#fatal digestion

[syndoesstuff]

*Definitely* not inspired by anything recent but.

Pred that cockvores their prey and then has another come to massage and fondle their balls as their prey is churned into warm, sludgy cum and then when they finally hit their orgasm the 2nd prey can feel every little contraction and pulsing throb as thick ropes are shot from their red, sensitive tip.

[wholegrainvore]

ok ok ok . WIP technically of my Magnum Opus with my characters in their silly giant alt history universe. historical fiction g/t vore is real and it's coming for you. lemme know if any of the formatting is fucky

The Hiring Process chapter one

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After disposing of each potential new hire, Jean-Marc took a sip of the expensive wine he'd chosen for the occasion and wiped his mouth clean with a new silk handkerchief. He sat at his desk, flexing his fingers idly, as he reached back into the drawstring pouch his humans were delivered to him in.

He retrieved an unimpressive boy, perhaps freshly nineteen, who quivered between his fingers until he was dropped onto the countertop. Jean-Marc steepled his hands and rested his chin on his knuckles, his brows drawn together dispassionately, and gazed down at him.

Jean-Marc knew how he liked his pets. Not entirely spineless, but not disobedient. Handsome, and frail, and insightful, but without any delusions of being a person. He could tell at a glance when his humans met that criteria, and when they didn't…

Well.

He shut his eyes and focused on his stomach, where he could feel the minuscule ticklings of the last few candidates he'd already considered. A small, polite belch worked its way past his lips, and he delighted in the way the boy in front of him stiffened at the sound, like a deer in the sights of his gun.

"So," he started, his voice a little thick from the richness of his wine. "First of all, can you speak?"

Often, the humans he was given chose not to speak to him. Those were the ones he sorted into the ceramic jars in the sitting room, to keep as snacks. Humans were delicacies, after all; a majority of the people who bought them only did so to eat them. Jean-Marc was eccentric in that he occasionally appreciated the companionship of a human pet, but a pet that couldn't talk back didn't capture his interest as much as his appetite.

"Yes, monsieur," the boy said, meekly.

Jean-Marc's expression stayed measuredly empty.

"Where did they pick you up from, petit?"

It took the boy a moment to register what Jean-Marc meant by that.

"I was taken from the Gardens," he said, voice a mere squeak. "By a giant."

"Luxembourg? My, but you must be a resourceful little creature, to last so long out in the open." He flashed a smile that was neither warm nor terse. "Living off of the land is admirable — less admirable is competing with the rats."

Jean-Marc had a manner of speaking that was both condescending and soothing; the boy's tense shoulders marginally relaxed.

"Yes, monsieur. I'd been living in the area for a few years."

"If you would, please hold your arms out, so I may examine you."

The boy did as he was told. Jean-Marc reached for him and picked him up, index and thumb around his ribs, and held him in front of his narrowed, grey eyes.

"Mm. A bit too muscular," he commented. "I'm sorry; I think I'll keep looking."

The boy didn't miss when the tip of Jean-Marc's tongue flicked against the corner of his mouth, and was remarkably quick to react, his tiny fingernails digging into Jean-Marc's hand in an attempt to free himself. Said reaction was cut short by Jean-Marc squeezing his thumb and index finger — likely breaking a few of the human's ribs — rendering his snack a touch more compliant.

"Ah, ah, ah," he chastised gently, before he eased the spasming human into his mouth. He pressed the boy against his hard palate and swallowed the excess saliva pooling around his teeth as his tongue flexed around his prize.

"Mm," he hummed, swallowing again. The boy was haplessly sucked into his throat, but met a bit of resistance when his lower half got past the pharynx. His heart dared to leap with hope, and he struggled against the tight esophageal embrace.

Jean-Marc sighed through his nose and reached for his wine glass. He took a leisurely sip, the liquid flooding the human's temporary prison, then — with a practised swallow — his throat pulsed and sucked his prey down, closing behind him before it relaxed, empty.

Jean-Marc took another slow sip of wine before setting his glass down, relishing both the taste and the minute struggles of the boy sliding down his oesophagus. He followed his progress with a gloved fingertip, past his collarbone and along his tight chest, until the boy was reduced to just another warm, satisfying lump in his belly. Jean-Marc traced his finger in circles over his upper stomach, smacked his lips twice, and gave an airy hiccup. Then he patted his middle definitively, wiped his mouth, and reached for another.

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Even in the darkness of the linen pouch, Armand had heard the words Jean-Marc spoke to the human before him.

'Sorry. I think I'll keep looking.'

Then, the squelching noise the giant's throat made as he swallowed. For a moment after, he swore he could have even heard the gurgle of the giant's stomach, thoroughly glutted on human beings and voicing its satiety. What rattled him most, though, was the idea that he may be next. Being in complete and utter darkness, he had no way of knowing exactly how many other humans had been stuffed into the pouch with him initially, but he knew the giant had eaten four — now five — of them, and their numbers were dwindling steadily, given the inside of the pouch felt much less crowded than it had.

Armand was unsure of what exactly the giant was looking for. His tone varied; he was curious one moment, stern the next, aloof, cruel, enigmatic — some humans he talked to like they were children. Others, like livestock. He had eaten them regardless of tone. Armand did not see himself talking his way out of this, in any case.

"You're a squirmy thing," suddenly came the giant's amused voice. There was a soft sound, fabric sliding against fabric. The image of the giant rubbing his stomach invaded Armand's mind's eye, and he cringed, fists clenched.

"You know, though you didn't fit my standards for a pet, you're certainly an enthusiastic little snack," it went on, chuckling.

It wasn't long before cracks of light shone into the pouch, and the giant's warm, solid hand snaked its way inside.

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"One more and I'll be full," Jean-Marc muttered to himself, one hand resting on his bloated middle as he snatched a human up by its ankle. As he drew it out of the bag, his brows raised as he took in its colouring. A man, quite pale and skinny, with royal-blue eyes and hair so blond it was almost white. He kissed his teeth with interest, dangling him in front of his eyes.

"You're quite the specimen," he noted. "I thought that this month's delivery was a bit more pricey than usual. I was paying for you, wasn't I?"

Armand's face was growing scarlet from his upside-down position.

"I am sure I don't know."

Jean-Marc's amused expression went cold. He held the little man a bit closer. "How do you address your betters, garçon?"

Armand's eyes grew, if it were possible, wider. He vocally fumbled for a good few seconds, his throat tightening when Jean-Marc wetted his lips idly, before he choked out: "Hochwohlgeboren— I, ah — Monsieur le Bourgeois."

Jean-Marc narrowed his eyes, stared at the pale human for an intense moment, then gave a soft sigh through his nose that evolved into a resounding chuckle. The hand that had been kneading at his belly came to rescue Armand, transferring him securely to his palm.

"A German," he cooed, laughter still touching his voice. "You're imported."

He seemed to reflect on that for a moment, then gave the young man an amused look. "You must learn, petit, that we do not call each other 'bourgeois' as a title. Monsieur is all I require — perhaps Monsieur de Sauvageau, if the setting is formal. Understand?"

"Yes," Armand said, his brows drawn together in confusion.

Jean-Marc's disposition had completely changed. He smiled with gentle good nature. "I'm going to have to train you, aren't I? 'Yes,' who?"

Armand inhaled sharply. "Yes, monsieur."

"Hmm. Good boy. There are a few things I'll need to fill you in on, but for now, I need to finish the rest of my food."

Jean-Marc set Armand down on the front of his jacket, then toppled him over, so the human was forced to lay across his chest like a cat.

He rested a hand on top of the quivering Armand, and with his other, plucked up a human from the pouch, his eyes alight with hunger. He tipped his head back in his chair and lowered her into his yawning mouth, swallowing reflexively when her head touched his throat.

Glp. Glrk.

The sounds may as well have been deafening to Armand, in his position, and as the girl was slurped down his new master's throat, he felt the minute bulge of her body passing beneath where he lay. The chest rumbled, and Jean-Marc let out a quiet burp, to which he murmured a quick, "Pardon me," to his new pet. He ran his hand down his middle, over the buttons of his waistcoat, which were beginning to strain against his swollen, prey-filled belly. He frowned to himself, weighed a few unknowable options in his head, and unbuttoned the bottom two.

"I must sort through the rest of them," he murmured to himself, a faint blush dusting his cheeks. He addressed Armand: "You needn't watch, my dear; stubborn humans can make dinner quite messy. It'll be better to bring you to your cage, I believe."

Far below, Jean-Marc's belly let out a groan, likely protesting the idea of consuming any more. He gave it a correcting jab with his thumb, chuckling to himself.

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Armand found himself in a sturdy wire cage, silver and ornate, with nothing to furnish it besides a floor of wood shavings and a firm-looking cushion, half the length of his body. He suspected he'd have to curl up like a dog if he wanted to sleep on it. He paced the perimeter of the cage a few times, searching for anything he could make use of to escape — but, of course, turned up with nothing.

Escape would be impossible regardless. The cage was placed on an escritoire in the large dining room, opposite the door to the kitchen. Every minute or so that door would open, and a giant servant would cut through the dining room on their way to the foyer. Armand flinched as, this time, the door to the foyer opened, and a handsome young footman entered with a cloth and bowl. Armand's heart lurched as he approached, but he sidestepped the escritoire and instead began polishing the silverware on the dining table.

Armand watched him, hands wrung together nervously, but after the two men had been alone together for twenty minutes and the footman had done nothing but polish, he let himself take a seat on his bed — or, at least, the cushion that he was expected to use as a bed — to collect himself.

Escape. Past an unknowable number of servants, out into the foyer, then past the main doors, into the street — and where was he, even? He'd been in a dark pouch for the past two days. It could be that he wasn't even in Paris anymore; perhaps he was now out in the countryside, and would be snapped up by a bird the moment he left the safety of the chateau.

He was brought from his thoughts by his cage going dark. When he looked up, it was not the silhouette of the young blond footman that eclipsed him — it wasn't even Jean-Marc.

A regular giant was gigantic. This one was ginormous — a titanic, walrus of a man, with golden spectacles, neat brown hair, a thick moustache, and tremendous girth. Contained in a dark olive suit, his belly stuck out like the breast of a prize chicken. Armand trembled under his honey-brown gaze; he cursed that the cage he found himself housed in had nothing to hide behind.

"…Hm."

The man turned to the footman. "Garçon! I see you neglecting to use the polish! Do you think silver will shine if you ask it politely?"

"Sorry, Monsieur Richelieu."

The titan — Richelieu — brought his attention back to Armand's minuscule frame, his brows drawn together with disdain.

"You're the one," he muttered, voice lowered for privacy from the footman. "How long has it been since you've eaten, little mouse?"

Armand couldn't find his voice. He craned his head up at the giant, throat suddenly dry as a bone. He mouthed a few inaudible words, and the giant's brow furrowed further.

"My God, you things are like bugs, I can't hear a word you're saying," he growled, throwing open the cage door and snatching the human up in one meaty fist. He brought the tiny man up to his face, his eyes cold and calculating behind his spectacles, and huffed.

"Now, answer me. Are. You. Hungry?"

"You had better not be bruising my new pet, André."

The man-mammoth's face went pale as his employer strolled into the dining room, buttoning his waistcoat as he walked. His stomach groaned audibly as he finished, perhaps protesting being contained so tightly while so full, and when Jean-Marc stopped opposite Richelieu he gave his stomach a firm, self-satisfied pat.

He held his hand out expectantly for Armand, who Richelieu handed over without protest. Jean-Marc smiled down at his human before looking back at his servant, a brow raised inquisitively.

"What, did you intend to break him on the first day? Without me?"

"No, Monsieur de Sauvageau. I was only asking it —"

"Him."

"…Him if he was hungry. I had to lift him to hear his reply, small as he is."

Jean-Marc let Armand stand on his palm, bringing him up to eye level. "Well? Would you like Richelieu to bring you something, petit?"

Armand looked up at the giant, brows pinched together and elbows tucked at his sides.

"I, ah… A pinch of bread, and perhaps some water."

"Bread and wine," Jean-Marc amended to his servant. "And bring me a digestif."

As Richelieu was dismissed with a wave of Jean-Marc's hand, the giant gazed down at his new pet.

"Did you have time to explore your cage? It's German; I find they make the best bird cages, and they work just as well for humans. Some others with my hobby tell me I ought to replace it with a wooden one, but I so appreciate the aesthetics of a metal cage. What do you think?"

Replying to the giant always felt as if it were a trap of some kind. Still, Armand swallowed and answered.

"It is cozy. It smells of iron and dust. I've never had my own bed before."

"Really?" Jean-Marc sniffed. "Well, it's not much. I'd like to fully furnish it, but there aren't many artisans who make furniture for humans. It's quite expensive."

"It will look silly, fully-furnished, with the floor full of wood shavings," Armand said bluntly. "Am I a pet, or a man?"

Jean-Marc laughed. "Do you think that I bought you to be a man? Don't be silly."

He pulled a chair out from the dining table and sat down, setting Armand on the tabletop.

"You're mine. My pet, my property." He leaned back in his chair and laced his hands together over his overfull middle, which gurgled richly at the touch. "Mmm. Doesn't that sound nice? I'm not hearing any gratitude. I'm in a particularly good mood today, you know, but if you'd like me to be cruel to you, you have only to keep taking that tone with me."

There was no challenge in Jean-Marc's cruel grey eyes — only the expectation of being obeyed. Armand gave a swallow that caught in his throat, his mouth suddenly made of cotton, then bowed meekly. "I apologise, monsieur. I am grateful."

"Well, don't do that," Jean-Marc complained, a grimace on his face as he leaned forward once more. "Don't go spineless on me. It's dreadfully dull. I'm too full to eat you, but I won't keep a pet who bores me."

"I —" Armand's throat caught again, and he was suddenly terribly nauseous. Jean-Marc's brows drew together, and Armand felt as if he was going to pass out. "I'm sorry, monsieur," he admitted hoarsely. "I don't know what you want me to do."

"Stop submitting," Jean-Marc explained, his lip curled in distaste. "I hate it. Think for yourself, but be good. How is it that you're so frightened?" Something flickered across his face. "Have you never seen your kind eaten before?"

Armand could only look away pointedly, and a slow, almost relieved smile replaced Jean-Marc's sneer.

"Ohh," he exclaimed, amused laughter in his voice. "Oh, poor thing. Come here, petit."

He reached for Armand and picked him up with care, leant back in his chair — and held him atop his stomach, stroking at his white hair with a gloved hand. "It's nothing to be so frightened of, you know. I'm a giant, aren't I? It's only natural for us to eat humans. Biology."

This did not have the effect of soothing Armand, who felt stiff as a corpse in Jean-Marc's hold. Jean-Marc gazed down at him, his eyes strangely gentle, and smiled with what was probably meant to be reassurance.

"To think that you spent so much time loose in Paris, and never experienced … Where was it you were hiding?"

Armand hesitated, and Jean-Marc frowned. "I'm only curious. I won't tip my trapper off, if that's what worries you —"

"No," Armand cut in, quickly. "It's not that, I just — I don't know how you call it in French. I had lived in the walls of a… a man who paints, where he stores his supplies and teaches his students —"

"An atelier," Jean-Marc supplied, shifting in his chair in preparation to hear a story. "Go on."

"Yes. Yes, this. The artist was very quiet. My hair and my skin are very light, so other humans do not want me around, because I attract attention. I had stowed away in many different giants' carriages before I wound up in Paris, and that is where I found it."

Jean-Marc's content smile turned smug. "Austria isn't fully integrated yet, is it? More giants than you were used to."

Armand nodded haltingly. "Y… yes. There are a great many here. I was lucky to find the atelier — above a wine shop — and the artist kept it locked. He only worked very early in the morning. Occasionally he would teach one or two students at a time, but usually he was by himself."

"Not much to eat in the atelier itself, but plenty of places to hide," Jean-Marc deduced. "You learned his schedule well, hm?"

He had defaulted to stroking down Armand's back, repeatedly, like petting a cat. Armand was carefully ignoring it, his posture straighter than it had ever been.

"Yes. Some days he would have a plate of food while he painted. When he looked very focused, I would take a piece of something, then slip away again."

"No wonder you're such a bony little thing. When Richelieu returns, I must ask him to bring you something substantial."

As if summoned by his name, the dining-room doors swung open to reveal the steward, a silver tray in hand. He approached, and Jean-Marc lifted Armand from his stomach to set him on the table.

"Finally," he sighed as Richelieu set the tray on the tabletop. "Look at him, Richelieu; does he seem too skinny to you?" He gestured with one hand to Armand, lifting the crystal glass of cognac to his lips with the other.

Richelieu glanced down at Armand, one thick brow raised. "He is small, monsieur, but I couldn't say. I shall have to see how his measurements compare to the others to have a learned opinion."

"Ah," Jean-Marc exclaimed through his drink. A swallow. "Yes, his measurements. See to them tonight; we must replace those rags of his. Now, leave us for now; bring his cage to my study — it's much too noisy here, so close to the kitchen — and I'll expect a spoonful of potage waiting for him when I bring him to his cage tonight. We must start building him up."

Richelieu had moved for the cage as soon as it was demanded of him; he nodded deferentially, stole another analytical look at Armand, and dismissed himself with the cage in tow.

Through the two men's deliberation, Armand had approached the tray on the table. There sat a small piece of bread, cut to a generous size for a human, still warm. A small glass of red sat beside it. He grabbed the bread and, aware of Jean-Marc's eyes on him, took a tiny, polite bite. He heard Jean-Marc chuckle softly.

"I value manners, but you needn't perform for me. If you're hungry, eat as you like." His free hand drifted to his stomach as he took another sip of cognac. "I overdid it, myself. Let's do away with manners for today."

Armand actually managed a manic little chuckle. Jean-Marc waved his hand. "Go on."

When the bread was gone and Armand was savouring his wine, Jean-Marc set down his empty glass and reclined in his chair, his free hand still kneading at the slight curve of his belly under his waistcoat. Occasionally a low, long gurgle of digestion could be heard, and Jean-Marc would gently pat at the base of his stomach, as if appeasing it. Armand would grow white and avert his gaze. It was when Jean-Marc noticed his pet's reaction to such things that he reached over and brought Armand back to sitting atop his midsection.

"I see I still need to desensitize you," he said mildly. "Relax. Settle there."

Armand could only cringe and relax against Jean-Marc's massive hand, his fingertips scraping against the fine knit of the giant's waistcoat as if searching for an anchor. Jean-Marc made a small tsk.

"You must get used to this. I consume humans often; deliveries twice a month, plus the jars in the sitting room. You'll witness it, you'll hear it — you'll feel it, when you sit with me like this. Once you're properly trained, and you've proven yourself, you'll be higher in the food chain than they are. All this fear will seem ridiculous. Now, tell me about this artist; did he ever see you?"

"Once." Armand swallowed. "He happened to glance at me from across the room. I thought he would try to kill me, but he only stared. When I ran back under cover, he just kept painting."

"Hm," Jean-Marc hummed thoughtfully. "Did he paint you?"

Armand looked up at Jean-Marc, meeting his gaze properly for the first time since they'd sat down together. "He did. I saw a glimpse of it — a sketch. How did you know?"

"Sight-size painting. It is a method used by students and masters to ensure that a painting is entirely proportional to the subject. Some progressive artists have started using humans as models for that purpose; they simply stand next to the canvas, and the artist captures them as they are." Another sip of his drink had his eyes going sentimental. "Perhaps he saw potential in you as a unique subject. You are exceedingly rare, you know."

[tobechurned]

Some warm ups , commissions open btw ❤️ :3

[urfavoritewriter]

College Group Project - Part 2

Content: College Vore, Male Pred, Male Prey, Muscled Pred, Nerd Prey, Fatal Digestion, Unwilling Prey. Second part is about the hours-long digestion. Read the first part HERE.

Likes and Reblogs are very appreciated!

Max, still revelling in the euphoria of the moment, shifted his weight and tried to adjust to the new heaviness in his gut. Eli was no longer beside him, but rather, an unmistakable presence within him. The room seemed to have grown smaller in contrast to the impressive bulge protruding from Max's midsection. The silhouette of Eli's curled body was clearly visible through the taut fabric of Max’s shirt, his form outlined in the smooth curve of the stomach.

Max grunted slightly as he moved toward his desk. Sitting down wasn't as simple as it used to be. The chair creaked under the additional weight. With Eli inside, he had to spread his legs apart to accommodate the swollen belly, leaning slightly back to balance the shift in his center of gravity. He rested one hand atop the bulge, the other supporting him from behind, fingers splayed across the chair's backrest.

"Feeling snug in there, Eli?" Max chuckled, the vibrations of his voice coursing through his stomach, a tantalizing reminder to Eli of his predicament. "I must say, you add quite the weight. Didn't realize you were this… dense."

From the confines of Max's stomach, Eli could feel every movement, every breath his captor took. The walls of the gut squeezed and massaged him rhythmically, making any hope of shifting or adjusting himself futile.

Max's shirt, which was once loose-fitting, now seemed stretched to its limits. The fabric clung to the swell of his stomach, the seams appearing as though they might give way. There was a pronounced tightness around his midsection, the pressure from Eli's form making the belt on Max's jeans dig into his waist. The button looked like it might pop off any second.

"You know," Max began, running his fingers over the taut surface of his belly, tracing Eli's form, "I can't help but wonder how you're feeling right now. Completely surrounded, enveloped, unable to escape. It’s a bit poetic, don’t you think?"

He leaned forward slightly, the movement causing a tighter constriction within, making Eli all the more aware of his helplessness. "I hope you're comfortable," Max teased, "because you're going to be in there for a while.

With each futile squirm and shift from Eli, Max's belly rippled and shuddered. From within, Eli could feel the constant clenching of Max’s stomach muscles, making his enclosed space even more restricted with each passing moment.

“Ooh, a little fighter, aren’t we?” Max grinned, feeling the movements from within. “You know, all that struggling is only going to help me. It’s like you’re stirring yourself up, getting ready for digestion.” He chuckled, a dark gleam in his eye.

Max adjusted in his seat, the added weight and movement from inside causing him to shift uncomfortably. Every twitch and push Eli made had an effect. The tight confines meant that each prod was easily felt against the walls of Max's stomach. As he tried to find a comfortable seated position, he leaned back, spreading his legs wider to make room for the pronounced bulge. His jeans strained, the material digging into his thighs.

Reaching down, Max began to massage his belly, his strong fingers pressing into the contours of Eli's form. Despite the distension, the faint outline of Max's abs could still be seen, a testament to the hours spent in the gym. His fingers traced each of the muscles, emphasizing his control over the situation.

The pressure increased as Max began to squeeze deliberately, compressing Eli even further within the confines of his stomach. The sensation was intense, each squeeze forcing Eli to feel the powerful grip of Max’s innards. “Feeling the burn yet?” Max taunted. “My muscles aren’t just for show, you know.”

Eli’s muffled protests and desperate pushes against his fleshy prison were met with increasing amusement from Max. But as the minutes ticked by, and the initial thrill started to wane, Max’s attention shifted back to the task at hand.

“You know, Eli,” Max began, his voice dripping with sarcasm, “I invited you here to work on the project. And if you keep up this ruckus, it's going to be quite hard for me to concentrate.” He smirked, tapping lightly on his belly. “So, how about you settle down in there, huh? Give it a rest. Because either way, I have a project to finish.”

In the first hour, Max settled into a rhythm. The open tabs on his computer displayed articles, research, and data graphs. He found himself deeply engrossed, typing away as ideas began to flow. But every so often, he would feel a faint thud or a twist from within, reminding him of Eli's presence. At one point, he felt a particularly strong wriggle, which caused him to pause and chuckle. “Still trying to make your opinion heard, huh, Eli? Well, keep it down; I'm actually trying to work here.” With a smirk, he took a moment to stretch, his fingers lightly brushing against the top of the rounded bulge. The sensation seemed to still Eli, if only for a moment, before Max returned his focus to the project.

By the second hour, Max's stomach had grown noticeably quieter. The acids and enzymes were doing their job, slowly breaking down the intruder. Every now and then, however, Max would still feel a feeble movement. It seemed as though Eli, despite the odds, was holding on. Not that it bothered Max much. In fact, he took a certain pleasure in it. "You really are determined, aren't you?" he mused aloud, feeling a weak, fluttering push from inside. "But trust me, Eli, by the time I’m done with this project, there won't be much left of you to protest." He said it lightly, a hint of jest in his voice, but the dark undertone was evident.

As the third hour neared its end, Max's progress on the project was evident. Pages of notes, diagrams, and written content filled his screen. His concentration was occasionally broken by the slight gurgling sounds emanating from his midsection. The digestion process was in full swing. Eli's movements had dwindled to almost nothing, the occasional twitch reminding Max of his slowly dissolving passenger. "You know," he murmured, a hint of nostalgia in his voice, "I almost missed our little back-and-forths, Eli. But I have to admit, you've been a… productive motivator." He leaned back, taking a moment to glance down at the now slightly less pronounced bulge. With a sly grin, he added, "By tomorrow, thanks to you, I'll have a completed project and some added muscle definition. Not a bad trade, if you ask me."

The room was filled with the soft hum of Max's computer and the occasional rustle of papers. But as the fourth hour began, another sound began to join the symphony—a desperate, frantic movement emanating from Max's gut. Eli, it seemed, was rallying his remaining strength, making one final, desperate bid for freedom. Each squirm, each attempt to push and stretch against the fleshy walls, only served to make Max more aware of the life within him.

"Back with a vengeance, are we?" Max quipped, feeling the surge of activity. He momentarily paused his work, resting both hands atop his belly, feeling the contours shift beneath his fingers. The rhythm of Eli's movements, previously weak and intermittent, now came in waves of intensity. "You've got spirit, Eli, I'll give you that." Max mused, the corner of his mouth turning up in a smirk. But the smirk faded as a particularly strong jolt from Eli took him by surprise. It seemed Eli wasn't quite ready to give up.

By the fifth hour, Max felt a mix of amusement and mild annoyance. He had to adjust his seating position more frequently, sometimes leaning back to counterbalance the vigorous activity inside. He could feel every twist and turn Eli made, every push against his stomach walls. The sensation was… intense. More than once, he found himself pausing, taking a deep breath to collect himself. "You do realize," Max drawled, addressing his midsection, "that this is all in vain? But I do admire your tenacity. It's almost… commendable."

As the clock struck the end of the sixth hour, the once intense and frantic movements began to wane. Eli's energy was diminishing, the acids and the unyielding pressure of Max's stomach taking their toll. The once sharp jabs became mere flutters, then eventually, mere twitches. Max, sensing the decline, leaned forward, his ear almost touching his belly, listening intently. "Almost done there, Eli?" he whispered, his voice a mix of mockery and genuine curiosity. But all he got in response was a soft, almost imperceptible movement.

With a sigh of both relief and satisfaction, Max settled back into his chair. "You gave it a good run," he murmured, his fingers lightly drumming on his belly, "but now, it's time to finish what we started." As he returned to his project, Eli's once-vibrant presence faded, leaving behind only the slow, methodical work of digestion.

As the ninth hour approached, the room was cast in the soft glow of the laptop screen, accompanied by the rhythmic tap-tap of Max’s fingers on the keyboard. He leaned back, stretching his arms above his head, a satisfied smile playing on his lips. The project, which had consumed so much of his time and focus, was finally complete.

Closing his laptop, Max glanced down, taking a moment to admire the swollen belly that protruded from his frame. The gentle rise and fall as he breathed was punctuated only by the subtle gurgle of digestion at work. “Looks like I’ve finished on time, Eli,” he mused, giving his belly a gentle pat. "Thanks for the… motivation."

Standing up, Max moved over to the full-length mirror hanging on the door. Turning sideways, he assessed the pronounced bulge critically. “I guess I’ll be carrying you around for a few more days,” he murmured, poking the soft mound. “Maybe I’ll just tell everyone I’ve been indulging in a bit too much beer lately.”

Chuckles filled the room as he imagined the looks and comments he'd get from friends and acquaintances. "A beer belly, or rather an Eli-belly," he smirked, appreciating his own joke. "Either way, I guess we'll be spending a bit more time together."

With one last glance at the mirror, Max powered down his laptop.

[fnafc2]

Jon just trying to show Tom his cool eating skills

Oh silly jon

Request by @mintgay88

REQUEST INFO IN PINNED POST

[omgcatboi]

Oh man, this here? All this is my chubby boyfriend. Well, wasn't chubby boyfriend. Now he's just extra lard packed on my body. He's really fattened me up, I can feel him spilling out my shirt when I reach for something, or jiggling when I walk. I can't wait to do this to our master. She had me eat him to plump me up so she can have both her boyfriends at once. I'm so excited! But I have limited time to enjoy my body before it's hers, limited time to play with the moobs he gave me, the belly he grew on me. I have so limited time before that's me. Before I'm the one packed inside her fat body. She's so small, I wish I could see how fat a lard ass guy like me would make her. But I want even more to be the lard ass guy who made her that fat.

Such limited time...

[dragons-eat-people]

Slithy Weasel & Eddie: Digestion Of Doom

For: @loveforskekshod

Content Warning: Profanity, Fatal Digestion, Weight Gain

The case of Who Framed Roger Rabbit would always be a tricky one. So many toons and humans lost to time, some with happy endings and some with...the exact opposite.

Remember the Toon Squad? Yeah, a gang of five weasels led by Judge Doom. Their tale has collectively ended...or so everyone had thought. Now, a new group of weasels are in town. They are...The Weasel Trio. Their leader, Slithy is a purple coat-wearing weasel. He may remind you of Greasy. The two others, Doofus and AI, follow his lead and command. Their mischief all began from one sentence...

"Okay, boys! Listen up! I know how we can bring back Doom!"

"H-how?" Doofus asks. AI isn't even paying much attention, but he's at least looking at Slithy.

The purple coat-wearing weasel takes a moment before he replies to his friends again. A menacing grin appears on his face. "Actually, change of plans, fellas. You two will take care of bringing back Doom! The plan is to recreate him from an old model sheet! You two dummies will handle that! I've got something...to take care of something that just came up. If I were looking for records like old models, I'd check...Von Rotten Manor. Now go! Hurry up!" He orders them, his attention currently captured by something else entirely.

Doofus and AI look at each other, only shrugging. They had no idea what their leader had planned, let alone what he was going to do without them, but he gave them a task to take care of. Find some old model sheets and bring Doom back to the world of humans and Toons.

"G-gotcha, boss! We'll take care of Doom!" Doofus exclaims, rushing off. AI was right behind him, probably determined to bring back their boss.

Slithy smirks as they disappear down the street, away from his view. His sight returns to a billboard, which was what captured his attention this whole time.

ToonTown Tattler: Roger Rabbit Foils DOOM! With Help From His Pal Eddie Valiant!

Slithy chuckles to himself. "It's just too easy!" He claims, rubbing his paws together in a mischievous manner. "Your victory might just lead to your defeat, Eddie. Don't you worry. I'll take care of you real soon..." The weasel promised. He began his trek, walking down the street through the night.

Meanwhile, at Maroon Cartoons...The Phone rings...Eddie was sitting at his desk. He picks it up...

"Eddie Valiant here, what's the happs?" He asks, only to be met with a sinister laugh from the other end of the phone. "You'll be what's happening real soon, Eddie. Don't think for just a second that you're getting off scot-free for what you did to Doom!" The voice threatens. over the line. Oblivious to his fate, Eddie just hangs up.

He rolls his eyes. "Hoodlums and pranksters. There aren't any weasels left, so whoever that was, they must be trying to pull a fast one on me. I don't have time for this. I have to work." Eddie mutters to himself.

Just then, his door flies open, having been kicked in by a weasel! The weasel was no other than the one in the purple coat, Slithy. "If you think this is a prank, pal, then you've got another thing coming!" Slithy growls at him before leaping across the room in a snarl, his arms outstretched. The man could only manage an "Oh Shi-" before the weasel was upon him...

Sounds of thick swallows filled the room as Slithy fought against Eddie, knocking over the chair the man was sitting in. A large crash and a thud were heard right after, before the noise calmed down, resulting in a single groan. Slithy was the victor, for the most part. He lay on the floor dazed, before he was brought back to reality by subsequent pushes from inside his stomach, which quickly turned to forceful pushes and kicks. He'd swallowed Eddie whole. Just as planned, but the execution could've been a bit cleaner.

Slithy pulls himself up off the ground, fixing Eddie's chair before the weasel himself sits at the desk, rocking his feet up on top of it, knocking over the man's name tag that was present there too. All the while, Eddie kept moving around inside the weasel's belly, trying to escape. His shouts were muffled inside the gut of Slithy, which made the greedy purple-coat-wearing weasel laugh. "Ha! Look at you, still fighting, huh? I bet you put in the same effort to put ol' Doom out of business! Now I'm gonna do the same to you! Say goodnight, Eddie!" Slithy taunts the man, which only promotes more squirming from his hefty gut.

This goes on for some while. until loud bubbling and gurgling could be heard coming from the weasel's belly. It was rather messy, almost like a potion being concocted. This persisted until Slithy flinched and regurgitated, burping out bones in classic cartoon fashion. Eddie was no more, the weasel was digesting him. As the process began, Slithy could feel the spoils add to his body, making him bigger than before. His thighs became thicker and much more plump, and so did his butt, which grew to be more curvy and fat. He snickers, properly investigating his new assets. "Well, would you look at that...looks like you really were a pain in my ass, Eddie, because you added right to it!" Slithy exclaims, definitely feeling proud of himself. He sits back, relaxing in Eddie's chair as he begins to leisurely pick his teeth.

That was the last of Eddie Valiant, promptly. Unfortunately, good endings sometimes come back to bite you.

[wholegrainvore]

here’s a different kind of angsty vore scenario

imagine a pred eats someone who turns out to be someone’s best friend. and the person who was best friends with this prey finds out AFTER the pred has already digested them, but they are so distraught that they start projecting on the pred and hanging out with them, treating them like they treated their best friend… like, this isn’t them but this pred is kind of made up of my friend now so this is the best I’ve got.

pred is okay with this because they kind of like having a friend. maybe they emulate the best friend a little bit to keep their new friend from getting bored of them or moving on. it’s incredibly unhealthy and angsty and fucked up and they are both willing participants. heeheehee