibly find a way to operate it due to how small you are. A miracle finds its way to you, however, in the form of a mech. This one you don’t recognize. He has a similar color scheme to Drift, but is noticeably bulkier, with a strange cannon sitting on his right shoulder and a blue eyepiece over the adjacent optic. All of his focus is on the datapad in his hands as he summons the elevator. You wait for the doors to open and for him to step inside before darting after him. Luckily he doesn’t look up once on the short journey. Your cover remains unblown when the doors part again and he heads off. You go in the opposite direction, because like hell are you going to follow the strange robot to someplace where there are probably more strange robots.

You slip in and out of sight, staying far away from any mechs who are awake. They do not see you, which means you are doing this right-though there are some alarming instances where you think you’ll be caught. One such occurrence happens when a tall, thin blue mech with a chest like the front of a helicopter nearly sees you duck into an open storage room for quick cover. Its single orb ominously scans the darkened room. You watch from beneath a large shelving unit, terrified out of your mind. You don’t move, nor do you make a sound, keeping a shaking hand over your mouth.

Finally, after what feels like hours, the mech stomps away. You let your head fall forward respitefully.

You know you're nearing your one-way ticket to Earth when you see bright yellow signs plastered on the walls with loud black alien words telling you to hurry left with the help of large arrows. Escape pod symbols, accompanied by a funny little robot mascot, are the giveaway. You feel a sort of giddy euphoria swell up within you. You're almost there. You're going to escape. You're going to go home. It all seems far too good to be true; sure, you’ve imagined this scenario happening over and over again, but you never really did believe it would happen.

You pinch your arm multiple times just to make sure you aren’t dreaming. This is not in your head. This is happening. You really are going back to Earth.

Your collar suddenly vibrates. And then it starts to screech.

You nearly jump out of your own skin. The alarm is loud, piercing, and undeniably going to alert someone to your presence. You slam your fists against it multiple times, but it doesn’t let up. Your heart sinks when the realization of what's going on hits.

Shit. He put a tracker in it.

You need to run. You shove yourself forward into a full-on sprint, dashing down the last remainder of this hallway, then turning the corner and seeing the numerous escape pods all lined up in the wall. You choose the first one, grabbing the edge of the circular door and pulling with all of your might. The tendons in your neck strain as you grunt and slowly bring the door back with you. Clamoring in, you give it one last heave before it shuts on its own and seals you inside. You hear the lock click into place. The entire cabin flickers to life, with the lights on and the control panel booting up. As you expected, everything is far too big for you to reach. But it seems you won’t need to. A loud robotic voice emanates from the central console, speaking to you in the native mech language.

Your collar is still going off. You don’t have a lot of time.

“I-I can’t understand you!” you yell over the din. “I’m a human, from Earth! I speak English!”

The voice pauses. Seconds later, to your amazement, it talks, and you can understand. “Language notifications made. Destination updated. Scanning…” A panel on the ceiling pops open, and a blue light filters out, washing over you. “Scanning complete. Species: Homo Sapien. Homeworld: Earth. Milky Way Galaxy. Status: Critically endangered. Suggesting immediate travel to Earth.”

You clap your hands. “Yes! Yes, that’s it! Earth, set the destination to Earth!”

�� “Destination set. Awaiting command to launch LOST LIGHT LIFEPOD 01.”

You are about to give the order when something slams against the door. You whirl around, your heart stuttering when you see who’s there. It’s Drift. He’s made it. And he looks horrified. With trembling fingers, he yanks on the handle. When the pod remains fastly shut, he pounds on the circular window with so much force the entire thing shudders and you think he’s going to rip it right off of its hinges. “Little one!” he screams, voice muffled beyond the barrier of glass. “Little one! Open��!” The rest of the sentence comes out as sharp metal shrieks.

You stand there helplessly. The pod once again inquires for your command, yet you can’t find it within yourself to speak.

Drift is doing everything he can to get to you. He’s like a rabid beast, clawing at the window, teeth bared in visible frustration. His biolights are going mad when he roars and sends his whole body into the door. This time, it does give a little. You can see some dents in the gray metal.

This…is a side of Drift you have never seen. It is desperate, vicious. And it terrifies you. You stumble back to the opposite end of the pod and curl up, hugging your knapsack to your chest like a child squeezing their favorite stuffed animal. Drift continues his futile attack on the door, but pauses when he makes eye contact with you. His face falls. His fists relax and slide downward to press palm against the glass.

He’s quiet as he seems to reflect on how he just presented himself front of you, then whispers heartbrokenly. “...Sorry.” Tears stream down his cheeks. His hot vexation melts away and exposes his remorseful center. “Sorry. Sorry, sorry, sorry. Little one. Y/N.”

Oh my god.

All noise ceases when you register what he just said. Your name. He said your name. He’s never done that before. You didn’t think he knew your name.

He learned to say it. For you.

Drift whimpers like a kicked dog, moving to crouch lower. “Y/N. Y/N, please. Stay. Stay with me. Please don’t go. I love you.”

You’ve changed his life. You don’t need to be told this. You know you’ve brought him a sense of joy he hasn’t felt in years. You didn’t come here of your own free will. But you freely chose to love him. You gave yourself up and became his everything while he became yours. Isn’t he your home? Isn’t he the one who saved you? Can you really leave someone who cares about you so much?

Your legs move on their own accord. Your heart beats with his and you take tentative steps towards the door. Drift twitters and gives you an encouraging nod, gesturing for you to keep walking.

Why do you want to leave him so badly? Why would you want to throw away this perfect life?

Your little human hands come to rest right over his massive robotic ones. You two are separated, but you think you can feel the warmth coming from him. Drift bonks his forehead against the window anticipatingly. “Come on,” he whispers. “Come on. It’s…okay. You're okay. Please.”

Your hands are human. You will never see another pair again if you return to him.

Your life is not supposed to be perfect. A human’s life is messy, and disastrous, and chaotic, and beautiful. His life is too, but not in the same way as yours.

“Goodbye, Drift,” you murmur, voice breaking. “LOST LIGHT LIFEPOD 01…take me to Earth.”

The escape pods hums and rumbles. “Command accepted,” it announces. “Preparing ejection in three…two…one.”

The last thing you see and hear before the pod lurches forward and rockets out of its dock is Drift’s agonized expression and his wrenching wail.

Your vessel speeds away. You get a fantastic view of the ship in all of its stunning glory. It felt so gigantic when you were inside, but from out here, you can fully comprehend its overwhelming proportions. You watch it rapidly shrink as you gain distance from it, until it's just another speck of light in the universe. And when you can’t even see that anymore, you allow yourself to collapse against the floor eagles-spread. You gaze up at the ceiling, feeling surprisingly hollow. There is no victorious sense of triumph, no excitement to return home. You don’t even know where home is anymore. Somehow, after everything you’ve gone through, you’ve come out even more lost than you already were.

The waterworks start shortly after the escape pod jumps into hyperspace. Heaving sobs, messy tears, you lie there and weep to the stars, not noticing when your collar finally stops beeping.

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voreaholics-anonymous · 11 days ago

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The Vore Enneagram

Preds

Type 1's: have very, very high expectations for their prey, and they know exactly what they want out of them. But don't worry, they hold themselves (and probably other preds) to a similar standard. They're going to be picky, but that pickiness best serves them to heighten their enjoyment. Their way is the right way, and they would rather miss out on a meal entirely than do it wrong.

Type 2's: are going to be the most loving, caring preds you can find. They will coo at and coddle and ease their prey into their guts the whole way because they want the prey to love them. They're hopeless romantics who will probably take the time to connect to their prey before eating them. Very unlikely to take unwilling prey, unless they're convinced that they can make them willing before they're digested. Also the most likely to be associated with safe vore where the prey isn't digested.

Type 3's: want to be the best pred (either in the eyes of other preds, or in the eyes of prey). Their self-worth is wrapped up in being a pred, they need the validation in some form or another, preferably in a measurable way. This could be their 'kill count', their size, a collection of trophies from their prey, you name it. Whatever they can do to to feel more superior than other preds, they'll do it. A 3 pred would never back down from a prey-eating contest, and they'll eat until they're about to pop.

Type 4's: wear being a pred proudly on their sleeve and make it their whole identity. In a world where everyone hates preds, a type 4 will own it in spite of everyone else. They might even enjoy framing how they're a pred as being a dramatic "bad guy." They're going to recoil at the mundane and try to find wild and crazy ways to devour their prey because they can't be like every other pred. They want to be seen for attention's own sake.

Type 5's: are probably going to be the most efficient preds of any other type. Not that they necessarily want to be the best (like a 3), but they do enjoy how good they are at it. This type is the most likely to have prey that they've captured in one way or another at the ready when they want them. In this sense, they see their "private stock" as a trophy to their competency as a pred. This type could also be the pred that just has to know what it actually feels like to eat someone and eventually just does it.

Type 6's: are kind of tricky...it could be that they're an unwilling pred that hangs around with other preds and feels like they have to eat prey to feel secure, it could be that a 6 pred is afraid of what they see as prey and have to eat them to be safe, they're just the most likely to have ulterior motives for being a pred, which is usually based in paranoia.

Type 7's: are the most carefree preds out there. "Whoops! I ate someone! Oh well!" This pred is very "no bad vibes allowed", and are going to be using vore as a way to keep themselves distracted from regular old life. They're the classic overindulgent pred; they eat more prey than they can handle and then they're pinned to the ground, groaning and full of regret as their prey digests, only to do it again next week, having learned nothing.

Type 8's: are going to be the emotionally unavailable preds that are blatantly uninterested in making connections with their prey. They will find it hard to be vulnerable at any point and will probably just eat you before you have the chance to see that side of them. They're also the most likely to be seen in public with a huge, squirming gut because they just don't care how they're seen. They won't make excuses or try to justify it to you; it's just who they are and you better not have a problem with it.

Type 9's: are most likely to find their comfort in eating prey. This type of pred isn't motivated by much and would rather take the lazier approach to mostly anything, especially prey. They're comfort eaters through and through, and you're their favorite meal. This is also the type most likely to be a pred unexpectedly when pushed too far. They see red, snap, and gobble up the closest meal because of all the resentment or anger that they've internalized.

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Prey

Type 1's: are the most disciplined and controlled prey. They take the whole experience of being prey very seriously, and they likely approach it with a sense of duty. They will likely struggle, but only enough to show their strength and principles before they submit. Being consumed can be about the greater good, or perhaps even a personal code of honor—they may feel that, in being eaten, they are fulfilling a necessary role or reaching a higher ideal.

Type 2's: are going to be the kind that offers themselves to a pred because they're just so infatuated with them. They can't be the prey for just anyone, it has to be someone that they've emotionally attached themselves to. Even if they aren't willing initially, an unwilling 2 might abandon their hesitation if a pred were to convey how much they would love to gobble them up. They will find themselves curled up in a stomach just to make their pred happy.

Type 3's: would be the most likely to put so much effort into being the most delicious prey they can be that they lose themselves in it. They would get off on being chosen out of a lineup to be a pred's meal. If a pred told them that they were the tastiest, most satisfying prey they had ever had, the 3 would have an ego flare that could be seen from space. That's the epitome of validation for a 3 prey and will have them moaning in their pred's gut.

Type 4's: like their pred counterparts, take pride in being prey because it makes them feel unique. With type 4 prey especially, they'll be drawn to the masochism of being a prey. They revel in the idea of how beautiful and final it would be to become food for another being and drink in the weird looks that they get when they proclaim that. 4's will probably love the idea that once they're digested, they become physically part of the pred, enshrined on their body forever as a reminder that the 4 gave themselves wholly to them.

Type 5's: are going to be very interested in knowing how it feels to be someone's prey. They abandon reason for the sake of knowing because they crave the feeling of competence. A type 5 will probably have some kind of preparation in place to escape a pred's stomach, whether it's a fantasy/sci-fi way or a leverage over the pred way, but ultimately they're the most prone to flying too close to the sun.

Type 6's: again, tricky. 6 prey are most likely to be unwilling because they're afraid of preds and being eaten. They're also probably the hardest prey to catch for a pred because they will take every precaution to avoid becoming food for them. Or, 6 prey could be so convinced that they are prey, that they go all in on letting a pred have them because they've been led to believe that's their purpose. Think kobold minion offers itself to dragon overlord.

Type 7's: are going to probably be an adventurous, willing prey initially, but then turn unwilling once faced the finality of it. Fantasizing about being prey is their escape and they probably get a lot of pleasure from it they're begging to be let out after the reality sets in. Though, it could be even sooner, with a 7 choosing (or trying) to bail out on it as soon as they see the pred open up their maw.

Type 8's: are most likely to either be the most unwilling prey you could want or to be assertively willing prey for unwilling preds. They will rage against their autonomy being taken when they're eaten, and they'll squirm all the way down, cursing, kicking, and berating the pred. If a pred wants a fight from start to finish, they can't go wrong with an unwilling 8. On the other hand, an 8 that owns being prey will likely be the one that gets a meek, unwilling pred to eat them one way or another.

Type 9's: are going to be your stereotypical passive prey. They likely won't really stand up for themselves when faced with a pred of any type, and are likely to be willing prey (whether they truly want to be or not). A type 9 would probably just go along with whatever their pred wants because it's just the easiest way to go. They have to be pushed pretty far to fight back, so if a pred wants an easy meal, a Type 9 prey is their best bet. Just don't expect as much squirming from them, at least until their survival instincts kick in.

#feel free to reblog with your type!#I'd love to see how you guys identify with this #I've begun to conceptualize one's enneagram type more as their instincts > personality and I find that very helpful #vore enneagram #v.ore #v ore #v/ore #vore.

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voraciousvore · 1 month ago

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The Tiny (Chapter 3)

Chapter 1 | Previous (2) | Next (4)

Content Warning: Mouthplay, vore themes, Chester being a creep, extreme cringe. I always disliked the chapter this was based on, but since I'm following the format/ events of the original story, I had to include this part. It's bad and too long, maybe just don't read it

Word Count: 4.9k

------ Chapter 3: Temptation ------

I wake up with a big yawn. With my eyes closed, barely aware of what I am doing, I cover my mouth out of habit. My yawn is choked by something entering my mouth. I clamp my jaws shut out of reflex.

Not something. Someone. She’s alive and moving, writhing with desperation. Puny limbs grapple with my tongue and claw at the roof of my mouth, exciting the predator within me. I brush aside the last cobwebs of sleep as my memories of the prior night snap me out of my daze. All at once, a delectable, voluptuous flavor permeates my tongue, one unlike anything I’ve ever tasted before. I repress a moan as my maw is deluged with drool.

She’s naturally sweet, yet has a savory undertone that rounds out her flavor perfectly. The taste is undefinable, rich and hearty and delightful, like a slab of chocolate fudge cake. I squish my tongue against her, feeling every inch of her tiny, curvy form. Oh lord. I barely restrain myself from swallowing her right then and there, sucking down my saliva instead.

I need to stop myself. My stomach roars like a beast. I can’t allow my urges to dominate me, to make the decision for me before my rational mind can sift through the implications. Straining with every muscle in my body to resist the animal need to swallow, I force my jaws open and drag the human out, plopping her into my palm.

Her legs bend like rubber beneath her and she clumsily sits in my head with a thousand-yard stare, trembling uncontrollably. I can hardly blame her, considering she almost died. My face puckers up with shame as I gaze upon the vulnerable human, drenched in my disgusting spit. Why was she in such a dangerous spot to begin with, right next to my mouth? She must’ve crawled up my pillow to gaze at my face out of curiosity, the foolish girl. I feel as if I should offer some words of comfort, but I’m not entirely sure what to say in such a situation. I should probably check to make sure she’s not hurt. Hopefully, I didn’t crunch her with my molars while in the throes of ecstasy.

“Um… sorry about that. Are you alright, little one?” She flinches, failing to answer me. The poor dear is terrified, no wonder. She’s on the verge of tears. The silence stretches out to an unbearable degree. I’ve never been proficient in uncomfortable social situations. I can’t expect her to break the ice, either.

“Well, if it’s any consolation, you did taste amazing,” I remark, with an ill-timed attempt at humor.

This statement does not have the intended effect. The human recoils in alarm, throwing up her hands in self-defense as she retreats into the curve of my fingers, as far away from my face as she can get. “P-p-please don’t eat me!”

My heart breaks as I chide myself internally over my stupidity. “I didn’t mean it like that! Really, I’m sorry.” I lower my voice to a softer tone as I bring her in closer to my eyes, the windows to my soul. I give her a tender, sincere look that I hope will reassure her. “I’m not going to hurt you, I promise.” I pray to whatever deity that may be listening that I can keep that promise, but I can sense my self-control slipping even as the words leave my lips. My tongue won’t forget her superlative flavor anytime soon.

Luckily, she seems to accept my words at face value. The reasoning makes sense: I didn’t swallow her when she was inside my mouth, and the whole thing was an accident to begin with, so perhaps she presumes she is safe. She puts on a brave face, hugging herself tightly to quell her shaking. I’m impressed by her courage, and I encourage her with a genuine smile. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

I stand up, perhaps too quickly, since she stumbles in my hand. I’m not accustomed to handling humans in a benevolent manner, so this is all new to me. There’s no danger of dropping her, however, as my hand is positively massive compared to her, probably as expansive as an entire room by her standards. I observe as her head swivels with amazement to drink in her unfamiliar surroundings. I can’t help but marvel at holding a sentient person so small. Despite my machinations to the contrary, my heart fills with tenderness.

I carry her into my bathroom, thanking my lucky stars that I had recently cleaned it. Even so, I doubt she would be too keen on bathing in a somewhat grimy sink. The bathtub would be impossibly large for her, an ocean. I place her on the countertop as an idea enters my brain.

“Stay here for a moment, I’ll be right back,” I say to her. As if she could go anywhere. I hasten over to the kitchen and grab a bowl from the cupboard. I return and fill it up with warm water from the sink. I add little splotches of soap and shampoo on the edge for her to use. She watches me warily, shirking slightly anytime my hands get too close. I examine my work, before realizing she’s too short to reach the edge on her own. I grab some assorted toiletries and stack them up to create makeshift stairs for her.

“Will that work?” I ask her, making a concerted effort not to fidget with my hands too much, since every stray movement unsettles the poor girl. She gives a small nod, then looks up at me with anxiety in her eyes like she’s expecting me to do something. I blink, my mind blank. Oh, she needs to undress! My face flames.

“Uh… hold on a second…” Thinking fast, I grab a washcloth. “Here. You can cover yourself with this. Give me your clothes and I’ll wash them for you.” She obeys, throwing her soggy clothes into a pile. Her tiny head peeks out from under the washcloth as I take them.

“I’ll be back in half an hour or so,” I assure her. Or perhaps warn her? I back out of the room and delicately close the door behind me. I let out a huge breath and hurry away to the kitchen, my heart pumping like a piston.

I plant my palms on the counter and hang my head over the sink, allowing my revolting mouthful of slobber to drain in long strands into the basin. I’m disgusted with myself, with my heavy panting, my dirty thoughts. I can barely contain myself, especially as I catch her intoxicating scent on her clothes. My stomach grumbles noisily in an immediate Pavlovian response.

I bring the clothes up to my lips, inhaling deeply through my nose. The fragrance is divine, even when hidden under layers of smelly spit. My tongue crawls out of my mouth and explores. Her taste lingers, albeit muted. I push the clothes into my mouth, relishing every microscopic iota of flavor I can extract from the cloth.

It’s fabric, not human flesh, so any pleasure I can derive from it is fleeting. An ugly thought burrows into my brain like a slimy worm. She’s unclothed and helpless right now, in the bathroom. Why should I settle for sucking on her garments when I can experience the real thing? Saliva floods my maw as I fantasize. What I wouldn’t do, to have her in my belly. It would be so easy. Just walk in, pluck her out of the water all nice and clean, and devour.

With a sigh, I spit the clothes back into my palm. I’m almost resigned, on the precipice of falling into the pitfall of hedonistic indulgence. Yet, a wave of disgust hits me as I scrutinize the clothes. They’re all rumpled and damp with my bodily fluids. And they’re so terribly small. Her shoes and socks are smaller than the nail on my pinky finger. Her little shirt and shorts would burst at the seams if stretched over my fingertip. And there’s even a diminutive bra, to cover mosquito bite breasts, and a feminine pink pair of panties…

Guilt stabs into me, digging under my ribs. She’s not just some animal. She’s a woman, a person, a sentient being, with her own thoughts and dreams. I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I ate her. I’m not remorseless like the rest of my family. I’m stupid and soft and I hate it sometimes. I let out a frustrated exhale and run the sink to wash the clothes.

Thankfully, the collection dries quickly since it’s so tiny, so my humiliating lapse in self-control doesn’t waste too much time. I collect the garments into my hand and return to the bathroom. I listen from the other side of the door, briefly, but I don’t hear any water splashing. I tap the surface with my knuckle, gently. “Can I come in?”

She squeaks an indistinguishable response. I open the door, keeping my moments slow and gradual. When there’s no exclamation of protest, I stroll in and approach the counter, where she’s curled up under the washcloth. Her eyes are so wide that I fancy they’ll bug out of her head. I don’t speak, since I know my voice will unnerve her. I simply deposit her articles on the counter and turn around to give her privacy while she changes.

“I’m done,” she whispers with a subdued cough. My heart flutters at the sound of that timid voice, unsteady yet so sweet. I face her and test the waters by offering my palm to her. She quivers like a leaf, and I can tell she won’t be able to step into my hand on her own. I bring my other hand behind her and encourage her forward, guiding her into my palm. She crouches down in the center, still on edge, her eyes never leaving mine.

I gingerly raise my hand up to my face. I drink in all the details with delight. She’s so cute. Her figure fills out her clothes nicely, with healthy curves that awaken my primordial appetites. My mouth waters anew and my stomach feels hollow, like it urgently needs to be filled. My heart starts to pound with a flurry of emotions. I need to get my urges under control, before I do something I’ll regret. I need to eat.

“Are you hungry?” I ask, trying to sound casual. She nods, too nervous to speak. I cradle her in my hand as I carry her to the kitchen. My heart is thumping harder, my digestive organs coming alive inside me. The hunger is so intense, I almost want to cry. I don’t want to be an unaccommodating host, but I’m getting desperate to consume anything. I abandon her on the dining room table and rush to whip up a big breakfast, heavy on the protein.

I pile up my plate with bacon, eggs, and toast. I would’ve added sausage and ham too, but I’m getting impatient. I force myself to remain calm as I set my plate on the table and sit in my chair. I must act like nothing is wrong, lest the woman sense the very real danger she is in.

“Sorry, I don’t have any dishes or cutlery in your size, so you’ll just have to eat off my plate,” I inform her. I pray I can control myself as I hold off the rising tsunami of my insatiable gluttony to separate a portion for my miniature guest. If I don’t do this now, she won’t get a chance to eat at all, because I’ll vacuum up the whole meal myself. Worse, she might attempt to snag a bite while I’m dining, and end up a bite herself.

Finally, for the love of God, I can eat. I dig into my vittles with ravenous enthusiasm, wolfing down the eggs and bacon like a starving beast. I know, rationally, that I should slow down to keep the human safe, but I’m so famished I can’t stop. I barely chew as I shovel great big bites into my gross oral cavity and gulp them down like my life depends on it. I throw caution to the wind, but by some miracle the woman doesn’t end up on my fork. I suppose she has the common sense to keep her distance as she nibbles on her portion, in stark contrast to my binging.

As I chomp my way to the bottom of my plate, a harsh reality sets in that I can’t ignore. The food is fine and good, but it pales in comparison to the gourmet living cuisine sitting at the edge of my dish. A human may be little more than a crumb in my capacious belly, but I know that she would fill me up more than a mountain of eggs and bacon. Humans are special prey to us giants, and the gustatory pleasures of this woman in particular...

I reach the last forkful of my breakfast. It disappears down my throat all too quickly. I’m not sated. I can only stare down at my empty plate with disappointment. Well... not completely empty. I fail to repress my rapacious bestial nature as my eyes flash over to the human. She turns white as a sheet, and I realize I’ve made a mistake. I soften my expression with an apologetic smile.

I need to put her mind at ease, perhaps with conversation to distract her from the culinary massacre she just witnessed. “Can I ask you a question?”

I almost ask her name, a natural icebreaker to get to know a new person, but the question dies on my lips. Is that such a great idea, to know the name of my future snack? Do I want to be haunted with her name after I mercilessly consume her? Do I wish to be corroded with that guilt, if I lose the battle against my powerful cravings?

Food doesn’t need a name.

Instead, I fumble to pick a query that I already know the answer to. “Where did you come from?”

“I-I’m not sure,” she stammers, fidgeting with her shirt. “I was driving my car, and-and it got struck by lightning... and somehow I ended up here.”

I scratch my chin in a performative display of contemplation, pretending as if such an occurrence is unheard of. “It must have been the lightning.”

“The lightning?”

“Yes. I was looking out the window last night and saw a brilliant blue bolt of lightning unlike anything I’ve ever seen before. I went out to investigate and... found you.” Warmth swells in my chest at the memory. I feel strangely possessive of her, despite scarcely knowing her. A tempting fantasy anchors in my heart, of keeping her for myself to quell my aching loneliness. I want her in contradictory ways, in her entirety, flesh and body and soul.

“T-that makes sense I guess.” Every word seems to be a struggle for her to enunciate through her fearful uncertainty. I find her subtle mannerisms, as she wrings her hands and wiggles her eyebrows, quite adorable.

Should I warn her of the truth? It hardly seems fair to keep her in the dark about the hazards of the giant world she has the misfortune to inhabit as her new home. “It’s not very often that we see humans here in the Land of Giants,” I explain. “And when they do find their way here, they don’t last very long.” I frown solemnly, bitter memories staining my thoughts.

“W-why’s that?” Her uneasiness shows plainly in her fine features.

I hesitate, choosing my words carefully. Perhaps it would be best to be direct, rather than sugarcoating the situation. I feel I owe her some semblance of the truth, if I choose to protect her. “Humans are considered a rare delicacy among us giants. Any humans who find themselves in our realm ultimately wind up in a giant’s belly.”

Her face drains of any color. Her muscles stiffen with terror, yet her fragile body vibrates uncontrollably. The conflicting sentiments of my volatile heart crack me down the middle as I strain to negate my sympathy. I shouldn’t be feeling these tender emotions towards my prey. I’m too sensitive. My father would be disappointed in me.

I pivot to an unsavory half-truth. “To be honest, if you hadn’t surprised me this morning by unwittingly falling into my mouth, I may have intentionally swallowed you.” I don’t tell her that I had planned to eat her from the beginning, and I will likely eat her in the near future.

She loses her last shred of composure and backs away to the edge of the table, her chest fluttering with rapid breaths. I can tell she’s inches from bolting, but she has nowhere to go. She glances over her shoulder to the precipitous drop below and stumbles in the opposite direction, clearly disconcerted.

She looks up at me, her eyes swimming in panicked tears. “I-I don’t want to die. I’ll do anything you ask, just please, please don’t eat me,” she implores.

The sight breaks me. My desire to reassure her overrides my more cold-blooded, calculated intentions. “Didn’t I already tell you I wasn’t going to eat you?” I claim. I internally wince at the disingenuous words, yet I persist nevertheless. “I’ve had plenty of chances to. If I was going to, I would’ve done it already. Hell, I could’ve easily gobbled you up with my breakfast. But I didn’t.”

Lies, all lies. It’s technically true that I resisted my carnivorous urges up to now, but the spirit of the statement is patently false. Even so, she’s sobbing and overwhelmed, and I feel terrible, so the lies continue to flow. She looks so helpless and alone on the expansive surface of the table, so I lovingly scoop her up in my hands and bring her in close.

“I may be a giant, but that doesn’t mean I’m a savage monster. I won’t eat you; I promise,” I murmur. I pray that I can keep my word; I’m not too optimistic on that front. I stare at her intensely, my heart bursting.

“Ok,” she sniffles. She’s calmed down a bit, but I’m not sure if she’s entirely convinced. My normally cozy cottage suddenly feels claustrophobic, with her enticing fragrance enveloping me with cloying tendrils in the confined space. In the privacy of my home, I worry it would be all too easy for me to succumb to my shameful perversions.

“Why don’t we take a little walk outside?” I suggest tactfully. “I think we could both use some fresh air.” I bring her over to the front door and open it. The world is fresh and shining with radiance after the rain. I breathe in the clean air to clear my mind. “Do you want to sit on my shoulder?”

“S-sure,” she quavers. I raise her up to my shoulder and allow her to find a secure spot. She tucks herself into the dip formed by my collarbone and clings to my shirt. “I’m ready,” she lets me know in a faint and tremulous tone.

I walk cautiously at first, keeping my strides slow and steady so that she can familiarize herself with her new perch. She’s in no danger of falling under my vigilant watch, but I’m sure my lofty height is intimidating for her. I try to enjoy my slice of the scenic woods, sparkling with dew, but all I can focus on is her tiny body nestled up to my skin, her dainty movements, her addicting scent. She overwhelms my senses with a pleasure even more potent than the warmth of the sun, the melodious chirping of the birds and bugs, the scent of trees and flowers and grass. I’m in heaven, with my own little woman to have as my own.

I find myself gravitating to the spot where I captured her. “This is where I found you,” I tell her. “You’re lucky you had your flashlight; otherwise, I may have stepped on you without even realizing you were there in the dark.” I conceal from her that I was actively hunting for her.

“Speaking of flashlight…” I spy a glow in a nearby puddle and pull out the miniscule light, just a luminous speck between my fingertips. “Here it is!” I keep searching with enthusiastic curiosity.

“Ah! Found your car!” I announce, lifting the miniature vehicle out of a slope below a patch of weeds. It’s so absurdly small, like a toy car that easily fits within my hand. I marvel at the intricate details and craftsmanship. Unfortunately, the windshield is shattered, and the exterior is charred from the blue lightning. “Wow, this thing is totaled. I don’t think you’ll be driving it anytime soon.”

I’m mildly dispirited when she doesn’t answer, but I don’t press her further. I straighten up and begin the journey home in quiet reflection. To my dismay, my urges haven’t subsided in the least. My heart is heavy with a painful burden. I know, deep down, that my willpower will not outlast my ceaseless hunger. I harbor a burgeoning fondness for my little companion. I don’t want to hurt her. I don’t want to kill her. But I desperately want her inside me.

“Hey, uh… do you know if there’s any way for me to get back home? Where all the humans are?” Her timid voice slashes through my distant thoughts. I stop to measure out a reasonable response that won’t reveal to her too much. I don’t want her to know of all the humans that I’ve eaten in the past.

“Not that I know of. Nobody really understands how humans managed to get here, and we only hear about your realm from the few we have found. And I think I can be safe in assuming that no giants have made it to the human realm, right?”

“Yeah.” Her tone is laced with despair. I’m saddened with the knowledge that she won’t last here much longer. I reach up and pet her with my thumb in what I hope is a comforting gesture.

“I’m sorry,” I say softly. “If there’s a way for me to help you, I will find it.”

Hollow, empty words. There’s no escape for her, and even if you had the power to help her, you wouldn’t. You’d swallow her down long before she’d have any chance to survive.

“Thank you,” she answers, oblivious to my inner dialogue.

I push those intrusive, unhelpful thoughts out of my head. There’s no point in pondering a scenario that’s impossible anyway. Even so, a trickle of guilt leeches into my chest.

You’re a monster. Nothing more than teeth and a mouth and a digestive system.

“I guess I should get some work done,” I remark, in an effort to alter the trajectory of my thoughts.

“Work?” The tiny lady sounds confused. Bless her heart. Did she think that giants didn’t have to work for a living? That we just stomp around the countryside, plucking humans out of their homes and feasting on them? Boy, that would be the life. Things would be so much simpler. How I wish I didn’t have a conscience.

“Yeah. I’m a freelance writer. I write stories and articles for magazines and other publications,” I elaborate. I enter my house and show her my den, furnished with my beloved computer on a sturdy wooden desk. I wrap my fingers around her, engulfing her in my fist. She struggles and cries for a moment, prompting my heart to beat faster with predatory excitement, before she relaxes again. I release her onto the desk. I fish her car and flashlight out of my pocket and place them next to her. She looks at her car with amazement, as if stunned that I could pick it up so easily.

“If you have anything in your car that you need, now would be a good time to grab it,” I point out as I settle into my chair. I try to distract myself from my incessant cravings as I boot up my computer and start typing away. Even so, I’m preoccupied, and I can’t help but shift my attention downward when I see that the little damsel is unable to open the doors to her toasted car. She looks so precious, as she strains her arms and braces her legs in a futile jerk, her puny face scrunched in concentration. I pinch the door with my thumb and forefinger and pull it open. To my dismay, the hinges on the door are weaker than I anticipated and I end up ripping the whole door off.

“Oops,” I mumble, my face heating. “I didn’t mean to do that.”

“It’s alright,” she graciously forgives me. “It’s not like I could drive it anyways.” She has a point, and I don’t feel quite so bad. I return to my work as she retrieves her personal effects. Even as I become absorbed in the task at hand, I’m always cognizant of her exact location on my desk. Her scent never leaves my awareness, and my eyes follow her as she explores the wooden landscape, interacting with the oversized office supplies and climbing up a stack of books. I’m charmed by her curiosity, and relieved that’s she’s becoming more comfortable around me, but I fear her complacency is misplaced. My senses tirelessly tracking her are an inevitable symptom of more sinister intentions.

The day passes into dusk, the sky darkening to orange outside the window. Unfortunately, as my breakfast breaks down into nutrients, my hunger waxes to an unbearable degree. I need to eat dinner soon, lest I snatch her off the desk and stuff her into my mouth, sucking her down my throat and relishing the sensations of her flailing in my stomach…

I swallow a sea of saliva. “I’m almost done,” I announce. My voice sounds too loud, even to my own ears, after the prolonged lapse in conversation. “Give me just… one… second.” I finish the sentence I’m typing with a decisive click of the keys. “I think that’s enough for today.”

I stretch out my huge body from my toes to my fingers with a loud groan. I use the opportunity to avert my gaze so I don’t come off as a creep when I utter the next phrase. Otherwise, I’d be fixating on my latest obsession with a ravenous leer. “Time for dinner.”

I know I should let the diminutive woman walk into my hand of her own volition, rather than grabbing her up like I did before, but I’m finding it harder and harder to restrain myself. Without asking for permission, I grasp her between my fingers, reveling in her shape and soft squishiness, before gently cupping her in my palm. To my surprise, she doesn’t resist me. She’s too trusting. It would be so easy, to just give in now. To end her life. To savor her on my tongue, crush her between my teeth, slurp her up…

Somehow, I make it to the kitchen without eating her or slobbering all over everything. I deposit her onto the counter and scrounge up some shredded cheddar and tortillas. “I was initially planning on making spaghetti, but I imagine that would be a bit messy for you to eat without a fork,” I chuckle. “I believe a quesadilla would be a little easier.”

Another lie. I just picked something quick because the need to fill my belly is rapidly eclipsing my empathy. I hasten to slap together an edible repast before my rational mind devolves into bloodthirsty savagery. I can’t let myself lose control.

I can’t keep thinking of her as just some prey animal, some generic, faceless human without a unique personality. Although I worry that I’ll regret my decision, I make a fateful choice. “What’s your name, little one? I wanted to ask you earlier, but I didn’t want to probe you with personal questions when you seemed so frightened.”

I wanted to dehumanize you and make you less of a person, so that when I finally slaughter you and savor your flesh, I won’t feel as guilty about my sin.

“M-my name’s Jaclyn, but my friends call me Jackie.” Despite her growing confidence, I still detect a tremor in her vocalization. She is compelling herself to be brave—foolish, so foolish.

“Can I call you Jackie?”

“S-sure.” I feel sick inside. In her naïveté, she regards me as a friend. “A-and what’s your name?”

“Chester.” I’m the man that will kill you and use your bones as toothpicks.

“Nice to meet you.”

“Likewise.”

Throughout the whole dinner, I act like the perfect gentleman. I grace her with tidbits of my meal. I help her drink from my cup when she’s thirsty, resisting the temptation to plop her into my beverage and chug her down. I keep the conversation flowing in a light and pleasant fashion. When she grows weary, I bring her bags with her into my bedroom and tuck her into my bed. I turn off the lights and close the door so she can sleep without intrusion.

I tiptoe over to the living room, sit down on the couch, and tear my hair out with frustration.

Chapter 4

#I kinda don't want to post on here anymore #It makes me feel like garbage whenever I do #but at this point it's a sunk cost fallacy #oh well guess I'll keep going

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ohthesearemyprey · 4 months ago

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As this blog seems to be a bit dead, I have decided to host a mini character lottery to revive it :)

(THIS IS THE ORIGINAL POST)

Lottery Game Info:

Ends Oct 12th 2024

ENDED!!

Rules:

The idea of this is fairly simple, comment the next number and you will be automatically entered into the lottery

For example, if the most recent comment has the number 5, you comment 6.

If you are the first to comment, comment number 1.

You may not comment more than once.

Only comments on the original post (that does include reblogs of this post since it does show up on the original post as well) will be counted.

YOU WILL HAVE YOUR COMMENT DELETED IF:

You are NSFW or KINK blog. I understand that I have a higher tolerance for interaction than most, but since the prize does mean interacting with me directly, I am not comfortable with that.

You are a hate centered blog, harassment blog, or any blog which has anything to do with either of these.

I will choose the winners through a random number generator. I will choose the order based on what number was rolled first, second, and third.

For example, if the generator chose 5, 3, and 8, whoever commented 5 would get first pick, whoever commented 3 would get second pick, and whoever commented 8 would get third pick.

There will be 3 winners, and depending on who wins first, they will get the following prize:

Will get first pick

Will get second pick

Will get third pick

Fairly straight forward, ya?

"So, what will I be choosing?" you may be asking.

The winners will get to choose, in their given order, which of these pred concepts they would like to become the proud owner of!

(I know they aint fullbody concepts, but, to be honest, I dont have that much time right now. If you are moot, and politely ask, I may do a quick fullbody sketch for you, its not gonna be anything detailed lol, but, again that's only IF you win)

I cant force anything, but I honestly would like it if these designs went to someone who draws them, and keeps their design in the SFW Vore community. I do love these designs, and its kind of hard for me to part with them. But I am hording characters lol, so I need to let them be free.

So ya! That's about it!

Comment your number folks!! ->

#e a/t #extreme cuddling #sfw vore

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sailorsenshishitposter · 7 months ago

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The anti Gojo fan club

"Are you sure you belong here?" Asked the oversized bouncer. Standing before him was a young teenage boy with pink locks and a school uniform.

"I think you'd be more comfortable at that place." He then pointed over to the club down the road (Weenie Hut Jr.'s).

"I think you have me confused with someone else. I'm pretty sure I'm on the list."

The bouncer then looked down and noticed four glowing, red eyes. He gulped and tried his best not to shit himself on the spot before moving aside and letting the boy in. Sighing in relief, the man let himself regain composure. It was then that he heard the most terrifying words in his life.

"Kenjaku, I told you that you were in charge of snacks! Honestly, I can't count on you for anything. It seems that I'M the one who has to do everything around here! Hey, you! How would you like to be apart of our dinner service instead of guarding that door?"

Sukuna said apart of as in literally. Everyone dragged the man in as the king of curses got his tools ready.

"Domain expansion, Malevolent Kitchen!"

______

Uraume was now busy cooking. They had a number of dishes in mind such as skewered intestines, "finger" sandwiches and some roasted thigh to name a few. As they were preparing the feast, the meeting began.

"Welcome, lowly peasants! Today marks our third annual villains assembly (totally not the bad guy version of AA that Gojo had forced on them). I see we have some new faces here. Care to introduce yourselves?"

A scrawny man stood up.

"M-my name is Ijichi and I joined because I can't tolerate Gojo's abuse any longer! He keeps spouting something about how "he's the 'honoured' one", and that's the reason why he's allowed to put kick me signs on my back and keep ding dong ditching my doorbell all night!"

The man then started to have a nervous breakdown and began to sob.

"There, there. You are among friends now. You see, everyone here has a reason for hating the six eyed bastard."

"Not me. I'm just here for the free coupon tickets!"

Sukuna sighed.

"Who is the guy again?"

"My name's Reggie Star! I've been on TLC's extreme couponing! Why does everyone forget I exist!?"

"Reggie, we've been over this. This is solely for those that hate Satoru Gojo. If you can't abide by our clubs rules then feel free to leave."

Suddenly Kenjaku began to choke himself. Sukuna gave him a curious glance.

"Sorry, you know how my vessel likes to act up."

Sukuna nodded in agreement.

"We need to end this meeting in two hours or else the brat will wake up and spoil the fun. Now, is there anything else worth mentioning? Speak now."

"When do we get to play board games?"

"Damn it Mahito, you know well enough that those festivities don't take place until after everyone has eaten!"

"Hey, what is that!?"

Everyone started to notice a figure that was clearly trying to hide behind the throne but it was useless.

"I can hear your mosquito like voice already, Yorozu! You know the rules, no girls allowed."

The girl then popped out and began to pout.

"Then why do Mahito and Kashimo get to be here!?"

"For the last time, Mahito is a curse who has no gender and the consensus was that while Kashimo "looks female enough", he is indeed still male."

Mahito then decided to taunt her.

"Yeah! What's so cool about girls anyway!?"

"Didn't you wear a school girl uniform while fondling breasts you created?"

"That was one time Jogo, and it wasn't even canon!"

"I've had enough of this. Someone escort her out!"

Yorozu screamed and thrashed so Kenjaku released Kurourushi outside. She immediately ran after the cockroach so she could study it.

"Dinner is ready."

______

After everyone had finished, Mahito asked the question he had been dying to know the answer to.

"Which tastes better? Humans or curses?"

Kenjaku then appeared."Let me help answer that."

Kenny then began to drag a screaming Mahito towards his palm and then proceed to vore him down.

"Thank you! He was getting on my nerves."

Kenjaku began to savor the taste of Maximum Uzumaki and then proceeded to vomit the curse back up.

"I'd have to say humans. How did my vessel put it? You taste like a rag used to clean up shit and vomit."

Sukuna then joined in.

"So it matches his personality?"

"Correct."

Mahito was now trembling on the floor when the king of curses looked down upon him.

"Kenjaku, won't you be a dear friend and put on some karaoke for the entertainment? I want to sing skyfall."

Jogo lit his pipe up and started getting blazed. He had been waiting for the curse to get his ass beat.

"This weed is so good Hanami. Where did you find it?"

".ti werg I"

"Nevermind..."

______

"Wherever you go, I go. What you see, I see."

Mahito was now running for his life as Sukuna walked towards him. He thought about hiding in the bathroom but then remembered a word of advice he read on Yoshihiro Togashi's twitter account. "Never shit alone, for if you do, the horny clown will come to decapitate you!"

"Why did Gege have to put me in Shonen Jump!?"

Something then grabbed him by his collar.

"Found You!"

"Look, if this is about all those times I cheated when I was the banker in Monopoly, I'm sorry! Please don't kill me!"

"Oh, we're not killing you."

______

Mahito was now placed inside a pet crate.

"What's going on!?"

Just then there was a knock at the door.

"Nanami?"

"I didn't expect to see you here Ijichi. I'm here because I was told that there was a curse that needs to be euthanized. Fortunately, I'm kind hearted and believe that even the worst animals have a chance at being reformed. It just takes proper discipline..."

The cage began to rattle.

"NOOOO! ANYONE BUT HIM! PLEASE, HAVE MERCY!"

Kento then picked up the handle of the carrier.

"Expect to be eating out of a dog bowl and being kept on a leash once we get home."

Everyone failed to realize that the two hour window had passed and Itadori began to wake up.

"Huh? What's going on? Am I dreaming?"

The crowd wasn't sure what to do until Kenjaku stepped up.

"Hello, son. It's a pleasure to finally meet you. I am your mother."

"Okay, I really am dreaming then. Something that crazy could only happen in my imagination."

"You're my special. You were the only one I didn't abort."

"Huh? No offense mister but you're really creeping me out. I think I'm just gonna head out."

After the boy left, Kashimo spoke up."

So how big was he?"

"Gross!"

Everyone knew that the god of thunder had a thing for the king of curses.

"All I'm saying is that they were identical twins right?"

"I've had enough of this filth! Youngsters these days!"

Out came a disgusted Gakuganji. He was clearly the biggest Gojo hater but it seems that he couldn't tolerate the crudness of today's youth. The club would never hear his guitar covers of Jimi Hendrix again.

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brick-a-doodle-do · 1 year ago

Note

Story idea! Which will contain tiny!tubbo tiny!baby michael and giant!ranboo

Tubbo lives alone in the tundra lands of snowchester with his son Michael, tubbo is known for studying and hunting mythical creatures, but after a harsh snowstorm and lack of food he ventures out one night and ends up meeting one of the mythical creatures he has been desperately searching for.

Noms are up to you, btw

yay no more creative slump! thanks anon :D

i kinda switched this around s little bit but i think it's still alright? i mean i didn't read it but eh

(bonus points if you know what the title's from! :3)

agony drips from me, poisonous remedy

wc: 2519

cw: sfw vore (unwilling prey + miscommunication/no communication), panic

—–—

Call him an idiot, call him insane, call his work useless, but he prefers ‘over it’. Because in the depths of all of his pinned up papers, half-finished sketches littering the floors and a thousand theories blurring his head, he has a son, who’s obvious struggles haven't gone unnoticed from Tubbo, and he is over his weird hobby.

He does try, he keeps up with Micheal’s schedule, making sure he’s clean and well-fed and gets to sleep on time, (Although he can't be positive on that because unless his frenzy has kicked up hallucinations, he’s fairly positive he’s heard Micheal’s muffled snorts from just outside his office.)

Tubbo knew about that. He knew his son was distressed and isolated and tired and curious, yet he still persisted with the thing he couldn't even call work, it was just a hobby he clung onto desperately like it was pumping air into his lungs.

So, the recent storm was rather eye-opening. At the first crack of thunder and blast of lighting, Tubbo found it mildly distracting, while Micheal’s panicked squeals had traveled through the mansion and right to Tubbo's office, where the boy then threw himself at his father, burying his face into Tubbo’s chest with panicked breath. Tubbo had jumped at the contact and shuffled his papers around before scooting back to tend to his son.

“Hey, hey, it’s just a storm, the thunder can’t hurt us,” Tubbo reassures, rubbing circles into the kid’s back. Micheal squeals as another clap of thunder echoes from the sky and rattles the windows of the office. Micheal’s grip on Tubbo’s vest tightens and he has to suppress the urge to wince under the pressure of his forming claws. “It's just passing over us,” Tubbo says, although he can't be sure about that, the weather has been showing signs of storms all week.

Another flash of lightning leaves Tubbo jumping at the way the windows light up at the streak, just a mile too close for his word to stay true. Presumably having felt Tubbo’s jolt of fear, Micheal sobs a little, still huddling close to his father for comfort. Tubbo sighs, tearing his wary attention away from the window and turning to focus on his papers, bullet points about a deity blurring together even more than usual at his worry. He moves his attention from his work and focuses on his son, still shaking with sobs. A wet spot has formed on his jumper from the kid’s tears, meanwhile Tubbo is stunned at what to say. He’s never been the most emotionally available, or if he was he wasted it all on useless attempts at humor to try and calm down Tommy.

This was his son, and this was not a laughing matter. He stands, his chair sliding back along the wooden floor with a wince-inducing scrape, to which he ignores and focuses on supporting his son. “We haven't had thunder for a while, so, you know what that means?” Tubbo asks, using old techniques Schlatt had used when Tubbo wouldn't be quiet.

“What?” Micheal asks, smally, voice broken from his tears.

Another clap of thunder. Micheal gasps softly at the sound.

“When there's a clap of thunder, you count the seconds between it, and that's how many miles away it is,” Tubbo informs him, still rubbing along his back as he navigates through the mansion.

The hybrid pulls away from his chest, still secure in Tubbo’s grasp but now facing him eye-to-eye, looking a little suspicious of Tubbo's claim. “Not true?” Micheal inquires. Tubbo cracks a smile and shakes his head.

“It's true! Listen, let's wait for the next one,” he says, heading down the grand staircase to find their way to the family room.

Micheal’s eyes avert his gaze and instead move beyond him to watch the windows, spirit enlightened. Tubbo finds the lift in demeanor satisfying, though without a problem to worry about he finds his mind traveling back to the creature studies sat in his office. Supposedly considered deity amongst the End and the Nether, and the very last creature he has in an old book of monsters he found as a kid.

He’s never been so riled up over finding something, but Ranboo proved so important that Tubbo would forget his own son in their time of panic.

Tubbo plops on the couch, Micheal falling with him, just in time for another clap of thunder. “Alright! One, two, three—” Tubbo is cut off as Micheal takes over.

“Four, five—” Boom! The windows rattle and a few pieces of lopsided furniture shudder. That’s odd. It hadn't been so close before…boom!

Micheal squeals. That was loud.

“Hey, hey, bossman, you're alright! It's just thunder,” Tubbo says, holding his boy tight while keeping his eyes glued to the pitch-black windows.

“Too close!” Micheal squeals out, his hybrid coming out in a fit of snorts and whines that make Tubbo’s heart ache. Why did he tell him about the distance method?

He considers calling Phil, but he doubts his communicator will work in this storm. The loud rush of rain hitting the window becomes apparent to him the more it picks up, rapidly thumping on the glass panes. Micheal’s crying again, his body quivering with every hiccup.

“Hey, baby, you're okay,” Tubbo whispers. He can't handle this. Boom! “Bud, how about a special trip to old man Phil? I bet he and Technoblade can help, huh?” He asks, bouncing the hybrid on his knee. All that Michael responds with is a childish sob.

His heart twists. Tubbo pulls him close, picking the kid up. He can make it to Phil and Technoblade's cabin, and then he can just…pick up where he left off with his work. You know, unless he dies.

Tubbo’s footsteps softly echo around the high ceilings, just barely audible against Micheal’s crying. “We’re going to go out to uncle Technoblade and old man Phil’s cabin, alright Micheal? They’ll know what to do,” Tubbo informs, sliding into his shoes and setting the kid down by the door. “Which coat do you want, bossman?”

Micheal hiccups, staring up at Tubbo with confusion in his eyes. For the most part, it goes unnoticed while he opens up the chest of their jackets and shoes.

“I don't want to be in storm,” Micheal says, frowning. Tubbo pulls a coat from the chest and pulls it around himself, grabbing another one for extra good measure. He zips the two up then crouches down to eye level with the piglin.

“I know, I know. We just need to get somewhere a little safer, okay? Their houses are more prepared for this,” he lies, knowing full well that while he knows the storm is coming closer, he really was orchestrating this so he could just get some quiet work time, no matter how bad he felt about it.

Micheal, at the very least, seems to buy it. “Okay…I want red, Techno color!” the piglin says, squealing in delight at his own mention of Technoblade.

“Ah, what did I expect,” he chuckles, pulling out a red raincoat from the chest and carefully pulling Micheal’s arms through each sleeve, then buttoning it up gently. Micheal flaps his hand as Tubbo pats his chest to let him know he’s ready to go. Tubbo pulls out his wellies, a blue pair to take after Tommy, (Who he’s quite sure took after Ghostbur), then hands them to micheal to fit on. In the end, Tubbo is fighting down his overwhelming guilt of letting Micheal go for the storm.

He's adorable, already abandoning fear because he looks like his uncles, (And his flaunting his excitement of the fact). Techno’s old raincoat almost pools at Micheal’s feet, the faded thing barely fitting yet somehow keeping Micheal in complete bliss.

“You look dapper,” Tubbo compliments, one last time reaching into the chest and grabbing out an umbrella before closing it. “Ready to go visit Philza, bossman?”

Ultimately, Micheal looks a little uncomfortable at the thought of going out into the storm, although the thunder has been distant recently and Tubbo can tell Micheal has registered that.

“I think!” he responds, voice wavering before gaining confidence near the end. He smiles shallowly.

With one arm, Tubbo lifts Micheal up into his hold again, the piglin snorting at the quick movement. He switches the umbrella to the hand holding Micheal and opens the front door, pulling at it until it finally opens with a pop!, leaving him stumbling at the sudden jerk. He keeps it open with his foot and steps out, shielded from the pouring rain under the thin awning. The door slams shut behind him, nearly causing him to drop the umbrella as Micheal jumps at the sound and digs his fingers into Tubbo’s already-sore sides.

He huffs out his pain and slides open the umbrella, which clicks as it locks. Tubbo raises it above their heads and steps out into the storm. Immediately, the constant stream of rain against the material above their heads pounds in Tubbo’s ears, even as damaged as they are.

Boom!

Immediately, Tubbo hears Micheal whisper under his breath: “One, two, three four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten—” Boom!

“Ten miles is pretty far,” Tubbo comments, trudging through the thin layer of snow that he’d just shoveled earlier today. It mixes into a sludge with the rain, crunching under his boots in a pleasing manner, something to distract him from his desire to study and his worry of making it through the path to Techno’s cabin. It also distracts him from the impending feeling like he’s being watched.

He tries to convince himself that isn't true, for the most part, even though he does give in with a quick look around his surroundings. The only thing he’s ever met with is the comfort of being alone with just him and his boy.

Wind laps around them, the thunder and lightning seemingly having passed already, the only applicable features of the storm remaining being the strong rain and the surprisingly aggressive winds. He can barely see anything, let alone hear anything outside of the wind in his ears, Micheal’s hushed shivers and whimpers, and the rain on the umbrella. All the mobs have taken a rest for the night, thankfully, but it only leaves him in suspense.

Who had eyes on him if not a zombie or a creeper?

Who was watching him from above, threatening the security of him and his son?

About halfway through the forest to Techno’s cabin, he pauses at the sound of something shuffling. Micheal hums at the motion, his attention also caught on the noise. Perhaps he would've passed it off as a victim of the storm, but it seemed too orchestrated, like something running into a bush. He tries putting it behind him, whispering a reassurance to both himself and the boy.

Tubbo makes it two steps before there's another rustle. Now, he stops. Full-fledged freezes, subconsciously holding Micheal a little closer. His grip on the umbrella handle tightens until his knuckles run pale while he spins around against the wind to look around.

The hue of something red and green catches his eye. Too large to be anyone's communicator or any of the server’s eyes. Too vibrant for a coat or anything of the sorts, too colorful for an animal, no, this was the watchful gaze of Ranboo.

It fit the description of their eyes, the giant creature often hunched low to the forest floor, said to be a nod to their connection with the Nether.

Tubbo can’t help the excitement that flares up against the fear. Ranboo was feet from him. He has been searching for so long—he finally can care about his son the way he needed to.

“Papa?” Micheal inquires, presumably noticing the way Tubbo has stopped in his tracks again.

Tubbo shushes the piglin. “Hold on for a second, bud,” he says, hiking up the kid before he slips out of his hold. Micheal seems to relax, resting his head on Tubbo’s shoulder while he waits.

Meanwhile, Tubbo stands, staring at the vibrant eyes in the foliage ahead.

“Ranboo,” he whispers. The eyes lift up a bit, like the mention of their name intrigued them. Tubbo’s spirit lightens immensely.

A crack of lightning charges through the sky, lighting it up enough for him to make out a rough outline of the crouching monster. “Woah..yeah, that's you, Ranboo!” He says slowly, more of a reassurance to himself than anything.

“You're Ranboo, right?” Tubbo calls out to the forest. The eyes disappear for a moment before reappearing as the creature blinks.

There's a small vwoop! that echoes through the forest. Micheal perks up at that, turning his head in the direction of Ranboo. Against his fingertips, even through the raincoat, Tubbo's feels as Micheal tenses up.

“What's that?!” the kid demands, fear inflicted in his voice. His pink fur has risen at the fear he emits.

“It's nothing to be afraid of, just an important thing I've been looking for,” he informs the kid. Micheal doesn't seem to relax.

Ranvoo releases another vwoop! which is shadowed with a glk! that echoes from their throat.

Suddenly, a thick tail with a furry, split-colored tuft is extending from the forest and into the clearing, rising high above them before, strangely prehensile as it curls around Micheal’s small form, somehow breaking the boy's contact with Tubbo. Micheal squeals at it, crying out for his dad. Before he has the time to react, Micheal is plucked from his grasp and swept up in Ranboo's tail, becoming a speck of pink amongst a sea of black and white.

“Hey! What the fuck?!” Tubbo yells, immediately dropping the umbrella to run after the retracting tail. The rain pours into him immediately, wind rushing in his ears and pushing him as he trails after Micheal quickly. He stumbles over his feet, ankles rolling at his attempts to stay sturdy in snow.

Tubbo can just barely hear Micheal’s panicked squeals and snorts while re-entering the forest, quickly behind the tail as he runs uselessly towards his son. “Ran-Ranboo! Sir–um, oh my god, surely you doing need to do that!” Tubbo calls up, watching from the shadows as Micheal is lifted effortlessly into Ranboo's two-finger hold, dangling him in open air, infuriatingly oblivious to his panic and sobs.

Tubbo’s heart sinks when he watches through another streak of lightning illumates the forest around them, as his son is drawn to Ranboo’s open maw, a fit of sobs and garbled calls for his dad and screams to stop.

Immediately, he runs closer to the giant, who’s still crouched over the clearing.

“Oh god, oh my god, what the—RANBOO!” Tubbo yells, hands cupped over his mouth desperately. Rain pours down into him as he runs, causing him to stumble in the mud. As he approaches, he realizes quickly he can barely reach the edge of Ranboo's leg despite his immediate attempts to jump at it, and at another clap of thunder and bolt of lightning, he’s craning his neck in horror as he watches a lump in the deity’s throat travel down.

—–—

taglist: @i-am-beckyu, @skullsnbruises, @nobodywritingao3, @krazycat49, @da3dm, @a-xyz-s // taglist request

#brickquiries #anon brickling #mw #brickfic #mcyt g/t #mcyt gt #dsmp g/t #dsmp gt #dream smp g/t #dream smp gt #t!micheal #t!tubbo #g!ranboo #tw vore #safe vore

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mousegirlvorecast · 6 months ago

Text

Hi there! Welcome to my vore side blog! I interact from @mousegirlpodcast !

If you are not 18+ GET THE FUCK OFF MY BLOG OR ELSE!!!

Otherwise welcome to the show! More details about who you’re talking to under the cut!

We are mostly into fatal and unwilling vore so expect a lot of that! Also expect oral, anal, unbirth, and cock vore; along with digestion and hard vore!

My writings can be found under #my writing

Our DMs are always open and so is our ask box! Please interact! Some of us don’t bite!

Speaking of which; we are a system! We will try to tag our posts with who is talking so here is everyone that will generally be interacting with this blog (note that this isn’t all of us, just those who run this blog

Dari: the mouse this blog is named for! She is a small pathetic bratty prey who will always fight back, and will try to trick you with either her words or inventions.

Hazel: the body! Another mouse but not as pathetic. If you’re talking to a mouse it’s more often Dari but hazel appears here too. Also a prey usually but can be willing at times.

Francis: a strong demon pred who will hunt you down. Is known to be quite cruel and gets off on the suffering of her prey. Has on very very rare occasions been known to sub or be prey but don’t count on it

Azalea: the opposite of Francis, a kind angel who may be a pred for softer willing scenes; but is also down to be destroyed and consumed.

Kai: a kitty switch who is arrogant and thinks she’s stronger than she is. She can sometimes be crueler than Francis but rarely gets the chance to be before she gets pinned down.

Lily- our puppy switch, she is very excitable and will most likely agree to whatever you say; she does have a sadistic streak if she thinks you’re weaker than her though

Phoenix: a human girl with fire wings who tends to overestimate her ability to fight back. An unwilling prey most of the time

Aria: an owl affini hybrid who finds more pleasure in hunting down and consuming sophonts than bringing them comfort. A pred all the way.

Trixie: a slime girl switch who is more go with the flow no pun included

#all of us

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stomach-rental · 1 year ago

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this is a very silly question, but what is endosoma? i've seen it tossed around here and there but i haven't seen an explanation

also, why do some character names have slashes (the /) in them?

Hi! It's okay, it gets a little confusing around here sometimes.

Endosoma is a concept similar to vore, but not quite as specific. It's about being inside of another person's body, but includes all Kinds of parts of the body, not just the digestive system-- heart, lungs, nerves, muscles, you name it! All vore is endosoma, but not all endosoma is vore, sort of like the rectangle/square type deal. It's very popular in "vore-type" media, especially from the late 1990s and 2000s, to use endosoma instead of vore since endosoma can be more exploratory, alien, and strange. It's also definitely less close to sexual-- after all, usually people are much smaller in endosoma and are inside of ships or similar things, so it's not as easy to push into the whole person on person dynamic. Think Innerspace, Magic School Bus, Fantastic Voyage, etc.! But there are types of endosoma where it Is just someone in the body instead of utilizing some ship, more popular with non-human anthropomorphized settings where parts of the body are actually little people running things, and those parts can be really cool too.

Endosoma is hard to come by due to the mass popularization of using endosoma as a catch-all term for safe vore, despite safe vore having its own terms already. This means that actually finding real endosoma content that isn't Just Vore is super hard to come by, and that's part of why I've been advocating so hard for people to separate the tags and only tag endosoma if it's beyond just the stomach/mouth situation (even though vore Does count as endo). It just makes it so hopefully we'll not be trying to find a needle in a hay stack anytime anyone wants to talk about endosoma specifically, AND ensures that people that might be triggered by this more body-horror-accommodating concept don't accidentally come across it while trying to go through their usual interests.

Some people use slashes or other things to break up names of characters directly from outside media that is not vore related, because Tumblr will automatically group those in with the *normal tags for that show/game/etc.*, leading to people finding the vore who were NOT wanting to see it. By putting the dashes and other separations in the way, Tumblr doesn't screw up the search system, and it's safer! Of course, I don't typically do that with my stuff because Getting In Deep is a vore centered story, and anyone looking for it is obviously going to be comfortable with vore to some extent that they will Expect it to show up. Same with OCs-- not that my OCs are usually vore centric, but. You know. Nobody's gonna be searching for them so they won't get surprised by it, which means there's no need to break up the names.

I hope that answers your questions!!

#asks #endosoma #safe vore

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ckret2 · 2 years ago

Text

*pulls up a chair, turns it backwards, and straddles it with my arms casually resting on the back*

Hi guys. We're gonna talk about vore. In a serious and non-judgmental manner. For five minutes we'll treat it like it's not a joke kink. Thanks.

So something not all of you know about me is I'm asexual; and something probably even less of you know about me is that I'm the kind of asexual who's fascinated by sexuality and kink, like an anthropologist studying a culture with norms and beliefs that are foreign to me. I'm intrigued by what makes people's sexualities tick and what it is that appeals to them about kinks that outsiders see as bizarre or completely incomprehensible.

I maintain a strict "we don't kinkshame here" policy; I'm personally disinterested in but comfortable discussing niche kinks ranging from inflatable pool toys to the earlier-mentioned oculolinctus; and I know that when I have a writing question like "what does poop taste like" oftentimes the most detailed and helpful information will come from people with fetishes that make most of the Internet gasp in horror, and I deeply appreciate their invaluable contributions.

So when I express surprise that I got someone into vore, it's because I have a specific idea about what vore entails that comes from—you guessed it—seeing lots of vore art.

From what I've witnessed, in most cases, it takes more than just "eroticized cannibalism" to make a work "vore." Like if two cannibals are having a sexually-charged dinner over a delicious homecooked meal that we know was once human, there is something kinky going on here, and the cannibalism—the knowledge of a life ended, the taboo, the horror—is part of that kinkiness; but if you ask how many people are engaged in this sexual encounter, the automatic answer is "two," the couple eating. Not "three." The meal isn't humanized. It's an edible sex toy, a prop. It's meat.

To my mind, "erotic cannibalism" isn't "vore" until the meal is a person. That doesn't just mean giving them dialogue; but treating them as a participant in the sexual encounter. Either the subject from whose perspective we are to view the encounter, or the object of desire on whom our erotic gaze is meant to linger.

Think of it this way: if you replace the human meat with beef, is it now just a story about eating steak? Then it's not vore. On the other hand, does it now inherently become a story about eating an anthro cow, because the "beef" had enough personhood that you can't consider it "just" a cow? That's vore.

Consuming a human(oid) body doesn't constitute vore, but rather consuming a human(oid) life. A consciousness—an identity—must be swallowed. If that's missing from the encounter (say, if someone is devoured but their personhood is ignored by the creator as irrelevant; or if parts of a person are consumed, but their seat of identity—their mind, their soul—remains undevoured), then to me it's not yet vore. It's "just" cannibalism.

And so—by my own understanding of vore—I've never written vore.

But like on the other hand I have written about a cannibal who gets off to biting off chunks of his lover's flesh because he fantasizes about consuming his still-beating heart to make his beloved a part of himself; so like, okay, sure, let's be real here, I've gotten close enough to count.

The fact that it doesn't "feel" like vore to me until a life (as opposed to mere flesh) has been swallowed doesn't mean that to other people what I've written won't hit the same buttons that vore hits for them—because the edges of any one person's sexuality are nothing if not nuanced and blobby and blurry and no two people's ideas of what gets them off (and thus no two people's ideas of what makes for a specific kink) will ever be exactly the same.

All of which is to say:

Yeah I was genuinely surprised when somebody said I got them into vore lmao, legitimately my first reaction was "how tf did I get somebody into a kink I myself don't have?" BUT the fact that I can "feel" a hard dividing line between "vore" and "horny cannibalism that isn't vore" doesn't mean that other people feel it's there. It's interesting and enlightening to hear that for somebody, there is no difference in what I wrote, and I did actually, genuinely introduce them to a kink I don't see myself as sharing. I think it's kinda neat.

(So, anon who wrote in, if you're still around: I hope my surprise didn't come across as derision! I was genuinely fascinated to hear that. And I do appreciate getting this random opportunity to talk about unusual kinks on main.)

Okay, lecture over, class dismissed. Y'all can go about your day.

#about my writing

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fiber-optic-alligator · 19 days ago

Note

ALLIGATORRRR

GIVE US PRED VIKTOR FIC

AND MY LIFE IS YOURRS

(Shnddnbdbs i’m so sorry-)

OKAY OKAY FIIIIIINE LOL

Glorious Consumption

Pairing: Arcane Herald Viktor x Reader

Summary: After being found and captured by the feared herald who is ushering in a new world, you realize you have met a terrible fate in which there is no way to avoid.

Word Count: 1393

I wrote this in one sitting because I was so into it and I really hope this is what you are asking for!!!

WARNING: THIS STORY CONTAINS SOFT, SAFE, SFW VORE. IF ANY OF THIS MAKES YOU UNCOMFORTABLE, PLEASE DO NOT READ.

The man who looms before you is anything but a true man anymore. Twin pinpricks of sickening gold flicker and focus upon your trembling form through a twisted mask that splits the face of what was once human in two, separating the shut eyes and the tightened lips. His staff quietly clink, clink, clinks with each step he takes; slow, leisurely, like he knows you have no chance of escaping. Yet still, you scoot backwards, a whispering plea for mercy escaping you with the breathlessness of someone who doesn’t wish to meet their fate.

“Poor little one,” the herald says, voice soft and deep, everywhere and nowhere, rumbling straight through your tiny body and striking into your soul. “So lost, so alone. Did you come seeking salvation? Redemption from the flesh?”

“Please,” you say. “Please. Don’t hurt me.”

“Hurt you? Why would I hurt you?” The herald bends a knee. Despite how gradual his movements are, they still cause you to flinch. “I only wish to heal, little one. Suffering has no place in my perfect world.”

Massive fingers, dark violet and warped by magic, reach forwards. Your eyes widen and you quickly bow your head, staring down at your own curled fists. Tears drip onto the floor and your skin, heart pounding, brain screaming for you to run, run, danger, run. Yet you are frozen, unable to wrench yourself from this fatal spot. The herald has rendered you terrified beyond your capable limits of handling such extreme emotions. Such power radiates from him, Unearthly. Eldritch. Arcane.

Those fingers curl around you, cupping you in a loose hold with warmth pressing against your spine while his thumb grazes your cheek in a gesture of comfort not suiting him. Your stomach does flips when you are raised up, your face scrunching in visible discomfort.

“Shhh.” You vibrate with the timbre of his voice. “Don’t tense. You are fearing a conclusion which shouldn’t be feared at all.”

Your eyes dart around you, flickering to the beings surrounding the herald like a protective shield. Mechanical denizens of perfect abundance, gold and white with dead eyes all staring straight at you. Marks of the newborn god currently holding you are imprinted on their faces: fingerprints signifying their change into something terrifying. You don’t want that. You want to remain you. So you continue to cry, choking on your own sobs. “Don’t turn me into one of them. Please. I-I don’t want to be like them.”

The herald is silent. He moves his thumb to your chin and forces you to tilt your head up. You have no choice but to meet his gaze. There’s no emotion, no sign of anger or pity. He’s just…blank.

“Why do you fear becoming so much more than you already are?” he asks.

“I don’t want to lose who I am. I don’t want to disappear.” You begin struggling just a tad bit, clutching his thumb tight and giving him your most pleading look. “Please. Please don’t make me go away.”

Again, there’s a pause. Then he sighs. “I do not like seeing you so terrified of me. It is…saddening.” He gives you a squeeze you think is supposed to be comforting. “If you do not seek my healing, then I will not force it upon you. I fear I may end up breaking you if you are not willing.”

Relief settles upon you. You want to give him a thousand thanks for sparing you. But he cuts you off. “However…I cannot simply let you go.”

Disbelief shatters your gratefulness. “W-What?! You’re going to kill me?!”

“Did I say I was going to kill you? Worry not, little one. No harm will befall you as long as I am around.” He hums. “I…do not feel comfortable allowing you to wander unsupervised. You could be hurt. Or worse. Plus…” He brings you close, and you feel some sort of inhalation tousle your hair as he somehow breathes in your scent. “You have a tantalizing aura. I feel…I can make use of you.”

“Make use of me?” you echo weakly.

“Your energy. It will give me the necessary power I need to continue the glorious evolution.” He sees the way your face falls, and he’s quick to comfort you. “Rest assured, I will not hurt you. Nothing I do to you will end up with you wounded or dead. It may be a bit…eh, uncomfortable at first, but I think you will grow used to the feeling. I will even coach you through it.”

“Coach me? Coach me through what?”

The herald’s eyes burn. “Being drained.”

You go pale with horror when the middle of his mask slowly splits into a mouth, strings of black connecting between jutting, razor sharp teeth and saliva dripping from the roof like ugly droplets of oil. You stare into the cavern of hypnotic colors that pulse in and out like breaths, drawing you forth with whispers invading your brain, ushering you on, begging, pleading, please please come here come to us we need you we want you please. A long, serpentine tongue slithering out to lick your cheek makes you cringe back with the terrible realization of what is going to happen to you: you are about to be eaten alive.

You scream and flail. Shoving his fingers, trying to free yourself, not even caring if you drop to your death. “Stop! Stopstopstop, please! Don’t do this, I’m begging you!”

The herald ignores you. Feet first you are slipped into his mouth, tongue curling around your legs and slowly bringing you into the hot, moist maw. You grab the ends of his teeth and hold on for life, resisting the insistent tugs of the gigantic muscle. The herald sighs wearily. He brings a hand up and starts to carefully pry your fingers away. You yelp and try to latch back on quicker than he can release you, but he is smart, and quick. In a moment where both of your hands are off of his teeth, he tilts his head and slides you backwards, snapping his mouth shut. You are sealed inside, with no escape in sight.

Screaming and howling and clawing your nails into his tongue, you do everything you can to prevent what is going to happen. But you are too weak, too small, and the herald easily overpowers you. With a resounding gulp, everything is turbulent, and you are pushing past his uvula and down his throat. Psychedelic colors fill your vision, and you lose yourself, screams dying into soft whines. You feel the muscles of his esophagus squeeze you over and over, forcing you downwards, further into his body.

By the time you make it to the stomach, you are exhausted. The colors are gone and are replaced by the dull purple, near black color of his internals. Little spots resembling stars flicker as you are embraced by plush grooves that quiver with each heavy breath you take. You can practically feel the energy leaving you as you stare up at the belly’s faux ceiling. Fear grips you. Tears leak from your eyes.

The herald presses a hand over his middle, feeling you out. When he finds you, he begins rubbing you tenderly. “I can feel you in there. So wonderfully snug. So delicious.” You think you can hear a smile in his voice. “Thank you, little one, for nourishing me. This energy will not go wasted.”

“…I…don’t want to…die…” is all you whisper in reply.

The herald goes silent. His stomach gurgles sadly and moves in, giving you a tight hug. “Hush,” he soothes. “You will not die. In due time, I will release you. Though this won’t be the last time I’ll be swallowing you, I will keep you safe. I will keep you warm. I think you’ll come to love it in there. So don’t be afraid…please.”

You want to submit. You’re tired. So, so tired. His voice is lulling you, and you think you can hear his stomach talking, quietly cooing to you, telling you to sleep. You want to fight for your freedom…you really do…

“Don’t fight,” the herald says. “There’s no point. Just let this happen. You are okay. I’ll hold you. I’ll keep you safe. I promise.”

Your consciousness slips from your grasp, and you are lost in his consumption. With his presence all encompassing, you pass out.

#gator writes #viktor arcane #viktor x reader #pred!viktor #arcane vore #arcane #soft vore #safe vore #sfw vore #Giant tiny #sorry about this one guys #I love Viktor

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voraciousvore · 5 months ago

Text

Giganterra (Chapter 46)

Prologue/ TOC | Previous (45) | Next (47)

Content Warning: Soft vore, full tour (not explicit at the end), sexual themes, some graphic descriptions of digestion (prey does not actually get digested)

Word Count: 3.1k

------ Chapter 46: Living Labyrinth ------

Candy sat in Hardon’s stomach, watching the living meat walls shift and churn in a rhythmic pattern. The growls from his stomach as it attempted to digest her rumbled like an earthquake and thundered in her ears. The acid swirled and fizzed around her, breaking down unrecognizable chunks of dissolving food into grotesque mush.

She had been in this stinking sack of meat many, many times by now. However, this particular instance was different. Her fear was fresh, the tension as harsh and palpable as the noxious fumes. Candy was terrified the king would uphold his threat to not let her out. The last place she wanted to die was inside him, to be absorbed into his body, to become one with the giant she found so repulsive.

The king went about his day as usual, walking and moving and sitting. Candy sloshed around in his belly with every movement, lapped by waves of acid. Even when he was at rest, his colossal body was alive around her, throbbing and beating and squelching. When he spoke, the deep, rich tones reverberated through his viscera, filling the hollow spaces in his body and Candy’s like the omniscient voice of a grand deity. Most of the time, Candy could hear him droning on in conversations to other people, but she had to strain to hear anyone else.

She snapped to attention when she realized he was addressing her directly. “Time is sliding through your fingers, darling,” he cooed, rubbing his belly maliciously. Candy could see the compression from the inside, squishing into the stomach lining. “You don’t have much of it left.”

“L-let me out of here!” she shouted. She channeled all her frustration and fear into her fist and punched the pressed-in stomach wall with all her might. The deep rumble of a chuckle rolled through the hollow belly, knocking her off her feet. Candy quaked with dread at the terrible sound, tears springing into her eyes.

“Not this time,” the giant boomed. Candy shuddered as the sonic vibrations reverberated within the fleshy cavity.

“P-p-please!” Candy wailed. “Why would you do this to me? I’m not ready to die!” All she got in response was another uproarious chuckle that made her skin crawl.

“Darling... it’s up to you whether you live or die now. If you have the tenacity and mettle to pull through, you might have a chance to survive.” Candy opened her mouth to yell back, only to be tossed backwards as the giant stood up and started walking. She flailed helplessly as the choppy waves of gastric juices slapped her and threatened to subsume her.

She ruminated on his words with confusion as she rocked in the churning digestive organ, the muscular walls kneading in a regular pattern. The stomach groaned and grumbled as it labored to break her down, just like any other bite of meat. What was she supposed to do? She was trapped. There was no way out. She couldn’t exactly crawl up his throat and free herself. The entrance to the stomach, a ring of tight muscle, pulsed high above her head, out of reach.

She went limp with wretched anguish, unable to stop the flow of tears again. She didn’t know what to do. Nobody was here to help or comfort her, not even Millie. She was going to die a slow and excruciating death, alone, with only mushy slop for company. The acid splashed around her, dragging her with the current from one end of the stomach to the other. Candy didn’t want to imagine what would happen when the magic serum wore off, and she’d be digested alive. It was too horrific to contemplate; her conscious mind shirked away from it.

She observed, with foreboding, that the digested pulp was gradually draining out of the stomach. She’d noted the phenomenon before, of course, without much thought of what came next. The food contained in the stomach, once broken down into a slurry, would move on into the next stage of digestion, to the intestines. The nutrients would be further processed and absorbed, and the remainder disposed of. A natural, consistent function, of course, one that comprised the inner world of the giant king. His gastrointestinal system was like an efficient industrial machine, excising the nutrients from the food that he ingested, transforming it into an unrecognizable state as it journeyed entirely through his colossal body, from entrance to exit. Orifice to orifice. Mouth to anus.

There was a way out. The realization, rather than bringing relief, filled her with horror. She wasn’t ready to explore the unknown depths of his bowels. Candy was so repulsed by the very notion, that she could scarcely even bring herself to consider the idea. However, being reduced to chyme herself didn’t sound any better. She swam around in the pocket of flesh, searching. Her bare foot bumped into a bulbous protrusion at the base of the stomach, partially submerged in gastric fluid. Candy looked down to behold another restricted orifice, similar to the one from which she entered the stomach from the esophagus.

She froze up, a sickening dread cascading over her. She didn’t want to do this. She wanted to cry again, but she knew it would do her no good. A baleful grumble emanated the boiling sea, making her shudder at the implications. She envisioned her skin peeling of, layer by layer, to expose the raw muscles underneath. The flesh melting away to reveal the shocking white of her bones. Suffocation as the acidic effluvium scorched her lungs. Abysmal agony, relief only coming with the bittersweet embrace of death. The vessel for her soul, diminished to nothing more than an inanimate carcass: calories to pad the fat of the giant’s thighs.

Intense fear of a harrowing death supplied the impetus to push her onward. She dove down, forcing her hands and arms into the pyloric sphincter. With a deep breath, she plunged her head and torso inside, squirming to force herself through the tight muscular opening. She managed to squeeze down into the duodenum with a repulsive squelch, flopping into the folds of the fleshy tube with revulsion. She didn’t allow herself to contemplate the abysmal fate that awaited her, or think about the consequences of her terrible, but unavoidable, choice. She crawled forward instead, sliding down a trail of bile through the C-shaped bend into the unknown darkness beyond.

Hardon was sitting on his throne, with his royal advisor standing on one side and his personal guard on the other, when he felt Candy slip into his intestines. He let out a low moan of pleasure as he doubled over and rubbed his abdomen, smiling maniacally to himself. The squirms of her tiny limbs as she clambered through his intestines were like an internal massage in an erogenous zone. The experience was intense enough to arouse him. “Mmmm... Goodness, Candy, that feels sublime... ohhhhhhh...” he moaned near his abdomen, where he knew Candy would be able to hear him.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t quite catch that, Your Majesty. Are you feeling ill?” Leon inquired. He couldn’t help but notice the king mumbling incoherently and moaning, bent over at the waist as he massaged his middle.

“Shut up, Leon. I’m not talking to you,” King Richard growled. He caressed his paunch and whispered something else, a hideous grin marring his face.

Leon gulped. “My apologies, Your Majesty. I didn’t mean to interrupt.” He lapsed into silence with growing concern as he watched the odd display, the king murmuring to his midsection like a senile old man.

“I need to rest,” the king announced, springing out of his chair with a lively enthusiasm that belied his statement. “I will retire to my quarters. Have the kitchen send me something sweet to snack on.” He left, Ajax following close behind. He wanted to release his lust and rub one out in privacy.

Meanwhile, inside him, Candy navigated the long, winding tunnel of his small intestines. Her progress was sluggish as she waded through the soggy chyme, saturated by gastric fluid and gelatinous mucus. The tapestry of villi coating the inner folds of flesh rippled in a steady current, gradually dragging the mushy contents forward along with her small form. While the fumes weren’t as potent as in the stomach, the smell was still foul, enough to make her retch.

Nevertheless, despite her horror and abhorrence, she climbed through the hellish maze with a steely determination to survive at all costs. She felt she’d be letting Millie down, her former protector, if she gave up and died in this living sewer pipe. She was terrified. Various sounds echoed through the Stygian corridor in a grotesque and disturbing ambience: the unrelenting pounding of the giant’s heart, gurgles and squelches and deep growls, primordial moans from the unfathomable depths beyond. She felt vulnerable, diminished, and insignificant, lost and alone in what felt like meaty underground catacombs.

“Mmm, Candy, keep wriggling around like that. It feels so good,” Hardon’s voice blared all around her. Deeper down in his innards, she could mostly only hear the rich bass tones reverberating through the empty cavities. She tried her best to ignore the giant as he teased her and prodded at his gut, compressing the tunnels around her with an uncomfortable squish, like the sound of a wet sponge being wrung out. She wanted to scream when the fleshy folds squeezed around her; she thrashed to escape their tight embrace, sliding out and scrabbling ahead. The king moaned in a deafening rumble that shook her to her marrow, both physically and psychologically.

She kept moving, even as the banging in her ears intensified with his heightened heartbeat and elevated breathing. She hated to think what he was doing, but the noticeable swishing of the blood through the blood vessels embedded in his organs, his insufferable erotic moans, his rising internal body temperature, and his rocking, jerking motions were impossible to misinterpret. The lecherous, sadistic giant was pleasuring himself to her suffering, reveling in every small squirm that he could feel inside. Candy was mortified, yet unsurprised. She tried not to let his gross perversions phase her and kept going.

She struggled to maintain her footing as she crawled through the muck, cradled by the undulating intestinal lining. Every subtle movement from the giant’s larger body made her hands slide and swish over the slick, uneven wrinkles, knocking her down in a humiliating sprawl. The tubes twisted and winded in random directions, sometimes dumping her blindly down a chute or reversing course. The unpredictable directions made her dizzy. Occasionally the passageway would slope upward, impossible to climb with how slick and pliable the creases were. Candy could only wait as the muscular contractions slowly shuttled her along, the villi tickling her skin in a way that made her shiver with disgust.

The conduit of gurgling meat was endless. Candy felt like she had been creeping through miles of sludge. Globs of rancid juices dripped on her head and down her back as she strained to continue forward. An escalating panic grew in her chest, threatening to explode in a tempestuous burst. She recalled Hardon’s cryptic conversation before he swallowed her with fresh understanding, about how it would take days for food to make the full journey through his viscera. He claimed the anti-digestion potion only lasted two days, while the trip through his body could take as long as three. Her limbs weakened at the thought. She couldn’t last that long, within this confined hell. She might not survive; she might exert all this effort, only to die regardless.

Her world turned sideways, and she rolled along the inner wall of the tube and fell into one of the creases with a nasty plop. The giant’s heartbeat declined, and his breathing deepened, the steady swell and ebb of his body slowing. He was falling asleep. Candy wondered what time it was, whether it was night or if he was just taking a nap after blowing his load. She couldn’t tell. Deep in his bowels, the flow of time was only measured by the steady rippling of the intestines sluggishly shuffling the chyme along a fixed course. She felt as if she had spent an eternity down here, as if she had always been here, wandering in this subterranean labyrinth. Her life on the outside felt like a false dream, a delusional fantasy, a bitter lie.

Even so, she chased that dream with desperation. She wanted to live. She wanted to be free. In a painful yearning that she had long since buried in sorrows, she even thought about the handsome giant knight she had believed herself to be fated to. That was the worst lie of all. She finally succumbed to her misery and fatigue and collapsed, allowing the pulsing walls to carry her along. She couldn’t propel herself any longer. She cried until she lost consciousness.

A drop of fluid from the wriggling ceiling splattered her face and stung her eyes, waking her up. She didn’t know how long she had been asleep, but nothing had changed. It was almost as if she had made no progress at all, in the infinite loops of intestines. She didn’t have the strength to pull herself up. She stared numbly at the dripping wrinkles, squiggling with those innumerable sausage-like protrusions. She was thirsty, but of course there was no unpolluted water in sight. She’d probably be hungry too, if her repulsive surroundings didn’t nauseate her so much. She understood now why the king had given her a final breakfast. He knew the torture he was going to put her through, and desired to make her last as long as possible, even if ultimately she didn’t make it out in one piece.

As if her thoughts had summoned the vile monster, his sonorous voice blasted through his organs. “Candy? Are you still alive in there?” Candy watched helplessly as the tube around her flattened from the pressure of his hand over his gut, while he searched for her. She squeaked when he found her, squashing her in the mass of flesh. She writhed to get free, eliciting a hearty, booming laugh from the giant.

“Ah, there you are!” his voice bellowed. “You’d better keep moving! You might not finish the course alive at this rate!” Though Candy couldn’t see his face, she could imagine the gross leer on his visage, showing off his big teeth. She shuddered, and he moaned with satisfaction from the sensation.

“Oh, breakfast time!” the king announced with glee. Candy’s heart sank. She’d been inside him for an entire day. Her time was running out. She felt weak and defeated, drained by the intolerable heat, the odors, the exertion, the grotesque scenery—all of it. She couldn’t bring herself to move a single muscle.

“Chester! I’m sure you’ve reclaimed my darling Millie by now?” As she laid on her back, squelching through the grooves along with the transformed remains of yesterday’s breakfast, she relinquished all her remaining hope. She couldn’t hear Chester’s response, but she knew there was no way that Millie could escape Chester’s nose.

There was a long pause. The king’s pulse quickened. “YOU DIDN’T FIND HER?!” he exploded in a deafening roar. Candy was thrown about by the giant’s violent upheaval, slapping into the wall. “THAT’S NO EXCUSE! GET YOUR ASS OUT THERE AND BRING HER TO ME!!!” Candy’s ears rang from the volume, as if cannons had been fired right next to her head.

Even so, she was elated at the fantastic news. Her sacrifice hadn’t been in vain! Millie had eluded capture! Revitalized, she sprang into action, flipping over to resume her journey. Candy realized she couldn’t let the king win. She couldn’t give up, even when her situation was hopeless. The gigantic body around her shifted and made obnoxious noises, but she pressed on. She could hear the king muttering savage invectives like the drone of thunder, bringing her spiteful satisfaction.

Her positive mood didn’t last, but her resolve did. She utilized all her remaining willpower to haul one arm in front of the other, clambering over the furrows and through the contorting tangle of twists and bends. The agonizing minutes conglomerated into hours. The going became more difficult as the slurry thickened, and the acidic bile made everything even slimier. Her palms and knees kept slipping, especially as fatigue gnawed at her sore muscles.

Her senses and thoughts dulled. She couldn’t focus on her surroundings, so much so that she ended up careening down a dark chasm and landing in a shallow cleft made by two ridges of meat. She couldn’t get up, couldn’t even keep her eyes open, so she rested limply in the channel, nudged along by the steady flow. She flickered in and out of awareness, only brought back by the substantial bass of the king’s voice, or when her face was submerged in liquid.

She became dimly aware of being squeezed through a valve of some sort, and the passage widening around her. The little sausage-shaped protrusions vanished, and the irregular folds gave way to larger ridges in a more standard pattern. Candy felt herself gradually rising, but was too incoherent and unresponsive to do anything. She wasn’t sure if the tunnel was becoming darker or if her eyes weren’t working as well, but she was straining to see any details. The glow from her skin was fading. The flesh encompassing her and pushing her upwards felt hotter, unbearably so. Her skin began to sting in an unpleasant manner, and the malodorous air thinned, making it harder to breathe. Despite these alarming developments, Candy was unable to snap out of her daze. She fainted again.

Pitch blackness swallowed her mind. She only regained awareness when she was unexpectedly hit by a deluge of icy cold water. She tried to resist, weakly, as powerful giant fingers buffeted her on all sides, washing her off with stinging soap and water. She groaned as she was dried off with a fluffy towel, then dropped onto a soft, dry surface. Her eyes fluttered open.

She experienced a cold shock as she was met with a frigid gaze from a pair of all-too-familiar gigantic pale irises that struck her to her innermost roots. Staring into those eyes was like diving into an Arctic sea, ringed by glaciers and snowfall. She quivered with abject terror as her rational mind grasped where she was.

“Welcome back, my sweet little morsel,” King Richard gloated with an obscene grin.

Chapter 47

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