urfavoritewriter

Vore writer who focuses primarily on male predators. You'll find a mix of picture captions, full stories, and commissions here.

[urfavoritewriter]

Commissions Sheet

Commission Status: OPEN.

Due to people's interest, I've begun accepting commissions. If you’d like to keep your story private, that’s entirely your choice—I’ll only share it publicly with your permission. However, please note that I reserve the right to decline any commission if the subject matter makes me uncomfortable.

List of kinks I'm open to writing:

Vore, any kind. Oral, anal, cock, pec, etc...

Weight Gain (Stuffing, Force Feeding, Snuggling)

Inflation (Air, liquid, etc...)

Any gender pred, and any gender prey. (M/M, M/F, F/M, non-binary, trans, etc...)

Same size.

Macro / Micro.

Absorption.

Digestion, any kind. Melting, gorey, etc...

Safe Vore.

Endo.

Willing / Unwilling Vore.

Humiliation.

Worship.

Arm pits.

Transformation.

Feet.

Weight Gain (Stuffing, Force Feeding, Snuggling)

Hard/Fatal Vore to a certain extent - Note me.

Transformation

Cumflation

Bondage

Hyper

Butt Play (Inflation, Vore, Sexual Things)

Boob play.

Most sexual acts.

Preg/MPreg

Specifics can be discussed in private.

Won't Do:

Underage Characters. All characters MUST be adults.

Scat. Disposal can be discussed with an additional charge.

If you have a kink and you're unsure if I write it or not, message me and ask.

What content am I open to writing?

I'm open to anything. Here's a list of things I'm willing to write.

Random preds/prey.

Fandom content, such as characters from media (TV Shows, games, anime, etc...)

Original characters.

Self-inserts, having you as the pred or prey if that's your preference.

If you're an artist, I could write a story to go with your art.

Again, if you're unsure of anything, my messages are open!

Pricing:

0.03 USD per word.

0.035 USD per word for fandom content that I'm unfamiliar with only. Otherwise, the above rates apply.

Which translates to 30 USD/ 35 USD per 1000 words.

Payment is through PayPal exclusively.

Where to reach me?

You can message me here on Tumblr, or add me on Discord with a username same as this blog, @urfavoritewriter

When commissioning a story, include key details such as kinks, themes, character visual references, character details, plot and desired word count range.

Conditions:

Payment is upfront.

You will receive one work-in-progress draft containing half or less of the requested story. The number of drafts will increase if you commission a large story (+5000 words).

The sent story will be considered the final draft, unless grammar corrections or correcting typos are needed, in which case I'll make grammar changes and small tweaks for you free of charge.

Rewrites or plot revisions are free unless a major overhaul is needed, in which case additional fees apply based on the number of changed words as per the pricing above.

[urfavoritewriter]

33% Off Black Friday Sale On Commissions!

December writing commissions open! For the first few days, I'll be accepting a limited number of slots for the black friday sale. All stories are now 33% off!

I write any kind of SFW / NSFW content of any adult characters, whether it be vore, stuffing, or anything else even, with any characters (original or otherwise) & from any fandom. You can check for specifics on what I do and don't do (plus pricing) in my commission sheet. If you're interested, message me on Tumblr or on Discord @urfavoritewriter.

[urfavoritewriter]

Lead By Example

A commission for someone over on Discord, I really enjoyed writing this one and went a lil over the requested word count because I didn't realize I was already over the limit X3 thank you for commissioning me!

Content: M/M Vore, Implied M/F Vore, Casual Vore, Rapid Digestion, Weight Gain, Straight Predator, Gay Prey, Public Vore, Teasing

The restaurant sat on a small cliff overlooking the water; the kind of place that wasn’t just about food, but about the whole experience of being there, which certainly justified the overpriced menu items. Warm string lights hung overhead, their reflections flickering on the glass railings and the dark waves below. The air smelled faintly of grilled seafood, citrus, and sea salt. This was the same place they’d gone for their first trip together to the coast, back when they’d still been figuring each other out– when Evan had joked that if Caleb ever proposed, it’d better be at a table with that same view. So here they were again, two years and a handful of months later, same view, same faint sea breeze brushing against their skin. Except this time, they had matching rings and a reason to order champagne without pretending it was for getting fucked later.

The waiter had barely set down the menus before Evan leaned across the table, grinning. “You realize we’re officially that couple now, right? The ones people hate because they’re too happy.” His voice carried a teasing warmth, light but genuine. Caleb laughed under his breath, rubbing the back of his neck. “Good,” he said. “Let ‘em hate us. We earned it. People like us couldn’t even get married not a little long while ago,” Evan was the sharper one, his hair cut close on the sides, eyes quick and bright even in low light. Caleb looked softer beside him, his expression easy, his build a bit broader, like someone who gave really good gay hugs and never rushed through them.

For a while, they just sat there listening to the faint hum of conversation around them, the sound of silverware and the ocean below blending into something steady. Caleb reached across the table, his thumb brushing over Evan’s knuckles. “Can’t believe we actually did it,” he said quietly, almost to himself. “Married. After everything.”

Evan squeezed his hand, smiling. “Took us two years and four months, but yeah… feels like the best part’s just starting.”

In the midst of their romantic retrospection, a group of men walked in, five of them in total, the kind of guys who didn’t really care that they were being too loud for the setting, but not in a rude way; they were clearly having fun and feeling themselves. Their laughter rolled through the room, half from the jokes they were telling and half from the few beers they’d clearly had before getting there. They were older, probably mid to late forties, with the kind of ease that comes from knowing nobody’s going to tell them to keep it down, at least not to their faces, usually. A couple of them wore open-collared shirts and watches that caught the light, one had a baseball cap still on, and another immediately waved at the bartender like they were old friends.

They weren’t being mean, not really, just the type to make everything about their own fun, and it seemed like they were in the middle of listening to a story from one particular guy in the group. The waiters smiled politely, trying not to wince at the volume. A few heads turned, but the group didn’t seem to notice or care. They chose a table right next to Evan and Caleb’s, confidently talking as they pulled out chairs and got comfortable.

The second they sat down, one of them leaned in with his drink that he brought from outside and barked, “You did what again?”

The guy, who was telling the story, smirked and took a slow drag from his cigar, the sleeves of his black polo stretching over his arms. 

“I swallowed that chick whole,” he said, his voice calm and confident. “Like, head to toe, boobs ’n all.”

“You’re fucking insane, Marco.”

“She was a co-worker. I think she recently moved to my department, too. Gave her one hell of a welcome gift, haha!” He said, treating it casually.

“You’re forced to work with someone difficult and unlikeable? Just swallow ‘em whole.” Another one of the guys said, bantering around the content of the story.

“What about human resources?”

“What about them?” He replied, inhaling with the cigar between his teeth.

“They’re gonna keep paying a digested bitch?”

“Why, you’re worried about a dead woman being paid more than your minimum wage job?” One of the guys replied.

“I just find your story hard to believe, if I’m being honest”

Marco sighed, “You’ve been asking a lotta questions about this and that, so how about I just...” He looked at the tables around them, trying to find a suitable person. “…Show you?” That’s when his eyes laid on the couple.

“Uh oh, here goes another one!”

Marco stood up with a casual grin and placed a heavy hand on Caleb’s shoulder, his grip firm but not aggressive. Caleb flinched a little, startled, and Evan turned around fast, the color draining from his face.

“Can I help you?” Evan asked, his voice tight, cautious. His mind jumped straight to the worst possibility: that they were about to get harassed for holding hands in public by homophobic straight dudes.

Marco smiled, the cigar now between his fingers. “Yeah, actually, you can,” he said, tone light and conversational. “See, my buddy over here doesn’t believe what I told him, and I think your boyfriend might be the perfect way to prove my point.”

Before either of them could react, Marco leaned down, grabbed Caleb by the sides, and forced his head into his mouth. Caleb’s muffled yell came out sharp and panicked– “Help me!” –before the sound was swallowed too. His legs kicked under the table, silverware clattering to the floor.

Evan shot up from his chair, but one of the other men beside Marco reached out and pressed a steady hand on his shoulder, guiding him back down. “It’s no use,” the man said calmly, almost apologetically. “He’s never let anyone stop him once he starts.” Clearly he had experience with Marco’s vore shenanigans.

Marco's throat bulged as Caleb’s head disappeared between his lips. The older man’s tattooed hand came up to grab the visible outline of the face pressing through his neck, the cursive black letters of “FERN” stretched across his inner forearm as his fingers squeezed around the shape. Caleb’s panicked expression was barely visible for a second, distorted under skin and pressure, before Marco gulped again.

“Get 'em down, baby!” one of the guys at the table called out, half-laughing. “C’mon, Marco, don’t stop now!” another chimed in, clapping once like it was a drinking contest.

Marco’s jaw stretched around Caleb’s shoulders with an effortless wet glide. The black polo pulled tight across his chest as he worked the man deeper, already beginning to stretch up, his throat pulsing, his hands pressing down over the squirming chest until it sank past his lips. The group let out a round of hoots and whistles.

“He’s halfway, man!” “Fuck yeah, he’s goin’ down!” “Damn, look at those shoulders slide in, holy shit!”

“…Color me impressed.” The doubting guy said under his breath.

Across the table, Evan jerked against the man still holding him down. “Get off me! That’s my boyfriend!”

The guy leaned in a little, hand now pressing more firmly into Evan’s chest. “Then you better start lookin’ for a new one, man.”

Marco’s thick arms worked steadily as Caleb’s body kept sliding deeper, the soft sounds of gulping now mixing with the scrape of the table legs as the man’s torso disappeared below the edge. His gut had already started to swell, the black fabric of his polo rising inch by inch as more of Caleb was packed inside. His hands braced the wriggling hips, adjusting his stance slightly as he tilted his head back and pulled him in further.

Caleb’s legs kicked weakly now, knees bent and twitching before they too were forced to straighten out and slide between Marco’s lips. One strong swallow pulled the thighs in, followed by the calves, the feet now sticking out awkwardly in dress shoes, polished and ridiculous in how out-of-place they looked hanging from the mouth of a man who hadn’t even broken a sweat. At least he had them pedicured, shame they were covered.

Marco held them there, grinning around the heels, and turned his head to the guy who had called him out earlier for lying. He raised his brows slightly, gesturing with both hands as if presenting a challenge.

The man blinked, looked around at his friends who were already chuckling, then pointed at himself. “…Me?”

The guy next to him nudged his elbow. “Go push 'em in!”

After a beat, the doubter stood up, walked over with a kind of hesitant amusement, and reached for the dangling ankles. He planted one hand on Marco’s shoulder for balance, then slowly pressed on the shoes. Marco didn’t budge. The feet slid in slowly, inch by inch, the man's palm following until it was completely inside Marco’s mouth.

He felt the throat pulse, one deep, wet gulp, and the body inside shifted down, dragging his hand slightly forward before he yanked it back out with a wet squelch. Strings of thick drool stretched from Marco’s lips to the guy’s fingers, snapping and trailing down his wrist as he pulled away.

The group exploded into cheers, “Holy shit, you did it!” “That was fucking wild!” “Dude, you’re insane!” Among other spoken encouragements.

Even Marco let out a deep laugh, his belly visibly shifting as it settled into a new round shape. He slapped the guy’s shoulder, still grinning. “See? Knew you'd come around to believing.”

He leaned back in his chair and exhaled, his chest rising before he let out a deep, heavy belch. “BUUURRRPP.” He wiped the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand and smirked. “And that pretty much sums up what I did to her,” he said, reaching for his drink. “But anyways, where was I?”

“The part where she wouldn’t stop talking about the report,” one of the guys reminded him, as he took a sip out of his own beer.

“Oh right, yeah,” Marco said, snapping his fingers. “So she’s standin’ there in front of the copier, right? Paper jammed for the third time that week, and she’s losin’ it. I tell her to chill, it’s just a machine, but nah, she starts goin’ off about deadlines and respect and how nobody listens to her.”

As he talked, the surface of his gut twitched under his shirt. He paused mid-sentence, gave it a firm pat, then pressed down with his palm HARD until the movement stopped. His fingers sank slightly into the tight roundness, adjusting the weight like he’d done it before, man-handling the guy inside like an afterthought.

“So anyway,” he went on, shaking his head, “I’m tryin’ to stay cool, right? But then she calls me lazy. Lazy! Like I haven’t been the one fixin’ that damn copier since before she even showed up.”

Across the table next to them, Evan shifted, his voice quiet and shaky. “W-when are you letting my boyfriend out?”

Marco kept talking. “So I tell her, look, if you got somethin’ to say, say it. And she just stares at me like she’s waitin’ for me to snap.”

He grunted softly and leaned forward, both hands on his gut now, squeezing once, a low gurgle coming from inside. He gave it a rough shove inward, the bulge shifting and settling, then sat back with a satisfied grunt and continued the story like nothing happened.

Evan swallowed hard. “Hey?” he tried again, a little louder this time.

“Dude, give me a sec,” He acknowledged Evan briefly, “I’m in the middle of a story, don’t break my goddamn flow.” Marco’s voice rolled on without pause. “So then she starts walkin’ away, right? Real fast. And I’m thinkin’, nah, you’re not gettin’ the last word this time like she always loves to. So I-”

“Dude,” Evan said, voice breaking a little. “I’m asking when are you letting my boyfriend out?”

Marco finally turned his head, eyebrows lifting as if he’d just noticed him for the first time. “Oh,” he said, tone even and casual. “That was your boyfriend? I thought you guys were just friends.”

Evan blinked, his throat tight. “We, uh… we just got married, actually. We’re on our honeymoon.”

Marco’s eyebrows lifted, his face softening. “Oh, really? Congratulations, man! Really happy for you!” His voice was warm, genuinely so, and the others around the table chimed in too, tossing out things like “Congrats, dude!” and “That’s awesome!” between laughs and clinks of glasses to their short-lasting mariage.

Evan hesitated, his hands fidgeting on the edge of the table. “…Anyways, I, uh, was hoping you’d let him out soon?”

Marco tilted his head, expression still casual. “Sorry, I never let someone out,” he said plainly, taking another slow sip of his drink. “But hey, at least it’s really enjoyable for him.”

He stood up, motioning for Evan to come closer. Evan, confused and uneasy, stepped forward. As soon as he did, the faint sounds from Marco’s stomach reached his ears, deep, rhythmic moans, wet and low, from his soon-to-be ex-husband.

“Uhhhhnn… mmmphhh… aaahhhhn~”

Marco grinned, resting one hand over the shifting swell of his gut. “See? Told you,” he said, voice calm, almost conversational. “Pretty sure most people bust multiple times in there before they’re fully gone, men and women both.”

Marco eased back into his chair, patting the dome of his gut. “So yeah,” he said, picking up his story without missing a beat, “she’s stormin’ off, mutterin’ under her breath like a pussy. And I follow her, not fast, just faster than her pace, y’know, because I was set on doing it for real.”

His stomach let out a soft glorp as the shape of Caleb inside started to shift, smoothing out a little. One side of the bulge collapsed in slowly, the squirming becoming weaker, less defined.

“She turns the corner by the breakroom and that’s when I decide, yeah, now’s good. Caught her by the hips, popped her heels right off. Uh, she was wearin’ those little blocky ones, the kind that click loud on tile, and just got to work.”

Inside, Caleb’s muffled groans of pleasure rose and fell:

“Uhhhhhnn… ahhh~ nnnfffhh… mmmmn-ahh…”

Marco chuckled to himself, barely reacting to the sounds. His belly sloshed gently, shrinking down another inch as the weight inside compacted further.

“Honestly, she tasted like coconut lotion or some shit. Sweet as hell, she was a bitch but she took really good care of her skin, was so smooth she just slid right in. Took a bit gettin’ past the shoulders, but after that?” He made a whistling noise and mimed a smooth drop with his hand. “Straight down.”

“Ahhh—uhnnhhh… uhhhHHH—!”

The stomach gurgled louder now, gassy and low, as Caleb’s final spasms inside turned to trembling bliss. The squirming bulge tensed up, and it was evident-at least to Marco- that the guy inside has busted a nut, and Marco’s gut tensed in response and then started to shrink even faster, settling heavy against his lap.

Marco shifted in his chair with a grunt, now noticeably smaller, the roundness becoming softer, looser. He rubbed his palm in slow circles across the front of his polo, almost possessively, that it made Evan jealous he was this handy with his man.

“Anyway, she went down like a damn protein shake,” he said. “Had the hiccups after!”

He looked up at Evan, who stood there frozen, wide-eyed, and vore-cucked. Marco gave him a knowing look and said calmly, “Hey man, I, uh, I’m sure you’ll miss him and all but if you want I could also let you join him?” He said, letting out a burp, “Not now though, I’m a little full, but we can arrange for it later?”

“I… Um,” Evan said, dumbfounded, it almost didn’t seem real that he just lost the love of his life to a guy who just needed an example of what he did. “…N-No, thank you, I’m good…” Despite all of that, he was flustered, and even felt a little attraction.

He leaned over from the table beside him, giving a friendly pat on the shoulder as he said, “Sure thing, but give it some thought, yeah? And, if you’re looking for a new boyfriend, there’s a few pubs ‘round here that you can visit.”

Marco slapped his hands on his thighs and pushed himself up from the chair, still looking smugly satisfied as he talked to his group of straight men. “I know a spot nearby, called Barker’s Tap & Grill, got killer wings and they don’t skimp on the pours.” He glanced around at the guys, then nodded toward the street. “Shall we, boys?”

They all stood, finishing the last of their drinks, tossing bills on the table without looking at the total, even though half their drinks were brought in from the outside.

Evan didn’t follow. He just sat there, frozen, eyes locked on Marco’s back as the man walked away, laughing and talking with his crew like nothing had happened. And it hit him then, he hadn’t even noticed how much thicker the guy had gotten.

Marco’s khakis were pulled tight now over a clearly fuller frame, the seat of his pants rising and sinking with each step. His big, beefy ass swayed from side to side, the fabric hugging each heavy stride, while his thick thighs rubbed together. He was a much meatier man than when he came in, for sure.

[urfavoritewriter]

November 2025 Commissions Open!

November writing commissions open! I write any kind of SFW / NSFW content of any adult characters, whether it be vore, stuffing, or anything else even, with any characters (original or otherwise) & from any fandom. You can check for specifics on what I do and don't do (plus pricing) in my commission sheet. If you're interested, message me on Tumblr or on Discord @urfavoritewriter.

[urfavoritewriter]

Is there any víre story coming that is not a comission? (Btw i loved your last story, but i love your every story)

Yes, I’m working on a few personal stories both for M/M and M/F that I will post, I gotta write for me every once in a while but the demand for commissions has been taking up all my time, and I appreciate the love & support because I love writing for people. ❤️

[urfavoritewriter]

Why Stop At a Finger?

A commission for a user over here on Tumblr, thank you so much for commissioning me! They were wonderful to work for <3

Content: M/M, Anal Vore, Willing Pred, Unwilling Prey, Long-Term Endo, Slow Digestion, Sexual

Ryan had one knee hooked lazily over Dalton’s thigh, the other leg stretched toward the foot of the bed, toes curling faintly against the sheet every time Dalton’s fingers moved just right. His back was half-propped into the headboard, shoulders rolled down, chin dipped, mouth parted in a breath that wasn’t steady. The slow push and curl inside him drew a low sound out of him—half laugh, half groan—and his stomach shifted against the back of Dalton’s hand with each flex of muscle around those fingers.

Dalton was sitting cross-legged beside him, hip against hip, leaning in enough that his shoulder brushed Ryan’s bicep. His wrist was turned inward, thumb riding the outside curve of Ryan’s thigh as he worked those fingers in deeper, knuckles pressing a fraction before slipping past. He could feel the way Ryan’s body answered him—heat tightening, then loosening again as if testing how far he’d let himself open. “God, you’re—” Dalton broke off to wet his bottom lip, the pad of his thumb brushing higher without thought, “—you’re swallowing me whole in there.” He was timid in the way he said it, finger-deep and still shy.

A low hum came from Ryan, head tilting back until it bumped the wall. “Mmh… you say that like it’s a bad thing.” His eyes flicked sideways to catch Dalton’s, that tiny smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth before a sharper inhale cut through it. The motion inside him sent a pulse rolling through his gut, his hips giving a small, betraying lift toward Dalton’s hand.

Heat radiated through Dalton’s palm, and the bedframe creaked when Ryan shifted, pulling one knee up and out to give him more room. The new angle made it easier to work his fingers in a slow scissor, and the slick pull around them had him exhaling through his nose like he was trying not to grin too hard. “You’re making this too easy,” Dalton murmured, voice sinking lower, the tip of his middle finger dragging along that spot again just to hear the sound it wrung out of Ryan.

“Mmh—” Ryan’s breath hitched, shoulders twitching with the effort not to tense. “You like it easy. Don’t lie.” His abdomen tensed under Dalton’s knuckles, a rolling contraction that made his hips rock once, shallow, as if testing Dalton’s grip on him. The pressure dragged another quiet noise out of him, this one ending in a laugh. “Careful… I bite.”

Dalton’s thumb smoothed along the inside of Ryan’s thigh, his other fingers still buried, slow and deliberate now—pulling back enough to make Ryan’s body chase after the touch before pressing in again. He watched every shift of muscle in Ryan’s belly and hips, the way his breathing caught on the in-stroke. “Biting’s fine,” he said under his breath, leaning close enough that Ryan could feel it against his jaw, “as long as you don’t spit me back out after.” He said, blissfully unaware that Ryan could, and actually might, swallow him up.

That earned a huff of air from Ryan—amusement, arousal, something in between. His head turned just enough to meet Dalton’s gaze again, eyes hooded, the faintest roll of his hips welcoming the next curl of fingers deep inside.

Ryan’s smirk deepened, and the squeeze around Dalton’s fingers changed, pulling instead of just holding. The slow clench tugged Dalton’s hand in further, the base of his palm pressing against Ryan’s heat before he even realized what was happening.

Dalton blinked, mouth parting. “Wait… hold on, you’re—” His words cut short as Ryan’s hips rolled forward, and the pressure at his rim dragged him in another inch. The muscles inside him were working in steady, hungry pulls, coaxing him deeper without giving him a chance to pull back.

“Relax,” Ryan murmured, the warmth in his tone a tease, not a comfort. He shifted on the bed, bracing one hand behind him as he leaned into Dalton’s trapped arm. “You’re already halfway in. Might as well see how far I can take you.”

Dalton’s pulse jumped. He tried to brace against the mattress, but Ryan’s other hand caught his shoulder, guiding it forward toward him. The wet, tight pull climbed over his forearm, sliding higher toward the bend of his elbow.

“Ryan, wait, you’re serious—”

A low chuckle rumbled out of Ryan, and he tilted forward until his mouth was close to Dalton’s ear. “Mmhm. Dead serious.” His hips pressed back again, and Dalton felt his bicep slide past the slick ring of muscle, the squeeze now gripping his upper arm in firm, rhythmic pulls.

The shift was sudden—Ryan pushed down and forward, bending Dalton toward him as the ring of muscle stretched wider, swallowing the swell of his shoulder. Dalton’s other arm was pinned awkwardly to his side as the pull worked him in, inch by inch, the heat clamping and sucking him upward into Ryan’s body.

“Breathe in for me,” Ryan said, almost kindly, before sinking down further. The tight muscle flexed again, pulling past the curve of Dalton’s shoulder and trapping him deeper inside.

Dalton made a muffled sound against Ryan’s lower back, trying to turn his head, but Ryan’s grip on his hair was steady. “Shh. You’ll fit,” Ryan said, his voice low with amusement. The steady, wet suction kept working up Dalton’s neck toward his head, the deep, hungry clench intent on pulling him the rest of the way in.

Ryan’s grip on Dalton’s hair loosened just enough to let his head tilt, lining him up with the slick, stretched entrance. The heat pulsed once around his neck, then pulled, swallowing past his jaw with a wet pop. Dalton’s gasp was muffled immediately, his face sliding into the tight, steaming channel as Ryan pushed down from above, feeding more of him inside.

The curve of Dalton’s chest followed, ribs compressing under the pressure, his pinned arm sliding in alongside him. Ryan rolled his hips in slow circles, coaxing the next few inches with steady, greedy contractions, until Dalton’s waist was pressed tight against the ring of muscle. His legs kicked once against the mattress, but Ryan only chuckled under his breath and sank lower, drawing him in up to the thighs.

“Almost there,” Ryan murmured, palms braced to either side of his own hips for leverage. The muscle around Dalton’s knees gripped and pulled, the squeeze rippling down his calves as they disappeared one after the other. The last of him—ankles, then feet—slid through in a slick rush, the sound deep and wet in the quiet room.

Ryan’s anus clenched once, holding everything in, then relaxed. A puff of air pushed out around the rim, the skin still stretched and warm from the strain, the loose ring flexing and releasing with a soft, breathy sound. His shoulders dropped, the tension in his back easing, and he let out a long, satisfied exhale as the stretch settled into a full, heavy warmth deep inside.

“Fuuuuuuck, you filled me up!”

Ryan shifted against the headboard, both hands braced on the curve of his belly as muffled words pressed through the heat of his gut.

“Uhh–uhh Ryan–uhh it’s… so tight in here…” Dalton’s voice came thin and pressed, every syllable swallowed by the wet walls pressing in on him. His breath stammered inside, the sound small compared to the steady churns rolling through Ryan’s midsection.

Ryan let out a crooked laugh, sliding one palm down to squeeze the swell of his own ass. His fingers dug into the cheek, spreading it slightly, feeling the stretch still lingering around the hole that had just devoured an entire man. “Yeah, no shit it’s tight,” he muttered, rubbing in slow circles, enjoying the give of flesh beneath his palm. The ring flexed faintly as he touched himself there again, a ripple traveling back into the heaviness of his bowels.

“Mmh–uhh… what’s–what’s gonna happen to me?” Dalton’s words pushed through again, faint, timid, muffled with little pauses that betrayed how much space pressed into his chest. “Like am I gonna just–ungh–… stay here?”

Ryan tipped his head back and barked a short laugh, half disbelieving. “I don’t fucking know. You think I take whole guys up the ass on the regular?” He gave his cheek another firm squeeze, smirking at the absurdity of it even as his body pulsed warmly around its new passenger.

The truth was it hadn’t been planned. Fingering had slipped into something hungrier, stranger. An impulse sparked by heat and chance. He hadn’t sat down thinking he’d swallow Dalton whole with his ass. But each inch had gone deeper, easier than expected, and somewhere along the way he decided not to stop, but rather actively suck him in. Why stop at a finger or two? He thought.

Ryan shifted his weight forward, one hand sliding lower until his fingertip brushed the loosened rim. He pressed gently, circling, feeling the warmth still pulsing there, the softness stretched wide from use, it felt like he just took a good morning shit in reverse. The finger dipped inside, slick and pliant, and he groaned softly at the sensation.

“Best guess?” he said, circling again, letting the fingertip glide deeper. “You’ll probably get digested. Just don’t know how long that’s gonna take. Could be hours, could be days.” He pushed a little further, testing, the rim squeezing weakly around his finger. “Guess we’re both gonna find out together.”

Little did either of them know, it would take much longer than that.

Ryan shifted deeper into the bed, his knees sliding apart as his hand worked at himself again. One finger stayed buried, circling slowly at his loosened rim, and the other hand wrapped around his cock. His swollen gut pressed heavy against his wrist, Dalton’s curled outline shifting faintly beneath the skin as he moved. Ryan groaned low in his throat, grinding the head of his cock against that bulging pressure. “Fffuck… you feel so damn good in there…” The bed rattled with the rhythm of his hips, every roll pushing Dalton deeper into the slick, churning heat of his bowels.

A faint voice vibrated up through him, muffled but audible. “Uhh Ryan… you’re… still touching yourself while I’m… stuck up your ass…” Dalton’s timid tone trembled with humiliation, every pause stretched out, swallowed by the wet squeeze surrounding him. Ryan laughed breathlessly, teeth bared, his voice rough as he pumped himself faster. “You’re not here to help me out, aren’tcha? Someone’s gotta do it,” His gut clenched, the finger at his rim slipping deeper.

His hand rubbed up and down, then up and down, then up and down again, faster and more inconsistent, then with a sharp groan his cock twitched hard. Hot release spilled across his belly and chest, streaking upward as his entire frame shuddered, his cries tangled with half-laughs.

When the waves finally ebbed, Ryan slumped against the headboard, chest heaving, sweat sliding down his temples. He dragged his hand down his stomach to smear away the mess, muttering under his breath before hauling himself to the bathroom. A quick rinse at the sink and a splash of cold water across his face steadied him. He reached for his clothes where they had fallen in a careless pile earlier. Black slim-cut jeans, worn soft at the seams, hugged his thighs when he pulled them back on. Over his shoulders he shrugged into a fitted olive bomber jacket with quilted lining, unable to zip it around the new bulging mass on him, so his plain white tank stretched upwards. He looped a leather cord necklace with a dull silver tag back around his neck and tightened the strap of his battered black watch. Last came the boots: dark brown, scuffed leather with side zippers, that he tugged on firmly, standing straighter as the weight of the outfit settled back on him.

On the way back home, Ryan carried the weight of Dalton low and heavy in his gut, every step measured so the jostling didn’t leave him doubled over. Even the drive on the car was more than uncomfortable, as his gut was pushing up against the steering wheel with the safety belt stretched over it. Wow, this shit was not made with a guy who anally shoved another guy whole in mind… he thought as it pressed tight.

By the time he kicked off his boots at the door, exhaustion had caught up with him, the strain of holding someone whole inside him settling in his spine. He stripped down and eased himself into bed, rolling carefully until he found a position that let him breathe without the pressure cutting into his ribs. One arm hooked under the pillow, the other draped across the rounded swell of his stomach, and he shifted onto his side so the weight pooled low and steady. With a long exhale, he let the mattress take most of it, his gut pressed against the sheets in a way that kept the ache down to a dull throb.

The first night ended with Ryan’s belly stretched taut, Dalton still shifting inside him and mumbling whenever Ryan adjusted his sleeping position. By the time the sun came up again, the gut hadn’t gone down much at all. Ryan stood in the bathroom mirror, rubbing over the heavy dome with both palms and sleepily muttering, “Yawn… damn, are you even getting digested in there?”

A tired groan pushed back through him. Dalton’s voice was muffled and worn down. “Uhh… I… I couldn’t sleep at all… it’s so hot in here… please, I want out…” His pauses dragged, weak and hesitant, like he was forcing each word past the noise surrounding him.

Ryan smirked, leaning one shoulder to the wall, giving his gut a light pat. “You told me I can bite as long as I don’t spit you out. Sounds like you’re still holding me to that.” The teasing edge in his tone came easy, even as Dalton whimpered faintly at the reminder.

The second day passed in much the same way. Ryan went about his usual routine, tugging his jacket on and heading out, his belly swaying with every step and his hole a lot less sore. The weight never really lightened.

It meant he had to keep moving like normal, only with the added weight of the consequences of his actions. He still had to get groceries, stand in line at the corner store, carry the bags back with both arms while his gut bumped against the handles. He still had to sweep the floor and do the dishes, bending forward carefully so the pressure didn’t knock the air out of him. Even laundry was a task, squatting down to load the machine while his stomach pressed heavy into his thighs, making him grunt every time he straightened back up as if he catapaulted into his mid-40s.

It was a good thing he had no work that week, and as the day went on with his gut not getting any smaller, he only hoped a week was enough time.

At night, when he sat down to eat, every sip of water sent a cool rush downward, and maybe Dalton caught some of it second-hand. Ryan noticed the squirming quiet down after he drank, as though the guy inside had managed to drink along with him.

Now a few days after he sucked him up his anus, there was finally a change. The bulge looked a little softer, not as hard-packed as the first days, though it was still almost the same size. Ryan pressed his fingers into it, shaping the mass like it was pliant dough. Inside, Dalton still mumbled faintly, words half-swallowed by the gurgling churn, but at least he was still conscious. Ryan snorted, rubbing his gut with lazy circles. “You love sticking around, don’t you? So high-maintenance…”

Another day rolled by, bringing more noise than before. Long, drawn-out sloshes, liquid churns, deep rumbles that made the couch vibrate when Ryan sat down. The mass in him had become less distinct, just a softer, shifting swell that moved with his steps. Dalton still answered weakly when Ryan prodded, but his voice was faint, slipping into silence more often than not.

By the fifth day in, the replies stopped altogether. Ryan poked at his gut a few times that morning, waiting, but there was nothing. No voice, no squirming. Only the wet kneading sounds and the rolling shift of what remained. He raised his eyebrows, sighed, and muttered, “Guess that’s that, then.”

The following days were rougher on his stomach than the first stretch. On the sixth and seventh days, his gut stayed loud and restless, filled with gassy growls and thick, wet gurgles, the kind that echoed in his bowels when he bent over. The mass inside had broken down into something looser, something his body was steadily absorbing. He could hear it, could feel it: every long glorp and bubbling churn soaking Dalton into him a little more.

By a little over a week, his belly was much smaller but still stuck out, softer than before, like there was a cushion beneath his skin instead of a solid weight. The noises had slowed to long, lazy rolls, but there was still a bearing there, a last little bulk refusing to vanish completely, maybe the hardest part of him to digest: his skeleton. He sat on the edge of his bed, one hand kneading the small remaining swell, which was still a little hard.

Eight or nine days on, Ryan rubbed the last bit of mass between his palms, his gut almost back to normal size, even the remaining mass softening,

“So… you ready to come out the same way you went in?”

[urfavoritewriter]

Bowels of a Bear

A commission for a lovely user here on Tumblr, thank you for commissioning me! It's always good when I get a chance to write hairy bear preds >:3

Content: vore, digestion, belly bulge, belly noises, willing prey, willing pred, casual vore, male pred, human pred, M/M, large belly, bear pred, teasing

Clint sat cross-legged on the couch, leaning forward like the whole match was going to hinge on how tight he kept his aim. The glow from the TV lit up his beard and the crease between his eyebrows, the little amber light on his controller blinking as his thumbs worked over the sticks. On the other end of the couch, Reed was slouched back with one ankle propped over his knee, controller balanced in one hand, eyes flicking between his character and the minimap.

They were deep into Halo 3, going head-to-head on Guardian. Clint had the high ground near the green lift, peeking the corner with a battle rifle, trying to keep Reed from pushing across the narrow bridge. Reed’s Spartan was ducking in and out from behind the central column, lobbing plasma grenades up toward the catwalk. The sound effects—rifle bursts, shield recharge whines, that heavy thunk of a grenade going off—bounced around the room under the hum of the old box fan by the window.

Reed caught Clint slipping a little too far out from cover and dropped him with a clean three-shot burst. Clint groaned, tossed his head back, and immediately respawned near blue lift. “Lucky,” he muttered, eyes narrowing. He swung the camera fast, sprinted up the ramp toward active camo before Reed could get to it first.

They kept circling each other like that, the match timer ticking down. Reed pulled off a perfect stick right to Clint’s chest, the blue light flashing across the whole screen before it went black. Clint sat back, exhaled through his nose, and was about to make a crack about Reed’s aim when a low, rolling growl cut through the game audio.

GroOoOwLl.

It wasn’t the TV—it was Reed’s stomach, loud enough that Clint glanced over with a crooked grin. “Damn bro, you seem hungry as fuck.”

Reed smirked faintly, gave a little shrug without taking his eyes off the screen. “I know, but for some reason I’m not craving anything in particular.”

Reed finally set his controller down on the coffee table, leaning back into the worn cushions with a long stretch. His beard shifted against his chest as he tilted his head side to side, loosening his neck. The grumble in his stomach hadn’t gone anywhere, and with the match timer now at zero, his attention slid toward his phone. He unlocked it with a swipe, thumb moving toward the DoorDash icon like muscle memory.

The screen lit his face as he scrolled. “Let’s see… we got Chipotle,” he muttered to himself, thumb flicking past. “Nah. Had that last week.” Another scroll. “Five Guys… mmm, skip.” He paused on Red Robin for a second, squinting like he was almost tempted, then kept moving. “Outback Steakhouse? Ugh… skip.”

Clint leaned his elbows on his knees, still catching his breath from laughing at the last match. His eyes wandered over to Reed without thinking. Reed’s shirt had ridden up a little from all the stretching, showing just the start of a soft curve at his middle. It wasn’t huge, but it had that rounded, easy weight that comes from too many late-night beers and big weekend meals. The fabric of his t-shirt was a little stretched across his stomach, and the hair on his forearms caught the glow of the phone screen. His beard was full, dark with a few lighter streaks, and his shoulders looked broad enough to block half the light from the TV if he leaned forward.

Reed scrolled again, muttering, “Applebee’s… nah… Buffalo Wild Wings… mmm… nah.”

Without really thinking about it, Clint leaned over and put his hand over the phone screen. The scrolling stopped.

Reed glanced sideways at him. “What?”

“You can eat me, if you want,” Clint said, like it was just another casual suggestion between rounds.

Reed let out a short laugh and shook his head. “Get outta here.”

Clint didn’t move his hand. His eyes stayed on Reed’s face, steady. “I’m serious,” he said, his voice a little quieter now but not joking. “You’re hungry, and I have no problems with it.” is what he said, but what he really meant was ‘I want to be in your hairy belly.‘

Reed blinked at him for a long second, then smirked and shook his head. “Bro, you gay as fuck for that,” he said, the words drawn out just enough to make it sound like a joke. The corner of his mouth pulled higher, though, like he was already picturing it. “You know what you’re getting yourself into?”

Clint didn’t flinch. “I don’t fucking care.”

That answer seemed to stick with Reed. His eyes narrowed just slightly, and then he leaned forward, setting his phone down on the coffee table without breaking eye contact. “Alright. I’ll give you a demo.”

Before Clint could say anything, Reed’s big hands clamped down on either side of his head. His palms were warm and a little rough, fingers curling into his hair as he yanked him forward. The sudden movement made Clint’s knees bump the coffee table. Reed’s beard brushed Clint’s forehead for a second, and then his mouth opened wide right in front of him.

The heat hit first—a wave of stale air that carried the sour tang of old beer, meat from lunch, and the faint bitterness of coffee. Reed’s tongue flexed inside, slick and pink under the yellowed light from the lamp, the back of his throat twitching as he exhaled straight into Clint’s face. The smell clung, warm and humid, filling Clint’s nose before he could turn away.

HhhhuuuUuurrRRRpphhhh

The burp rolled out mid-breath, wet and deep, vibrating right against Clint’s skin. The sound was loud in the small room, the gust of it making Clint’s hair shift. Reed didn’t let go—he kept his grip firm, forcing Clint to take the whole blast of it.

Then Reed’s tongue slid out, rough and damp, dragging from Clint’s jaw up to his cheekbone in one slow, deliberate lick. He pulled back just enough to look at him, still holding his face, thumb resting against the hinge of Clint’s jaw.

“You sure that’s what you want?”

Teron Commission (I)

————————————

Clint sat cross-legged on the couch, leaning forward like the whole match was going to hinge on how tight he kept his aim. The glow from the TV lit up his beard and the crease between his eyebrows, the little amber light on his controller blinking as his thumbs worked over the sticks. On the other end of the couch, Reed was slouched back with one ankle propped over his knee, controller balanced in one hand, eyes flicking between his character and the minimap.

They were deep into Halo 3, going head-to-head on Guardian. Clint had the high ground near the green lift, peeking the corner with a battle rifle, trying to keep Reed from pushing across the narrow bridge. Reed’s Spartan was ducking in and out from behind the central column, lobbing plasma grenades up toward the catwalk. The sound effects—rifle bursts, shield recharge whines, that heavy thunk of a grenade going off—bounced around the room under the hum of the old box fan by the window.

Reed caught Clint slipping a little too far out from cover and dropped him with a clean three-shot burst. Clint groaned, tossed his head back, and immediately respawned near blue lift. “Lucky,” he muttered, eyes narrowing. He swung the camera fast, sprinted up the ramp toward active camo before Reed could get to it first.

They kept circling each other like that, the match timer ticking down. Reed pulled off a perfect stick right to Clint’s chest, the blue light flashing across the whole screen before it went black. Clint sat back, exhaled through his nose, and was about to make a crack about Reed’s aim when a low, rolling growl cut through the game audio.

GroOoOwLl.

It wasn’t the TV—it was Reed’s stomach, loud enough that Clint glanced over with a crooked grin. “Damn bro, you seem hungry as fuck.”

Reed smirked faintly, gave a little shrug without taking his eyes off the screen. “I know, but for some reason I’m not craving anything in particular.”

Reed finally set his controller down on the coffee table, leaning back into the worn cushions with a long stretch. His beard shifted against his chest as he tilted his head side to side, loosening his neck. The grumble in his stomach hadn’t gone anywhere, and with the match timer now at zero, his attention slid toward his phone. He unlocked it with a swipe, thumb moving toward the DoorDash icon like muscle memory.

The screen lit his face as he scrolled. “Let’s see… we got Chipotle,” he muttered to himself, thumb flicking past. “Nah. Had that last week.” Another scroll. “Five Guys… mmm, skip.” He paused on Red Robin for a second, squinting like he was almost tempted, then kept moving. “Outback Steakhouse? Ugh… skip.”

Clint leaned his elbows on his knees, still catching his breath from laughing at the last match. His eyes wandered over to Reed without thinking. Reed’s shirt had ridden up a little from all the stretching, showing just the start of a soft curve at his middle. It wasn’t huge, but it had that rounded, easy weight that comes from too many late-night beers and big weekend meals. The fabric of his t-shirt was a little stretched across his stomach, and the hair on his forearms caught the glow of the phone screen. His beard was full, dark with a few lighter streaks, and his shoulders looked broad enough to block half the light from the TV if he leaned forward.

Reed scrolled again, muttering, “Applebee’s… nah… Buffalo Wild Wings… mmm… nah.”

Without really thinking about it, Clint leaned over and put his hand over the phone screen. The scrolling stopped.

Reed glanced sideways at him. “What?”

“You can eat me, if you want,” Clint said, like it was just another casual suggestion between rounds.

Reed let out a short laugh and shook his head. “Get outta here.”

Clint didn’t move his hand. His eyes stayed on Reed’s face, steady. “I’m serious,” he said, his voice a little quieter now but not joking. “You’re hungry, and I have no problems with it.” is what he said, but what he really meant was ‘I want to be in your hairy belly.‘

Reed blinked at him for a long second, then smirked and shook his head. “Bro, you gay as fuck for that,” he said, the words drawn out just enough to make it sound like a joke. The corner of his mouth pulled higher, though, like he was already picturing it. “You know what you’re getting yourself into?”

Clint didn’t flinch. “I don’t fucking care.”

That answer seemed to stick with Reed. His eyes narrowed just slightly, and then he leaned forward, setting his phone down on the coffee table without breaking eye contact. “Alright. I’ll give you a demo.”

Before Clint could say anything, Reed’s big hands clamped down on either side of his head. His palms were warm and a little rough, fingers curling into his hair as he yanked him forward. The sudden movement made Clint’s knees bump the coffee table. Reed’s beard brushed Clint’s forehead for a second, and then his mouth opened wide right in front of him.

The heat hit first—a wave of stale air that carried the sour tang of old beer, meat from lunch, and the faint bitterness of coffee. Reed’s tongue flexed inside, slick and pink under the yellowed light from the lamp, the back of his throat twitching as he exhaled straight into Clint’s face. The smell clung, warm and humid, filling Clint’s nose before he could turn away.

HhhhuuuUuurrRRRpphhhh

The burp rolled out mid-breath, wet and deep, vibrating right against Clint’s skin. The sound was loud in the small room, the gust of it making Clint’s hair shift. Reed didn’t let go—he kept his grip firm, forcing Clint to take the whole blast of it.

Then Reed’s tongue slid out, rough and damp, dragging from Clint’s jaw up to his cheekbone in one slow, deliberate lick. He pulled back just enough to look at him, still holding his face, thumb resting against the hinge of Clint’s jaw.

“You sure that’s what you want?”

“I told you already,” Clint said, voice steady now. “That’s what I want.”

Reed’s eyes narrowed, but the corner of his mouth tugged into a grin. “Well shit. I figured saying all that would scare you off, but it seems your mind’s made up.”

He leaned forward, controller still in hand for a moment, then set it down on the coffee table with a solid clack of plastic. He shifted back into the couch, spreading his legs wider, adjusting until he looked comfortable. His shirt rode up as he settled, the soft hairy swell of his beer belly pushing against the hem. He scratched absently at the side of it, beard shadowing his jaw as he looked at Clint. “Get here,” he said, voice low, direct.

Clint hesitated only a second before moving. He climbed across the cushion and lowered himself into Reed’s lap, straddling him carefully. The older couch springs creaked, his knees pressing against the cushions on either side. Reed’s thighs were solid under him, the denim of his jeans rough against Clint’s legs. His chest brushed Reed’s, and he could feel the faint give of that rounded, hairy belly under his shirt. For a second, they just stayed like that, the hum of the muted TV filling the silence.

Reed’s hand came up, steady on Clint’s side. “So,” he said, tilting his head, “you want head first, or feet first?”

Clint didn’t blink. “Head. I’ve already smelled the worst of it, remember?” He smirked faintly, thinking back to the hot burp blown in his face.

That got a short laugh out of Reed. He tipped his head back slightly, then opened his mouth wide. The beard parted around it, teeth glinting faintly in the light, tongue glistening as he drew in a breath. Clint could see the back of his throat shift and pulse, the faint rhythmic flex of muscle like it was already ready for him.

He tilted Clint’s head forward with both hands, lowering his open mouth until beard bristles brushed across Clint’s forehead. The first pull was slow, lips sealing around his hairline, tongue dragging hot and wet over his temple as Reed worked him inside. The tight muscles of his throat flexed, swallowing down inch after inch, and the sound of it was loud in the quiet room, wet gulps and slick suction filling the air.

Clint’s face disappeared between Reed’s lips, cheeks bulging faintly as he drew him deeper. His jaw shifted wide, teeth glinting in the glow of the TV as the throat behind them rippled and swallowed. Reed groaned low in his chest, the vibration rumbling through Clint’s head as it pressed further into the heat of his gullet. His beard rubbed down over Clint’s neck, scratchy against skin before it vanished into the slick pull of his throat.

The shoulders took effort. Reed leaned back, adjusting the angle, belly rounding slightly as his throat stretched around the broad line of Clint’s collar. With a heavy swallow, his lips stretched wider, sliding over the slope of shoulder and pulling both arms in tight against Clint’s chest. His throat jumped visibly, each convulsive gulp working the bulk down.

Past the chest, the slide grew easier. Reed’s tongue curled and lapped along Clint’s torso as it slipped inside, savoring the taste before it disappeared deeper. His hairy belly rose and shifted under his shirt as the weight filled him, the swell pushing out with each drag downward.

When Clint’s hips pressed against his lips, Reed paused, breathing heavily through his nose, savoring the heat of the moment. He opened wider and drew them in, teeth scraping lightly at denim before the whole lower half slipped into the slick heat. The bulge inside him writhed faintly, pressing outward against his shirt.

He noticed how his buddy had a hard on the entire time he was being swallowed, and it was straining against his pants long before, when he was sitting on his lap. No, even earlier; When he offered, or maybe when Reed gave him the demo. And so, for this reason, he spent a good chunk of time licking over the bulge, and he could swear his friend was already wet down there.

Reed took his time with the legs. His tongue worked along the thighs, leaving them slick as his throat dragged them down in steady pulls. His Adam’s apple bobbed with each swallow, and a deep groan escaped him as he worked down to the knees. The couch creaked under his weight, his belly distending further as he packed Clint away.

Finally, only the feet remained. Reed gripped Clint’s ankles in both hands, lifting them to his mouth. He spread his lips over the toes, sucking them in one by one, his tongue swirling across the arches. He lingered there, lapping and slurping noisily, tasting every inch before his throat claimed them. With a deep inhale, he tilted his head back and swallowed hard, the slick soles sliding past his lips in a final wet pull.

The bulge inside him shifted, settling heavily in his gut. Reed groaned, leaning back into the couch, one hand rubbing the stretched curve of his much-bigger hairy belly. It was round and taut, gurgling faintly as it tried to adjust to the sudden fullness.

HHhhhuuuUUUUUuuuurrrrpppphhh!

The burp ripped out of him, long and sloppy, echoing off the walls and leaving his chin wet with spit. He wiped his beard with the back of his hand, still panting, then patted his stomach with a lazy grin. “Whew,” he said, voice rough. “That was all you, buddy.”

Clint shifted against the slick walls, pressing outward with his hands and feet as much as the cramped space allowed. His voice carried, muffled but clear enough through the taut skin of Reed’s belly. “It’s hot in here… tight too. Feels like you’re hugging every part of me at once.” There was a low laugh that turned into a groan. “I… kinda like it. Never thought I’d say that, but it’s making me hard as fuck.”

Reed’s stomach gurgled loudly, the sound wet and deep, rolling under Clint’s words. He tilted his head back and smirked, rubbing over the bulge of his hairy gut with slow circles. “You’re really okay in there?” he asked, his tone carrying a half-mocking concern.

Clint panted, his cheek pressed to the slick wall. “Yeah… yeah, I’m good. It’s—”

“Don’t really give a fuck,” Reed cut in, slapping the side of his belly with a heavy smack that sent the mass inside jostling. The sound of it echoed with a dull thud, followed by another wet churn. His beard twitched with a grin as he pressed his palm down firmly, kneading the curve. “I’m gonna take my sweet time digesting the fuck outta you. And even if you’re fine now, you won’t be in a little while.”

Inside, Clint shivered at the words, his breath catching. “That’s so fucking hot,” he said, voice tight with arousal. He pushed outward again, almost like he was trying to press into Reed’s hand from the inside.

After less than an hour, Reed’s gut had changed from full and heavy to actively working. The hairy dome shifted with wet noises as the pressure inside climbed. Beneath the thick layer of skin and muscle, acids had pooled up around Clint, sloshing every time Reed moved or adjusted in his seat. The gurgles came louder now, bubbles rolling up from the depths of his stomach, the sounds sharp and swampy.

Clint shifted uneasily inside. His voice came muffled but strained, like he was pressed against the belly wall. “It’s… it’s starting to sting, man. Feels like I’m sitting in a hot bath.” His kicks pushed faintly against Reed’s gut, but they barely made a ripple through the thick swell.

Reed rubbed slow circles across his belly with the flat of his palm, grinning down at the bulge. “Yeah? Belly finally getting to you, huh? Told you it wasn’t just a nap in there. That’s my gut putting in the work.” He gave it a firm pat, the wet glrrk inside answering right away.

Another shift came from within, Clint groaning as the acids licked higher up his chest. “It’s tight, bro. Like… harder to breathe now.”

Reed leaned back into the couch, letting his hairy stomach stretch out in front of him. “That’s ‘cause you’re getting packed down. My belly don’t mess around once it decides you’re food.” He smirked and gave a small bounce of his gut with both hands, making the contents slosh and bubble louder. “You wanted this, remember? All you, bro.”

Clint’s laugh was shaky but real. “Yeah… fuck… still hot though.”

Reed chuckled, low and satisfied, the sound rumbling through his chest and gut alike. “Good. Keep squirming. Makes the job easier for me.” He rubbed over the writhing bulge again, teasing. “By the time I’m done, nobody’s gonna believe you were my buddy. Just another meal sitting in my hairy gut.”

His belly grew louder as the hours dragged on, each churn a deeper, wetter note than the last. What had started as restless gurgles turned into heavy sloshes, acids shifting and bubbling inside the stretched hairy dome. Clint’s form, once distinct in outline, softened as the heat and pressure worked him down. His groans became fewer, broken up with gasps and the occasional muffled curse, his energy leaking away with every squeeze.

Slouched deeper into the couch, rubbing slow circles over his hairy gut, feeling the slush beneath his palm. His fingers scratched idly at the coarse hair across his belly, and then up into the thick hair on his chest, sighing as another wet cramp rolled through him. He tilted his head back and let the air rumble up.

HHhuuuorrrghhhllllrrraapphhhhh

The burp was thick and wet, spit clinging to his lips afterward. He wiped his beard with the back of his hand and chuckled, muttering under his breath. “Midway point, buddy. Belly’s got you working down nice.” He patted his gut hard, the noise inside slopping back like a pot of stew.

“Uh, you know you’re not coming back out by now, right? I can’t hear you much in there, but I just thought I’d let you know.”

Inside, Clint’s kicks weakened. The acids had risen high, bubbling around him until every movement squelched like something sinking in mud. His outline lost shape; arms and legs blended under the surface, his body softening to slurry. His groans turned ragged, fading to little more than heavy breathing, then to silence. One final twitch made the hairy belly ripple before it went still.

Reed scratched across his chest, thick fingers combing through the mat of hair as he exhaled, heat rising in his face. His stomach groaned back at him, lower now, like it was congratulating itself. He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, and pressed both palms deep into his gut. The bulge sloshed like heavy soup, no longer fighting, just bubbling.

Then it came up, wet,

HHHHhhuuuuuuuuuuaaarrrhhrrrrllllggggghhhpphhhhhkkhhhhh!

The belch dragged on, thick with moisture, breaking into smaller gurgles as it tailed off. Reed’s eyes watered at the force of it, saliva stringing off his lips. He let out a laugh, half-groan, wiping his mouth with the heel of his hand. He sat back, scratching lazy circles over the swell of his hairy belly, feeling it slosh and settle into something thicker. His other hand drifted back up to rake through the hair on his chest, nails digging lightly at the skin as he sighed with satisfaction. “Told you I’d take my sweet time,” he muttered, giving his gut a slow rub. “And I did.”

[urfavoritewriter]

Happy vore day! Can we expect a story or two from you today?

Happy ate/ate!

Unfortunately I'm too busy working on commissions so I had no time this year. Maybe next year I'll spoil some of you with two stories to make up for it!

[34goodoltum]

A quick two pieces for @urfavoritewriter based on the stories he wrote! Had fun with this

[urfavoritewriter]

Thank you so so so much for the hot as fuck art, having people draw my stories is ALWAYS something that will make my whole week and I will forever cherish them <33

please go check this artist out, and if you're interested in reading the stories these are based off of, first one is Desparate For Release and the second is Beachside Appetite

[urfavoritewriter]

Stuffed

A commission from a lovely user here on Tumblr, thank you for commissioning me!

Content: Accidental vore, digestion, belly bulge, belly noises, squirming prey, struggling prey, internal struggle, swollen belly, round belly, casual vore, male pred, human pred, M/M, large belly, stomach noises, tight stomach, prey struggling inside, unwilling prey, teasing, male prey, digestion noises, beginner gainer, dominant pred, resigned pred.

"Alright, bro, one more bite," Ethan grinned, his hand outstretched, holding a loaded fork of buttery mashed potatoes.

Across from him, Dylan leaned back against the couch, shirtless, his blue "Growth" shorts hanging low on his hips. His stomach had the faintest curve of fullness, a soft bloat that pushed out just slightly over his waistband. He rubbed a hand across it absently, his other arm propped lazily on the couch's armrest.

He had a lean, athletic build, the kind that came from a mix of casual workouts and an easy metabolism. His chest and arms were defined but not bulky, with a light tan that suggested he spent more time outside than in the gym. His short, ashy-brown hair was slightly messy, the kind of style that didn’t take much effort to look decent, paired with a subtle goatee that gave his otherwise youthful face a touch of maturity. His hazel eyes had a sharpness to them, but his expressions were easygoing, often softening into an amused smirk or a raised brow. A faint tattoo curved just above his left pectoral, simple and understated, like it was more for him than anyone else. He carried himself with a relaxed posture, like someone who wasn’t in a rush to impress anyone but was comfortable in his own skin.

"Bro, I already feel like I’m about to pop," Dylan groaned, though the corners of his mouth twitched in amusement. His breath hitched slightly as Ethan pressed the fork closer, right under his nose. "You're insane."

"Insane?" Ethan scoffed, stepping closer with mock offense. "You’re the one who said you wanted to bulk up. I'm just being a good friend. Now, open up. Don’t make me force-feed your ass."

Dylan huffed but opened his mouth, letting Ethan shove the forkful in. "Mmm," he mumbled through a mouthful, rolling his eyes but still chewing. The rich, salty flavor of the potatoes filled his mouth as he swallowed it down. He patted his stomach again, laughing under his breath. "Seriously, I look like I’m carrying a food baby already."

Ethan smirked, grabbing a chicken thigh from the plate on the coffee table. "Baby? Nah, that’s like a first-trimester snack, my guy. You’ve got plenty of room in there." His eyes flicked down to Dylan’s midsection, watching the subtle swell with something bordering on fascination. "Besides, you know what they say: abs are made in the kitchen."

"Yeah," Dylan shot back, smirking. "And you're trying to turn me into a damn Michelin Man in the kitchen."

Ethan snorted, tossing the bone aside as he tore off another piece of meat. "Shut up. You’re gonna thank me when you’re benching 250 and lookin’ thick as hell. Now sit up straight, you're makin’ my job harder."

Dylan rolled his eyes but sat forward slightly, his stomach pushing out more as he leaned toward the plate. Ethan wasted no time, piling another forkful of potatoes onto a slice of steak and practically shoving it into Dylan's mouth.

"Jesus, dude," Dylan muttered after swallowing, reaching up to wipe a bit of grease off his lip. "You’re really tryna kill me with this. I can feel it hitting my ribs."

"You’ll live," Ethan teased, grinning wider. His hand brushed briefly against Dylan’s stomach as he reached for another forkful of food, fingers grazing the soft swell. "Or maybe not. Damn, you’re starting to feel solid."

Dylan blinked, heat rushing to his face at the comment, though he quickly covered it up with a laugh. "Solid? You’re making it sound like I’m some kind of stuffed turkey."

"Not yet," Ethan shot back, eyes twinkling with amusement. He jabbed the fork toward Dylan’s mouth again. "But we’re getting there."

Dylan sighed but relented, taking another bite. As he chewed, Ethan leaned back slightly, hands on his hips, observing his friend like an artist sizing up their work. Dylan’s belly was noticeably fuller now, his posture slightly slouched as he adjusted to the growing pressure in his gut. A small hiccup escaped him, and he gave Ethan a playful glare.

"Alright, that’s it. I’m cutting you off before I explode," Dylan declared, waving a hand.

But Ethan’s grin didn’t falter. If anything, it grew wider. He leaned in again, one eyebrow cocked. "C’mon, you’ve got this. One more bite for the gains. Just one." His voice dropped, teasing. "Don’t quit on me now, champ."

Dylan hesitated, glancing between the plate of food and Ethan’s stupidly smug expression. "You’re the worst," he muttered, but his mouth opened anyway.

Ethan didn’t hesitate, stuffing the next bite in before Dylan could change his mind. What neither of them noticed, though, was how Ethan’s hand lingered just a moment too long, fingers brushing the corner of Dylan’s lips and then sliding back toward his chin, as if guiding him to chew, to swallow, to take in more.

Ethan leaned forward, his hand clutching another loaded fork of steak and potatoes, his eyes locked on Dylan’s stomach. "Man, for someone who’s just starting out, you’re already rocking a solid gut. Beginner my ass—you’re built for this, dude," he teased, his tone playful but insistent. He gave Dylan’s belly a light smack, the faint jiggle beneath his fingers making him grin. "C’mon, don’t go soft on me now."

Dylan groaned, leaning back again with a sharp exhale. His hand instinctively drifted to his bloated stomach, rubbing the tight, stretched skin. "Ethan, seriously, I’m about to explode. This is—ugh—getting ridiculous."

"Ridiculous?" Ethan echoed with mock disbelief. He dropped the fork back onto the plate and grabbed a slider bun stuffed with pulled pork. Without waiting for an answer, he pushed it toward Dylan’s lips. "What’s ridiculous is you whining when you’ve got the gut to take way more than this. Now open up, champ."

Dylan turned his head away, laughing despite himself. "You’re relentless, man. I’m gonna regret this."

"You’ll regret it more if you quit," Ethan countered, his tone dipping into something more taunting. "What kind of gainer gives up at halftime, huh? You wanna be soft and small forever, or are we doing this?"

"God, you’re annoying," Dylan muttered, but his mouth opened anyway, reluctantly letting Ethan shove the slider in. The bread and meat were warm and rich, the flavors almost overwhelming as he chewed and swallowed. The pressure in his gut tightened, and he let out a low belch that caught him by surprise.

"That’s what I’m talking about," Ethan laughed, giving Dylan’s stomach another firm pat. "You’re just getting started, big guy. Let’s go for round two."

"I hate you," Dylan said, but the grin tugging at the corners of his lips betrayed him.

Ethan didn’t stop. He grabbed another handful of food—this time a fistful of fries—and pushed them toward Dylan’s face. "Hate me all you want, but you’ll love the gains, I promise. Now shut up and eat."

Dylan opened his mouth begrudgingly, but this time Ethan didn’t stop at fries. His hand lingered, his fingers pressing a little further into Dylan’s mouth as he nudged the last bits in.

"Yeah, just like that—" Ethan started, but his voice cut off as Dylan instinctively swallowed, his throat working over Ethan’s fingers.

Ethan froze. "Uh, Dylan? You good?" he asked, his voice half-laughing, half-worried.

Dylan’s brows knitted in confusion as he blinked up at him. His Adam’s apple bobbed, and a warm, wet pressure encased Ethan’s hand. It was only when Ethan tried to pull back and felt the suction tugging his fingers deeper that the realization hit them both.

"Bro," Ethan stammered, wide-eyed. "Are you—are you swallowing me?"

Ethan didn’t stop. He reached for the plate again, piling on more food, ignoring Dylan’s protests as if they were nothing more than background noise. Dylan slouched further back into the couch, his stomach visibly rising now, pressing against his shorts’ waistband. The faint curve from earlier had grown into a noticeable roundness, and every breath he took seemed to stretch his skin tighter over the packed fullness beneath.

Ethan leaned forward, smirking as he grabbed a slice of steak and some potatoes, rolling them together in one hand. "Come on, beginner boy," he said, his voice low and teasing. "You said you wanted gains, right? Well, you’ve got the gut for it now. Let’s fill it up properly."

Dylan groaned, his hands resting limply over his stomach like they might somehow hold back the growing pressure. Ethan paid no attention. His hand hovered just above Dylan’s mouth, the mashed potatoes already starting to smear along Dylan’s lips as he pressed the bundle closer. Dylan turned his head slightly, grumbling under his breath, but Ethan tilted his chin back with a firm nudge.

"Open up," Ethan said, almost a growl, his fingers steady as they pushed the food forward. Dylan’s jaw parted reluctantly, and Ethan slid the food in, his thumb grazing over Dylan’s tongue as he withdrew his hand.

The swallow was audible, a thick, wet gulp that made Dylan wince and breathe out sharply. Ethan’s eyes darted down, catching the way Dylan’s bloated stomach tensed with the effort, the skin stretching taut like an overinflated balloon.

"Shit, bro," Ethan muttered, half-laughing as he grabbed another piece of steak and mashed potatoes from the plate. "Look at that belly. You’re already looking stuffed, and we’re just getting started." He pressed the next piece into Dylan’s mouth, watching with a strange mix of satisfaction and fascination as Dylan’s throat worked to swallow it down. The sound was heavier now, slower, and Dylan’s chest heaved slightly as he fought to keep up.

"Too much," Dylan rasped, his voice hoarse as he leaned back further, his eyes fluttering shut for a moment. His hands drifted to his stomach, fingers brushing the curve of his gut like he didn’t quite believe how big it had gotten.

"Nah, you’re fine," Ethan said, his tone dismissive as he reached for more food. "You wanted to bulk up, didn’t you? You gotta eat like it, man. Don’t go quitting on me now."

Ethan leaned in closer this time, holding the next bite to Dylan’s lips, but this time, Dylan’s head tilted slightly. His lips parted again, more out of instinct than intent, and Ethan didn’t hesitate. He pressed the food forward, guiding it into Dylan’s mouth. Dylan’s throat bobbed as he swallowed, the movement slower now, more strained.

But Ethan didn’t pull back. His hand lingered too long this time, fingers still brushing Dylan’s tongue as he went to add more. Dylan’s mouth opened wider, reflexively, and before either of them realized it, his lips closed around Ethan’s fingers.

Ethan froze, a laugh bubbling in his throat. "Uh, bro?" he started, but Dylan’s throat worked again, and his hand was tugged forward, the warmth of Dylan’s mouth closing further up his wrist.

Dylan’s eyes were closed, moaning, his instincts already taking over. His throat contracted, pulling Ethan’s hand in deeper, his body working on autopilot. Ethan’s laugh faltered, replaced with a sharp intake of breath as he tried to pull back, but Dylan’s grip was stronger than either of them expected.

Dylan’s throat worked rhythmically, completely out of sync with the reality of what was happening. Ethan’s hand slid deeper, his wrist vanishing past Dylan’s lips as his throat bulged slightly with the effort. Each swallow was slow, steady, and deliberate, though Dylan’s glazed expression and the dazed heaviness in his half-lidded eyes showed he was oblivious to the situation.

Ethan’s arm twitched as he tried to pull back, but it was no use. Dylan’s body had its own agenda now, driven by the instinct to consume and keep going. His throat tightened again, the powerful muscles drawing Ethan further in, pulling his forearm past the curve of Dylan’s jaw. The wet, slick sound of swallowing filled the room, almost drowned out by Ethan’s sudden, stifled grunt as his arm disappeared up to the elbow.

"D-Dylan!" Ethan gasped, his voice breaking as he tried to yank his arm free, the motion only helping Dylan’s throat work faster. Dylan leaned back instinctively, his head tilting to make the process easier, his body operating on autopilot. The movement caused his stomach to shift, and he grunted softly, his free hand absently rubbing the firm swell beneath his ribs as if that might help the growing discomfort.

The tight pull of his throat forced Ethan’s other arm up, making him lose balance. His torso pressed against Dylan’s chest, and Dylan’s lips widened naturally to accommodate the new bulk. His jaw stretched wider, effortlessly taking Ethan’s shoulder as if it were second nature.

Ethan’s muffled protests were drowned in the slick, squelching sounds of Dylan’s throat, each contraction pulling him deeper, his chest sinking into the warm, flexing grip of Dylan’s gullet. Dylan didn’t even pause, didn’t seem to register the increasing weight pressing against him. His throat bulged visibly, his body instinctively adjusting to the load as he swallowed again, this time with a wet, audible gulp that sent Ethan’s upper chest sliding deeper.

His lips stretched around Ethan’s ribs, his throat working mechanically to draw him further in. Dylan shifted slightly, leaning forward now as Ethan’s weight dragged him, forcing him to adjust. His hands gripped the couch, his fingers tightening as his body found a rhythm, each powerful gulp guiding Ethan’s frame deeper, with no signs of hesitation or awareness.

Ethan’s legs kicked weakly as his waist reached Dylan’s lips. The taut curve of Dylan’s throat pressed against his own chest, Ethan’s muffled voice barely audible now, drowned beneath the steady, wet noise of swallowing. Dylan’s gut began to swell noticeably, the taut curve expanding into something larger, rounder, as more of Ethan’s body slid inside.

Another deep swallow sent Ethan’s hips into Dylan’s mouth, the weight pressing down on his lap as his stomach stretched further, rounder, the skin tight and gleaming with strain. Dylan groaned softly, his hand pressing against the growing dome of his gut, but there was no hesitation in his body’s movements. His throat bulged again as Ethan’s thighs slid past his lips, the sensation barely registering.

Ethan’s calves were next, and Dylan leaned back into the couch again, his lips parting wider as he tilted his head back to let gravity assist the final stretch. His throat flexed powerfully, a deep, wet gulp sending Ethan’s knees down, his legs curling slightly as they disappeared further.

With one final swallow, Dylan’s lips closed around Ethan’s toes, his throat tightening to draw them down in a smooth, final motion. He exhaled heavily, his chest rising and falling as his body finally stilled. His gut was massive now, a heaving, tightly-stretched dome that pinned him against the couch, the weight pressing heavily on his thighs.

Dylan blinked slowly, his hand resting on the crest of his swollen stomach, his breath steadying as he absentmindedly rubbed the taut skin. A low, soft groan escaped him, his body adjusting to the fullness without a single ounce of realization of what he had just done.

Dylan let out a long, slow exhale, his hand dragging lazily over the massive curve of his stomach. His head tipped back against the couch as his breathing steadied, his whole body feeling sluggish and heavy, like he’d just polished off a buffet for ten. Except… this wasn’t just food. Something wasn’t adding up.

A muffled sound from deep within his gut snapped his eyes open. His brow furrowed as he stared down at the swollen dome pressing against his thighs. The weight felt… different. Denser. Shifting faintly under his palm, almost like—

“Shit,” Dylan muttered, his voice breaking the quiet. He blinked again, slower this time, his hand pausing mid-rub. His brain, still hazy from the sheer effort of swallowing, tried to piece together what the hell had just happened. His fingers pressed into the firm, tight swell of his belly, feeling the stretched skin and the subtle movement beneath.

"Bro?" he said aloud, his voice low, almost uncertain. Another muffled sound came from inside, louder this time, followed by a distinct push against the inside of his gut—something pressing back. Dylan’s stomach gurgled in protest, a loud, drawn-out groan that felt more like a warning than anything else.

He groaned, leaning forward slightly and bracing a hand on the couch, the motion causing his stomach to shift. “No way… No fuckin’ way.” His free hand pressed harder into the taut curve, the heat radiating from his belly only making the realization sink in further. Ethan wasn’t just gone—he was inside.

The weight was unreal, heavier than anything Dylan had ever imagined, his gut stretching farther than it had any right to. He glanced down at the way it pushed out over the waistband of his shorts, the tight skin gleaming faintly in the dim light. His gut was rock-solid, packed full not just with food but with— “Holy shit, bro,” Dylan muttered again, his voice dropping into something between disbelief and faint amusement. “You’re in there with all the mashed potatoes and steak. What the actual fuck.”

A muffled shout rose up from his stomach, faint but definitely Ethan’s voice. Dylan blinked, processing the sound, but it was barely distinguishable—just a low, frustrated string of noises completely swallowed by the layers of muscle and skin keeping Ethan pinned inside. Dylan couldn’t make out a single word, but he could feel the vibrations of Ethan trying to shout, the faint shifting as Ethan squirmed.

“Dude, it’s tight as hell in there, huh?” Dylan said, more to himself than anyone else, his lips quirking into a faint, sheepish grin. He rubbed a hand over his belly again, fingers trailing over the taut curve, pausing where he felt the most movement. “Guess that’s what you get for force-feeding me, huh? You wanted me to bulk up, and now you’re part of it.”

Another muffled noise came from inside, followed by what felt like a weak kick against the inner wall of Dylan’s gut. The sensation made him wince slightly, his stomach gurgling loudly in protest. “Alright, alright, chill out in there. You’re not exactly making this easier for either of us.” He leaned back again, trying to shift into a position that didn’t press the weight of his gut so hard against his thighs. The movement only made the pressure worse, his belly groaning as it adjusted to the strain.

Dylan sighed, dragging a hand through his messy hair and letting his head fall back again. “How the hell did I even manage that?” he muttered, almost to himself. “I mean, you’re not exactly small, dude. Jesus.”

Another push from inside made him sit up straighter, his gut wobbling slightly from the motion. Ethan was clearly not settling down, and Dylan could feel the tight, cramped movements as his friend tried to reposition himself among the mess of food. His gut let out another low groan, the sounds inside almost as loud as Ethan’s muffled protests.

“Alright, bro, I get it,” Dylan said, his tone a mix of exasperation and reluctant amusement. He slapped the side of his belly lightly, feeling the vibrations ripple through. “You wanna get out. I hear ya. I just… I gotta figure out how to do that without making this whole thing worse.”

He leaned forward again, bracing both hands on his belly, his fingers pressing into the firm, stretched skin. The weight made it hard to move, let alone think, but he could feel Ethan shifting inside, trying to find space that simply wasn’t there. Dylan grimaced, his mind racing for a solution.

“Okay,” he muttered, half to himself. “Let’s figure this out before I actually end up digesting your ass.” His stomach gurgled loudly at the mention, and he frowned, swatting it lightly. “Don’t even think about it, man.”

He shifted again, his hands steadying the massive dome of his belly as he tried to stand. The weight pulled him back down almost immediately, and he grunted, planting his feet more firmly.

Dylan groaned, leaning over the kitchen sink as his gut let out another wet, ominous gurgle. His palms braced against the counter, his belly pressing uncomfortably into the edge. He’d been trying for hours to fix this—to undo what he’d somehow, impossibly, done—but nothing was working.

He’d tried everything. First, he tried drinking water, guzzling down glass after glass, hoping it might loosen something or make Ethan’s situation more bearable. But all it did was make his gut slosh even louder, the added weight stretching his stomach tighter, more painfully. Ethan’s muffled voice—barely audible at this point—had been filled with frustrated grunts and weak cries, but even those had started to fade.

Then Dylan had tried forcing himself to throw up. He jammed his fingers down his throat repeatedly, gagging over the sink, his eyes watering from the effort. But nothing came up. His stomach clenched painfully, but it refused to release anything. If anything, it felt tighter, like his body was digging in, holding onto everything inside, refusing to let go.

“Goddammit,” Dylan muttered, his voice shaky. He paced the kitchen in slow, uneven steps, his swollen gut swaying slightly with the motion. Every step sent another wave of pressure rolling through him, his stomach groaning as if mocking him. “Ethan, bro, I’m trying, I swear,” he said, though he knew Ethan couldn’t understand him. The muffled protests from inside had turned into weak, occasional noises, barely registering against the wet, relentless churn of digestion.

The hours ticked by, and every failed attempt to get Ethan out only made the situation worse. Dylan tried jumping, bending, twisting, anything to dislodge the mass in his gut. He even laid flat on the floor, pushing and kneading at his belly like he was trying to coax something stuck out of a drain. But nothing worked. Ethan didn’t budge.

“Fuck, man,” Dylan said, his voice breaking as he sat back against the couch, sweat glistening on his forehead. His gut was massive now, swollen and heavy, the skin flushed and stretched taut. Every few minutes, it would let out another deep, wet groan, the sound of digestion growing louder, more insistent. He pressed his hands into his belly, feeling the faint movements inside—Ethan’s weak struggles becoming less and less frequent.

“I didn’t mean for this,” Dylan whispered, his voice cracking. He rubbed his belly again, his fingers trailing over the tight curve. He could feel the heat radiating from it, the way his body was working overtime to process everything inside. Including Ethan. Especially Ethan.

Another muffled groan came from within, followed by a sharp kick that made Dylan wince. “I know, bro, I know,” he said, his voice shaking. “I don’t want this either, alright?” His throat tightened as he said the words, the weight of them settling heavily in his chest. “But I don’t know what else to do.”

He leaned back, his head resting against the couch as he stared at the ceiling, his breaths shallow and uneven. The hours had dragged on, and it was becoming harder and harder to ignore the reality of what was happening. His body wasn’t waiting. It was working, relentless, determined to break Ethan down, no matter how much Dylan wanted to stop it.

He leaned back, his head resting against the couch as he stared at the ceiling, his breaths slow and steady. The hours had dragged on, and Dylan’s body had made its decision long before his brain had caught up. His stomach wasn’t waiting. It worked relentlessly, determined to break Ethan down, no matter how much he’d fought it at first. Now, though? Now he was just done fighting.

Ethan’s muffled cries had weakened into faint, pitiful noises, barely audible over the deep, rolling churns of Dylan’s gut. The earlier frantic kicks and shoves had dulled to pathetic twitches, barely registering anymore against the stretched walls of his belly. Dylan pressed his hand to the side of his gut, feeling the faint, fading resistance beneath the tight skin. It was almost like his friend was giving up, and honestly, Dylan wasn’t far behind.

“Man, you’re still at it?” Dylan muttered, rubbing the firm swell of his stomach. His voice was calm, almost lazy, with a sharp edge of indifference. “Hate to break it to you, but I think you’re outta options in there. You’re not going anywhere, bro. Not now.”

Another wet groan rumbled through his gut, deep and loud, almost mocking. Dylan smirked faintly, shifting on the couch to get comfortable, the weight of his bloated stomach pressing heavily into his thighs. His hand dragged across the massive dome, his fingers tracing the curve where Ethan was packed tight. “Guess that’s just how it’s gonna be,” he said, his tone casual, like they were talking about the weather. “Shit happens, man. You knew what you were getting into when you started stuffing me like that.”

He could feel Ethan still moving weakly, little nudges against the unyielding walls of his stomach, but the fight was almost gone. Every twitch was slower, weaker than the last. Dylan rubbed his belly absently, feeling the churns grow stronger as his body doubled down, working Ethan into the mess of food still sitting heavily in his gut.

“Man, I tried,” Dylan said, though there wasn’t much conviction in his voice. “I gave it a shot, but let’s be real—you were dead weight from the jump. And now? Now you’re just dinner.” He snorted softly, giving his belly a light slap. “Guess you’re finally pulling your weight, though. Literally.”

Ethan’s movements stilled briefly before resuming, but they were faint, almost nonexistent now. Dylan felt the shift inside as his gut gurgled louder, the sounds deep and deliberate. His body wasn’t just digesting—it was finishing the job, and Dylan was past the point of caring.

“Yeah, man,” he muttered, his voice quieter now but no less resigned. “It is what it is. You’re not getting out of there. So you might as well stop squirming and make it easy for both of us.” He leaned back further, his hand still rubbing lazy circles over his stomach, the heat from his gut almost comforting now.

Another deep, wet groan echoed from inside, louder this time, followed by the faintest twitch from Ethan. Dylan smirked again, his hand pressing into the heavy curve of his belly. “See? That’s better. Just let it happen, bro. You’re not getting out, so you might as well settle in.”

Ethan’s muffled voice had faded into silence now, drowned beneath the relentless churns and gurgles of digestion. Dylan let his eyes drift shut, the weight of his gut pinning him to the couch, the tension in his shoulders easing for the first time in hours.

[urfavoritewriter]

Just saw a recent ask & I’d LOVE to see graphic disposal writings. Implied/tease is always nice but I find nothing hotter than a man being reduced to nothing but a pile of waste to be flushed down to the sewers 🤤😈🥵

I can definitely include that in my next personal oral vore story (unless it's something a commissioner also wants). I've never written disposal before but I aim to please all the disposal fans out there. ;)

When I do, I'll leave it at the very end and put a disclaimer for people who are not into it to stop reading at that point. So anyone can enjoy the story regardless

[urfavoritewriter]

Love your stories, is there a chance to add implied disposal? Not the graphic part but the characters acknowledging it and/or the pred ready to “release” the prey or something along those lines

I've never thought to write disposal or implied disposal, but it's something I'm open to, especially if it's implied. I'll try to include that in my next non-commission vore story.

But for all the disposal fans out there, I'm definitely open to writing it if you're into the graphic parts of it ;)

[urfavoritewriter]

Sleepeating

A commission for a user who prefers to remain anonymous, I had an absolute blast writing this commission that I overshoot well past the word count. Thank you so much for commissioning me! Content: Endosoma, safe vore, belly bulge, belly noises, squirming prey, struggling prey, internal view, accidental vore, sleepwalking vore, swollen belly, round belly, casual vore, male pred, human pred, M/M, large belly, stomach noises, tight stomach, prey struggling inside, long-term vore, unwilling prey, teasing, male prey.

The room was a patchwork of sleeping arrangements—an air mattress in the corner, a pile of mismatched blankets on the floor, and a couple of sleeping bags sprawled haphazardly around the twin beds. The glow of the TV bathed the room in flickering light, an old movie playing at low volume as the group lounged in various states of relaxation. Empty snack wrappers littered the nightstand, the faint smell of buttery popcorn hanging in the air.

“Alright, rookie, rule number one,” said Greg, a wiry guy with messy brown hair and a mischievous grin. He pointed a finger at the newcomer, his tone half-joking but carrying a thread of seriousness. “Don’t. Leave. The bed. At night.”

The newcomer, Andrew, raised an eyebrow, shifting awkwardly on the makeshift bed he’d been given. His dark hair was slightly tousled, and he fidgeted with the hem of his hoodie. “Uh… why?”

Zach, the host and arguably the most relaxed of the group, leaned back on his bed, his legs sprawled out like he didn’t have a care in the world. His blonde curls fell into his eyes as he glanced at Andrew with a lazy smile. “Because Matt sleepwalks,” he said, nodding toward the tallest guy in the room, who was currently shoving the last handful of chips from a bag into his mouth.

Matt swallowed, brushing crumbs off his shirt. “I do not sleepwalk that much,” he protested, though his friends groaned in unison.

“You tried to eat Greg’s shoe last time,” said Sarah, who sat cross-legged near the TV, her black hair tied in a loose ponytail. “Like, full-on chomped it.”

“I thought it was a burrito,” Matt shot back, raising his hands defensively. His broad shoulders and tall frame made him look intimidating, but the sheepish expression on his face softened the effect.

“Dude, you licked it,” Greg added with a laugh, tossing a pillow in Matt’s direction. “That’s where all the foot fetish allegations come from.”

Andrew chuckled nervously, glancing between the group. “So… what, do I need to sleep with one eye open?”

“Nah,” Zach said, waving a hand dismissively. “Just stay in bed. You’ll be fine. Matt’s like a human vacuum when he’s out of it, but as long as you’re not walking around, he’ll leave you alone.”

Andrew didn’t look entirely convinced. “A vacuum?”

“Yeah, a hungry vacuum,” Sarah teased. “Last time he cleaned out half the fridge. And Greg’s shoe, obviously.”

Matt groaned again. “Can we not make me sound like some kind of sleepwalking menace? I’m perfectly normal most of the time.”

“Yeah, sure,” Zach said with a smirk. He grabbed the remote and flicked through the TV channels before settling on a cheesy horror movie. “Just remember, Andrew, don’t wander around if you hear anything. It’s probably just Matt.”

Andrew nodded slowly, pulling a blanket over himself. “Got it. Stay put. Avoid the hungry vacuum.”

Greg snorted. “Smart guy. You’ll survive the night.”

The group laughed, the easy banter filling the room as the movie played in the background. Matt stretched, his frame nearly brushing the ceiling, before collapsing onto his pile of blankets with a loud yawn.

“Alright, lights out soon,” Zach announced, reaching for the lamp by his bed. “Let’s try not to add any more sleepwalking incidents to the list, huh?”

Matt grumbled something incoherent, already halfway to sleep. Andrew, still a little unsure of what he’d signed up for, settled into his makeshift bed, his mind buzzing with the warnings and teasing.

The room gradually grew quieter as everyone drifted off, leaving the TV to cast faint shadows across the walls. The night stretched ahead, calm and uneventful—for now.

Andrew stirred awake to the faint creak of a door hinge. His eyes fluttered open, the dim glow of the muted TV casting flickering shadows across the room. The others were still sprawled out in their makeshift beds, their steady breathing filling the quiet with a rhythmic hum. For a moment, Andrew thought he’d dreamed the noise—until he heard another faint sound.

Crunch.

His brow furrowed. It wasn’t loud, but it was distinct, like someone biting into a cracker. Groggily, he sat up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes as he scanned the room. Everyone else seemed undisturbed, bundled in blankets or sprawled carelessly. Except—he counted quickly—Matt wasn’t there. The mound of blankets that had been his bed was empty, the pillow pushed to the side.

Andrew sighed, shaking his head as the warnings from earlier echoed in his mind. Matt sleepwalks. For a moment, he considered lying back down. It wasn’t like it was his problem, right? But the faint clink of something metallic, like a fork hitting a plate, piqued his curiosity. What’s he even doing?

Carefully, Andrew swung his legs over the edge of his mattress, the cool floor sending a faint shiver through him. He tiptoed toward the door, avoiding the stray wrappers and pillows strewn about, and gently turned the knob. The hallway was dark, the faint orange glow of a nightlight at the far end barely illuminating the space. He stepped out, his socked feet making no sound against the wooden floor.

Another crunch. Then the faint sound of chewing. Andrew followed it, squinting into the darkness as he made his way toward the kitchen. The air was cooler out here, the silence broken only by the occasional creak of a floorboard beneath his weight.

As he neared the source of the sounds, the faint hum of the refrigerator reached his ears. Then another noise—a soft, wet slurp, followed by what sounded like the rustling of a bag. Andrew hesitated for a moment, his heart beating a little faster. Is he seriously eating in his sleep?

He rounded the corner into the kitchen, the faint glow from the refrigerator spilling across the tile floor. Matt was there, hunched over slightly, one hand gripping the fridge door while the other clutched a half-empty bag of chips. His tall frame loomed in the dim light, his broad shoulders casting long shadows against the wall. His head moved slowly, rhythmically, as he chewed on something, completely unaware of Andrew’s presence.

Andrew stifled a laugh. They weren’t kidding. He really is a vacuum. He stepped closer, the floor cool beneath his feet. “Matt?” he whispered, his voice low to avoid startling him.

No response.

Andrew frowned, tilting his head. Matt’s movements were slow and deliberate, like he was in a trance. He dipped his hand into the bag again, pulling out another handful of chips and shoving them into his mouth without so much as glancing around. His other hand lazily swung the fridge door shut, casting the room into near darkness except for the faint glow of the microwave clock.

“Matt,” Andrew said a little louder, stepping closer.

Still no response. Matt’s chewing continued, unhurried and oddly methodical. Andrew couldn’t tell if his eyes were open or closed in the dim light, but there was something unsettling about the way he stood there, his tall frame casting looming shadows that swayed ever so slightly with each movement.

Andrew rolled his eyes. “Alright, buddy, back to bed,” he muttered, reaching out to nudge Matt’s shoulder. “You’re gonna—”

Before he could finish the thought, Matt’s head turned sharply, and Andrew froze. His mouth still moved rhythmically, chewing, but his gaze—or lack thereof—seemed distant, unfocused. His expression was blank, almost eerie, as if he wasn’t entirely present. Andrew took a step back instinctively, his pulse quickening.

“Uh… Matt?” he said hesitantly.

Matt didn’t respond. Instead, he turned back toward the counter, setting the empty chip bag down with a slow, deliberate motion. Andrew watched, unsure of what to do, as Matt’s hand hovered over a loaf of bread, his fingers brushing it as if deciding whether to grab it next.

“Okay, this is getting weird,” Andrew muttered to himself, taking another cautious step forward. He reached out again, this time aiming to grab Matt’s arm and steer him back toward the hallway. “Come on, man, let’s—”

Matt moved suddenly, his hand shooting out with surprising speed to grip Andrew’s wrist. Andrew’s breath hitched, his body tensing as Matt’s grip tightened. For a moment, Andrew thought he’d snapped out of it—that he was awake—but then Matt’s blank expression remained unchanged, his gaze fixed somewhere beyond Andrew, as though looking through him.

“Hey, uh, Matt? You good?” Andrew stammered, his voice wavering slightly.

Matt’s grip pulled him closer, the motion slow but unrelenting. Andrew’s heart raced, the air suddenly feeling heavier as he tried to tug his arm free. But Matt’s strength was impossible to resist, his movements steady and unnervingly purposeful.

“Okay, this is not funny anymore,” Andrew muttered, trying to keep his voice calm as he stumbled forward. The faintest hint of warm breath against his neck made him freeze, and in the dim light, he caught a glimpse of Matt’s mouth opening, his jaw stretching slightly in a way that made Andrew’s stomach twist.

What the hell is he doing?

Andrew tugged harder, but Matt’s grip was like iron, and his slow, trance-like movements didn’t falter. The air was thick with tension, the quiet hum of the fridge the only sound as Andrew realized, too late, that Matt wasn’t just sleepwalking.

He was hungry.

Andrew’s heart slammed in his chest as Matt’s grip tightened around his wrist. His breath hitched as he watched Matt’s jaw part further, the glisten of his tongue catching what little light remained in the kitchen.

“Matt?” Andrew’s voice cracked, his throat dry. “Matt, what the fuck are you doing?”

Matt didn’t respond, his head dipping slightly as his tongue slid over Andrew’s arm, leaving a wet, hot trail along his skin. The sensation made Andrew recoil, a sickening mix of fear and confusion twisting in his gut. The warm, slick press of Matt’s mouth closed around his hand, the wetness enveloping him inch by inch.

“Dude. DUDE!” Andrew yelped, his voice rising in pitch as he yanked at his arm. But Matt’s grip was unyielding, pulling him further in as his lips sealed around Andrew’s forearm.

Andrew’s panic flared. “Okay, okay, stop. You’re—you’re fucking sleepeating, man.” His voice wavered, fear lacing every word. “I’m not the food you’re looking for.”

Matt didn’t flinch. His throat emitted a low, almost guttural moan as he sucked harder, the heat of his mouth traveling up Andrew’s arm. Andrew froze, the realization slamming into him. Matt wasn’t biting. He wasn’t tearing at him like some animal. No, Matt was tasting him, savoring every inch as he worked his way upward.

“You’re not serious,” Andrew whispered, his voice trembling as he felt the first tug of Matt’s throat muscles against his fingers. The slick, rhythmic pressure sent a shiver through him. “Oh my God, you are serious.”

His fear spiked as Matt tilted his head back slightly, his lips creeping past Andrew’s elbow. The tight pull of Matt’s throat was unmistakable now, the wet, swallowing sounds filling the silence. Andrew thrashed, his free hand shoving at Matt’s shoulder, his legs scrambling against the tile.

The realization hit Andrew like a brick: He’s not going to chew. He’s—he’s actually swallowing me whole.

“Let go! Fuck, Matt, stop!” Andrew yelled, his voice cracking as he pushed against Matt’s solid frame. But Matt didn’t even flinch. His other hand reached out, grabbing Andrew’s free arm and pinning it firmly at his side.

“Matt, wake up! Wake the fuck up!” Andrew’s voice was frantic now, his breathing shallow as he realized he wasn’t winning this fight. The heat of Matt’s mouth climbed higher, engulfing his bicep as his throat worked in steady, deliberate gulps.

The sound of swallowing filled Andrew’s ears, wet and unrelenting. Each gulp sent a wave of pressure rolling over his arm, pulling him deeper. The slick walls of Matt’s throat pressed tightly against his skin, the heat unbearable, as though the demon vacuum of a friend was actually pulling this off.

“No—no way,” Andrew gasped, his voice shaking as he felt his shoulder press against Matt’s lips. “You can’t—you can’t actually—” He cut off with a yelp as Matt’s jaws stretched wider, the grip around his other arm tightening as it was shoved forward to join the first.

Matt’s body shuddered, his throat rippling as he moaned softly, the sound sending a sick chill down Andrew’s spine. Andrew squirmed harder, kicking out in blind panic, but Matt’s sheer size and strength made resistance feel hopeless.

Matt’s mouth stretched further, the slick wetness of his tongue sliding up Andrew’s arms and across his collarbone. A hot, humid wave of air rushed over Andrew’s face as his head was pulled inside, the suffocating heat making his skin prickle. His heart hammered wildly as his cheek grazed one of Matt’s teeth, smooth and solid, before his tongue pressed firmly against his jawline, dragging upward.

The texture was overwhelming—slick, wet, and unnervingly soft as Matt’s tongue worked under his chin, tasting him with deliberate, almost indulgent motions. Andrew’s nose was filled with the overpowering scent of saliva mixed with the faint, salty tang of whatever Matt had been eating earlier. The smell was thick, clinging to him, and the wet sounds of Matt’s swallowing filled his ears, drowning out his frantic thoughts.

Andrew’s head tipped back as Matt’s tongue curled up around it, smearing saliva through his hair, the wetness soaking into every strand. The pressure from Matt’s teeth framed him on either side, the curve of them brushing harmlessly against his skin, a terrifying reminder of the power being exercised with such unnatural care. The rhythmic movements of Matt’s throat muscles began to pull at him, the slick walls of his gullet brushing against the top of Andrew’s head.

Matt’s throat opened wide to welcome Andrew’s head, the slick, rippling walls pulling him deeper with a relentless rhythm. The heat was overwhelming, wrapping around his face as his chin slid past the soft, yielding base of Matt’s tongue. Andrew’s breath came in shallow gasps, the humid air thick with saliva as his ears were engulfed, the world outside muffled into nothing but the wet, squelching sounds of Matt’s swallowing.

“Matt! Please!” Andrew’s voice cracked, the reality of his situation slamming into him. He wasn’t just being tasted. Matt was swallowing him whole, his slick, warm throat stretching to accommodate him inch by inch.

With a soft, satisfied moan, Matt’s lips closed over the base of Andrew’s neck, his tongue pressing firmly against his nape as he paused to savor the flavor. The tight grip of Matt’s throat muscles around Andrew’s head was unrelenting, the pressure squeezing his features as the walls flexed in slow, deliberate waves, coaxing him further down into the slick, undulating depths of Matt’s body.

Andrew’s chest heaved as his shoulders disappeared past Matt’s lips, the overwhelming heat and wetness pressing against him from all sides. The rhythmic contractions of Matt’s throat dragged him deeper, his body sliding slowly but steadily downward.

“Let me go! You can’t—stop!” Andrew cried, his voice muffled now as Matt’s throat worked around his upper body, pulling him further inside. His head tilted back instinctively, his face brushing against the slick walls as he tried to find space to breathe.

Matt’s hands moved down, gripping Andrew’s waist as he adjusted his angle, tilting his head back even further. The motion sent Andrew sliding another few inches downward, the wet pressure of Matt’s throat wrapping tighter around him.

Andrew’s voice was hoarse now, his struggles growing weaker as Matt’s stomach loomed closer. He kicked out again, his legs finding no purchase as the strength of Matt’s throat muscles overpowered him.

Matt’s moan was louder this time, his hands gripping Andrew’s hips firmly as he tilted his head back once more, his jaws working over the final stretch of Andrew’s torso. The wet gulping sounds grew louder, more insistent, as Matt’s body adjusted to the bulk now sliding into his belly.

Andrew’s heart pounded wildly as the realization hit him in full force: Matt wasn’t stopping. He wasn’t waking up. And soon, he would be completely inside.

Matt’s lips stretched wide as Andrew’s chest passed through, the tight heat of his throat squeezing Andrew’s arms together and forcing them deeper into the belly below. The slick walls of Matt’s esophagus massaged him downward, inch by inch, the steady, relentless contractions making Andrew’s struggles futile. His muffled voice rose in panicked protests, but the pressure around him drowned out all but faint, garbled sounds.

Andrew’s wrists were the first to breach the stomach, the shift in temperature unmistakable as his hands entered a tight, churning space. The walls were slick and undulating, pressing in on him with rhythmic movements that kept him immobilized. His fingers twitched, brushing against half-digested food, the texture both slimy and unrecognizable. Crumbs of chips, something soft that might have been bread—it all surrounded him in the claustrophobic chamber.

“Matt!” Andrew’s muffled voice wavered, his wrists flicking helplessly as he tried to push back against the walls, but the unyielding stomach held him tight. The low gurgling noises grew louder, echoing in his ears as Matt’s body welcomed more of him inside.

From the outside, Matt’s stomach began to expand visibly, the taut skin rounding out with each inch of Andrew’s upper body. The bulge of his shoulders slid into Matt’s chest, making his throat stretch impossibly wide for a moment before the mass moved downward. Matt’s belly swelled larger, the distinct outline of Andrew’s arms faintly visible beneath the skin before they were engulfed by the folds of Matt’s stomach.

With another deep swallow, Matt worked past Andrew’s waist, his powerful throat muscles dragging him down steadily. Andrew’s head and shoulders entered the belly, the space impossibly tight as the walls pressed against him from all sides. He could feel the heat intensify, the air thick and humid, the noises of digestion surrounding him in a way that made it impossible to think.

“Matt! Let me—ugh—out!” Andrew’s voice was barely audible now, his movements weak and restricted as Matt’s stomach continued to stretch. The taut curve of Matt’s belly shifted with Andrew’s struggles, faint ripples moving across the surface as Matt leaned back slightly, savoring the sensation of fullness.

The bulge of Andrew’s hips reached Matt’s lips, and with one final, deliberate gulp, Matt began to take in his legs. The weight in his stomach grew heavier with each inch, the mass pressing firmly outward and rounding his belly into a large, pronounced dome. The elastic waistband of his shorts struggled to stay in place, the fabric digging into the curve of his swollen abdomen.

Andrew’s feet kicked faintly as they slid closer to Matt’s maw, but the demon vacuum of a friend was unrelenting. Another deep swallow brought Andrew’s thighs past his lips, and with a final, wet gulp, Matt’s jaws closed over Andrew’s feet. He tilted his head back one last time, his throat bulging as the remaining length of Andrew disappeared inside him.

The last of Andrew slid down, his curled legs folding into the cramped confines of Matt’s belly. The stomach expanded further, the tight skin visibly rippling as Andrew shifted and pushed against the walls. From the outside, Matt’s gut was enormous, the round shape jutting forward and shaking slightly with Andrew’s struggles. The once-faint sounds of digestion were now louder, a chorus of gurgles and sloshes as Matt’s stomach worked to accommodate its living occupant.

Matt let out a low, satisfied groan, his hands resting on the massive swell of his belly. The weight pressed down on his thighs as he adjusted his position, leaning back slightly against the counter. His fingers traced the outline of the bulge, faintly visible movements beneath the surface making him chuckle softly in his sleep.

Inside, Andrew squirmed, his body contorted in the tight, sweltering chamber. The heat and pressure were overwhelming, the rhythmic contractions of Matt’s stomach keeping him firmly in place. His muffled protests barely registered as Matt shifted, patting his belly with one hand, causing the entire dome to jiggle slightly.

From the outside, Matt’s gut was impossibly round, shaking faintly as Andrew’s movements stirred the contents within. The sight was surreal—a massive, bloated belly rising and falling with Matt’s steady breaths, the occasional ripple betraying the fact that someone was still awake and aware inside. With a faint snore, Matt leaned back further, completely oblivious to the chaos within his oversized stomach as the night stretched on.

The sunlight filtered through the blinds, casting golden streaks across the living room as the soft murmur of the TV played in the background. Most of the group had already gathered, sprawled across the couches and chairs in various states of morning grogginess. The smell of coffee lingered faintly in the air, mingling with the scent of leftover snacks from the night before.

“Dude, you have to see this,” Greg said, barely stifling his laughter as he pointed toward the couch. “Matt’s… uh, looking a little heavier this morning.”

Zach, sipping from a steaming mug, leaned over the back of his chair and raised an eyebrow. “Holy shit, Matt. You pack the fridge in there or what?”

All eyes turned toward the corner of the room, where Matt sat reclined on the couch, one arm draped lazily over the massive swell of his gut, the other scrolling casually through his phone. His belly was enormous, rounded and taut, rising and falling slightly with his breaths. It shook faintly every few moments, ripples traveling across the surface as muffled movements from inside caused the entire dome to wobble.

“Morning,” Matt said, barely looking up from his phone. His voice was casual, almost bored, as though this were just another day. He gave his belly a light pat, the sound echoing faintly in the room.

“Morning? That’s all you’ve got?” Sarah snorted, her eyes wide as she gestured toward his gut. “Are we not gonna talk about that?”

Matt finally glanced up, his expression unfazed. “Oh, this?” He gave his belly another pat, his hand sinking into the firm curve before it wobbled under his touch. “Yeah. I think I, uh… picked something up last night.”

From within, a faint, muffled voice was just barely audible. “Matt! What the hell’s going on? Let me out!” The bulge shook again, Andrew’s movements sending another ripple through the bloated surface.

“Oh my God, is that Andrew?” Greg burst out laughing, nearly spilling his coffee as he doubled over. “You ate him?”

“I didn’t eat him,” Matt said, his tone defensive but still nonchalant. “I was sleepwalking. He probably shouldn’t have been wandering around anyway.”

“Classic Matt,” Zach said, shaking his head with a grin. He grabbed a bag of chips from the counter and tossed it onto Matt’s belly. The bag bounced slightly before settling. “Can’t keep track of what goes in, huh?”

“Apparently not,” Matt muttered, giving his stomach a gentle rub as it gurgled faintly. Another ripple moved across the surface as Andrew shifted inside, his muffled protests drowned out by the low, groaning sounds of the packed belly.

“You’ll get out eventually, Andrew!” Sarah called out, her voice teasing as she leaned back against the armrest. “It’s just, uh… not as easy getting things out of Matt as it is getting them in.”

The group erupted into laughter, and even Matt couldn’t suppress a small chuckle, his hand absently stroking the round swell of his gut. “Yeah, you might be in there for a bit,” he admitted, his voice casual. “But hey, you seem comfy enough.”

“Comfy?” Andrew’s muffled voice rose again, frustration clear even through the thick walls of Matt’s stomach. “It’s cramped, it’s hot, and I’m—ugh! Stop laughing!”

“Sorry, man,” Zach said, his tone anything but apologetic as he tossed a pillow onto Matt’s stomach. “It’s just… you’re part of the crew now. Matt’s version of a warm welcome.”

Sarah shook her head, grinning. “Andrew, if it makes you feel better, you’re not the first thing Matt’s eaten in his sleep. Just, uh, definitely the biggest.”

Greg chimed in, smirking. “And the loudest. Dude, that belly’s been shaking all morning.”

The group’s laughter filled the room again, and even Andrew seemed to give up on protesting, his movements slowing inside the tight confines of Matt’s stomach. Matt, unbothered, leaned back further into the couch, his phone still in hand as he stretched his legs out lazily.

“Well,” Matt said, his voice calm as ever, “I guess we’re all set for breakfast… and entertainment.”

Another round of laughter erupted, and the room settled into a comfortable rhythm, the group teasing and chatting as Matt lounged with his oversized, animated belly. Andrew shifted slightly inside, grumbling muffled protests, but the group’s lighthearted energy made it clear—this was all just another part of the fun.

[urfavoritewriter]

I've had my other writer friends recommend that I open up a Patreon to post more stories there, do community votes, commission discounts for members, some exclusives, etc... But I'm not sure I'm well-known enough to have one.

Would people be interested? And don't worry, having a Patreon won't stop me from still posting stories here for people to enjoy.

Would you be interested if I opened up a Patreon

I'm interested

I'm not interested

Voting ended onNov 3, 2024

[urfavoritewriter]

Thanks to anyone who voted! I see equal amounts of interest and disinterest, and being honest I didn't think that many people would be -this- interested.

Patreon is likely not coming for a little while, but I'll keep everyone updated once I have enough time to dedicate it to my future patrons!

[urfavoritewriter]

I've had my other writer friends recommend that I open up a Patreon to post more stories there, do community votes, commission discounts for members, some exclusives, etc... But I'm not sure I'm well-known enough to have one.

Would people be interested? And don't worry, having a Patreon won't stop me from still posting stories here for people to enjoy.

Would you be interested if I opened up a Patreon

I'm interested

I'm not interested

Voting ended onNov 3, 2024

[urfavoritewriter]

All-Inclusive

A personal story where I indulge in some of the things I like, needed to write a lil thing after the comms.

Content: M/M Vore, Oral Vore, Casual Vore, Teasing, Prey POV, Head-First Swallowing, Belly Bulge, Belly Rubs, Burping, Dom/Prey Dynamics, Tight Stomach, Digestion Implied, Foodplay Themes, Public Vore, Pred/Prey, Power Dynamics, Size Difference, Belly Play

You weren’t supposed to be here.

The invitation came at the last minute—your co-worker, Steve, bailing on the cruise the day before it set sail. You figured it’d be a nice break from the usual grind, maybe even a chance to unwind for once. But now, standing awkwardly in the corner of the cruise buffet with a half-eaten bread roll in hand, you’re wondering if this was a mistake. The other guests are all annoyingly tanned and carefree, laughing too loud, drinking too much, while you hover on the outskirts, hoping to blend in.

And then he walks in.

He looks like every guy who’s way too comfortable on vacation—open Hawaiian shirt barely clinging to his broad shoulders, linen shorts sitting low on his hips, and a pair of aviators perched on his nose even though you’re indoors. His bare chest glistens slightly, either from the heat or leftover pool water, and his stomach... well, it’s impossible to ignore. A soft roundness presses against his waistband—bigger than just a food baby but not quite a beer belly—making it clear that he’s spent more time at the buffet than the gym lately.

You keep staring. You can’t help it. The lazy, swollen curve of his belly, the way it subtly bounces with each step, it’s weirdly... captivating. You pretend to look away every time his head turns, but after a while, it’s obvious you’ve been caught.

“The fuck you lookin' at, man?” His voice cuts through the noise of the buffet, sharp but casual, his tone more annoyed than curious. He raises an eyebrow, tugging his shirt open a little more and tilting his head. “You got a problem or somethin’? Keepin’ an eye on me like I stole somethin’.”

You blink, startled. “What? No, I wasn’t—”

“Bullshit,” he cuts you off, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. He pats his belly lazily, making it jiggle just enough to draw attention. “You been eye-fuckin’ this gut since I walked in. What, jealous or somethin'?”

Heat crawls up your neck. “I wasn’t—”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever.” He rolls his eyes, brushing past you to load up his plate with more food. You think that’s the end of it—just another awkward interaction to forget about. But when he comes back, plopping down at the table next to yours, he’s not done.

“Got you curious, huh?” he says through a mouthful of shrimp. He leans back in his chair, letting his gut poke out even further. “What, this?” He pats his stomach again, louder this time, grinning as he catches you glancing at it. “Yeah, buffet did me in real good. You like it or somethin’, weirdo?”

You sputter, unsure how to respond. “I-I wasn’t—”

He snickers, clearly enjoying your discomfort. “Nah, you were. Don’t even lie about it.” He leans forward, resting one arm on the table, the other lazily rubbing circles over his belly. “What’s the deal, huh? Ain’t never seen a dude enjoy himself before?”

You try to laugh it off, but the sound dies in your throat when he shifts in his seat, scooting closer. His knee bumps yours under the table, and he smirks, catching the way you stiffen.

“Y’know,” he says, voice dropping a little lower, “if you like it so much, you could always get a closer look.” His grin is sharp, playful, but there’s something dangerous lurking beneath it. “Or... hell, maybe you wanna get inside, yeah? Make yourself useful.”

You blink, heart thudding against your ribs. “What?”

He burps—loud, unapologetic, the sound rumbling out of him like a challenge. He grins afterward, swiping a thumb across his lips. “Ahh, sorry, man. That shrimp’s fightin’ back.” He gives his belly a rough pat, making it jiggle again. “Might need somethin’ heavier to settle it, though. What d’you think?”

You try to back away, but he leans in, crowding you against the table. His stomach presses against your side, soft and warm, trapping you in place. “C’mon now, don’t be shy,” he teases, grinning down at you. “You been starin’ all night. Might as well make it worth your while.”

You try to stammer out a response, but he’s already moving—grabbing the chair beside yours and spinning it around to straddle it, his gut practically resting on your arm now. “What, you think I’m jokin’?” he asks, raising an eyebrow. “Nah, man. I reckon you’d fit just right in here.”

He burps again, this time blowing it right in your face with a laugh. “Whew, you smell that? That’s what’s waitin’ for ya.” He grins as you cough, waving his hand dramatically. “Bet it’ll be nice n’ cozy in there, though. You look like the type that’d enjoy it.”

You try to shift away, but his hand lands on your thigh, heavy and warm, keeping you in place. “Nah, don’t run now,” he murmurs, leaning closer. “Bet you’re wonderin’ what it feels like, huh? Bein’ all snug in there... squished up tight.”

You swallow hard, pulse pounding in your ears. He smirks, clearly seeing the panic in your eyes, and leans back a little, giving his belly a satisfied rub. “You know you want to, man. Might as well admit it.”

Before you can respond, he hooks an arm around your shoulders, pulling you closer until your face is nearly pressed into his gut. “There ya go,” he chuckles, giving you a playful shake. “Feel that? That’s where you’re goin’, dude. Right in here.”

His hand slides to the back of your head, fingers tangling in your hair. “C’mon now, don’t fight it,” he whispers, voice low and teasing. “Gonna swallow you whole, nice n’ easy. Just gotta relax.”

He opens his mouth slightly, letting his tongue flick out as if already tasting you. “Bet you’ll taste better than the shrimp, too.”

He doesn’t waste time. One moment, you’re staring at his smug grin, and the next, his hand is gripping the back of your head, fingers tangled roughly in your hair. He’s not gentle about it—there’s no hesitation. His lips stretch wide, and suddenly, your face is pressed into the slick, wet heat of his mouth.

It’s overwhelming. His tongue slathers across your cheeks, slick and hot, tasting you with broad, lazy strokes. A deep, muffled groan rumbles from his throat, vibrating through your entire skull. You try to squirm, but his hands are firm, holding you steady as he takes his time with each slow, deliberate lick. Every moan feels like satisfaction rolling off him in waves, like he’s savoring you.

Your shoulders bump against his lips next, and his jaw works over you greedily, tugging you in deeper with each wet, heavy gulp. The heat is suffocating—humid and thick, making it hard to breathe as his throat tightens around your face. All you can hear are the squelching sounds of his tongue and the soft, satisfied noises escaping from his chest as he pulls you in inch by inch.

He tries to speak—just once. A garbled, muffled attempt that sounds something like “mmmff…ffuck”—but the words get lost around your body, swallowed up by the slick confines of his mouth. He gives up after that, focusing on the task at hand, each gulp dragging you deeper into the dark, wet tunnel of his throat.

The pressure is intense, your head squeezing further into him with every swallow. His throat ripples around you, muscles working to pull you down, relentless and greedy. You can feel his pulse hammering against your skin, the thrum of it steady and strong as his throat flexes around your shoulders. It’s tight—unbearably tight—and every inch of progress feels like you’re being forced deeper into something inescapable.

His belly gurgles loudly, as if in anticipation, the sound vibrating through you as your head begins to slide past the opening into his gut.

And then, suddenly, you’re in.

The transition is abrupt—one second, your head is squeezed in the tight heat of his throat, and the next, you’re sliding into the slick, churning pit of his stomach. It’s hotter here, wetter too. The walls of his gut press in from every side, slick with juices that coat your skin, thick and warm. You feel something soft brush against your cheek—the remnants of the shrimp he’d devoured earlier, half-digested and floating in the sour broth of his stomach.

The air is thick, sour with the smell of food and digestive acids, and it clings to every breath you manage to steal. His stomach groans deeply, the sound vibrating through the tight space, as if welcoming its newest occupant. It squeezes around your head, kneading you into place like you already belong there.

Outside, the pred grunts with effort, his throat still working to swallow more of you down. The world narrows to the relentless pull of his gut and the humid press of his belly against your body. Your chest is next, sliding past his lips with a wet shlop as he takes another gulp, dragging you deeper.

His moans are louder now, reverberating through your entire body. Each noise is a mix of satisfaction and exertion, a primal sound that makes it clear he’s not just enjoying this—he’s thriving on it. His gut stretches to accommodate you, the skin bulging as more of your body disappears inside. You can feel it growing tighter, pressing you into the mess of half-digested shrimp and thick gastric juices already sloshing around inside.

You try to push back, just on instinct, but it’s no use. His throat is too tight, too determined to let anything go but down. Another wet gulp drags your waist past his lips, and you feel the rest of your body shift, sliding further into the sweltering heat of his gut.

By the time he gets to your thighs, his pace has quickened, each swallow coming more eagerly than the last. He’s lost in it now—every moan, every rumble of his belly a clear sign that he’s fully given in to the pleasure of swallowing you. His throat pulls you down greedily, his hands gripping your legs to guide them in, shoving the last of you inside.

Your legs kick weakly as they slide past his lips, but he just groans, one final, satisfied sound, and tilts his head back with a deep, powerful swallow.

Schlop.

The last of you slips down his throat, and with a loud, contented gulp, you’re gone.

Inside his belly, everything is tight, wet, and sweltering. The stomach walls squeeze you from all sides, pressing you deeper into the mess of food and digestive juices. Every shift of his body sends ripples through the tight space, sloshing you around like just another meal. The air is so thick it’s hard to breathe, each shallow inhale filling your lungs with the sour scent of digestion.

And then, outside, you hear it—a loud, rumbling burp that echoes through the confined space of his stomach, shaking you to your core.

“Oooof,” he groans, rubbing a hand lazily over the massive swell of his gut. “Man, you settled in good. Felt ya fightin’ for a second there—thought I might have to spit ya out. But nah... you fit just right.”

He leans back in his chair, letting his gut hang heavy between his thighs, bulging out with the clear outline of your body inside. “Shit,” he mutters, giving his belly a satisfied slap. “You’re bigger than you looked. Got me feelin’ all stretched out n’ shit.”

His fingers trace slow circles over the bulging curve of his stomach, feeling the way you shift slightly beneath the surface. Another burp rumbles out of him, this one even louder than the last, and he grins, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Whew. Yeah, that’s what I needed.” He grins, his voice dripping with smug satisfaction. “Bet you thought you’d freak me out or somethin’, huh? Like I’d be all weirded out by this shit. Nah, man. I think I’m gonna keep ya in here a while.”

He stretches lazily, letting out a contented sigh. “Shit, maybe I’ll even take ya out for a walk. Show ya off a bit. Let everybody see what a good fuckin' job I did stuffin’ ya down in there.”

His hand presses down harder on his gut, squishing you deeper into the mess inside. You hear him chuckle low in his throat, the sound vibrating through every inch of his belly.

“Bet they’ll get a kick outta seein' this,” he says, patting his gut one more time. “Big ol’ belly full of some weirdo who couldn’t keep his eyes to himself.”

With that, he leans back, letting his belly settle heavy and round against his lap, a satisfied grin spreading across his face. “Yeah... think I’m gonna like havin’ ya in there. Hope you’re comfy, dude. ‘Cause you ain’t goin’ anywhere.”

And with one last, lazy burp, he pats his gut again, closing his eyes with a contented sigh.

“You’re mine now.”

[urfavoritewriter]

What kind of Vore do you guys want to see more of?

Oral Vore

Anal Vore

Cock Vore

Other

Voting ended onOct 11, 2024

I’m curious as to what you guys want me to write more of when it comes to personal stories. Comment if you want to elaborate further, I’d love to see overall what *you* enjoy seeing more of, even specifics such as burping, teasing, safe or fatal, or otherwise. Feel free to share all of that in your comment.