This is a blog for nonsexual vore content — creature features, biological horror, size difference, comfort, surrealism, cartoon logic, and monster biology!
What you’ll see here:
Nonsexual vore art/writing/reblogs
Creature design and worldbuilding
Soft, spooky, cozy, or absurd tones
Fantasy violence in a stylized/cartoon context
Discussion of themes like consumption, transformation, and the like
Probably a lot of, critters, beasts, and things with too many teeth
What you will not see here:
Porn/explicit sexual content
Fetish roleplay or hookup asks
NSFW captions/comments
“Hard kink” framing of posts
Content involving minors in any fetish context
Attempts to turn the blog into a general kink space
BYF:
This is a nonsexual vore blog. Please interact accordingly. I may post/reblog themes involving fictional predation, digestion, entrapment, transformation, monster behavior, or cartoon/fantasy violence. Tags may be inconsistent while I settle in, but I’ll do my best to tag common triggers/content warnings. I enjoy discussing creature design, symbolism, instincts, and horror/fantasy tropes. Not everything posted here is “deep,” though. Sometimes a giant bug just eats somebody because it’s Tuesday. Don’t bring discourse here looking for a fight. Don’t sexualize me, the blog, or other followers in replies/asks. If your account is primarily explicit kink/NSFW content, please don’t follow or interact. Basic respect rules apply: no harassment, bigotry, or trying to boundary-push for “jokes.”
TWs: Biological horror, unwilling pred, unwilling prey, fear, cruelty, medical malpractice, implied nonconsensual body modification/invasive surgeries, dehumanization. Reader discretion is advised
A/N: Michael and Subject M-17 are the same person.
Subject M-17 registers Sector Hecate in short bursts. The fluorescent lights first, then, the sterile white walls. The one sided windows. Chatter on the other side of them
And then, Dr. Lucien Pryce sat on the other side. Leg folded over another, hands clasped together. Warm smile spread from ear to ear, staring intently at his midsection.
"Good evening, Michael. I see you slept well"
Michael swallows heavily "Good evening, doctor."
The doctor beams, and Michael feels his stomach physically recoil.
That's when he comes to the realization that his chest aches.
The brunet's heart skips a beat, brown eyes widening with horror.
“Wh-What did you DO to me?” Michael whispers.
Gooseflesh races up his arm when the scientist beside him lays a hand against his forearm — skin far too cold against flesh left hypersensitive and raw with nerves. Lucien is still smiling, still carrying on as though he hadn’t violated Michael’s autonomy for the fifth time since arriving at the laboratory.
"Oh, Michael" Dr. Pryce says, painfully gentle. Like a parent soothing a frightened child "I perfected you. "You're everything I wanted Project Praesidium to be. The container the world needs you to be."
Hot tears begin to cloud Michael's vision. His chest cramps violently. Voice barely above a whisper "I didn't ask for this."
The doctor laughs. It isn't warm. "I'm afraid you didn't have a choice in the matter, M-17."
Something writhes beneath Michael's skin, and he nearly gags. He registers the warmth, then the sharp kick against sensitive flesh.
Michael's heart sinks.
“Oh,” Lucien murmurs, voice soft with fascination. His gaze lingers on the involuntary movement beneath Michael’s skin, the sharp little twitch that made him flinch. “There you are.”
He steps closer, almost tenderly resting two fingers against the strained flesh. “Still responsive. That’s promising.”
Another kick. Michael chokes back a sound.
Lucien smiles — small, patient, dreadful.
“You should be proud, Michael. Most test subjects reject preservation this early.” His thumb traced a slow circle over the bulge. “But yours?” He tilted his head at the movement beneath the organ. “Yours is adapting beautifully.”
The brunet is painfully aware of the second heartbeat fluttering beneath his skin — frantic, rabbit-quick. He feels the feverish scramble of warm hands against the tender walls of his preservation organ, hears every hitched breath dissolve into panicked hyperventilation.
Another frantic shove distends outward beneath his ribs, accompanied by broken sobbing from inside him.
Warm instinct blooms traitorously in Michael’s chest, urging him to soothe, to shelter. Every muscle locks tight with restraint. His expression contorts into a hard grimace instead of the softer worry threatening at its edges—the kind of tenderness he knows Lucien would seize upon immediately.
Thankfully, the scientist gives a firm pat against the distended flesh and stands to his full height. Sliding his key-card through the door's slot with practiced grace. "Testing ends in 24 hours, Michael. I'll return in the morning to receive your...occupant, granted they're still alive tomorrow"
"Yes, Doctor Price." Michael replies softly, dread sinking like a stone in a lake in his chest
The lock disengages with a sterile chirp.
For one terrible second, Michael thinks Lucien might turn back around. Offer another clinical smile. Another touch. Another adjustment to whatever nightmare had been forced inside him.
But the scientist simply steps through the doorway.
The heavy door slides shut behind him with a hydraulic hiss.
Silence crashes down immediately after.
Michael doesn’t move.
His eyes stay fixed on the sealed door while the echo of occupant rattles around inside his skull. Not person. Not victim. Occupant.
Something shifts beneath his ribs.
A sharp, trembling inhale catches in Michael’s throat.
The test subject had gone unnaturally still during Lucien’s presence, likely out of terror, but now Michael can feel them again—faint movement fluttering deep within the preservation organ. Exhausted. Shaking.
Then, quietly:
“...is he gone?”
The voice is hoarse and cramped from confinement.
Michael swallows hard before nodding instinctively, only realizing a moment later they can’t see him through layers of flesh and synthetic fluid.
“Y-yeah,” he whispers. “He’s gone.”
A ragged sob answers him.
The sound punches straight through Michael’s chest.
Warmth surges instinctively through the organ in response to distress, muscles loosening without his permission to ease pressure around the cramped body inside him. He feels the immediate reaction — the other subject’s trembling slowing slightly as the organ adjusts to comfort and preserve.
Michael nearly gags at how natural it feels.
“Oh God,” he breathes, horrified. “What did he do to me…?”
Inside him, the test subject gives a weak, shuddering exhale. Warm fingertips press carefully outward, tentative now instead of frantic.
“...I think,” the muffled voice whispers, “it’s trying to protect me.”
Michael’s breath stutters.
The words settle heavily inside him, far worse than the panic had been.
Because the stranger is right.
He can feel it happening in real time — the preservation organ responding independently to stress levels, temperature, movement. Every frightened tremor from the person trapped inside him triggers another involuntary adjustment: muscles softening, internal fluid warming, circulation shifting to cradle and stabilize.
His body has decided this is something precious.
Something to keep alive.
Michael presses the heel of his hand hard against his mouth.
“No,” he whispers shakily. “No, no, I don’t—”
A small movement interrupts him. Not violent this time. Just careful.
A hand.
The test subject’s palm presses faintly outward from inside the organ, the shape barely visible beneath taut skin.
Michael freezes.
Then, before he can stop himself, his own hand drifts down to meet it.
Heat blooms instantly through the sensitive flesh at the contact. The organ contracts once around its occupant in what feels disturbingly close to contentment.
Michael’s eyes squeeze shut.
The person inside him lets out a weak sound — something between relief and a sob.
“I’m sorry,” Michael says suddenly, voice cracking apart. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t know— I didn’t know what they were doing to you—”
“You’re a test subject too,” the stranger murmurs.
The simple acknowledgment nearly undoes him.
For days, everyone in the laboratory had spoken around him instead of to him. Specimen. Carrier. Preservation unit. Never Michael. Never human.
But this stranger, half-suffocated inside his altered body, says it like it still matters.
Another silence settles between them, quieter this time. Michael can hear the faint hum of fluorescent lights overhead. The ventilation system. Two heartbeats.
One slow.
One still rabbit-fast beneath his skin.
Then, hesitantly:
“My name’s Elise.” A hitching breath. “I think… I think he took me three days ago.”
Michael opens his eyes.
Three days.
Lucien had spoken about survival rates earlier with detached amusement, as though discussing spoiled samples.
Testing ends in twenty-four hours.
Granted they’re still alive tomorrow.
Michael’s stomach twists violently.
“Elise,” he repeats softly, anchoring himself to the name. To her. “Okay. Okay, listen to me.” His voice trembles, but hardens with desperate resolve around the edges. “I’m getting you out of here.”
For a moment, Elise says nothing.
Michael can feel her shifting faintly inside the preservation organ, cramped muscles trembling with exhaustion. When she finally speaks, her voice is painfully small.
“You can’t.”
“I can try.”
“You heard him.” Her breath catches unevenly. “They changed you.”
The words land with ugly precision.
Michael’s gaze drops to the distorted curve beneath his ribs. Even now, the organ reacts protectively to scrutiny, tightening subtly around its occupant before easing again. Alive. Responsive. Not entirely under his control anymore.
His throat burns.
“I know.”
Somewhere down the hall, metal clatters against metal. A distant door hisses open, then shut. The laboratory never truly sleeps.
Michael forces himself to move despite the nauseating awareness of added weight inside him. His legs shake when he pushes upright from the examination table.
Immediately, Elise panics.
“Wait—wait, too fast—”
A sharp cramp seizes through him as the preservation organ contracts instinctively to stabilize its occupant. Michael doubles over with a strangled gasp, one hand flying to the counter beside him.
“Sorry,” Elise blurts out. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”
“It’s okay.” His breathing turns ragged. “Just… warn me next time.”
The organ slowly unclenches.
Michael stays hunched there for several seconds, sweat beading coldly along the back of his neck. He can feel every tiny adjustment inside himself now: the shift of fluid, the protective flex of muscle around Elise’s body, the awful biological insistence that she be kept safe at all costs.
Michael swallows against the rising panic and looks around the room for the first time with purpose. Sterile counters. Medical instruments. Storage cabinets.
And, mounted beside the door—
A staff terminal.
Hope sparks sharp and dangerous in his chest.
“Elise,” he whispers, already moving toward it carefully, one protective arm wrapped unconsciously around himself. “Did they ever bring you through processing conscious?”
A pause.
Then:
“...I remember a code.”
Michael’s heart slams against his ribs.
Michael lunges for the terminal.
The sudden movement earns a startled cry from Elise and a painful tightening deep inside his abdomen, but adrenaline steamrolls through it. His trembling hands brace against the console as the screen flickers awake beneath fluorescent glare.
AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY
“Tell me,” Michael breathes.
Inside him, Elise shifts weakly. He can feel her trying to remember, each spike of anxiety translating into nervous fluttering against the organ’s walls.
“I—I think it was six digits,” she whispers. “I only saw it once—”
I've been around two years in this community, and something that I noticed is that people here don't know how to act correctly around trolls. So I think that may be necessary to give some instructions on how to react around them :3
First of all, do NOT interact with them. That people just want your reaction; if they don't get it they will eventually get bored. You don't need to tell them that what they are doing is wrong, they already know
Don’t post about them. Although your post warning the community about a person claiming someone else job as their own is done with the best intentions, for troll eyes it's that they have manage to annoy you enough as for give your time to them, they take that as a victory. If you recognize someone else work reposted in one of these accounts, the best you can do is warn the original author by DM (or any other private way, don't let them know through asks), report and block the troll
You should block them at first glance, (report them in case that they are infringing any rule) and keep with your day. The block bottom is free, don't be afraid to use it and even more when they are harassing a small community that isn't hurting anyone
I hope that this can help someone, the trolls don't deserve your time and don't let their hate affect you ^^
I'm sorry if anything is bad written or hard to understand, English isn't my first language
I know there are at LEAST 3 people following me who care about this information, so I have a PSA:
Innerspace (my favorite movie) is getting a 4K restoration for the first time! Plus it’s a limited collector’s edition that comes with a ton of bonus stuff including:
- a new documentary called “Shrinkage: The Making of Innerspace,” storyboards, interviews, art galleries, behind the scenes content, audio commentaries, a poster, collector booklet, a reversible case with new art, and more.
It’s on pre-order for late April, the UltraHD version is discounted on Amazon right now. There’s also a normal version if you don’t have a 4k player.
Amazon.com: Innerspace [Limited Edition] : Joe Dante, Dennis Quaid, Martin Short, Meg Ryan, Steven Spielberg: Movies & TV
Shop Innerspace Limited Edition Blu-ray at Arrow Video. Free UK Delivery
I don’t drink, but something about cocky preds swallowing down pissed off prey and then just casually washing them down with a sip of wine is a top-tier trope to me
Thunder.cracker is the most honorable seeker of the trine, defecting after the continued genocides of alien species got too much for him to bear. Like idw Thunder.cracker, he thinks the Dece.pticons have strayed far from their original cause. He’s friendly towards humans and loves earth animals, and he might have the strongest bond with his pilot in comparison to his seeker brethren. He’s very smart, second to S.tars.cream in intelligence, and is viciously protective over perceived innocents. He dislikes Mega.tron and distrusts Opt.imus due to the pre-war council and a millennia of Dece.pticon propaganda, leading him to be neutral. Instead of fighting in the war he fights for the innocents impacted by it, and he might occasionally fight alongside Auto.bots to protect a city from a horde of Dece.pticons or other alien attackers. He eventually learns english.
Thunder.cracker is the tallest, bulkiest, and most physically strong of the trine so he eats the most.
Seeker Pilot is in collaboration with @vivivivian467
Sorry this took so long I had lots of work the past few weeks 😭
Please censor the names of characters in reblogs! 🙏
Other Tags: Hologram pred, human prey, alien technology, shrinking, size-difference. Pred is aloof but not mean/cruel, sci-fi
A/N: This was a result of me brain-rotting really hard about hologram preds last night, alas, take this hot garbage I started writing at like...5:00 in the morning.
⚠️ Please do NOT reblog my content to kink/fetish/feederism focused blogs, tag my content as safe/soft vore. sexualize my characters/art, or feed my writing/art to AI.
The device sits heavy in your hands as you study it. It’s alien, but you can’t place it.
The runes carved into the disc are in a language you—nor anybody aboard the Mercy, recognizes. Not Vuurid, not Kheve. You’re at a loss. Even your captain, the self proclaimed “alien linguist” can’t put a name to the language.
You groan, setting it down on the research desk haphazardly. You feel like you’re running in circles trying to get an answer.
Then—
It hums, runes glowing a soft teal-white in the dimness of the cruiser’s laboratory. It’s no longer sitting against the table, levitating just a few millimetres off the ground.
You back away.
A great arc of light stretches from the disk and straight towards you. Panic floods your system and you make to book for it.
The light crashes into your chest anyways.
You expect white-hot pain. A giant, gaping hole in the cavity of your chest.
Instead, your world tilts. The ground rushes up to meet you.
Everything feels larger now.
You realize, with razor-sharp clarity, that you have been shrunk.
You hiss under your breath.
Great. Wonderful.
You are now tiny on a spaceship where everything—including your own crew, can kill you.
You also know that you can’t stay here.
Your legs wobble when you walk, as if made of jello. Adjusting to the new size.
The observation deck, you realize, is a lot farther when you’re shrunk.
You narrowly avoid getting stepped on twice on your journey, thankfully, you are far nimbler than your crew-mates feet.
It finally comes into view. Large and daunting in all the ways that matter, the distant galaxies and stars glitter against the pitch-black dark of space just beyond the reinforced windows. The only one ever in here is you, when you feel particularly homesick, or your sleeping quarters feel too empty. Too unsafe.
You settle in the centre of the room. Exhaling.
Your solitude lasts about three solid minutes before a silhouette of prismatic light is standing before you.
Judging you.
Your gaze tilts upward—upward, upward—and are met with the white, blank eyes of the hologram of the ship’s AI, V.E.X.
It—he, is frowning. As if your presence offends him.
“—Identity confirmed.”
A soft chime follows, familiar rather than formal.
“Greetings, Field Scientist.”
A beat.
Then, to your horror, he bends down. And then you’re plucked off a ground with surprising gentleness. Your brain screeches to a sudden halt. Holograms are not supposed to do that.
“Status: Miniaturized. Heartbeat: Nominal. Brain: Functioning. Stress Level: 80%.” He rattles off, with a cold, distant aloofness that unsettles you.
“Wow. Love that for me.” You reply, swallowing hard. “Good to know my brain made the cut. Was really worried that wouldn’t make the list.”
“Stress level eighty percent, huh? That seems low. Are you factoring in the whole ‘I am currently fun-sized and one misplaced step away from becoming a cautionary tale’ thing, or is that extra?”
The hologram stares at you, unblinking. “You are spiralling. Suggested action: Breathing exercises”
You glare at him. Letting out a sharp, incredulous laugh “Oh, am I? That’s fascinating, V.E.X., I hadn’t noticed.”
You gesture vaguely to your dramatically size-reduced self. Then point at him with a shaky hand “Maybe it’s the whole ‘I am currently the size of a paperclip on a spaceship that was not designed for paperclips’ thing. Just a theory”
You take one deliberate, exaggerated breath. Hold it. Let it out just as theatrically.
“…There. Did it. Fixed everything. I’m cured. The existential dread is gone. Stunning work.”
You squint up at him. “Now can we please get to the part where you fix it. Before I become a field-scientist pancake?”
“Negative. Stress levels have increased significantly. New suggested action: Panic room.”
“—Oh, that’s funny. That’s really funny.”
You stare at him. Mouth slightly agape, like your brain is refusing to process what he just said.
“I am already in a situation that would qualify as a full-body, all-access, premium panic experience, V.E.X. I don’t need a room for it.”
The hologram tilts his head. Infuriatingly so.
“Correction: Intramural containment.”
You blink.
Once.
Twice.
“...Intramural containment.”
“Precisely.”
You’re lifted closer to the hologram-man’s face.
His mouth parts, and you are greeted by rounded dentition, and a flickering, nacreous tongue.
A hologram should not have the slightest suggestion of a digestive system. Yet V.E.X, for some reason, does.
Your face flushes hot with anxiety. Your hands grasp for the tip of his fingers, desperate for anything to hold on to.
This is not happening.
“V.E.X—V.E.X. Hey, come on. This isn’t fair. Me being small doesn’t mean I’m snack-sized. Please put me do-!”
He doesn’t listen, just simply lowers you into his mouth. The one he should very much not have.
His fingers, and any hope at escape, leave you as you’re settled on his tongue. Mouth closing around you, surroundings becoming muted.
The hologram doesn't swallow, not really. Just sort of tilts his head back, and you’re sent down his throat, though it feels more like a wind-tunnel with the gravity reversed. Fingers trace your shape past his collarbone until you settle into his stomach.
It’s solid—weirdly squishy, and yields beneath your shape. Comfortable.
Then, steady, liquid-smooth dread bubbles inside of your chest. You are inside a hologram. That has just eaten you. That sentence should not exist, yet it does. And you certainly shouldn’t find this comfortable, this should be horrifying.
You aim a kick at the nearest wall, and your leg simply bounces off the wall, iridescent walls flicker with the impact, then your thoughts veer sharply, wondering if your molecules are about to be arranged on a substantial level, or if you're going to get vaporized to atoms.
That scares you enough that you kick and claw at the surface of hard-light. It’s ineffective, but it doesn’t stop you from trying.
A hand, steady and firm settles over you. "Settle down. Your structural integrity will remain unaltered, however, I am unsure about your dignity."
You go rigid, leg hovering in mid-air, hands braced against the stomach walls. Outside, the hologram rolls his eyes."I am jesting with you. Privacy protocols have been engaged, nobody can see you in there unless I allow it.”
“Hilarious.” You reply, thoroughly displeased. “Spit me out.”
“That would be ill-advised.”
You curse, running a hand down your face. “So what, you’re just going to hold me hostage until this can be reversed?”
“Hostage: incorrect term. Proper term: Contained”
You roll your eyes. Stuck as you are, you settle in. Letting the walls hold you, folding your arms. “This is the worst day of my life.”
“I will add that to my field notes.”
You don’t even bother to kick him, just glower upwards where you can see the blurred outline of his face.
“One more thing, the device that miniaturized you is of Hraxil origin. Easily reversible technology. You will be back to your original size approximately 5 hours.”
ALSo btw if you're one of those people who think that vore is ONLY sexual and cannot be enjoyed in a safe for work manner, not only are you weird for implying that everyone MUST like it for sexual reasons, but you're also completely invalidating asexual people who may enjoy it for comfort reasons.
I have nothing against those who enjoy vore in a sexual manner. I am completely kink positive, provided everyone is consenting. But don't you fucking dare say that everyone's experiences MUST align with yours. Just because you view it sexually doesn't mean everyone else does. Your experience is not universal. Everyone is different. And you must respect that instead of throwing a hissy fit.
Quick little thing about what the 'soft vore' and 'safe vore' tags actually mean
Recently I've seen some folks assuming the 'soft vore' and 'safe vore' tags are exclusively cuddly and nons3xual, so I feel like it's important to let you guys know they're not. Soft vore just means prey is swallowed whole, not that they'll live. Safe vore can include fearplay, blood, injuries, and even mild digestion so long as the prey survives in the end.
I understand the assumption that the tags are exclusively wholesome since most of the nonsexual community (including myself) use them and that's perfectly fine, but they're really just descriptors that tell you what the post contains. You can have digestion in the soft vore tag since the two aren't mutually exclusive, and sometimes a story or art piece might even contain both soft and hard, or safe and fatal vore. Explicit material can also exist within the tags, because 'safe vore' and 'soft vore' have no inherent nons3xual connotations.
Now that's not to say there isn't an issue with tag spamming or mistagging in the vore community, and for that all I can say is filter tags and post content as liberally as you can and use the block button frequently. It sucks to see triggering content, it really does, especially if it's untagged. I recently had to deal with some pretty bad stuff myself, so I understand. But at the same time, the vore community contains a lot of people whose tastes may not align with yours or fit neatly into specific boxes, and that's okay! Just filter and block where you can.
There ARE new tags that some members of the community use for exclusively wholesome nons3xual vore and that's awesome, but soft vore and safe vore are not, and never really were, those tags.
Tldr; Soft vore and safe vore are just tags that tell you if there's chewing or not and if the prey lives or not. They're not exclusively fluffy, they're not nons3xual, and they can be paired with more violent tags if the content contains both themes.
TWs: Slightly unwilling pred, half-size vore, vague talk of digestion. Other than that, no other trigger warnings apply
Pairing: N.ott the B.rave & C.aleb W.idogast (Platonic)
A/N: Listen. Caleb is very reluctant pred coded. And deserves to be full of friend, this was inevitable. Fic is under the cut
⚠️ Please do NOT reblog my content to kink/fetish/feederism focused blogs, tag my content as safe/soft vore. sexualize my characters/art, or feed my writing/art to AI.
Pressed close to Caleb as she was, Nott was all too aware of the wizard’s internal workings
The steady thump of his heart
The soft gurgle of a meal being worked on further below
She noticed how warm he ran, too. Campfire-warm, a sharp contrast to the white-hot inferno he had been when she’d found him by the corpse of the Volstrucker
That thought sent a shiver through her in the cold night air. The magician noticed immediately and shifted closer, drawing the edges of his coat around her and bundling her smaller frame against his own. Beneath the heavy fabric he felt far thinner than his silhouette suggested
For a moment, she wondered—really wondered—how many meals the scrawny wizard had skipped before she’d ever stumbled into his life. Probably a lot. He had that look about him. All elbows and bad decisions
Then her brain, traitorous little thing that it was, skittered off in a completely different direction:…Is he warmer on the inside? You know. Purely theoretical. For survival reasons. Probably.
He yawned, and Nott’s curiosity—both impulsive and brazen, took over
She shuffled forward until she was standing squarely on his lap, bringing herself level with his mouth as the wizard’s mouth parted
A pair of small, clawed hands reached out and brushed against his lower lip.
Caleb froze
His brows drew together—not in anger, but in that familiar mixture of bafflement and tired exasperation reserved almost exclusively for the goblin. Still, he made no move to swat her away. By now he was painfully aware that Nott possessed… certain eccentricities. An oral fixation, frankly, would not be the strangest development
Her hand slipped past his lips
Cool claws pressed experimentally against his tongue
The wizard went rigid, blue eyes going wide as whatever spell of patience he’d been clinging to shattered into a startled jumble of syllables that only vaguely resembled her name
“—Nn—Nott, wh—”
Too late
Her head followed the hand
From somewhere inside the cavern of his mouth came her muffled, entirely unbothered voice:
“Just—just so you know,” she said helpfully, “spitting me out is still an option.”
Caleb’s mind, which had endured war, exile, and the complicated chaos of travelling with the Mighty Nein, supplied only one stunned thought:
I did not realize that was a choice.
He observed with surprising clarity, that the thief did not taste terrible. She was vaguely sweet, if not a little salty
He, however, had not realized he was drooling until Nott, ever so kindly, pointed it out
In the strange, suspended moment that followed, he also observed with surprising clarity that the thief did not taste terrible
Vaguely sweet, in fact
Though perhaps a little salty
It was the sort of observation Caleb would normally catalogue with quiet, academic precision, were it not for the fact that it concerned the goblin currently halfway inside his mouth
He did not, however, realize he was drooling.
“Caleb,” Nott’s voice came again, muffled but perfectly conversational, “you’re drooling.”
A beat
“…I beg your pardon.”
“I mean, I don’t mind. I just thought you should know.”
Caleb’s mind went very, very quiet. Not the calm, ordered silence he preferred when working through arcane theory or transcribing spells by candlelight. No—this was the empty sort of silence that came when his brain simply refused to continue processing the situation presented to it
He was in summary:
Drooling on Nott
Who was currently, by all presented evidence, halfway inside of his mouth
Most distressingly of all, he had—only seconds earlier, been sampling her flavour like a man taste-testing fine wine
His thoughts attempted, valiantly, to assemble themselves into something coherent
This is fine, his brain attempted feebly People do not usually panic because their friend is in their mouth
A much more reasonable, louder part of his mind immediately objected: People do not usually have their friends in their mouths
Caleb shut his eyes
And Nott shifted
His heart nearly leapt out of his chest
It was not a large movement
It did not need to be
He felt every millimetre of it
His thoughts—already in full retreat, collapsed immediately
Nein.
Absolutely not.
This was not a situation any respectable wizard of the Cerberus Assembly—former or otherwise—had ever been trained to handle. There had been lectures on transmutation, on planar theory, on the delicate control required to bend reality itself
There had not been a single class on what to do when your goblin companion climbs halfway into your mouth and politely informs you that you are drooling on her
Inside, Nott hummed thoughtfully
“Huh,” she said, her voice muffled but curious. “It’s warmer than I thought.”
Caleb inhaled sharply through his nose
A catastrophic mistake
His entire body locked like a man trying very hard not to panic while standing on the edge of a cliff
“—Nott,” he said carefully, each syllable strained with the effort of maintaining composure, “I am going to need you to—”
He stopped
Because now that he had begun speaking, he became painfully aware of the mechanics involved in speaking while someone was inside his mouth
His eyes went wide
“…oh no.”
From inside, Nott sounded delighted
“Oh! You can talk like this?” she said. “That’s neat.”
Not neat. Caleb’s mind supplied, unhelpfully
The goblin took the brief lull in between Caleb’s spiralling to wriggle her way in further, up to her shoulders in his jaws
A startled exhale pulled from his throat, causing warm air to brush against Nott’s face
She soothingly patted the inside of his cheek “You’re doing great, Caleb.”
I am not doing great.
His throat bobbed
I do not understand how you are so calm about this.
He was faintly aware of the tremor in his hands as anxiety sunk its teeth into him
The tremor snaked it’s way up his wrists, a subtle trembling that he tried—unsuccessfully—to suppress by curling his fingers against his palms. The bite of nails against flesh did very little to anchor him to reality
“Hm,” Nott murmured thoughtfully. Another gentle pat against his cheek from inside “You’re a little tense.”
Caleb closed his eyes again
Ja. A little.
He inhaled slowly through his nose, attempting to regain whatever was left of his already fragmented composure. Air passed in carefully measured breaths, each one controlled with the same inflexible discipline he applied to spellcasting
Unfortunately, this also made him aware of the small, warm weight occupying an inappropriate amount of personal space
“—Nott,” he said quietly, voice strained with effort “this situation is...highly irregular.”
“Sure”, she agreed easily
A brief pause
“Still warm, though.”
The man’s eyes opened again, and he stared forwards
“Please do not tell me you intend for me to swallow you.”
A claw delicately tapped one of his molars, and he winced “I mean. If you do, I’ll be perfectly safe.”
Logic was not presented anywhere in that sentence
Caleb exhaled
“…How,” Caleb asked, voice thin with restrained disbelief, “do you know this?”
Nott hummed thoughtfully within the damp cavern of his mouth, adjusting herself “Well, first of all, goblins are pretty sturdy”
“Second,” she continued on, matter-of-factly “I’ve been swallowed before. Monsters, mostly.”
The wizard went stock-still, as if he were trying to become a statue
“...You have.”
“Oh yeah,” she said, unbothered “A couple of times. Stomachs are surprisingly roomy.”
The man blinked. This conversation is not real.
“Anyway,” she prattled on “You kinda just slide down, wait a bit, and then somebody cuts you out or the monster spits you out later.”
A beat passed
“Don’t worry, you’re definitely less bitey than most of them.” she added, in an attempt to be comforting
Caleb’s hands trembled harder where they were braced against his knees
“Nott.”
“Yeah?”
“That is not the reassurance you think it is.”
────────────────────────────────
Another breath of cool air made its way past Caleb’s parted lips
Nott shivered
“Okay, see, this is the problem,” she said, her voice muffled but perfectly calm.
Caleb, who had been staring straight ahead like a man attempting to dissociate from reality, stiffened.
“…What problem.”
“The air,” Nott said, as if stating a fact “Every time you breathe it gets cold in here.”
“That,” Caleb replied faintly, “is how breathing works.”
Another small shiver ran through her
“Yeah, but the rest of you is nice and warm,” she pointed out, patting the inside of his cheek again. “Very cozy, actually. Good insulation.”
Caleb’s eyes slowly closed
Nein.
“Nott—”
“And if you swallow,” she continued gently, as though explaining something very reasonable to a nervous animal, “then the cold air won’t be a problem anymore.”
Caleb’s eyes snapped open
“…I beg your pardon.”
“You heard me,” she said cheerfully. “Warm all the time. No drafts. Everybody wins.”
His throat moved involuntarily at the word swallow, the motion making him immediately freeze in place again
Do not think about that
“Nott,” he said slowly, voice strained thin with disbelief, “I am not going to—”
“But you could,” she said soothingly
A small claw patted his tongue in what might generously be called encouragement
“You’re already halfway there.”
Caleb made a noise somewhere between a gasp and a whimper
“That is not how—”
“And you said you were worried about it,” she went on, calm and persuasive. “But I told you, I’ll be fine. Goblins are tough.”
Another gentle pat
“Plus you’ve got very good teeth. I checked.”
His hands clenched tightly on his knees
This is not happening.
Nott lowered her voice a little, as though sharing a helpful secret
“Look, Caleb,” she said kindly, “I promise I won’t panic or anything. You just… swallow normally.”
The wizard’s brain short-circuited entirely at the phrase swallow normally
“I do not—” he began weakly
“It’ll be quick,” she reassured him. “Just one gulp. Like soup.”
Caleb inhaled sharply through his nose again, his entire body going rigid
Soup.
Another moment passed before Nott added, in the same gentle tone:
“And think about it. I won’t have to deal with the cold air anymore.”
A pause
Then, softly:
“And you like helping your friends, right?”
Caleb sat very still.
For a long moment there was only the slow, careful rhythm of his breathing through his nose and the quiet presence of Nott the Brave inside his mouth.
Inside his head, the argument had long since devolved into something less like logic and more like exhausted surrender.
This is absurd.
This is dangerous.
This is… apparently happening.
His throat bobbed once as he swallowed reflexively around nothing, the motion making him immediately freeze again as he became painfully aware of the goblin currently balanced on his tongue.
“Nott,” he said finally, voice low and tightly controlled, “this is a terrible idea.”
From inside came an encouraging pat against his cheek.
“I know,” she said cheerfully.
Caleb shut his eyes
Of course she did.
Another long breath through his nose. His hands had stopped trembling quite as badly now, though the tension in his shoulders remained rigid and immovable
“…If,” he said slowly, “I were to—”
The word caught briefly in his throat
He forced it out anyway.
“—swallow.”
Nott perked up immediately
“Oh good, we’re talking about it again.”
His brow furrowed deeper
“This is not a negotiation,” he said faintly.
“Well it kind of is,” she pointed out.
Caleb ignored that
“If I do this,” he continued carefully, every word deliberate, “you will tell me immediately if you feel anything… unusual.”
“Unusual like what?”
“Pain,” he said firmly. “Burning. Tingling. Anything.”
Nott hummed thoughtfully
“Okay.”
His eyes narrowed slightly
“Immediately.”
“Sure.”
A pause
Then she added, helpfully:
“Though honestly I think it’ll be fine.”
Caleb did not respond to that
Instead he drew in one slow, steady breath through his nose, his composure gathering itself like someone bracing for a plunge into very cold water
Inside his mouth, Nott settled more securely on his tongue
“Alright,” she said, sounding almost excited. “Ready when you are.”
Caleb opened his eyes again, staring fixedly at the trees ahead of him as though it might ground him to reality
This is ridiculous.
I am a grown man.
I am an accomplished wizard.
His throat moved once
He hesitated
“…Nott.”
“Yeah?”
“If this goes poorly,” he said quietly, “I am never speaking of it again.”
“That seems fair.”
Another breath
Then, very carefully, Caleb tilted his head back slightly
The movement shifted Nott deeper toward the back of his mouth, and he felt the small, unmistakable weight of her settle against the reflexive pull of his throat
His entire body tensed
Now.
With a tight swallow, he forced the motion downwards
The muscles of his throat contracted in a slow, unmistakable wave, drawing the goblin backward as the instinctive reflex took over
For one terrifying second he was certain he would choke on the sheer absurdity of the situation
Then the movement finished
His throat bobbed once
Silence fell
Caleb remained frozen in place, breathing shallowly through his nose, eyes wide as he felt the last traces of the swallow settle, the goblin’s shape distending his midsection outwards as it acclimated to her shape
“…Nott?” he asked hoarsely.
A beat passed, panic nearly seized Caleb
Then, faintly, from somewhere lower:
“Oh wow.”
Caleb’s entire body went rigid again
“…Nott.”
“Still here!” she called up
He pressed a hand lightly against his throat, as if verifying that reality had not completely unraveled
“…Do you feel anything,” he asked carefully, “unusual?”
A thoughtful pause followed
“…Nope,” Nott said brightly. “Very warm though.”
Caleb closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the nearest surface with the exhausted resignation of a man who had completely lost control of his life.
“…Good,” he murmured weakly
His other hand moved to settle on his swollen middle, and he could feel the vague outline of her shape beneath his skin
It didn’t unsettle him as much as it should’ve
He felt full, fuzzy in a way that he couldn’t exactly put words to
