Summary: The savior of the land gets a little too drunk one night and makes a deal with a guard he can’t refuse.
Warnings: Oral vore, unwilling prey, male pred, digestion, brief but mild suggestive content
((This is very bad and self indulgent, as well as the first fiction I’ve ever publicly posted, so just… just don’t look at me, okay?))
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A tortured sigh sent a vapor swirling and dissipating in the Whiterun evening air. Winter was by far the worst time to be posted on duty; Tamriel’s cold was unforgiving, and no matter how much a guard wanted to head inside and warm himself with a bellyful of mead, his duty was to serve and protect the people of the hold, and that meant staying put at his post no matter his needs. In this case, his duty was remaining the steadfast watchman of the midnight marketplace. Here he leaned against his preferred pole, eyes to the streets and doorways. No sneak thieves would break into Belethor’s or the alchemist’s on his watch.
At the price of a hearty meal and a drink, he mused bitterly.
His tongue swiped over his chapped lips, as if to savor Nordish drink that he’d had no chance to consume. He swore he could taste a phantom of its sweetness, but alas, not a drop of the elixir was to be found upon his yearning mouth. A hand clapped over his empty belly as it rumbled pitifully.
The suffering organ responded with a roaring growl that sent his insides a-tremor, and the guard felt his cheeks become red-hot iron underneath his helmet. Thankfully, it had to have been at least three in the morning… the streets were empty, so nobody could have heard the cries of his hungry stomach.
He heard a door slam shut, and his head jerked in the direction of the interruption. A stream of light briefly illuminated the street as the door to the Bannered Mare swung open. The brightness retreated as soon as it came, the closing door eclipsing it. A shadowed figure – feminine, the guard immediately assumed, judging by the build – staggered away from the establishment, step unbalanced by drink. His suspicions were confirmed by the sound of infectious, intoxicating giggles.
The guard almost rolled his eyes at the embarrassing display and was tempted to let the drunken creature be, but even in a city as secure as Whiterun, unfortunate things still sometimes happened to women, especially those under the influence and unsupervised. He called over to the tittering figure, beckoning her over to his post.
“Miss, can I get someone to escort you home? You’re in no state to be traveling home by yourself.”
The shadow turned sharply in his direction, threatening to teeter over. Bizarrely, something about her seemed to shift in that moment, and audibly; he heard a sound he’d liken to mead being tossed around in a jostled barrel, sloshing and burbling.
“Hang on, si-” She was cut off by a noisy hiccup, and he heard the sound again. “S-Sir, hehe. Can’t hear ya too well.”
She sauntered over to his post, and the sound of the peculiar slush came closer as she did. A nearby torch revealed the mysterious drunk, and the guard immediately realized why he was hearing all of those strange noises.
An booze-filled gut swayed back and forth with every step she took, the lake of alcohol inside disturbed with her movement. Her girth threatened the fine fabric of the dress she wore; her belly had already created a slight fissure over the apex of her swollen stomach, revealing soft, taut skin and a stretched navel.
The guard realized he was staring and immediately rectified his impolite gaze, hidden eyes snapping upward to meet hers. She giggled, Nordish flushed cheeks turning even darker.
“Hehe, ’s okay if you stare.” She drummed her fingers over her roundness, admiring her own overindulged form. “’M the Dragonborn, ’m used to people starin’ at me~”
His heart froze in mortified horror.
I’m addressing the Dovahkiin this way?! I patronize her and gawk at her like she’s for sale?!
But, to be fair, it wasn’t to say she wasn’t attractive. He briefly caught glimpses of her in the marketplace before, admiring her strong, built stature clad within armor. She had even fashioned it herself, from the bones of her draconian enemies. He had never seen her outside of her warrior attire, and seeing her now in a noble woman’s clothing was, admittedly, jarring. But it also revealed the pale softness of her face that was often shadowed by the great bony helmet. Nocturnal herself could not create something as fine as the winter moon in her face.
Why was his mouth suddenly watering?
He gulped nervously and attempted to rein in his thoughts as she continued a slurred ramble about nothing at all, though he found them curiously devoid of lust. She was beautiful, true, but his gaze continually drifted downward to that beacon of gluttony. It wasn’t to say that it was not also beautiful – damn, a woman who can put it away! – but it sparked an aching feeling within him that he at first attributed to jealousy. He longed for that same drunkenness and fullness. Such a jealousy had a more particular name, though, and he tried to place it with difficulty.
A twist within his abdomen was his only warning before a roar roiled inside his belly, reminding its owner of the void waiting inside for food. The ghost of sweetness returned to his lips at the sight of her, and he smacked at it eagerly behind his helmet before it left him again. Suddenly, the hero of legend before him appeared sweeter than ever before, and he realized why.
He realized the feeling’s name was hunger.
The surprised warrior glanced upward to the starry skies, and then downward at the guard’s complaining stomach. “I almost thought your belly was one of those dragons,” she giggled. She reached forward with a finger and poked into his torso, blocked by the mail. “You should really eat somethin’.”
His gut clenched, though with hunger or guilt at what he was considering, he didn’t know. “My post doesn’t end until morning. No meals until then.”
Her countenance morphed into an expression equally lustful and mischievous, her smirk briefly broken by a hiccup. “That doesn’ sound very fair to you,” she slurred. Stepping forward, she arched her back and pinned the guard to the pole with her alcohol-filled girth, letting it squish against his own belly. He could almost feel the contents slushing around inside, and he began to flush and sputter.
“M-Miss, I don’t know what you think you’re doing, but-!”
She shushed him, tittering, and grabbed his hands. The Dragonborn maneuvered them over to her belly and pressed them into its overstretched sides, rubbing them in circles into her. He nearly shivered at the sensation of such soft flesh. “I know what you wan’ do,” she teased.
He swallowed heavily, sending a waterfall of saliva down his gullet. “You do?”
“Mhm.” She took her hands away from his, and her smirk doubled in size at realization that the rubs weren’t stopping. She leaned up close to his face, husky voice a whisper.
“You wan’ me inside you.”
He did shiver now, shrouded eyes round as Dwemer spheres. How did she figure it out? Was the Dragonborn somehow a psychic, too?
His hands paused in their ministrations. “What did you say?”
“Do it,” she repeated, a hearty hiccup causing her belly to wobble and slosh heavily.
In that moment, he had a million questions. Why would she want to be eaten alive? How could he even do that? Wouldn’t she die? Did she really want to do this?
A resounding growl rolled through his empty guts, and the guard found he wasn’t interested in any of the answers.
“Alright,” he agreed. “But we need to be out of sight.”
He led her by the hand behind the general store, near the stump where Belethor’s assistant spent his afternoons chopping firewood. Away from the torch’s warm light, they were two figures cast in shadow, meeting to complete an unusual pact. Dovahkiin stumbled in front of her devourer and grinned flirtatiously, and he was so caught up in the moment he almost felt the urge to do the same.
Hesitantly, the guard removed his helmet, long gold locks spilling onto his shoulders. He rubbed his fuzzy chin to wipe away a bit of drool that had dribbled into his facial hair. The Dragonborn seemed to appreciate this gesture, giving a little whistle.
The guard searched himself, and he found to his surprise and horror that he was.
“I hope you know what you’re doing,” he sighed, placing his hands on her sides. “But, for what it’s worth… thank you, Dragonborn.”
“Mhm,” she purred, stroking his cheek and prying at his with her fingers. They parted and slurped at the brief offering, tongue rasping along her skin.
The salty sweetness was indescribable. If so much flavor was concentrated in her fingers, who could imagine what the rest of her was like? An entire feast, much better than any cheap mead, lay before him, and he considered himself past the point of no return.
He grunted and hoisted the stuffed woman into the air, with some difficulty due to her weight, and tilted her body toward his opening mouth. Unthinking, his jaws expanded as a snake’s, ready to receive their oversized meal. He paid no attention to this newfound power, however, and ceremoniously inserted her head inside, with the decorum of a proper Nord funeral.
Her intoxicated giggles were muffled inside of his maw, and he relished in raking his tongue all over her face. So sweet! The guard’s gut rumbled pleadingly, wanting the source of that lovely flavor inside of it as soon as physically possible. He was quick to indulge it, pushing her body further inside and giving his first great gulp. Her head created a round bulge in his throat, and it took all his willpower not to let go of her and stroke it.
From there, the task was straightforward. Push, gulp. Push, gulp. His lips slipped down her neck and widened to engulf her shoulders. He was beginning to feel a bit dizzy from lack of air; it was difficult to breathe with someone inside your gullet, after all. He pushed the thought aside. The divine sweetness of his meal was all that mattered now.
It was only when he reached her round belly that he began to notice any changes in his own. He heard a deep gurgling and felt a great pressure inside his middle. At a downward glance, he realized that her head had already reached his stomach, and she had already made a sizable dent in him. His mail creaked noisily as it was pushed outwards by his expanding gut, the armor trying in vain to squeeze and contain it. Already he was fuller than he had ever been before.
Aware of how long he’d gone without breathing, the guard returned to his mission, and to the hardest task: accommodating her massive belly. His jaws strained to open and shove the swollen mass in, eyes tearing up from the effort. The struggle, however, was worth it. He reveled in lightly chewing on the soft flesh, being careful not to break the skin – he heard her laugh ticklishly from inside him – and admiring her inspiring indulgence. He patted his farewell to the doughy dome and pushed it all the way into his drooling maw, down his dully aching throat. Her legs wiggled uselessly outside of his mouth, but almost playfully, as if this were nothing but a silly drinking game.
The pressure building inside his stomach intensified, and he groaned in pained ecstasy. More of her was piling into his stomach, and his mail was struggling to stay intact. It would likely be painful for him and his meal in the event it were to somehow come apart, and why risk it? Removing his shuddering hands from her waist, he fumbled with his armor and relieved himself of its futile efforts to contain him. Immediately, his swelling belly spilled out of its metal prison with a force that made his insides slosh. He moaned, relieved, and gave his aching girth a fond rub.
His vision swirled from holding his breath for so long, though he yearned to savor his marinated meal just a bit more. The Dovahkiin’s wide hips disappeared into fleshy darkness with a mighty shove, and, with a pained gulp, her strong thighs. From there, the guard slurped along her legs, tilting back his head and allowing gravity to be his guide. The wriggling limbs sank inch by inch into his gullet until his journey ended at her feet. He removed her shoes – the leather would be impossible to digest – and, in a moment of spontaneous flirtation, trailed the tip of his tongue along a bare sole. She quivered pleasurably within his stomach, sending a tingle of nirvana up his spine, and he thought it fitting to end the trip now. With another soft slurp, his lips engulfed her toes and pulled her inside. His mouth closed behind her, and saliva rushed down his esophagus in a waterfall with her as he made the last great swallow.
The guard gasped for air, thankful to breathe the crispness of winter night again. He had little time to fully come to his senses; her full weight was sinking into his stomach now, and the man thought for an instant that he’d surely pop. He slowly sank to the ground, following the increasing sag of his stomach, and leaned against the wall, panting. Shaking hands gripped the sides of the exponentially growing bulge, waiting for his meal to meet its journey’s end.
Its. I just called her an it.
From the pit of his stomach, an elongated groan surfaced, unused to such gluttony. However, despite its complaints, the last of the Dragonborn slid from his throat into the awaiting prison of flesh, and its aching cries turned to a long, low moan of voracious victory.
She began to shift inside, causing little bumps and indents to appear on the almost perfectly rounded surface. He expected to be squeamish at such a sensation of another living creature writhing inside, but instead, he felt as if he had entered Sovengarde. Despite himself, he moaned, and caressed his squirming gut.
This is so wrong. Why am I enjoying this? I’ve committed murder!
His heart hammered. He had to spit her out. He had to get her out of him before it was too late. He could still save her, right? There was surely a pause before anything really happened to food!
Food. Did I just call her food?
Deep within, there came a noisy gurgle, like an alchemist’s cauldron beginning to boil. The sensation of bubbling liquid commenced in the pit of his stomach, and began to work its way upward. A gasp was muffled by the thick walls, and the twitches from within became thrashes. Her voice cried out, more sober than before.
“Hey! What d'ya think you’re doin’–hIC!”
He clutched his writhing mass of a belly and whimpered from the sharp agony it brought, but the pain subsided soon, and was replaced with the sensation of low, grumbling gurgles. The guard hardly noticed how the kicks and punches bruised his stomach walls. Now, it felt as if a meal inside his stomach was giving him an internal massage and bubbling pleasantly as if it were nothing more than an enormous shank of meat.
He was so full. So very, very full. Imperial rations were nothing compared to this. Smacking his lips, he found a flavor that was, this time, very real, and began to unconsciously smirk.
He didn’t want to let her go.
“We had a deal, Dragonborn,” he teased, kneading a spot where her punches frequented the surface of his taut skin. “And a guardian of the law always keeps his word.”
“Bastard!” She jolted, and the liquid contents within slushed heavily. “I’m the Dragonborn! You can’t do this! Let me go!”
“I ought to have charged you for causing a drunken scene in our streets,” he purred, drumming his fingers along a coarse trail on his lower stomach. “But I’ve figured out a better way for you to serve time.” Drained from his efforts, he yawned and crossed his arms behind his head, all guilt ebbing. “Consider this a fine,” he chuckled, eyes closing.
“Hey! Hey, is anybody out there? Hel-”
The mighty voice of the Dragonborn was drowned out by the cascading churns of her fleshy prison. The fleshy walls descended and squeezed at its large task, a satisfied rumble quaking his huge belly. Before long, her movements stilled, though the powerful motions of his stomach that replaced hers made the transition barely noticeable.
Nothing but bubbling meat now. Some way for a hero to go.
Speaking of bubbling, something mightily roiled around in the depths of the guard’s stomach. Without opening an eye, he reached beneath his massive gut and pat at the tender underbelly, coaxing the force upward. His insides trembled with the rumbling before it rocketed up his gullet and out his open maw, in a noisy belch. Her sweet taste wafted through his mouth once more, and he eagerly licked his lips to experience it one more time.
“Goodnight, Dovahkiin,” he murmured teasingly, patting the top of the dome. It wobbled and sloshed quietly at his touch in response. Chuckling, he closed his eyes and surrendered himself to a much-needed food coma.
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When the guard awakened, he still felt heavy, but in a different way. Weary eyes forced themselves open. The stars of the Tamriel sky still shone, but the golden wisps of dawn were beginning to show. He guessed it to be around six or seven in the morning, just a couple of hours before the market would be bustling again. Yawning, he glanced downward, vaguely aware that he had a large and magnificent meal recently.
He froze when he saw a rounded gut settled in his lap. Had he been a Nord woman, he’d likely easily be mistaken for an expectant mother, but he didn’t feel the characteristic heaviness. This was pure fat. A shaking finger neared it and poked at it, as if to test if it were some sleepy illusion; the flesh gave to his touch and jiggled around. One hand shook it, then, and received the same reaction. Whatever had been in there, it was long gone now.
I can’t go to my post looking like this!
He looked around for his mail, and found it discarded to the side, along with a pair of drooled-on shoes.
His stomach gave a damning growl.
By the Nines… I’ve eaten the Dragonborn?
It was not a thought of horror nor guilt, but… surprise. The most powerful being in all of Skyrim had become nothing but a nourishing meal for a mere city guard, and not a dragon or giant? Such a thing was almost a pity.
Maybe someone that delicious had it coming.
Still, it was a matter of time before the city would awaken, and the devouring of their hero would not be taken kindly. Patting his ill-gotten girth, the guard chuckled.
“Maybe this makes me the Dragonborn now, hm?”
He leapt to his feet, gut wobbling with the sudden motion. Abandoning the helmet and mail, the guard made for the city walls, belly in tow. He wouldn’t be noticed if he made it out before sunrise.
If this kind of criminal life could keep one so well fed, perhaps it was a life worth pursuing.
Ignoring the stares of his watchtower comrades as he sprinted from Whiterun’s gates, the deserter made for the plains.
