I mean, N's experienced with eating worker drones and all so that’s all well and fine for him. Uzi on the other hand? Nah. She is panicked as HELL and deffo knows how to put up a fight. Uzi deffo was training her whole life for this exact moment. The most it really did would be giving N a massive stomachache. That’s never fun to deal with, and sure, N's used to a lot of movement and struggling, a hit or kick against his stomach every now and again. Been there, done that, so he thought eating a singular, young, lonely and rather small worker drone would make for a calm and quick snack. And that was where he was wrong. He’s never been used to so much internal attacking before.
So in conclusion? Not very fun for either of them.
(I’m not gonna specify whether this is safe vore or unsafe vore, so y’all can decide on that. ;p)
today really would be the best day to drop that Wilbur eats Jared fic you teased a while back lol /j
Faeiyn istg if this is you… 🤨 /lhj
BUT… I did finish it a while back and forgot to post it so… fine 😇 (not proofread btw so if it’s not great then uhh.. blame me from 2022 lmao)
Wilbur sat at his desk in his office, staring at a picture of his beloved. No, actually, not just one photo. He had many photos of them. He felt his face heat up whenever he saw pictures of them with someone else, and imagined that someone else was him. But unfortunately for Wilbur, that someone else was Jared. He just couldn’t understand it! How could beloved want such a pathetic prey like Jared?? Not only that, but Wilbur could protect beloved in a way that Jared could never attempt. The urge to keep beloved inside his stomach, safe and hidden from all the dangers of the outside world, belonging to him and only him, was undoubtedly very overwhelming. It didn’t help that his… other thoughts were telling him to swallow Jared down, but certainly not for protection purposes. The thought of Jared melting away when nobody could hear him begging for mercy seemed very appealing as well.
What a convenient time for Jared himself to enter the office and sit down at his desk, which was directly opposite Wilbur’s. Wilbur glared at him over the top of his computer. The thoughts of eating Jared flooded his brain once more, and because of this he didn’t even notice when Jared looked up until he spoke.
“So. Wilbur,” he began, “done hating me yet?” Jared sighed when he got no response, and Wilbur’s hard glare only intensified. That was as good as a response. “Get me a coffee, would ya.” Jared started again after a few minutes of awkward silence and keyboards clicking. Wilbur stood up. “Fine, but I can’t promise I won’t spit in it. Or poison it. Or both.” He walked past Jared’s desk and to the coffee machine ten steps behind it. He was pouring a coffee, when he suddenly realised that he was quite hungry. Oh, he had unknowingly skipped his lunch break to fantasise about beloved, hadn’t he? Maybe instead of waiting it out, he thought, maybe he could act on one of the other thoughts he’d had earlier.
Leaving Jared’s coffee on a table beside the coffee machine, Wilbur approached him from behind. He wasn’t the most experienced pred, but he’d eaten his fair share of people, so he had a rough idea on what to do. Thank god he was tall. Wilbur grabbed the back of Jared’s shirt, yanking him upwards. Jared let out a surprised yelp as Wilbur opened his mouth and began stuffing him inside of it, feet first. Maybe he should’ve started with the head, Wilbur thought grudgingly as Jared yelled out for help.
Although, Wilbur found himself thinking while making the first few swallows, Jared had quite a nice taste. Raspberries with a tint of coffee. An unusual combination, but definitely not a bad one. Wilbur took his time to swallow his enemy down, despite how hungry he was. Eventually, his stomach expanded enough to accommodate his ‘lunch’, although the buttons on his shirt were quite strained. This didn’t help when Jared began writhing in an attempt to change his fate.
Slightly out of breath, Wilbur went back to the coffee machine and drank Jared’s coffee. He wouldn’t be needing that anymore, plus, the feeling of being so full was beginning to make Wilbur drowsy. He would’ve fallen asleep right then and there if Jared wasn’t making so much noise, which he was partly thankful for. Either way, he wanted to get home before he actually fell asleep.
Wilbur walked as best as he could to the manager to ask if he could take the rest of the day off. He didn’t actually know where his manager stood in scenarios such as this one, so he was a bit nervous if anything. His manager seemed to be understanding enough, though. They took one look at his stomach and let him go home, which Wilbur was more than relieved about. Luckily for him, he only lived about a fifteen minute walk away, so that was convenient, except for the fact that that time was doubled due to him carrying the weight of both himself and a violently thrashing Jared. He kept a hand on his stomach, absentmindedly giving it a few occasional pats as he walked, and every now and again someone would stare at him warily as he passed. That was the main reason eating people wasn’t an everyday thing for him. (Self-conscious much?) Even so, he did his best to ignore it.
The second Wilbur got back to where he lived, he flopped down onto his bed, making his stomach gurgle and Jared yell in alarm. Wilbur wondered what he could say to really rub it in, rub it in that that this would be Jared’s end, and it was always destined to be so. Which then brought a question: was he actually going to let Jared go? Wilbur sat up, and said the first thing that came to mind.
“I told you, didn’t I? I told you to stay away from them, and you didn’t listen. Now this is your fate.” Jared did not like that. The squirms and attacks on his insides intensified. It was strangely quite enjoyable, Wilbur found himself thinking. He also found himself quite tired once again. He couldn’t just fall asleep yet, though.
“Maybe I’ll consider letting you go, if you beg for mercy.” Though when it passed 10 seconds, and no response was given, Wilbur decided to drift off into sleep.
I have so many ideas and yet so little ideas simultaneously…
He’s usually a pred, and usually isn’t willing prey, but there are some cases where he is.
He's a sizeshifter!! Woooo!!
You guessed it, he has a storage and he purrs!! It’s no surprise when you see my other preddcanons.
Tom can be a bit of a cruel pred sometimes. He likes a bit of fearplay. He doesn’t like to take his time, however.
When Tom is in his full monster form, he becomes very instinctual, both as a pred and as a prey.
As a pred, it’s pretty self explanatory. Someone will be safely nommed, despite the obvious lack of communication.
Oooo~ but as a prey.. often if he falls asleep in his monster form, he’ll wake up in the night really cold, and will shrink down to be nommed. Usually he’d go to Edd because Tom trusts him the most, but if that’s not possible for whatever reason, then Tord is the next choice due to his room being the closest to his, and also Tord's willingness to give noms. (Ik I said Tord would never safely nom Tom, but I lied. Also fic about this in progress~) However, Tom never remembers this happening.
Tom often goes for a nice taste in noms, hence why he barely ever goes for Tord (because he barely ever fucking showers).
If he’s bored, then sometimes he'll just nom Matt to irritate him.
He might not admit it, but he’s a sucker for a belly rub.
He doesn’t usually go for smaller prey, because he knows all too well how it feels to be the prey in that situation.
Tom was unwillingly eaten and digested by Edd once, though Edd didn’t realise it at the time. Tom still holds a grudge against Edd for it.
When he’s drunk, he’s quite the cuddly pred, nomming his prey then curling into a ball, purring comfortingly.
He can be good at providing comfort, but only when he wants to be. It also depends on who the prey is.
Has a very long, purple tinted tongue. With very sharp teef.
Hey all! Finally starting to post some of my older stuff that I’ve posted in the discord, hope y’all enjoy this one <3
tws for: soft (though... unsafe? would that be the right term for it?) vore, hypothermia, spiders, vomiting
The day that Wilbur and Tommy were exiled, there was a storm brewing. Enormous fat dark grey clouds were collecting in the sky, migrating slowly towards the walls of L’manburg, and with it came the sweet smell of rain on the horizon.
They were an omen. A sign of dark times to come, when on the day of the election a storm rolled in and, amidst the cries of exile and death, thunder vibrated the very air with its force and the rain began. Schlatt, always one to be swaddled in the heart of a storm, watched triumphantly as L’manberg was destroyed before him, as their founders fled in the pounding rain, as the walls were struck ominously with lightning and rattled with the thunder that followed.
Wilbur was soaking wet and sobbing, numb with the cold and the betrayal of the turn of events, and clutched in his hands was Tommy, who was screaming almost loud enough to be discerned over the relentless pounding of rain. He had kicked at the hands surrounding him, yelling that he needed to get back, that he needed to get back at Schlatt for the injustice.
Wilbur only clutched tighter, holding the borrower to his chest so he might be shielded by his cloak (his favorite! He had worn it today for the comfort it brought and was planning on changing into something nicer when the results had come out! And now he was stuck with it fleeing from his own country!) Already his head was sopping, and he discarded his hat when it entangled onto an overhanging branch. A mud puddle grabbed at his boot for a moment, and he wondered if he should abandon it too, before giving a yank that sprayed the mud and frigid rainwater up onto him.
The cave that Wilbur eventually found refuge in and dashed under was a bit of a sorry place. It was dry, sure, but the lip of the cave was large enough that the wind continued to shriek in, and the sheets of rain dripped and puddled at the entrance in a way that indicated they were probably only a couple more minutes away from spilling and wetting the floor of the cave. Breathing heavily, Wilbur leaned his free hand against the far cave wall, and leaned down to let go of Tommy, who he had been clutching a bit too tightly during his dash through the woods.
The tiny borrower jumped easily the few feet to the ground from his hand, and stared out at the cave floor with a vague, if thoughtful, expression. There was still a stiffness to his spine that even from his standing height Wilbur could detect, and the frothing madness and fear hadn’t completely faded even after he had rabidly chewed on the inside sleeve of Wilbur’s jacket as they had fled L’manburg like some animal (Wilbur likes this cloak. He hopes he can get the tooth marks out of the leather)
Despite his loyalty to his cloak, it wasn’t really doing him much good. He shivered fiercely from the water that had dripped underneath it, and it’s wonderfully dramatic billow was proving to be poorly thought-out, as another gust of wind broke into the cave and sent spikes of cold into his skin.
With a huff, he sat down on the ground cross legged, and propped an elbow on his knee to keep his head up as he watched Tommy do… something. Scratch something on the ground? Pace in circles? Whatever it was, for some reason, his brain couldn’t really keep up with it. He felt so tired all of the sudden, and fidgeted uncomfortably as water dripped down from his jacket into his pants. Was there a square centimeter on him that wasn’t cold from the storm outside?
He shivered, and leaned a little more heavily on his arm to keep himself propped up.
Tommy was now dragging small rocks into a circle, one that could very easily fit Wilbur’s entire palm in it, and was kicking around the rock dust. He went near the entrance of the cave, closer to the puddles of water starting to drip in, and started pulling fallen twigs and sticks from the water.
“Yo big man!” He called, voice croaking (the first words he had said that weren't a scream of betrayal, of hurt) as he came back to his weird rock circle. Wilbur perked up a little. “Can you shake this out for me? Get it dry?”
He thought he might understand what Tommy was planning on doing but his head felt a bit full of cotton. Yea, sure, why not. He took the stick and whipped it around a few times, wincing at the water droplets that flicked off of it into his face. But Tommy seemed a lot happier with it when he gave it back, and started levering it into the ground to snap into smaller pieces.
Oh he was making a campfire. That was smart. It was ridiculously tiny and took many tries by Tommy to get the blade of his knife to spit enough sparks to light, but it flickered merrily and, Wilbur supposed, that’s all that matters.
On the other side of the fire, Tommy kicked the water he tracked off of his boots and sat, warming his palms on the little campfire.
He tipped forward onto his knees to kneel low enough to feel a bit of the fire’s warmth on his face, and blinked irritably when all he got was a breath of smoke in his eyes. He leaned forward a little more, squinting, and was rewarded with a ghost of warmth on his cheek.
Tommy hummed from the other side of the campfire. “Why not make one of your own? This can’t be warm enough for you.”
Wilbur raised his head to look outside blearily, where sheets of rain continued to fall so hard and fast it turned the world grey only a few feet outside of the cave entrance. He did not want to go out there.
“Too cold for that,” he sighed, and propped himself up closer to the fire. He mostly just felt like sitting by this fire and hoping that maybe the cold that had settled into his bones would fade the longer he stayed out of the rain. It wasn’t a cold that made him want to shiver, mostly one that made him feel so tired and want to shut down. After today, he deserved to have a moment to shut down, he would like to think. Just let all of the warmth in him dribble out into the stone around him and let his thoughts leak out with them.
…
Tommy didn’t like how Wilbur was staring into the tiny fire. It reflected off the human’s eyes in a way that he was getting a little worried about. Why wasn’t he even trying to warm up? At least walk around and warm his muscles up if it was too cold and wet outside to gather wood?
He tried to start conversation a couple of times with Wilbur as he added more sticks for his fire to greedily chew upon, but after the exile earlier today (don't think about it don't think about it not now) and that weird unfocused fogginess that had started to seep into the human, he could tell his efforts weren’t doing anything to help. He was just too cold to even hear Tommy.
What's a thing that warms people up? They didn’t have an extra set of dry clothes or blankets even close to large enough for Wilbur so... A warm meal! Maybe Wilbur just needs to eat something and he’ll be all good. Tommy looked at the sheets of rain that whipped into the cavern on the gusts of wind. It might not be the best idea to leave the cave right now… That’s fine. He can find something deeper in the caves.
“I’ll be back in a second Wil,” he called out to the human, who only nodded and tried to push himself closer to the fire without completely enveloping it or burning himself.
There was a tunnel that was decently sized, low enough that there wouldn’t be any human zombies further down. Unfortunately, when you are deep enough underground, your choice for meals gets rather scarce. With a sound of disgust Tommy realized he probably would need to make miner’s scrap.
Miner’s scrap
is the fancy term for ‘eat anything that isn't actively rotting or attempting to bite you back.’ It could mean attempting to break open a skeleton to see if there were still pockets of marrow remaining. It could mean scraping the glow lichen off of the walls in hopes that some of them were still new and soft enough to eat.
For most borrowers Tommy’s size, it usually meant spider for dinner. The giant arachnids were pretty dangerous, but there was a decent amount of meat around the legs that, for many borrowers, were their best source of food when going between villages and hiding from the daytime predators. So long as you stayed away from the organs, it shouldn’t poison you. It even apparently had a certain charm to those who acquired the taste. Tommy thought it tasted of absolute shit. But he didn’t really have a choice, did he. Prime, how had it gone so quickly from the lap of luxury in the middle of L’manburg to eating fucking miner’s scrap again.
The spider he found was probably an older female. She was fierce and crafty, and his knife had a hard time piercing her carapace until he managed to wiggle the tip into a joint crack between her torso and abdomen. Dragging her back was worse, as she had curled up into a dead ball of tangled limbs that caught on every hard rocky surface.
She was a decent size, more than enough for a couple of borrowers on a hard spell, but when he emerged back into the entrance cavern with Wilbur, he realized just how much he dwarfed her. Prime, even if he wasn’t picky with the parts he tried to cook from her and risked poisoning the human, it would still barely be a snack. He got to work anyways, cutting the bits he could find into chunks small enough that he could set over the fire to cook. He chanced a look over his shoulder. Wilbur was even stiller than he was before Tommy had left earlier.
The miner’s scrap wasn't working. Despite him carefully scraping as much as he could from that spider corpse and warming it over the fire enough to almost burn it, the bits were absolutely tiny against Wilbur’s teeth when he managed to coax him to eat it. This hardly was even a snack to someone that large. It wouldn’t warm him up, just leave a bad taste in his mouth.
He needed something else. Tommy walked around the fire, trying to think of any other sources of warmth or food he saw in the cave systems. A previously quiet part of him suddenly piped up. You are a hot meal. One that is large enough and can never get cold.
He shook himself of that thought. That was foolhardy. A last resort of last resorts. He can do better than that.
Ok ok, what else can he do? Tommy was pacing back and forth trying desperately to remember any shreds of information about hypothermia. Wet clothes, no caffeine, hold something warm… he could do the last thing. He cast off his thick cloak, laying it carefully against the tiny fire, and jabbed at Wilbur’s leg. The giant was way too slow to look down at him and Tommy wanted to SCREAM.
“Hey big man, hold me.” He jabbed at the leg again for good measure, in the hopes that it would spur Wilbur’s brain to move faster than glacial speeds. He didn’t even ask why, just carefully tangled fingers around Tommy and lifted him up.
His palms were cold. And trembling slightly. Trembling is good, right? It meant he was shivering and would warm up, right?
Wilbur’s fingers were gripping around him a little tighter than he wanted, so he dug a heel into his palms lightly to get his attention. “Here, let me up on your shoulder.”
Mutely Wilbur obliged, and Tommy jumped to the collar of Wilbur’s soaked jacket. He scurried over it, and peeled apart the wet shirt beneath it to get to his neck. He pressed himself as bodily as he could get against the groove in Wilbur’s neck, and pressed his ear where he was pretty sure an artery or something was supposed to be.
For a second he couldn’t hear anything, and the only reason he didn’t hysterically think Wilbur dead was the feeling of his chin coming down to rest on Tommy’s back heavily. Then he could hear it, the faint and all-too-shallow beat of a heart. It was slow. Too slow for his liking, even for how much slower human hearts were from borrower hearts. Way too shallow compared to all the other times he heard Wilbur’s pulse, when he was hale and hearty and it beat like a drum.
This is bad, right? Tommy was pretty sure that was bad. He pressed himself further against the cold skin, trying to push his warmth through to the larger person.
You’re a hot meal, that part of him piped up again, more insistent. You’d warm him up at the core. You’d be able to hear his heart to make sure it didn’t get any slower.
Tommy realized, with a sinking sensation, that this part of him was making a good point. Arrrgh!
He jumped from Wilbur’s neck, flinching at the sad sigh that he made when the warmth left him, and climbed down to the fire again. If he was going to do this he was going to do it right.
Tommy took the last bit of miners' scrap (more like miner’s jerky at this point) and chewed despondently on it, trying his best to ignore the flavor. He drank a bit of the cave water (definitely tasted more mineral-y than was palatable) and shrugged off any other clothing that wasn’t stuck fast to his skin in a shine of sweat. It won’t be comfortable but at least he’ll be able to hold onto a bit of his dignity.
He cast a look at his fire one last time, pathetically guttering itself out, and tried to rearrange his clothes around it to be warm and dry when he came back to them.
(Hopefully he will be able to come back to them.)
He took off his knife sheath as well and laid it on his cast-off cloak delicately. Just so he wouldn’t do something stupid if he panicked. Then he marched over to Wilbur again, who had gone shockingly quiet and still with his gaze trailing over the stalactites and stone ceiling above and the drip-drip-dripping of rainwater pooling in from the entrance. Tommy poked at his knee even harder than he did last time, and was thankful to feel a jolt run through Wilbur at the sensation and his head loll down to watch him.
“Let me up again Wil, I’ve got an idea.” He grabbed at one of Wilbur’s sluggish hands and tried to drag it a little closer to his head. Finally, finally, after a few painful moments where gears twisted rustily behind Wilbur’s (blown out, dilated and totally unfocused) eyes, he picked up Tommy again and held him up to his face. He wasn’t shivering anymore.
Prime damn it - when did this start? This is all going too fast for him. Tommy started coaxing Wilbur, leaning against his cheek. “Cmon big man, open up, I gotta help you. You gotta eat, come on.” Thank goodness Wilbur was already so out of it at this point, he hardly needed to be nudged before he opened his mouth again.
If Tommy were in a less desperate mood he might have joked at how Wilbur was like a baby bird, and he was both the mother and the worm at once. As it were, all he did was leverage his weight against Wilbur’s jawbone again, before slipping his head and shoulders in.
This got a slight reaction from Wilbur, a hush of breath (too cold, too dry, damn it it should feel like a sauna in here, not exactly like the wind whipping into the cave from outside) and his mouth dropped open a little more, as if he was going to start trying to cough him out.
“No no no Wilby, you gotta close. Trust me on this one. Just a little more.” Why was his tongue so dry? It was so cold and his breath came in little puffs that hardly buffeted his hair. Tommy pushed deeper, wiggling his knees up and over his teeth so he had purchase against the inside of Wilbur’s jaw.
He patted (or… vaguely caressed - listen, it was a difficult angle to maneuver in) the inside of Wilbur’s cheek, and hoisted his shoulders a little further into his mouth, keeping his arms tucked up under him and clear of the large white molars on either side. “Ok big man, down the hatch. C’mon.”
A faint whine gurgled up from further down Wilbur’s throat, and his tongue started attempting to push him up against the roof of the mouth in order to spit him back out. Not a chance, not after he went and got his good shirt soggy. Tommy indulged himself with the faint indignity of wriggling around like a fish and pushed off hard from the inside edge of Wilbur’s incisors, and was rewarded with popping out on the other side of his tongue, and very quickly finding himself slipping and losing purchase.
The sound of Wil’s breath was even louder now, and Tommy took a deep breath of his own as he hit the back of his friend’s throat and started to slide. It’s fine, it’s fine, it's not too tight, he’ll be alright, this is for Wilbur -
Wilbur started to cough, deep rattling coughs that caused the muscle around Tommy to spasm and flex, and he hurried to whisper absolute nonsense that Wilbur definitely couldn't hear. “No no no it’s fine Wilby it’s all good you’re almost there come on it’s just like medicine you gotta swallow -”
And yet, despite it being drowned out by the hacking coughs and the fact that there was now a solid layer of muscle and viscera between Tommy and Wilbur’s ears, the coughing did relax a little. He wiggled a little more, forcing himself deeper, and could feel the larger man desperately swallow a couple of times before sucking in a large gasp.
(It would’ve fucking sucked if Tommy’s great plan to warm Wilbur up ended in him choking to death on his stupid body. He would have felt like an absolute idiot then.)
Tommy fell face-first into some gross mixture of spit, slime, and a very poorly-thought-out meal of miner’s scrap. It didn’t even look partially digested, it just sat in sad little puddles that stank a lot more than he expected. Guess he should be a little thankful that Wilbur had skipped breakfast this morning.
It was dark and stagnant in here, and way too close for comfort. Even if he couldn’t see the walls of viscera so close to him, Tommy could just tell they were small and close and - . He had to stop thinking about how easily his friend could accidentally crush him like this. He was doing this for Wilbur.
Wiping his face off (in a move that ultimately smeared more slime onto it in the process) he got to his feet and felt around to brace himself against the flattest part of the stomach lining.
It wasn't freezing inside, but it definitely wasn't body-temperature. Already the flesh against his back was leeching the warmth from him. Tommy leaned more firmly against the surface, and forced himself to shiver. He had to stay warm. He had to stay awake. Do it for Wilbur. Distantly he could feel the enormous human curl in closer, closer towards the new source of warmth that blossomed in his core. Curling the space within even smaller for the claustrophobic borrower.
Do it for Wilbur. Keep him warm.
...
Wilbur woke, foggy brained and disoriented, to an unlikely sight. There was a phantom perching on his shoulder, chewing on his hair. It was smaller than most, and it snapped softly at his cheek when he tried to bat it away. It took off with a quiet screech and flapped a couple of times, before landing on his arms again and snapping at his cloak, as if he held treats in his pockets.
It squawked again at his dismissive hand and landed on his stomach, gnawing at the damp but slowly drying shirt.
A few thoughts wheezed rustily into place within Wilbur’s head. One - he was no longer in L’manburg, and was instead in a dark damp cave that smelled of smoke and spider guts. Two - he had been cold, so very very cold to the point that the sensation no longer registered on his deadened skin. Three - he was not cold anymore.
Well, that was a lie. He was bloody freezing and couldn’t stop shivering, but that wasn’t something someone who was dying from the cold would do, so he would take the win.
He brushed the phantom off his lap and levered himself upright, wincing at the sharp pang of pain jumping down his spine at the movement. The cave was cold, the air was cold, and yet he wasn’t dead. That was handy. He looked down around him, and noticed that near his foot was a tiny burnt-out campfire. Too small for any human, but perhaps someone smaller had been here too? Maybe he just arrived after they had left.
Then he noticed the clothes laid carefully around the perimeter of the fire, all dried by the heat. Was that Tommy’s knife? His head popped up (ouch, that flared up a headache) and he looked into the shadows of the cave.
“Tommy? Tommy, where are you?” He called out. He started to stand, though his legs were weak and wobbly and he eventually fell back down. The phantom had jumped back up onto his propped up knees and snapped at his clothes again. He irritably shoved it out of the way, and it screeched again and jumped onto his arm with tiny prickling claws.
He called again. No response, beyond the echo back of his own voice in the cavern.
Wilbur leaned back a little, huffing out a breath, and was about to conclude that Tommy was out finding something outside of the cavern, or exploring deeper, when he felt the tiniest shudder from deep within himself. Wilbur froze and held his breath.
One… two… three… four... - there. Another shudder. Something tiny and spasming inside him, lodged just below his heart. And, now that he could feel it, it was as if there was a hot heavy lump sitting in his gut like he had swallowed a nether-warmed stone.
The wave of revulsion and horror outran his conscious thoughts and before Wilbur even came to the conclusion of that thought, he already had a hand shoving down his own throat, trying to trigger his own gag reflex. His body was sleepy and closed in on itself and above all else so dehydrated, so it took a couple of tries. All through it the thought pounded louder and louder as it bounced off the inside of his skull.
He’d swallowed Tommy. Why would he swallow Tommy? How did this happen? Was he alright? Had he died already? How long had this been happening? A lump (oh prime he hoped it was still in one piece) travelled up his throat as he shoved his hand into his mouth one last time and desperately clawed it out. He held it, trembling, in his hands as he tried to see the details of what he had done in the pale light of a distant cave entrance. It looked incredibly slimy, slick with a thick layer of mucus. It also had patches of red snaking along half of it, and the clothes had a corrosion to them that everyday wear could not give.
It also, thank Prime, took a deep shuddering breath when he carefully wiped the slime off of it. Then it coughed and shuddered in a deep bone-rattling way and the lump transformed in Wilbur’s eyes from a clump of potentially mangled and half-digested flesh into the curled up form of Tommy, alive and whole.
Wilbur almost burst out crying right then and there, but the phantom, which had jumped onto the ground with his desperate clawing at his own throat, had hopped back onto his cloak and was climbing towards his hands, hissing at Tommy. It took to the air, snapping at Wilbur’s fingers, and with a start he realized that if a phantom was hunting Tommy… then he had been awake and aware the entire time he had been inside of Wilbur.
Somehow that made him feel even sicker. He threw up again, spitting out a gob of bile and something that didn’t look mammalian at all which left a foul taste in his throat. He swiped at the phantom again, this time with some weight behind it, and bashed the undead creature out of the air. It hit the far wall hard and, with a final screech, burst into a pile of ash.
Tommy coughed a few more times, and blinked his eyes open before shutting them into a squint against the pale light. He shook himself all over, as if spasming.
“You’re awake…” He said, voice gravelly.
“You’re awake!” Wilbur cried back, overjoyed. “Prime, Tommy, are you okay? What happened? Why -”
Tommy groaned and, despite being covered with spit and pockmarked with acid burns, for a second he just looked like a disgruntled teen who had been woken up too early. “Too many questions,” he moaned.
Wilbur was quick to bring a shirt sleeve, trying to wipe more goo from his face, but stopped when Tommy sputtered another hacking cough and grabbed one of his fingers. “Wilbur,” Tommy said, before coughing again. “You absolute idiot, we should have made you a fire first!” He pounded on the finger he was holding onto, his voice splintering. “Don’t you fucking ever do that to me again I was so scared!”
Fuck, now they were both crying. Wilbur still had bile running down his nose from throwing up and Tommy was drying into a crust of goo and irritated chemical-burnt skin. And yet despite there being absolutely anything better to do in that moment, they spent it in the back of a dark, dank cave as the world outside them dried and the country they used to live in moved on without them.
Sorry if someone's already asked this, but has Giant!Dream ever put BBH, George, or Sap in his Stomach before?
Yep, that will happen during the story!
The thing to know is that Dream doesn’t have any kind of safe second stomach or anything like that, so nomming them isn’t really safe. However, they do eventually find some workarounds that make it safer. Enchantments, potions, golden apples, etc.
Those aren’t perfect solutions but it’s enough that he could nom them in an emergency. They end up learning this through trial and error, though, so there definitely are some mild mishaps before they figure this all out.
Eats Tom so often that Edd literally had to beg Tord to stop doing it so much, or to store him rather than just eat him at the very least.
Tord managed to get in Edd's good books again by eating Eduardo.
Trying to get Matt into the habit of eating people, just because he’s bored and clearly wants to doom the household.
Once he ate a random prey on the street that had picked a fight with him. His stomach ended up getting sliced open from the inside. He’s told nobody about it, not even Edd.
This did at one point temporarily drive Tord away from eating people for a few months, or listening to any of his instincts at all. He kinda just isolated himself as much as possible until the wound healed and became one large scar, and even then refused to eat anyone.
Even Tom was a tad bit worried. Edd tried coaxing Tord into storing him, and when that failed, Edd literally just told Tom to shove him down Tord's throat. That worked very effectively, but scared the living hell out of Tord himself.
Absolutely loves feeling the squirms of his prey.
You know what he loves more, though? Belly rubs, especially (and mainly) from the inside. He completely melts when given belly rubs, and becomes and absolute purring mess. The cruel, fearsome predator façade disappears quicker than Paul can crash another plane.
Tord drools a lot. It makes it really obvious when he’s keeping up an act of niceness but suddenly the hunger and instincts hit hella hard.
Speaking of instincts, Tord has quite intense predatory instincts sometimes. Actually, a lot of the time.
If he suddenly becomes intensely hungry out of nowhere, he has visual images of swallowing the prey down. Next thing he knows, he’s actually doing it.
He's tried to have Matt, Tom and Edd inside his stomach at the same time on multiple occasions. Many occasions. He’s only ever succeeded once.
Will sometimes poke and prod prey if he feels like he’s not getting a good enough reaction out of them.
Finds it a lot easier to focus on work when full.
He likes to eat soldiers that have been slacking. He takes great pleasure in doing so, and even turned it into a monthly thing.
Tom once put Edd in a glass of coke before. He almost drowned.
Tord and Tom like to try to sneak up on Edd to eat him as a surprise attack. Needless to say, they’re not very sneaky about it, and so it never works.
Edd on the other hand, believe it or not, is very good at being sneaky.
Usually it’s Tom that experiences it.
Edd isn’t very sensitive on the inside. Kicks and punches don’t really hurt him, just annoy him. He just kinda huffs and either waits for them to settle down, or worst comes to worst sticks it out all the way up to digestion (if we’re talking fatally here).
He likes belly rubs mainly as an assurance that everything is fine, because if you’ve read my other Edd Preddcannons, y'all know he needs that reassurance.
Because he needs constant reassurance from a prey, he gives a lot of reassurance as a prey. It can be irritating for the others at times, but they deal with it.
Edd isn’t very fond of nomming Matt. He complains far too much in Edd's opinion.
It’s a bit difficult trying to sleep in Edd's stomach. He likes to talk. He will pester the prey.
When he was younger and not really hungry, he would dress up shrunken prey in tiny little doll outfits. It sounds messed up now that I’m typing it, but at the time when I thought of it it was an adorable idea.
He will sometimes randomly just lick one of the others just to get a taste of them, or just to make them react to it because he’s bored.
Adventures the main 4 have include noms at least half of the time, and usually it’s Edd who initiates that. He is the leader after all.
As long as he’s willing, he’s not much of a squirmer!
Edd is kinda a people pleaser, and when he’s willing, he doesn’t like to make too much of a fuss (if at all) for the pred.
If he’s unwilling though, he drops his "people pleasing morals", buries em six feet under and starts violently fighting for his life.
For the first time, I have no idea what to put here.
He switches between pred, prey and observer.
However, he is mostly prey.
He enjoys being stored by Paul. Not too much by anyone else, but he'll accept it if it’s Tord.
Sometimes he gets recognised in public as a red army soldier. That’s where also sometimes being a pred comes in handy. Eat the witnesses, nothing to worry about.
Patryck only ever eats people who he doesn’t need interfering, nobody else, as he doesn’t have a storage.
When either Tord or Paul are especially stressed/overworked and not eating properly, the first resort to store is always Patryck. Nobody's really sure why.
As much as he likes/doesn't mind being stored, he doesn't like being stored for long periods of time.
He has them long lanky legs. And them long lanky legs get cramped easily. Especially being cooped up in a confined slimy space for hours on end.
He hasn’t experienced foodplay or drinkplay, but he doesn’t like the sound of either.
Tord makes sure he experiences mouthplay very often. Patryck's never too pleased about it.
Tord also occasionally makes sure Patryck experiences fearplay. Patryck isn’t the biggest fan of this, either.
Patryck enjoys being stored by Paul and Paul only, because he’s quick and gentle about it.
Once Patryck's arm got broken because Tord was very lightly nibbling on him to help him focus on his work, and accidentally bit down too hard on his arm.
He refused to let Tord nibble on him again.
This also gave Patryck trust issues with being near anyone’s mouth at a small height.
