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tefifonconnoisseur · 30 days ago

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Impulse (Bart Allen) Vore - Capes, Consumption, and Cupid

I am never making promises on a story release ever again, since this was suppose to release December 31st. I’m not daring to name it Blu3puls3 vore, even though that’s essentially what this is, because I’m trying to make sure that the people who indulge in this ship and whatever fandom the show may have do not find this. I would disintegrate instantly.

When two close coworkers have to retrieve a shrink ray from some new big bad, antics consistent with this blog happen. If you wanna, enjoy! Or don’t, just don’t throw me into the snow. Vore is below the cut.

The best bromances are the ones that borderline romances.

The speedster from another time, Impulse (or Bart Allen), had been transported into the past, our present, in order to save the future. This was to be done by preventing a villainous transformation from the Blue Beetle, Jaime Reyes. What was expected was Bart trying to observe Jaime at any given moment. What wasn’t expected was their titanium bond. The two were an inseparable pair, and they’d throw themselves in front of a train for each other. Their chemistry got the job done and more. Who would’ve thought?

Speaking of, it was time for a dual mission. It had to be stealth and subtle, so the two were chosen. Not because either are anything even remotely resembling quiet, but rather it was amusing to the crew to watch them together, and this mission didn’t have a huge rush assuming that they’d behave. The idea was to sneak into a laboratory owned by a new crime syndicate that was budding in the area and find out what their new gadget had done to make their targets seemingly disappear into bubbles. Seemingly, because they eased to the ground to grab something from the ground right after and slink away.

With a mystery to solve and banter to have, the two boys were off to discover the truth behind the syndicate’s wizardry. They were flown in close to the lab, with Jaime wearing a lab coat and Bart his suit in a lab coat illusion mode (goggles left intact). Jaime’s scarab was hidden via a backpack, of course, since alien technology fused to the spine typically isn’t hidden by a labcoat. The “non-decorative” (or at least that’s what Bart jested that they were) components were fake keycards that would spoof readers and allow access to whatever it is that they shouldn’t. The goal was simply to blend in and report intel they could gain about this strange occurrence. Another squad would be sent in to assist if there was threat of violence or tracking was required. (Yep, two heroes that flew and ran really fast couldn’t follow anyone if they needed to be followed). Under no circumstance were they to actually interfere with anything going on here. Let’s see how that goes.

Upon their entrance through the front door like normal people, they were met with a lobby. The only other people in here were two genuine scientists trying to get in, a secretary who wore too much makeup, and a janitor whose work made it so he couldn’t be bothered with the presence of people. Our heroes got into line and waited patiently. Now, when I say patiently…

“Bart, stop tapping your foot. It’s… giving.” Reyes asked in a tone reminiscent of his father.

Indeed, Bart’s foot had been tapping at cheetah speed and had all but shaken the entire building. Thankfully, the scientists ahead of them hadn’t paid any attention to that, since they were busy ogling the secretary like the sexist pigs they aspired to be. That’s why it took an extended period of time that the boys measured differently to get their turn at entrance. Bart believed it to be at least “fifteen years”, while Jaime accurately measured it to be two minutes based on the fact that he was wearing a watch.

“Hello, welcome to Drazah Corporation Headquarters, how can I help you?” The secretary inquired in the best fake sweet tone she had left. Bart replied nearly instantly, which Jaime didn’t quite appreciate.

“Hiya! Me and my her-Mano (her is said her, Mano is pronounced correctly; he’s still learning) are interns here and we’d like two tickets to admission please.” He answered, his little theatre joke indicating that he wasn’t quite warmed up. Either that, or he wasn’t the humor king that Beast Boy tended to be. That’s important because it explains why she sighed before she asked to see their IDs. The spoof IDs checked out, and they got in.

“Alrighty, lab breached. Now all we have to do is find out what these losers are up to” Impulse whispered, not terribly quiet but not in earshot of anyone else but Jaime.

“Bart, what am I gonna do with you?” Jaime smiled and whispered back, “try not to spill beans, mi amigo”. The other members of their team overhearing this little conversation smiled giddily as kinetic energy was detected around them. The actual duo, however, were not so giddy. The laboratory was a mess of hallways, and Bart couldn’t speed through every single one to check for signs. Nope, they had to walk through these hallways, peeking in room windows, until they found whatever they were after.

Tedious, but whatever. The two strolled side by side, rather close, peering into every room. Someone HAD to do something, but until they did so, the only silence breaker apart from the buzzing of CFL lights and the faint noises of gizmos that hadn’t quite become proper inventions was conversation.

“So, uh, Jaime, what are your plans one we’re done here?” Bart inquired with the existence of a follow-up question indicated via tone.

“Just headed back to my house and watching something on TV, not much. Why?” Jaime replied honestly.

Fantastic: Jaime had just opened up room for that follow-up question. Bart took a deep breath to ease his nerves, since a hot bath was quite a distant dream at the moment.

“Could I chill out at your place tonight?”

Jaime was taken aback. He expected Bart to ask to hang out at HQ or somewhere else. He wasn’t expecting Bart to want to hang at HIS house. Was he making a move towards him?

“Sure” Jaime replied. He was open to hanging with Bart.

“Crash!”

Jaime barely got that time to answer that since they found an uninhabited room with a ray gun device inside. Upon the window was a laminated piece of paper stuck with tape, with the text: “Shrinking Device. No Unsupervised Entry.” Such a device and its appearance lined up with the incident mentioned at the beginning. They had a responsibility to locate the source of such wizardry, and I mean, they were supervising each other, right? So they used their cracked keycard and eased the door open slowly to avoid squeaking.

As if anybody would notice two unknown interns suspiciously slithering like snakes into a room normally off-limits.

The shine of the chromed plastic immediately caught Bart’s eye, and he HAD to wonder at its marvelous detail. The way its handle twisted into a comfortable fashion and sprouted upward and outward into the “barrel”. Wires loosely snaked around said barrel and were clipped to a small battery held on with the bonding miracle known as duct tape. There wasn’t quite a trigger so much as a red button ripped straight out of an arcade control panel wired to some circuit board on top of the gun. Also on the circuit board was a “grow” switch labeled as such with masking tape. Like everything else, this was a working prototype that had been barely amalgamated, a prototype that might actually function as intended.

Welp, they were about to find out, since an actual employee with merit had been in the corner the whole time. To the shock of our heroes, they’d been observing their behavior and had recognized them as fake interns. They dashed to press the silent alarm button, and confronted Bart and Jaime.

“Don’t touch that! I know what you’re doing here. You’re trying to steal our tech! Well, I won’t let you. I’ve got too much banking on this” the unnamed scientist triumphantly barked, thinking he was the hero of this story. He didn’t recognize them as superheroes at least, just thieves. The two obviously weren’t about to spill any beans; the situation had already been jeopardized enough, and the team was already on the verge of losing their minds.

A mild retrieval had become an extraction. Backup in the form of Nightwing and Beast Boy was already on their was, as was the lab’s security. The only hope was that The Team arrived before The Security Detail.

And as if the situation weren’t already escalating, Bart attempted to run and grab the device before the unnamed scientist could, but they dropped it, sending a blue wave of light directly into Jaime. Within seconds, he was at the minimum of 2 inches tall. Bart scooped his friend up in his hands and uncurled one hand once positioned to reveal that Blue Beetle was now beetle-sized.

And with that, the situation’s reaching the right level of tension for split-second decisions to become our norm. Or at least for those in control. Jaime started taking deep breaths as his vertigo subsided and he realized his scale. He was now minuscule and right on the palm of his close friend, completely within his grasp. Terrifying.

The scientist took a moment to wheeze-laugh nearly unconscious, which gave our heroes time to figure out what the hell Bart had just done.

“Dude, you shrunk me!” Jaime shouted. His adrenaline was rushing and all patience or reason had fled the nest ages ago.

“Sorry, Blue. I’ll grow you back to normal as soon as we dine and dash. I guess you really ARE a beetle now, huh?” Bart joked.

Jaime, at this second, replied with nothing. He had nothing kind to say and didn’t want to hurt Bart’s feelings, even if Bart was being a bit of an imbecile in his opinion. After a second, he took a breath and muttered,

“It’s alright, Bart. Just get us out of this mess alive and with the stupid ray gun.”

But the ray gun was already in the scientist’s possession, since it had taken Bart a second to secure his friend. Now, they had nothing. Folding his one hand back up to protect Jaime, Bart dashed right towards the scientist and gripped the gun with his other hand, wrestling his one hand versus two. Tug after tug proved worthless as this scientist had a good grip on it. It would take his other hand to obtain that gun back, but he didn’t have pockets to hold Jaime (which he imagined his tiny friend was somewhat thankful for).

What he wouldn’t be thankful for, though, was for what would happen if, theoretically, a security detail more armored than expected and all over 6 foot tall burst through the door right then with laser blasters drawn. A hypothetical as specific as that would have to come to fruition.

Well it didn’t.

Because the security detail that burst through the door didn’t have laser blasters. They had assault rifles, pointed right at the boy and his beetle.

Absolutely no word came from the team on their backup status, and so for the first time since the time travel, Bart Allen panicked. He wasn’t worried about himself nearly as much as he was his little beetle friend, who wouldn’t be protected from the oncoming fire. That, and the previously-mentioned lack of pockets made it difficult to figure out a way to protect him. He needed a sign to spontaneously appear in his head. Otherwise, bullets would spontaneously appear there instead.

As if cued, his stomach whined, desperate for nutrients. The sign whined, rather. His natural pouch. If Jaime didn’t like the idea of a hypothetical clothing pocket, this’d be incapable of making him happy. But survival, though, would make Jaime happy at the end of the day.

For the next half a second, we had to slow down time to get an accurate description of the details. Bart quickly clicked down his jaw, revealing his dark mouth. Saliva streamed down like honey from a honey dipper. A smell of fruit punch started emitting from Jaime, justifying the creation of more saliva, turning Bart’s mouth into a slimy mess of flesh and teeth. The dying lights in the room revealed the existence of a smooth tongue and faint throat outline far in back, the entrance to the next stop on our little Universal tour. His tongue dipped down for max landing surface. If there had been time, Jaime would’ve smelled breath mints Bart had sucked on before this mission.

The hand beneath Jaime bounced him up into the sky, where he spun in the air. The target of his skydiving expedition was the maw, where he swiftly kersplatted right onto his face. For Jaime, though, the actions written before were a split second, so quick that he couldn’t quite process exactly where he was and what was about to happen to his miniature but muscular form. The jaw that had previously provided a door snapped shut, enshrouding its new inhabitant in darkness. The scientist’s little smear had been wiped clean, and sloppily drawn onto it was the face of pure shock. The security made no face, as their training left them facially inept.

Jaime enjoyed food and eating, as most of society does. Becoming said food, though, seemed to also invert the emotions involved with it. He was terrified. There had been no planning, no safety checks, no failsafes. Bart had just instinctively chosen to do the insane and swallow him whole. And swallow him, Bart was about to do.

Bart used his tongue to soak his friend in the saliva excessive but necessary. It provided the proper lubrication for Jaime to slide down his throat smoothly and slickly, and made this whole operation safer. He sure hoped Jaime was ready for the next step, because he was running out of time and decided to go ahead. He swung his head back and swallowed hard, sending Jaime yelping into the squishy abyss below.

While Jaime was currently being squished through the body equivalent of customs, Bart took the opportunity he had just created to snatch away the shrink ray, press the button that shuffled his lab coat back into his super suit, and skitter away before the security had a chance to fire at him. Down the halls he dashed and dashed, until through the exit doors he dashed. A guard present in the lobby sprayed some bullets in the lobby, one managing to graze the speedster’s skin. He ran into a nearby alley and sat down for a moment to evaluate the damage. The bullet wasn’t impacted, but it had still been a painful shot. Besides that, he’d mostly completed the mission successfully. The only issue was that the time it’d take to discover the device was gone was time that would be used by the team to plan. That time had been eradicated. Now, he reconnected his intercom and prepared to meet up with the backup reinforcements.

Jaime plopped down into the folds of the stomach and sat there. He had taken the moments in the throat for the scarab to regrant his exoskeleton armor to him. Perhaps Bart knew what he was doing after all, as Blue Beetle’s armor kept the acid from penetrating the alien nanotechnology. As long as he didn’t drink it (no, we’re not going to let him do that), he was perfectly safe within the belly of the speedster. Perfectly safe. Within the belly of HIS speedster. Honestly, this could be a hell of a lot worse, he thought.

Indeed it could. Unbeknownst to Jaime, though, that thought, the one that had signaled borderline relaxation, had jinxed him and the living blanket around him, because the security detail had stopped Bart and had him surrounded via a circle of men. Nothing reinforcements (Nightwing and Beast Boy) couldn’t help tackle. The four, three participating, lept into battle. Every man got two security guards to pummel. Sadly, the number of guards was nine strong. When Bart was cornered by two of the fools, Jaime shot up a laser blast, which soared up Bart’s throat and out into the face of the eighth security guard, who had to be at least more shocked than not. There, eight. Batta bing, batta boom, the detail was knocked out, and Bart now had to explain where Jaime was. This was a task most delicate, as there was no way that ANYONE would react well to this.

“Where’s Jaime? Did he make it out?” Beast Boy (AKA Garfield Logan, as he’ll be referred to) asked. Nightwing (Dick Grayson) allowed him to ask that question for the both of them, since it was a necessary inquiry. He figured that Bart hadn’t actually abandoned Jaime. Half the reason the two were put on this mission was that if anything went astray, the strength of their bond would keep them both above the surface of capture and defeat, even if Bart had to dive for Jaime. The missing detail was HOW.

Bart had his reply ready so he didn’t stutter. “Well, I tripped when grabbing the shrink ray and it fired at him. When I grabbed him, the fuzz arrived, so I had… I had to swallow him to get us both out of there.”

“Checks out” Grayson commented.

“You WHAT?! Is he okay in there?” Logan asked. If it isn’t obvious that he wasn’t plotting out their actions, it should be now.

…

Bart was sitting in the med bay of base, awaiting further instructions on Jaime. He decided to take this time to converse with his prisoner.

“Hey Jaime, you doin alright in there?” He asked.

“Yeah, I’m doing alright. Quick thinking, Bart!” Jaime hollered back, hoping the sound waves would breach the thick layers of skin that separated them. They did, swimmingly.

“Thanks! I’m guessing tonight’s chill session at your place will have to wait, since I think we’re gonna be in here a minute.”

“I mean, this is BASICALLY a hang out session. We’re chilling together, just closer than we thought.” Jaime surmised.

“Crash, dude.”

It wasn’t crash, though, because Bart had been injured during the kerfuffle, so he needed to be evaluated. For the sake of privacy, they were going to eject Jaime from Bart’s innards, expand him to normal stature, and have him clean up in the showers. This was discovered when Miss Maritan showed up with a mysterious plastic bottle, the lid in a separate hand. The elixir in question was a simple compound of ipecac syrup.

…

(Normally, I’d have no problem with writing a vomit scene. However, I’m not in the mood today, so I’m granting you a time skip instead. Sorry, chief)

…

Jaime, now returned to his former glory, decided to practically shrink again by slumping against the cold, beige wall that created the barrier between him and his speedster. He’d been evicted from those warm walls that had separated them mere minutes ago, and they’d been replaced with cold barriers, cold like how he sometimes felt. Bart was a bit of a doofus, but with him, those chilly rings around his heart melted.

Aproximately too long later, Bart reemerged from the medical bay with a spin, as if he’d never been harmed. The bandage on his arm would convey a different story, but bandages aren’t permitted speech, only deserving a metaphor. Turns out, television night might still be on if they can make it home in a timely manner. Bart definitely could, but Jaime? Might not. Ultimately, it’d be a fun night, and as Bart would fall asleep and accidentally allow his head to rest on Jaime’s shoulder, they’d be closer than ever.

Not literally. Because at least to their knowledge, neither they nor anyone else they’ve acquainted with wanted the two be THAT close ever again.

#safe vore #sfw vore #soft vore #fandom vore #gt vore #male pred #nsx vore #giant/tiny #g/t #vore writing #swwh #if i shouldn’t use the swwh tag please let me know #swallowed whole #nonfatal vore #noms #dc vore

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tefifonconnoisseur · 1 month ago

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Darlings, I was not joking yesterday when I said blizzard. It’s the most amount of snow my city has gotten in 3 decades. We still can’t really go anywhere. I ESPECIALLY can’t go anywhere with my old car with dying brakes.

So yeah, new fanfiction today, normal time.

#not vore #blizzard #snowflakes

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tefifonconnoisseur · 1 month ago

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I’m going to make a choice and say that the next story will be out tomorrow. I have actually nothing but time to finish, given that there’s a whole-ass blizzard outside (extraordinarily rare in this part of town) that makes it dangerous to do anything but stay inside and waste time (as in, ambulances are stuck in the snow, tow trucks can’t go anywhere, gas is freezing in pumps and highways are closed, and we got an emergency alert about it)

Anyway, the pred of choice is:

Bart Allen/Impulse (Young Justice)

Featuring him and Blue Beetle getting into antics you’d expect from my blog (I’m keeping my stance on the ship neutral atm.) Now, I have made art of Impulse before, but Aristotle Buttermilk will not be returning for this, so Wattpad gets crappy photoshop covers again as usual. It’s decently long for one of my one-shots, so hopefully you enjoy it.

Or don’t. Just don’t come to my house and complain. Because you’ll probably get into a car wreck with how dangerous the roads are.

#safe vore #sfw vore #soft vore #fandom vore #gt vore #male pred #nsx vore #giant/tiny #g/t #vore talk #swwh

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tefifonconnoisseur · 1 month ago

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Happy new year! Here’s to another year of fun and survival!

Cool so no, I wasn’t able to publish 2 stories by the end of the year. Writer’s block decided, “you know what? What if we hit just as this guy is trying to write under a deadline he imposed on himself because he needs more stress in his life?” The only lesson I’m learning is not to write two stories at once lol.

For a status update on the stories, another half of a chapter or so was written for the Ian Lightfoot one, but I haven’t touched it in a minute, and the ship tease story I was working on is actually a bit over 1/4 of the way done. I’ll announce who the story entails the day before release, but it’ll be in one part. I think they’ll both be done by the Lunar New Year.

Toodles!

#safe vore #sfw vore #soft vore #fandom vore #gt vore #male pred #nsx vore #giant/tiny #g/t #vore talk #if i shouldn’t use the swwh tag please let me know #swwh #nsfw dni

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tefifonconnoisseur · 1 month ago

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Uh Merry Christmas/Happy Holidays! Hope y’all have a fun time doing whatever it is you do during the holidays. I’ve had a busy December let’s put it that way, what with Christmas plans, light shows, a candlelight concert I sang at, with plans still underway for more business through January. Rest assured, however, that I’m working on keeping my word.

I do have a second story lined up, and if we’re lucky it’ll be done by the end of the year. I’m walking a fine line with this one, as the two characters are a VERY popular ship, and I’m trying to tease it while not fully writing romance, since I’m not cut out for doing that. The fine line is not giving people the false impression that the vore within is k!nk-oriented. It’s not. It never will be. That being said, if any part of that concept makes you uncomfortable, feel free to skip this one out. That being said, I’m not starting work on it until after Christmas, so let’s see how this one turns out.

Toodles!

#safe vore #sfw vore #soft vore #fandom vore #gt vore #male pred #nsx vore #giant/tiny #g/t #vore talk #swwh #swallowed whole #eaten alive trope

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tefifonconnoisseur · 1 month ago

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Hey look I finally made one of those cool NSFW DNI trailers that I’ve been wanting on my posts. No, I don’t support JonTron, but hey, I recognize a meme when I see one.

#safe vore #sfw vore #soft vore #fandom vore #gt vore #male pred #nsx vore #giant/tiny #g/t #vore talk #swwh #if i shouldn’t use the swwh tag please let me know #swallowed whole #eaten alive trope

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tefifonconnoisseur · 2 months ago

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Ian Lightfoot Vore - The Alldays and Onions Vore Incident - Part 1

This release on Tumblr is admittedly unexpected, but I’ve recently been very anxious about school ending for the semester, and anxiety gives me writer’s block. For the sake of holding true to my promise of two stories by the end of the year, this release was conjured to ensure that I can do that.

Part 1 contains chapters 1-4, while part 2 will contain 5-8. In terms of completion, chapter 5 has been completed and published, while chapters 6-8 have not been drafted. The second story for this year hasn’t been worked on, but it will be regular length so it won’t be an issue. This section takes us from the beginning to the actual voring. Chapters 5-8 are the antics that surround that.

Enjoy! Or don’t, just please don’t harass me. This story’s a bit of an experiment with my OCs, so don’t be too unkind lol. Vore is below the cut.

Alldays and Onions.

What a name, right?

Unlike most news organizations, they exist in every universe, were named after a super dead (sometimes) car manufacturer, and screw up almost every single interview and program by getting into dangerous situations. And who else but Aristotle Buttermilk, the 17 year old gullible journalist with a knack for escalating easily avoidable situations and ruining everything he touched. With CEO Carlene Fernsby acting as both a paternal figure and a being of chaos to the people of this company, they’re kinda like a chaotic family in a way. It might be more clear after you read the text, in which necessary details will be divulged, but it also might become more confusing.

Aristotle Buttermilk was their lead journalist and part-time reporter. A pixie-ish known for his yellow, fabric, star-shaped face and black eyes like a Mario star, he wasn’t as well known for his naïveté. Carlene Fernsby, his boss and guardian with a curly flat green wig and a powerful stance. An ambitious woman, she ruled over her kingdom with an iron fist and would crush anyone or anything (including brand-new Macintoshes) that stood between her and good media production. When she found Aristotle Buttermilk, he was but an outcast pixie variant, but she turned him into a news wizard. If he couldn’t find a story, odds are he’d unknowingly create one with the power of charming ignorance. With her other claim to fame being getting kicked out of a Crumbl Cookie place, she preferred the background, which meant leaving the clumsy Aristotle with only her texts to guide him. Aristotle

These versions of our characters exist in a world without regular humans, so they’re naturally borrowers or pixie variants. Borrowers in a world known for leaps and bounds regarding interspecies equality. New Mushroomton’s the town where both Alldays and Onions, A&O for short (I have to shorten that name or I will burn out my fingers), and the Lightfoot family reside. They’re having a normal day thus far. The home consists of widowed mother Laurel, her irrelevant sheriff boyfriend whose name nobody caught, extroverted RPG-loving older brother Barley, and introverted chess-loving younger brother Ian. Ian had just turned 16, but his birthday had been… interesting. From what A&O knew, an elf had done magic for the first time since ancient times, an event so monumental with no news attention. According to Carlene, said in her scratchy Toad-like voice,

“It’s the perfect opportunity to get us on the map again! We’ve GOT to find this kid and tape him. Extra points for a live demonstration of magic, but we have footage if we can only get an interview.”

Ian was the target of their journalistic prying. Perchance. It’s a scoop, that’s all. Sure, it’d be a massive deal in the historical community if true, and life would probably never be the same, but it’s just a typical Tuesday for Aristotle and his camera crew, even if it’s just a front. ESPECIALLY if it’s just a front.

Aristotle led the reporting team to an address sent by Carlene over the telephone. The text allegedly escorted our friends via Google Maps to the Lightfoot residence. It couldn’t quite be proven, sadly, with how impossible it was to navigate. They only drove around in the best news vehicle money could buy… 50 years ago: a 1973 Winnebago Chieftan with 300,000 miles, an LS swap, and a kitchen which had a semi-working fridge and non-working everything else. Aristotle cannot drive, so his cameraman was behind the boat’s massive nautical wheel and struggled to make basic turns and get up to 50MPH. At least the couches and the mattress in back were comfortable. Not refurbished, but not holey. Pink and lush, but faded as well. This was going to be a fun afternoon of interviewing some random kid, wasn’t it?

We stop this chapter as the news van heads toward their interview candidate, Ian, who they were told was home alone on a cancelled day of school while his brother hung out with friends. How Carlene Fernsby found that out, they’d prefer not to know. Why are we stopping? Well, because the description of characters and the situation before the drama is exposition, merely establishment. The next chapter, though, is when things start to make this afternoon a real ball. What you’ll find out later in the story, through disaster, is that throwing two socially awkward teenagers of drastically different sizes and giving them instructions for cool shots without the use of green screen doesn’t end well.

—————————————————————————

**SQUEEEEEEEEK**

The sound of brakes on their last legs squealing as they struggle to stop this borderline couch tank rang throughout the neighborhood, outside the mandatory borrower path to the Lightfoot residence. As this path had previously never been used, it was about as clean as a good shaven head, or at least compared to the well-worn sidewalk for non-tinies. Inside the Winnebago, Aristotle squeezed on to the armrests of the passenger seat, sweating. Actually, that’s not honest. EVERYONE was sweating.

As the engine ceased with the turn of the key, our team scampered down the stairs and to the storage compartments on the side to throw together their equipment and prepare for the interview. Cameras had lenses twisted on and tripods attached like they were unscrewing a can of soup. Microphones were hastily mounted onto ill-fastened belts. Now was the time for the most panic (or at least it would seem). Carlene, infamous for not disclosing specifics she knew all along, had told them the address and that he was home alone. Nothing else. Was he expecting this interview or were they just gonna talk to him out of the blue? This Ian Lightfoot…was he going to treat them like guests or nuisances? Was he boisterous or reserved? All are questions that should’ve been answered, but couldn’t be. They were meant to be here an hour ago in order to get enough time, but Aristotle was mistakenly given the task of passing onto the driver the directions.

Once they slapped together something that could be mistaken for a functional news screw, they slogged up the sidewalk to the borrower steps. Clearly, this home was built after 1970, when this stuff became required on new construction. With a sweaty fist, the beloved Aristotle Buttermilk pounded on the cat door. It was technically a borrower door, but certain architects got away with adding handles to cat doors and making them akin to garage doors.

It was a cheaply built suburb, too, wasn’t it? Aristotle thought to himself as he awaited a response. Seconds felt like minutes as they anxiously watched the door for a sign of movement. After they were about to just cut their losses, the door shimmied as the person on the other side struggled to use an unused door. Aristotle adjusted his watch strap unnecessarily. The lead cameraman and driver, the failed entertainer Pelvis Resley, silently cursed the sky for not letting the Winnebago’s engine, running on welding jobs and prayers, implode on the drive there. The door slid upward, and a soft blue face appeared. Adorned with light freckles and framed on the side by ears and on bottom by hands indicating that the guy was on his hands and knees to look at our friends, his eyebrows tilted and the face tilted to the side to look at Aristotle like his top hat was a boot.

“C-can I help you guys?” The assumed Ian inquired. So he doesn’t know. That’s two questions answered.

“Uh, um, hi! I’m Aristotle Buttermilk, and we’re here representing Alldays and Onions,” Aristotle shakily replied. “We were… wanting… to interview you regarding the, um, magic you did last weekend.”

The 16 year old froze in contemplation. One can assume what he’s thinking about. While they’re waiting, Wresley pulls out his phone and dials someone, putting his phone up to his ear.

“Is this legal? We should probably ask my family first,” he wondered.

Suddenly, everyone else froze as Pelvis put his phone on speaker and the somewhat annoyed voice of Carlene Fernsby appeared from the phone’s speaker.

“Looking into it, in this jurisdiction, assuming both parties are 16 years or older, it’s a case of both parties agreeing to terms and doing an interview.” She explained to the group. “But just let them know, if they get worried, they can contact us. So what do you say?”

Oh joy. Carlene Fersnby’s now on the line. Pelvis was unaware of the unspoken rule of interviews, a rule which would come back to bite them later: during an interview, do not call Carlene Fernsby, and if you have to, she picks up and doesn’t scream at you, NEVER put it on speaker. No matter how much it sucks not getting information instantly and getting things wrong and getting lectured, no matter how confused one could be, what he did was get Fernsby directly involved with the interviewing process, and when Carlene gets the opportunity to control this process, she milks the interview for everything she can, taking Aristotle’s job of mucking up interview situations. A monumental mistake like this was going to screw them up unless Ian, of course, didn’t consent to be interviewed. He was their lifeline. But luck had been on their side for far too long, as when Ian spoke, everything came crashing down.

“I guess so. Come on in and have a seat.”

—————————————————————————

(Quick author’s note: I think you could’ve gotten away without major spoilers from this movie, but this chapter is definitely more oriented around major spoilers, so if you don’t want spoiled, you might wanna wait for Chapter 4)

Interviewing creatures at sizes society had normalized always proved somewhat difficult to tape (they weren’t broadcasted live on a regular day) Our hostages sat on a kitchen counter, a camera pointed at Buttermilk, sitting on a tiny lawn chair near back of a counter, and another at Lightfoot on a stool. Ian, despite being quiet, easily dominated Aristotle’s handheld microphone, so he didn’t need his own. It was reverberated some, but they didn’t have many options. Everything was in place. All that was needed was to record.

Beep. The intro segment would be dealt with live, so he cut to the part where he came in.

“Aristotle Buttermilk reporting, I’m here with one Ian Lightfoot, a local teenager who performed magic for the first time in centuries. We’re coming in for an interview, how are you?” Aristotle read verbatim from the teleprompter. To his credit, he was good at reading aloud.

“Um, I’m doing fine. You?”

“I’m doing just fine. Now,-“

Carlene on the other end recognized a dissatisfactory tone, but her patience was enough to at least keep a kind tone in front of a guest. “Aristotle, your tone was not quite Alldays-quality sweet enough. Could you read it again, but with more energy and different phrasing?”

Aristotle understood what she REALLY meant. “I’ve been doing well, thank you. Now, how did you get into magic?”

Stupid question. Pelvis bit his lip, expecting Carlene to speak again. Thankfully, she was alright with it.

“Well, um, I was more forced into it. My father, um, left me his magic scepter as a gift for when I turned 16, and my brother Barley taught me some spells on a road trip.”

Aristotle had been trained in listening closely, recognizing details left vague, and drafting follow-up questions to dive deeper into a topic.

“A road trip. Sounds fun. Tell me more about it.” Aristotle replied, a bit too deadpan. Carlene took notice.

“Aristotle, tone.” Another eggshell had broken. They needed to be careful to avoid a meltdown at this point. Another take.

“A road trip, say? That sounds fun! Could you tell me a bit about the road trip?” The correct way to follow up that response.

“Well, it was also a bit of a force. I… uh, accidentally brought my father’s bottom half back to life, and we went to go conjure up his other half so we could talk to him, but the spell only lasted 24 hours, so we had to be quick. We took his van and went across town to find a gem to complete the spell. We had a roadblock in stopping at a tavern and accidentally shrinking my brother when I was trying to grow the gas canister. Then there was a dragon, and I had to fight it off, so I didn’t actually get to talk to my father, but it was alright. There was a sense of closure with the whole ordeal.”

“The Manticore’s Tavern? There was a bit of… restructuring… there lately, did you two have anything to do with it?” Aristotle asked, dodging the whole first aspect so Ian could deal with it for him.

Ian was a bit embarrassed about this one, his blue becoming a bit lighter. “Uh… yeah. I argued with her about a map and made her realize that she didn’t like turning it into a family restaurant, so she kicked everyone out and burnt the place down.”

Aristotle had actually been there at the tavern, and it had ruined an Uno tournament and pissed everyone right off. Aristotle was for some reason feeling somewhat responsible for picking a location with an unstable work environment. Of course, he was not about to divulge this information with a stranger, so it was time for a topic change. Or…

“Aristotle! You didn’t tell me the place burnt down! You told me the Uno tournament ended early!” Carlene shouted over the line.

“Oh, you were there? I don’t think I saw you that night. I’d’ve recognized you I think.” Ian added.

Aristotle blushed in the most cartoonish fashion imaginable. “Yes, I was. We were playing Uno when everyone got kicked out, then we smelled fire while we were waiting for a friend in the restroom, so we grabbed him and sat on the curb while the place burnt down. Overall not a great night for us, but it seems like it was worse for you guys.”

“I didn’t think so. It was a long night, and a lot of stressful things happened, but it ended on a bittersweet note. I didn’t meet my father, but Barley and I bonded quite a lot over it.”

Aristotle didn’t mean to start a conversation rather than an interview, but hey, podcasts were popular. Maybe audiences would like it, but for the sake of Carlene, they couldn’t be too casual.

“That’s wonderful. I’m glad to hear that. Now, about that magic, could you please demonstrate a little?”

“Um, I guess so.”

Ian went to go find the scepter, and during the time that they weren’t taping, Carlene became a bit more blunt.

“This interview is BOMBING! Aristotle, save the conversations for off tape. You’re there to get information first and foremost. Fun time is second. And God DAMMIT, Pelvis, I can’t see ANYTHING! KEEP YOUR STUPID PHONE POINTED AT THE SETUP SO I CAN SEE IT! AND DO YOU HAVE TO TWITCH LIKE A LITTLE YORKIE? KEEP STEADY, DAMMIT, STEADDDDYYY! I CAN’T BELIEVE YOU’RE SUCH A ******* TWIT!”

They hoped Ian heard none of the freakout as he turned the corner with a large tree branch. Or perhaps a scepter. He pointed it at a banana while a camera was whipped to the actionin. Ian whispered some Latin incantation, and a beam of light turned the yellow banana blue. And like it was a reality show, everyone clapped.

“Wonderful” Carlene faked a smile and eyed Aristotle, cueing his next words.

“Well, Ian, thanks for the interview, but I’m afraid we’re crunched for time, so thank you and have a nice week!”

As the recording ceased, everyone breathed in and out. Ian smiled and asked if there was anything else they wanted to do. Right before they could say no, Carlene Fernsby decided that enough was not enough, and that mistakes had to be made that would at the very least be recorded. Oh, no, to her she just wanted some cool shots and pictures, but everyone else knew that the former was more likely.

“Actually, we’d like to take a few pictures for the newspaper, if that’s alright.”

—————————————————————————-

Camera shots weren’t the only shots that were going to be taken.

While Pelvis was busy unscrewing the bottom of a cheap hairbrush that was quite obviously a flask, the crew member previously in charge of sound recording was now pointing Pelvis’ phone camera toward Ian and Aristotle standing in front of him. Aristotle stood idly, waiting for instruction, while Ian sat with his head on his fist, evidently feeling the same way as the rest of the crew now. The interview had strangely gone well, but this photoshoot was giving more time for Aristotle to unwitting slip into disaster, literally or not, and everyone but Ian knew it. Now, what shots could Carlene possibly need?

A few clickbait thumbnails. Yep. Alldays and Onions were known for publishing on several clickbaity news channels to get attention towards their headlines. Trashy, but tolerable. Ms. Fernsby decided what shots went, so she probably trusted that Aristotle wouldn’t get into too much trouble. But she should’ve known better.

The first shot was mundane: magic. She did her very best to pose Ian without him actually seeing her, but that’s admittedly difficult.

“Arm up. No, left. Now put the right one down. Not ALL the way down, back to where your had it! Now chin down. DOWN. A little bit less. Good. Arms, Ian, arms. Put your legs a bit more together so you aren’t wobbling. Okay, make sure one’s still back. Ian, why did your arm move? Thank you. Now do NOT move. I said DON’T MOVE.” Ian’s mood became more anxious after this one.

With the click of the shutter, the simplest shots were done.

“That didn’t seem simple, Carlene” Pelvis muttered.

Carlene retorted, “it’s not about how we get the shot, it’s about how many components are together and how steady or not they are together. Don’t mutter trash like that if you’re not taking the pictures, Pelvis.”

Pelvis was irritated, but he couldn’t say anything more since it was time for shot 2. Carlene had found that people liked it when interviews with “giants” and “tinies” had tacky thumbnails that reflected the size difference. These shots all involved Ian holding Aristotle. People holding people that much smaller than them was considered a threat amongst strangers, and only two very close would do something like that. Socially, this was something the two of them didn’t really feel comfortable doing when they’d barely met, but they’d both figured out that objections would lead to trouble. So, despite any objections, Ian slowly laid his hand on the table for Aristotle.

Aristotle stood there. Despite knowing he had to do this, and the fact that he wanted to, his brain refused to fire the neurons necessary to get the legs to move. He couldn’t get himself to get onto the blue gargantuan palm, so the two sat in limbo, waiting. The only thing that got his ADHD brain to actually work was Carlene yelling at him to move his rear quarters. So Aristotle stumbled onto Ian’s palm and was slowly elevated to eye level, Ian’s digits cupped to act as a protective sort of railing to keep him from falling. Aristotle yelped as he looked up to see the blue face towards him, Ian’s curious seas of black known as pupils focused onto him like a camera lens. Aristotle knew he was smaller than a pixie, and probably smaller than Barley when he was shrunk, with what that look reflected. Now he was at Ian’s mercy, and thankfully, Ian had proved himself to be kind so far.

The second shot was similiar to how the two were positioned at the moment, except Ian had to flatten his hand, and had to kneel so that the camera operator could get a decent angle. Flashes and clicks went off as Aristotle felt like his every detail was being analyzed by the somewhat-shifting eyes. He felt like he was now being silently interviewed, and any sign of weakness would be amplified tenfold, so he somewhat blushed.

Carlene, of course, took notice. She hoped their editors could edit out that blush, and erase any idea in the audience’s heads that this could be romantic before it could be planted. Aristotle was aroace; she would be terrified for him if any fangirl or fanboy was convinced otherwise and saw him as available, or worse, taken. It was certainly rough love she expressed, but she did care about him.

Details not quite necessary aside, it was time for the third shot. Carlene had never attempted this sort of shot before, had never seen anyone do it before, but she had convinced herself that it would make for a killer photo. This shot was decently dangerous, forbidden in good culture, and would require utmost precision to minimize time and leeway for disaster. The shot was: Aristotle Buttermilk lying in a relaxed position inside Ian’s mouth.

I’ll pause for a moment so you can take that in properly…

Obviously, eating people alive was considered taboo, nobody should be eating ANYTHING alive. But to even TEASE it, in the minds of many, was more than enough to cause outrage, outrage that entailed protests and anger. But Carlene, clever, calculated, and cunning, came up with this scheme. Outrage meant people would angrily indulge in them, giving them cash inflow. Any publicity is good publicity, right?

Aristotle was quick to object. This was so far out of his comfort zone, he might as well be at Point Nemo in comparison. Desperate to not have to do it, to step into the maw of a new friend and pose like he was the king of that land, to have to trudge on slimy, silky tongue and risk even worse, he first fished for excuses. They were running short on time, the censors would block it anyway, it could rub badly on him or Ian rather than the company. Even Ian chimed in, saying he didn’t want to have to hold such restraint and control for a measly shot. Pelvis muttered, tired,

“Can we just once NOT do something stupid during an interview that has the capability of disaster and chaos?”

Unfortunately, that simple objection erased Aristotle’s and Ian’s progress in changing her mind.

“Pelvis, just this once is once too much because once they once they’ll wanna once once more. Sure, it has the capability, but I have faith that Ian and Aristotle can handle a 5 second shot. Besides, we can blame Francine for this one since we’re using her camera.” Her voice, while tinny from phone speakers, conveyed what everyone else dreaded: they had to do this shot.

“Ugh, just one shot and then we can go home. Let’s get this done before Carlene’s patience wears thin again.” Pelvis moaned, deciding for the other two. Like any normal person, Pelvis did not want to be yelled at again today. It was too early in the week for her shrieking and stomping twice in a day.

“Welp, let’s go ahead and do this,” Ian sighed. Over the hump of hesitation, Ian’s arm muscles sprouted and he panned his hand closer to his lips, carefully and gently, until the back of his hand slightly tilted and made contact with his chin. Then, with a satisfying pop, his jaw lowered, opening for Aristotle to clamber inside.

Immediately, Aristotle’s mind was swirled around with how many obscured details had just been exposed to the lenses of his eyeballs. Massive, pearly teeth, crooked, held so much metaphoric weight, like armor that protected the fleshy knight inside. Healthy tongue with tiny saliva strands glistening with what little light could peek inside. And a rush of warmth struck him in the nerves with minty overtones as his breath twirled around him. This was overstimulating our friend very quickly, and so he froze solid, the warm breath failing to melt away his apprehension-driven paralysis. Just like earlier, his mind only half committed to the bit.

“Aristotle Buttermilk? Earth to Buttermilk,” Carlene shouted, “I don’t know why this is happening again, but if you’re wanting to get home before dark, you had best get your legs moving, and moving NOW.”

The word NOW was what finally scraped away the bond between Aristotle’s feet and the palm beneath them. Slowly, as to not get himself cut, he strolled over to the entrance and lifted one leg up over the rectangular daggers. Then, with gloved hands using said daggers as support, the other leg made it’s way in too. Now he was on the squishy, moist muscle that he had longed to dodge.

The place sucked. Now, Ian’s throat had risen into view, revealing the depths of the body, the beauty of the mortal vessel, and the consequences for error at this point in the game. Inside the mouth of the giant, one must take the utmost precaution to avoid becoming a snack. That meant obedience to the puppet master, and despite Aristotle the elephant being in the entrance to Ian’s internal circus tent, Carlene was still ringleader here.

For the first photo, Aristotle positioned his arms on the teeth like they were a railing, flopping over them, and his knees bending him forward into a relaxed poses where he was using them as support. Quickly, Ian’s mouth was becoming dry with the constant air settling in, which prompted involuntary saliva production, some squirting onto Aristotle. This made Pelvis wheeze, but Aristotle just wiped it off.

Up on the housetop, click click click.

“Let’s try another pose, a bit more in center of the tongue.” Carlene suggested without a choice

With the precision of a Swiss watch, Aristotle shuffled his feet to the center, where a new saliva puddle had just formed. Now, Aristotle laid down on his side, a knee propped up and a hand upon it, and his other arm helping to support his core. It’s a common pose, but effective, and the lack of objection from the clicking noises meant that it was effective here too.

“That’s good enough. Get out of there” were the words everyone had been yearning for, and Carlene finally delivered them.

Now, Aristotle tried slowly to stand, but slid around some. His spine somewhat tingled with anxiety, but he was still fine. With his arms haunched to keep him stable, he attempted to take a step back towards light. Sadly, he borderline moonwalked and ended up farther back than was safe. He tried again, more panicked now, to escape. Luck with slippery surfaces, however, was not a possession of his. Like a complete clown, he slipped backwards and fell backwards just enough to get over the second hump the tongue formed. It also formed a slippery slide, as he accelerated backwards towards Ian’s dark throat. Aristotle clenched his eyes shut and held his breath, untrained but ready. Quickly, he passed the threshold, and Ian’s body gave him no choice. Sputtering and coughing some, the throat became desperate, something had to give, and there was only one possible recourse.

Down through the chimney with good St. Nick.

A sickening gulp emminated from Ian’s neck, and all that could cease, ceased.

—————————————————————————-

#safe vore #sfw vore #soft vore #fandom vore #gt vore #male pred #nsx vore #giant/tiny #g/t #vore writing #swwh #if I shouldn’t use the swwh tag please let me know #swallowed whole #eaten alive trope

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tefifonconnoisseur · 2 months ago

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THE NEXT STORY IS IN PROGRESS!

This will be my second to last (or last, depending on the order) story of 2024, my inaugural year. It’s possibly going to be the longest story I’ve written yet.

Tonight’s pred of choice is (drumroll please)

Ian Lightfoot (Disney Pixar’s Onward)

3.5 chapters of the next story have been drafted, 3 of which are complete. I don’t publish to Tumblr in chapters, but the 3 finished chapters have been posted to my Wattpad. If you want to read them, they are available if you know where to look. The story is intended on having 7-8 chapters, each with 750-1500 words (current count is 3,519.) I’ll update again when we get closer to release.

And as always, toodles.

#safe vore #sfw vore #soft vore #fandom vore #gt vore #male pred #nsx vore #giant/tiny #g/t #vore talk #vore writing #swallowed whole #eaten alive trope #swwh

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tefifonconnoisseur · 2 months ago

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I’m discovering a new tag all of a sudden called swwh. I’m not sure what it means but there’s some people there I follow so cool, I’ll post there unless I shouldn’t. Since editing my stories with tags isn’t quite doing the trick, I’m reblogging this one to sort of introduce myself to this tag.

TMNT 2012 Vore - The (Ir)regular Reaction

It’s been a minute since I’ve been able to post a proper story, but here we are with another one. I watched this show as a kid and have seen some vore content with today’s pred, Raphael, but truth be told I haven’t watched an episode in around 10 years, so I apologize for any inaccuracies that may appear. Story is below the cut.

9:00 PM

We arrive in the sewers, where three mutant teenage turtles are laying around, watching tonight’s episode of some action show. Michelangelo, the zany one with the orange bandana, is zoned all the way in, munching on pizza. Leonardo, the leader and mature one, is also paying attention. Finally, Raphael, the hot-headed red one, is getting up to grab another slice of pizza since he already ate his first one. Way too quickly, mind you, since he’s hiccuping. He walks into the dining room with the slices of pizza to find Donnie with a random plastic project box, the side cut out and a needle sticking out of it, slightly glowing at the tip, pointed towards a Bubba Gump Glass.

“What’cha got there, Donnie?” Raphael asked, almost intrigued but not quite.

“This, Raph, is a shrink ray, a device that can shrink things down to a minute fraction of its original size. I’m just about to test it and see if the capacitors discharge, we get a working beam, and this glass shrinks.”

“O-Kay” Raphael replied, placing emphasis on the O for the sake of showing how he’s slightly concerned but not enough to do something about it. Although this kind of technology was innovative, he was more interested in the olde and more reliable technology known as the TV playing the show he was missing since Donnie was distracting him from grabbing another slice of the still warm pepperoni pizza. Besides, Donnie probably knew what he was doing, and even if he didn’t, it wouldn’t be the end of the world. It would just blow up and he’d try again. That was one of his favorite traits of his scientific brother: even if he failed 20 times, he had the determination to fix the issues and get the thing working.

9:12 PM

As a new episode of the Star Trek wannabe show began, Raphael’s left ear picked up a high-pitched squealing different to the pitch of the old television in front of him. He had no doubt that Donnie had illuminated the kitchen with the beam he was speaking of. Unfortunately, as these things go, the squeal was interrupted by the sound of a loud explosion. Raph immediately looked on in surprise as he saw his brother, soot covering his face and the device in tatters.

“Are you alright?” Leonardo asked as he went to check on him and clean him up, wiping his face with a wet cloth to get the soot off.

“Yes, I’m alright. Just need to wait a bit and make sure the explosion didn’t make it-“

At nearly exactly this moment, the clock struck and the boys were called in for a mission by their father figure, Master Splinter. They speedily made it over to the dojo, where he stood, hands folded in his lap. The task was relatively straightforward: scout the city and stop the Foot Clan if there were any shenanigans. This was a nightly affair, as Shredder’s posse were always causing mayhem and disruption. So without further delay, they went out to the surface and slunk in the shadows towards an unlocked building with roof access.

9:16 PM

A little bit of this, a little bit of that, the boys made it to the roof of this tall building in Brooklyn. How the lock got picked is anybody’s guess.

“So, Donnie, your shrinking machine exploded in your face, but did you AT LEAST make a beam?” Raph asked

“WHAT? DONNIE MADE A SHRINK RAY?” Michelangelo, the orange-clad and zany one asked, eyes and voice filled with curiosity and awe.

“Indeed I did, Mikey, but it doesn’t quite work. The beam was bright for just a moment before it blew in my face”

“Is that going to affect the mission if we find some foot clan soldiers out?” Leonardo, the mature blue-clad leader asked. “Because if it has the potential to change your size after the fact, you may want to sit this one out.”

“I don’t believe it will, since the beam lost power before it would’ve hit my skin.” Donnie replied, not sounding fully confident in his theory but confident in his desire to participate. This was essentially his job, his duty to the city of New York, and he wasn’t about to skip because some invention blew up. Leo nodded to show acknowledgment.

“Hey, uh, Donnie, you look a little bit… shorter” Raph noticed.

“Don’t try and scare me, Raph!” Donnie yelped.

9:18 PM

Foot Clan soldiers spotted. The boys hopped to a streetlight and slid down it like the Ghostbusters. They could feel the cold night air as they dashed in the shadows towards the Foot Clan. The masked men heard the pitter patters of running right as the boys arrived, weapons branded. These soldiers recognized the turtles, though the purple one, the tallest usually, was now shorter than the blue one. It doesn’t seem like the turtles noticed though, as they were attacked by the soldiers. Donnie, now shorter than a soldier, went one by one, swinging his bo, and making contact with the faces of soldiers.

9:30 PM

While this group of soldiers was down, the night had far from ended. The three turtles took a moment to take a breath. It had been a stressful battle, but was small potatoes compared to what was en route.

“Uh, where on earth is Donnie?” Raph asked, on edge. This sent the brothers into a panicked search. Where could he have run off to during the battle? Mikey looked in the alley, Leo in some other streets. The relative darkness of the night would have obscured him… wondering off? Fighting someone else somewhere close? kidnapped?

“Guys, come here, quick!”

9:32 PM

It was Raph. He had found Donnie, or a miniaturized version of himself at the base of the nearest streetlamp, shivering and standing at a mere 2 inches. It was certainly a sight, their brother who was previously tall being the size of a grape and having to look straight up to see their brothers. Carefully, Raphael offered his hand as a platform for Donnie to step onto, which was accepted. Slowly, as to not give him massive vertigo, Donnie was lifted up to chin level and examined by the other turtles.

“Woah, dude, he’s so small!” Mikey marveled.

“So the whole ‘the beam lost power’ thing was a lie?” Raph demanded.

“No, Raph, it was a- a miscalculation. I truly believed what I said, but it turns out I was incorrect” Donatello defensively replied. He was somewhat nervous, being so high up and in the booming presence of his hotheaded brother, who was now like a building to him sizewise. Admittedly, he had been partially lying; he did think the beam hit him, but that it had lost enough power that it wouldn’t affect his height so drastically. In hindsight, though, the beam didn’t dim nearly that quickly, taking several seconds to dim in some earlier tests. Getting back to normal size was going to be rough.

“Hey, uh, guys? We’re not alone.”

9:35 PM

That bridge would have to be crossed when they got there, though, as there were more immediate threats. To their shock and horror, some Normans had managed to sneak up on them. They had been distracted for just long enough to give the Krang time to locate and thoroughly surround the ninja reptiles.

“If the turtles do not hand over the tiny one to Krang, prepare to die!” One of the slimy little blobs yelled.

So, you’re holding your tiny brother, and all of a sudden surrounded by a bunch of murderous mechs with the sole purpose of taking said tiny brother and then slaughtering the rest of you. What do you do? Any of the following are viable: run away, or keep your brother close and kick some shell; flight or fight. If you’re choosing to fight, just strap the tiny bro into a strap or a holster. These are all regular reactions, something that would be enacted without a word or thought to anyone or anything, things that would be considered “acceptable.”

*wwop*

9:36

That was the noise of someone’s mouth clicking and a bubble of clear saliva popping. Strange, as that didn’t seem like any of the regular reactions. As Donnie felt his shell pinched and his form being dragged upward, it became clear: we’re getting The Irregular Reaction.

Looking down, a red tongue had flopped out like a rug being rolled out, encapsulated by shiny sharp teeth, two of which were pointed into fangs, and pink gums. In the night, he couldn’t see much farther, than some tendrils of saliva near the center of the maw. He could, though, feel the hot, humid breath eminating from below, and hear said breaths. (What we need are mints, darling, mints)

The feeling that was terrifying, though, were the overriding cool drafts as Donnie fell towards the darkness, each second filled with pounding in his ears. After an eternity, with a splat he landed on the fleshy tongue and was rolled back in the humid mouth. He only had time to take a quick look out: his view of the outside world, framed by teeth, until a quick click enshrouded him in darkness.

Like a dog, the tongue lathered him right up in this disgusting liquid, swishing him from cheek to cheek as lubrication of sorts. He snickered internally at the thought of Raph looking like a chipmunk doing that. The organ seemed to struggle moving him farther in, curling upward to try and roll him back, a strange sensation for them both. As in traditional Raph impatience, the world shifted diagonally, just enough for Donnie to start slipping down the slide into the hole below him. He tried clawing up, but it was futile. A threshold was crossed, and a squicky wet sound rang in his ears as he was dragged farther down.

Mikey could only look on in awe, Leo in horror, as Raph’s throat muscles flexed inward and a slight bulge appeared as he swallowed. Raph gagged and thumped his chest to work the irregular form down, swallowing some saliva to assist.

“Dude, that was rad!” Mikey yelled.

“Raph, you could get him killed!” Leo shouted in a more serious tone.

“Relax, dude, Donnie’s being stored. He’ll be fine until we kick these guys’ asses” Raph retorted, which instigated the Normans to fire upon them.

Meanwhile, Donatello’s form was squeezed by an anaconda called esophagus muscles, sliding him down more rhythmically. Bassy thumping pounded in his ears from the heart close by, and he plopped into a bile puddle directly on his shell, now within the confines of the organ known as the stomach. Now obviously, science and chemistry can be a bit smelly. Certain things like sulfurs and thioacetones were known to spread like a disease throughout their small sewer bunker. But this place was different. The bacteria that lived inside the belly secreted some truly sickly stenches. Not to mention mostly digested blobs of what was once pepperoni pizza filling the bile puddle.

Donnie threw up a bit in his mouth, but had to suck it up since he knew he’d be here a while. From his bag, he grabbed an LED lantern that provided enough just enough light to see his immediate surroundings. He could make out the wrinkly structure of the floor below him and the walls surrounding him, the foamy mucus higher up. And those pizza blobs, he tried to analyze what ingredients had been, though the thorough destruction from Raphael’s chewing made this a very difficult step. Sights are only one other sense. The sounds of the What a truly fascinating place. A notebook apparated from the bag and allowed Donnie to take notes on his experience. The first creature to be swallowed alive and (hopefully) return to tell the tale. This would be a breakthrough in the realms of science if he could ever publish it. If because turtles and publishing don’t mix quite well.

A bit of butt-kicking usually did cronies good, as the Normans discovered. What was interesting, though, was Donatello’s situation. Every time Raphael dashed towards a Norman with his sai, Donnie felt like he was in a Bugatti going down a drag strip. A kick? It created a lurch sent both Donnie bouncing backwards and a sickly sensation to Raphael’s head. A shot to the stomach? Right. Out.

The remaining pizza from Donnie’s gastrointestinal tract was struggling to stay in its place, a near-identical but smaller copy of the guts Donnie resided in. It was a thought that popped into Donnie’s mind, a curious one about how this was the circumstance inside his own stomach: food churning, bile and acids working away blobs, and wrinkly surfaces with foamy mucus, of course just without a tiny brother stuck inside.

9:40 PM

“Jeez, that was a tough one,” Mikey sighed.

“Yep. Now we can worry about what’s important: Donnie.” Leo stared at Raph

“Uh- of course. Yeah. Only issue is, how do we get him out?”

“I think that vomiting would be the most straightforward way,” Donnie yelled, his voice muffled from the layers of skin and shell, his first time addressing the world outside from within.

“Ugh, I just ate! I’ll be hungry!”

“Well, Raph, there’s still a little bit left for once you get Donnie out. We might as well do it here so that we can try to keep this from Master Splinter,” Leo reasoned, knowing full well that Splinter would somehow, someway, figure out what had really transpired and give Raphael an admittedly somewhat deserved lecture about recklessness. It would be far from his first, and wouldn’t be his last.

“Fine.”

Raphael found a broken bowl on the street in front of an apartment complex and decided to use this as a catch for Donnie. With no other way, he took a deep breath and shoved his hand down his throat. He gagged, but nothing really happened. Another deep breath and another plunge with his now slime-covered fist did the trick, sending up a fluid comprised of digested pizza and, on the first try no less, containing his shrunken brother. With a water bottle, Donnie was showered with lukewarm water that ushered away the fluids enveloping his form.

“You good, Donnie?” Raph inquired.

“I’ve been better,” Donnie replied, “are you gonna be okay?”

“Uggh… yeah. Forget what I said a second ago; I lost my appetite.”

Was this going to deter Raphael from pizza consumption? Maybe for a day, but certainly not forever. The boy’s gotta eat something! Just not his brother preferably. Anyways… it’s 11:22 and I’ve been trying to writing this for 3 weeks, let’s wrap up.

9:50 PM

The boys make it back to their home, tiny brother in tow. Splinter obviously noticed their tiny brothers and requests the story. When told, the lecture alluded to before happened. Donnie, with the help of Leonardo (although all he did was assemble what he was told), was able to reverse the machine’s flow, causing a mini explosion that reverted his size to his original stature. With a long night finally ceased, the boys went off to their bedroom and fell fast asleep, ready to reenergize for their training session the next morning.

And obviously, for the sake of preventing another situation like this, shrinking machines were banned from the household indefinitely.

#swwh

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