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twistedtummies2 · 13 days

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Harvest Moon Festival - Alternate Ending (Vore; Commission)

Since I uploaded my first story for "Hazbin Hotel" yesterday, I decided I might as well upload my first story for "Helluva Boss," as well. I actually wrote this about two years ago, once again as a comm for FA; I thought I had posted it here before, but obviously not. This was a commission for a user called xanderman1201, and - as the title indicates - it's an alternate ending to the episode "Harvest Moon Festival." Loona is the featured pred this time, as the confrontation between Striker and the protagonists (I can hardly call them "heroes") goes...a bit differently. WARNING: CONTAINS SOFT, FATAL ORAL VORE, MILD DIGESTION, BELCHING, BELLY RUBS, ACTION-BASED VIOLENCE, IMPLIED SENTIENT FAT/SOUL ABSORPTION, A WHOOOLE LOT OF SWEARING, AND GENERAL INSANITY. DON'T LIKE? TOO YOUNG? DON'T READ.

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“My dear commoners of the Ring of Wrath…!” Striker smiled, his one gold fang glittering in the dull, red light the Harvest Moon provided, as the mighty Demon Lord Stolas summoned it at the grand event of the festival. The limbed-serpent-like imp - dressed in the garb of a Wild West bandit - chuckled softly as he hoisted his rifle up, resting the long barrel of the gun on the open windowsill before him. The snakish demon gnawed on the bit of wheat straw stuck between his teeth as he peered through the scope, gauging his own heartbeat and breath rate as he got Stolas in his sights. He couldn’t miss: he’d already locked little miss Molly and her pathetic excuse for a “Prince Charming” in the storm cellar, and no one else was aware of his true purpose here. His long, supple tail flipped behind him as he began to tighten his finger on the trigger… One sweet, fat payday, comin’ right up… CLICK. “Uh, excuse me…THE FUCK?!” Striker cursed internally, and his smile faltered…but only for a moment. He knew that voice, and he was already thinking of a way to manage the matter. The sniper turned and grinned broadly at the harlequin imp who now stood only a few feet away, a pistol in his hand. A pistol aimed straight at Striker’s cold, dead heart. “Blitz!” he sang out, as if this were the start of a normal conversation. “I thought you were still at the ceremony!” Blitzo blinked boredly, gesturing behind himself with one thumb as he kept the gun aimed at Striker. “You thought I wanted to stand around with a bunch of hillbillies, excited about corn and shit, with a thirsty owl onstage?” “Huhh,” grunted Striker, and rose to his feet carefully, putting his rifle to one side to make himself seem as non-threatening as possible. “Now you seem disappointed in me.” Blitzo just sneered as he watched Striker lean back against the wall, arms crossed in a casual, curious pose as he fiddled with the straw between his teeth some more. “Yeah, well, I’m not a fan of someone I offered a JOB to about to off my easiest lengthy ticket to Earth behind my back,” he snarled.

Striker seemed unfazed, the initial nerves fading into a supremely confident, slightly smug, amused expression. He had quickly regained control of the situation, and seemed utterly unconcerned with the gun still focused on his chest. He spat out the straw and stepped away from the wall. “Blitz, come on!” he crooned, his voice becoming slippery and smooth as he began to circle the smaller imp. “You know the two of us are superior than most of our kind. And you are SO above suckin’ on a disgusting, rich, pompous Goetia, only to sneak topside for scraps and work for bitter sinners, who could care less who you are…when you could be slaying overlords.” Blitzo’s confidence faltered for a second; the gun began to droop, as did his expression. Striker began to close the gap between himself and his fellow lower demon, and the gun flicked back up to point at him once again…but he could see the conflict in the harlequin’s eyes. “Why struggle to run a business that is rigged against ya, when you could partner up with me…” Striker swooped in; Blitz jumped slightly as he found himself backed against the wall, the demon’s hands on either side of his head as a wild, wicked grin split Striker’s face almost in half. “...And kill the unkillable? Starting with the one that treats you like a plaything.” Blitz gulped and shivered slightly; the gun rattled in his grip as he lowered it. “Whoo…that’s kinda hot,” he whispered to himself shakily. Striker decided to ignore that part, and leaned in closer; Blitzo could smell the tobacco on his breath as he whispered to him, his voice a sibilant sound, dangerous yet hypnotic. “We could be the most dangerous beings in Hell, Blitz.” “Wow…that was a GOOD fuckin’ pitch,” Blitzo responded, breathily. “ Been workshoppin’ it,” shrugged Striker. Blitzo paused and glanced to one side, as if thinking…then sighed softly. “Y’know what? Fuck it,” he muttered, then grinned up at Striker. “I’m in.” Striker smiled wider, a gleam of triumph in his spiraling yellow eyes… …But just as he was feeling assured of his victory, the sound of his own rifle being cocked behind him caught him off guard. Striker turned fast, startled…and glared as he saw the familiar shape of a still smaller imp - a basic red, with silver hair and a freckled, youthful face - pointing the sniper’s own gun at his back. A trick, he realized, as he heard Blitzo snicker like a naughty schoolboy. “Took you long enough, Mox!” laughed Blitz, his smile becoming mocking as Striker scowled at him. “Ha-HA! Wow, you should’ve seen your dipshit face-whoa! Oh…!” Blitz froze up, stopping short as the feeling of a knife leveled at his back interrupted him. He glanced back briefly and saw the curved, deadly dagger Striker had seemingly pulled out of nowhere, wrapped up in the assassin’s long, prehensile tail. He glanced between the blade and Striker’s face a few times…then pouted childishly. “Okay, cliche much?” he huffed.

Striker just gave an almost feral smile in response. Moxxie faltered as he saw his boss in peril, as if unsure if he could or should take the shot…and that scant moment of hesitation was all the scoundrel needed. He grabbed hold of Blitz’s pistol - which the other imp still held in both hands - and forced Blitz’s finger to press down on the trigger. BANG! Mox dodged to one side, and instinctively lifted the rifle up; the bullet pinged as it ricocheted off the armor plating of the gun. Striker sneered and prepared to force another shot… “Oh, you DADDY-FUCKER!” roared Mox, and before Striker could try anything else, the harlequin bit down on his arm. HARD. “ARGH!” exclaimed Striker, and managed to tear his arm away, hissing angrily. Before he could properly retaliate, however, Blitz followed it up with an elbow to the jaw, which caused Striker to stagger back. Blitzo then swung a fist towards Striker’s face…but this time, the gunslinger was ready for him. He caught Blitz’s arm in a strong lock, and threw out a punch of his own, which sent the head of I.M.P. sprawling. Mox yelped as Blitz slammed clean into him, and the pair fell to the floor, tangled up around each other. With a clatter, the rifle fell from the white-haired imp’s claws. Quickly, the pair recovered. Blitz sat up fast, rubbing his horned head after the little tumble, while Mox reached to try and get the rifle…only to cry out in pain as Striker strolled over and stomped one leather boot down onto his wrist. As Mox recoiled, grasping his arm in pain, Striker swept his arms downward and picked up his rifle. His tail whipped behind him as he hissed happily, grinning down at the pair who glared back defiantly. “You dumb fucks lost the upper hand fast, huh?” he taunted. “Ha!” barked Blitz, and smiled sneakily. “You seem to have forgotten something, fucko…!” So saying, the boss of I.M.P. pressed to fingers to his lips and let out a shrill whistle. Striker growled and once again cussed in his own mind, and turned towards the door, bracing himself and holding his gun tight. Blitz was right: he had forgotten about the Hellhound…

—------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ Loona leaned against a pillar of the farmhouse. The anthropomorphic white timberwolf’s red-and-white eyes smoldered with their usual dull apathy as one of her fingerless-gloved paws cupped around her cell phone. Her other hand rested on her wide, thick hip, as her curvaceous form rested with more luxurious elegance than she probably had any right to show in her current, lazy, scantily-clad state. The wolf was dressed in her usual attire of black midriff tank top, black mini-shorts, and black skin-tight, toeless boots - crafted for her digitigrade legs - her nose twitching slightly at the smell of corn, rye, cotton, dust, sweat, and other such things one finds in typical rural areas, surrounding her like an invisible cloud of fog. She was barely paying attention to the Festival; all that was happening was Stolas was giving a speech while the local yokels listened oh-so-intently. B. O. R. I. N. G. GRRRRRRLLLLLLLLMMMMMMRRRRRRG… Loona sighed through her nose silently, and briefly palmed at her bare, lean belly; smooth and supple-skinned. Blitz fed her well…not that she felt fed at that moment. A lot of the dishes in Wrath just didn’t appeal to her, and besides, if she ate without Blitz around, he’d probably complain. She tried to ignore the gnawing hunger in her stomach, biting her lip gently as she kept her eyes focused on the electronic screen not far from her sharp snout. Loona’s thumb flipped across her cell phone screen as she silently checked her Vextagram message, pushing out all the rest of the world. It might have stayed that way…had she not heard a whistle.

This first whistle was followed by a second; Loona softly snarled to herself. Seemed like dad needed something-BLITZ. Blitz needed something. Right. Blitz. Blitzo. Not dad. I adopted you! That should mean something! A slightly bitter look came to Loona’s face; as if on cue, her phone had pinged with a message from Vortex, and her grip on the device tightened a little. It felt like a wound opening afresh. Ever since the encounter with the succubi and their own hellhound, something had felt…off in her relationship with Blitzo. He seemed more…distant than usual. Not by a whole lot; anyone aside from Loona wouldn’t have known. Mox and Milly, she presumed, wouldn’t have noticed at all…but he was much less sappy, much less constant at her side, even when they were alone. They’d both played it off naturally, but he hadn’t hugged her in a while… …Not that she minded. Nope. She didn’t mind at all. After all, he was so ANNOYING with how much he demanded her attention, how much he stuck to her like glue, how much he treated her like a child and- A third whistle interrupted her thoughts. Loona’s ears pricked up…and in another universe, she might have done nothing else. A soft, aggravated snarl and no other response. Acknowledgement, but no action till much later. Perhaps in some other plane of existence, that was the case…but something about that moment, perhaps because of the thoughts running through her mind, worked differently. In a split second, Loona recognized the importance of the three separate, sharp whistles. Blitzo was calling…and he clearly needed help right away. It was probably nothing, she frowned, turning back over her shoulder, fingers freezing in place around her cellular device. He probably just wanted to show her some dumb video, or talk about some bullshit that she couldn’t care less about… …Probably. Not definitely. A growl left Loona, and she tucked her phone away and entered the farmhouse, making her way quickly upstairs at a brisk rate. Vortex and the rest of the Hell-Wide Web could wait. “This had better be good,” she grumbled to herself sourly, her bushy tail whisking behind her…

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Meanwhile, Blitzo, Moxxie, and Striker all waited…but after a few seconds of nothing happening…the two members of I.M.P. groaned. “Aw, fuckin’ damn it, Loona,” groused Blitz. Internally, he felt a slight pang; somehow, her taking so long made too much sense. As if her usual behavior wasn’t enough, a certain argument on the beach had never left the higher imp’s mind, and words shared there didn’t exactly lend much credit to her showing up… You’re not my real dad! I was nearly eighteen…I didn’t need you then, asshole! I don’t now! Were Blitz in a sentimental mood, he might have commented on how, whether she needed him or not, he definitely needed her more than ever…buuuuut there was currently a cocky snake-man pointing a gun at his head, so fuck that noise, he was just gonna be pissed. “It’s a damn shame, Blitz,” drawled Striker. “We might actually have made a good team. Oh, well…” With a shrug and a smile too cold to come from most places in Hell, Striker prepared to fire. Blitz and Mox looked at each other, then back at the serpentine fiend, trying to figure out the best way out of this situation before their demonic brains wound up splattered across the bed behind them… When suddenly, the door burst open. “‘Kay, I’m here,” Loona called, sauntering into the room. “What’s-” She stopped short when she took in the scene before her. All eyes were on her, but the gun was still level with Blitzo’s skull. Slowly, Loona’s fiery eyes narrowed, and a growl rippled through her.

“Ugh…SERIOUSLY?!” she shouted, gesturing angrily at the entire scene before her. “You bastards can’t go FIVE MINUTES without getting into trouble, can you?!” “Nice to see you two, sweetheart,” Blitz grinned. “Don’t you ‘sweetheart’ me, Blitz!” spat the wolf. “Hey! Mind the gun!” shouted Mox - speaking for the first time in the scene - as Striker wheeled around and aimed his rifle at Loona. The Hellhound was quick to respond, however, and lunged forward, grabbing hold of the gun in her paws. After a bit of a struggle, she tugged the weapon away. “GRRRAH!” Loona shouted, and smashed the gun across Striker’s skull. The horned snake letting out a sharp, shrill sound between a hiss and a screech and stumbled backward. Loona glared into his deeply, DEEPLY frustrated spinning eyes as she took hold of the gun in both hands and then cracked it clean in half across her knee. Blitzo whistled, as if impressed. “That’s my big strong girl!” he cheered. “Shove it!” snapped Loona, and advanced on Striker. “What the Here were you tryin’ to do, snake?” “Exactly what it looked like,” Striker answered, backing away…then smiled slyly. “But I think you guys are gonna be wonderin’ why for a while. Catch ya next time!” Then, without warning, Striker leapt to the open window. Loona lunged again, but her claws slashed at thin air as Striker jumped out and down to the ground. Loona looked out of the window; Blitz and Mox stood up and brushed themselves off, hurrying to stand beside her. Loona glared as she glanced about; she couldn’t see where Striker had gone. The crowds made it hard to tell… She sniffed the air, and growled viciously. She may not have been able to see him, but she could certainly smell him. “Aw, crumbs!” exclaimed Mox. “He got away!” “Not even a little bit,” Loona replied, and looked at Mox. “Where’s your girlfriend?” “She’s my WIFE,” glared Mox. “And she’s in the storm cellar; busted leg.” “Then why are you standing around here being useless?!” Loona yapped, and jabbed a claw towards the open door. “Go and take care of your mate! And YOU…” She jabbed a finger at Blitzo. “...You are gonna gimme a raise for extra work,” she said, seriously. “Now go do what you need to do!”

Without another word, Loona hopped through the open window and dropped to the ground, and soon began to stalk her way through the festival crowds, following her nose as she angrily tracked Striker down… Mox and Blitzo blinked as they watched Loona leave. “Wow…look at her go,” whispered Mox, and looked up at Blitz. “Gotta say, when she goes on the job, she’s real freaking scary.” “Told you she was valuable,” snickered Blitz, then turned serious. “Go back and see about Milly; I have other matters to take care of.” “You’ve got it, sir!” saluted Mox, and hurried off. Just before he could leave though… “Hey, Moxxie?” “Yes, sir?” Blitz smiled. “Next time you decide to be useless, be faster about it. And actually fire the damn gun when you do.” Mox blinked. The words didn’t sound like a compliment or praise…but the tone did. “Right,” was all he could say, unsure of how else to react, then left. Blitz nodded to himself, then frowned, tone turning serious again as he saw Loona’s ears darting through the crowd before vanishing again. She was on the hunt… …And so was he. With a determined glare, Blitz, dropped through the window, and began to march through the throngs of Wrath-dwellers, trying to figure out the direction his favorite hellhound was going in. “You said to do what I need to do, Loony,” he said softly. “Way I see it, that means watchin’ your fuckin’ back as much as I can. Deal with it.”

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The sounds of the mob faded away as Striker made his way to the stableyard of the wide plantation. His personal Hellhorse was already saddled up and ready to go, all he had to do was get to them, and ride to his hideaway. He may have botched the job this time, but where there was escape, there was a second chance. That sweet payday he hoped for could still be on the horizon. Such were the gunslinger’s thoughts as he neared the spot, which was well out of the way of the throngs of country-grown demons…but just before he could race into the stables and grab hold of his ride… “GOTCHA, YOU SON OF A BITCH!”

Striker hissed as Loona suddenly swung into view; she’d chased him down easily, and was quick to pounce. The snake-imp snarled as he was tackled to the dirt ground, dust flying up as he and the hellhound rolled for a spell… Finally, the pair wrestled free of each other, and jumped to each of their feet. The serpent and the wolf adopted equally predatory postures as they began to circle one another, claws and teeth bared viciously. “I dunno what your beef is, but I’m gonna swallow you whole, you Huckleberry Fuck!” barked Loona. “Heh heh…nothin’ but a Big Bad Wolf, huh, hellhound?” teased Striker. “When I’m allowed to be,” muttered Loona, and smiled ferociously. “I’m gonna enjoy this. Blitz doesn’t let me kill enough people, let alone REALLY go to town.” “Awww, now ain’t that a shame?” cooed the serpent, and cocked his head slightly as he paused. “Y’know, there’s a lotta potential in you, Loona. Don’t you get tired of having to follow orders from that obsessive nutcase? Always holding you back, always getting on your case…you could do so much more, if you’d let you, don’tcha think?” Loona snorted; she seemed unimpressed. “Sorry, snake-shit; if this is your pitch for a ‘join the dork side’ deal, you’re wastin’ your breath,” she droned. “I don’t team up with chew toys.” “Eh, worth a shot,” shrugged Striker…and then snapped out the very same knife he had used to threaten and distract Blit and Mox earlier. With a feral hiss, he charged at Loona, attempting to stab her through the diaphragm with the blade. Loona dodged the attack, then swiped her claws at Striker’s face. He ducked the attack, and responded with two quick swipes of the dagger. Loona nimbly jumped back to avoid them, and then threw out a sharp kick, which smacked Striker across the jaw. The murderous scumbag stepped back a pace, reeling from the blow, and Loona’s powerful legs swept out in another kick to try and knock him down. Striker blocked the second kick, and swung his knife again. Loona caught the blade in her teeth, and wrenched it out of his grip, spitting it to the ground nearby before swiping with the other set of claws. The Wild West demon avoided her wolfish talons, and attempted a straight punch…only for Loona to catch his arm in her own. “Ever wonder what it’s like to be dog food?” she growled into Striker’s face. “I’ll give you a crash course you’ll never forget.” “You’ll have to beat me first!” Striker replied, and brought his boot down onto her foot. Loona let out a shrill canine sound of pain, and Striker was able to wiggle free and jump back, before swiping his tail out and pulling Loona’s legs out from under her. The hellhound snarled in surprise as she fell flat on her back. Striker fell upon the wolf in an instant, pinning her arms to the ground…but whatever plans he had next were quickly denied. Loona spat in his face, and as he twisted his head to the side in response, she then brought her own knee upwards, jamming it into his crotch. Striker let out a truly demonic screeching sound, and his grip faltered as his eyes bugged out of his skull. Loona smiled and then growled as he hurled the snake-man off of her, and pinned him to the ground herself. Striker gasped for air, hoarsely, as the hellhound grabbed him by the throat and began to throttle him. “Any last words, dipshit?” sneered Loona, squeezing her fists around the Snake’s windpipe. Striker gulped, trying to pry the powerful paws off his neck…then smiled. “Y-Yeah,” he choked out, and coughed once. “Two can play at this game.”

THWAPP! With a sound like a cracking bullwhip, Striker’s tail lassoed Loona’s own neck, and began to constrict like an anaconda’s coils. Loona gasped and choked, her own grip faltering as the snake tightened his tail up like a noose. The gunslinger hissed with pleasure as he soon found himself getting the upper hand. The positions quickly changed again, as he began to rise to his feet, a maniacal grin stretched across his cruel, moustachioed face as he watched the Hellhound struggle for air. “Heh heh…not so tough after all,” he mocked. His forked tongue tasted the air and he slithered cruelly to her in a taunting croon: “No wonder your sweet, precious da-da keeps you on a leash, huh, wittle puppers?” BANG! Striker screamed as the sound of a gunshot preceded his tail being shot apart, separated clean in half. He fell to the ground, clutching the bleeding appendage as vibrant red fluid spurted from the wound. The end of his tail went limp and began to convulse against Loona’s neck. “Ugh!” the hellhound shuddered, and flung the end of the serpent-imp’s tail to the floor, before stomping on it just to show her hatred. The dismembered tail-end twitched several times before going still, rather like the end of a lizard’s tail once it is detached. While Striker clutched his ruined tail, spouting obscenities at the top of his lungs - “GODDAMN MOTHER-HUMPIN’ SON OF A BASTARD WHORESON SLAMMIN’ WITH THE FUCKIN’ OTHER GUY’S SHITFACED DAD’S ASSHOLE…!” - Loona looked to see who had come to help out. Blitzo smirked with self-pride as he twirled his pistol like Clint Eastwood and blew some smoke from the barrel before holstering it. “Don’t worry, Loony, daddy’s here,” he winked. Loona just glared at him. “I had everything under control, thank you very much!” she sniped back. “Uh-huh. Whatever you say, Loony-Toony.” Loona sniffed…then glared down at the ground as she saw Striker trying to crawl away, once again towards the stable and his escape route. She stopped that quickly by stepping in front of him.

“Not so fast, creep,” she growled, and lifted him up by the front of his Western-style vest with a toothy smile. “You and I aren’t finished yet.” Striker gulped nervously, and glanced back as he heard Blitz draw nearer, gun pointed at the snake-demon’s back to make sure he wouldn’t try any more tricks. “He’s all yours to take out, Loony,” Blitz declared. “How ya gonna do it? Bite off his limbs? Tear off his head? I’m kinda partial to seeing you knock him out, drag him home, and disembowel him for a week.” “Nah. I don’t feel like makin’ a mess,” shrugged Loona. “Besides…” Her stomach rumbled, and she patted it indicatively. “...I haven’t eaten anything since we got here,” she finished, in a sinister tone. Striker went pale. Clearly, the hellhound’s threats from earlier were not idle ones. Blitz grinned wider at his adoptive daughter’s words. “Alive?” he guessed. “Yep.” “Whole?” “Uh-huh.” “Perfect!” Striker tried to crawl off in another direction and get to his feet. Loona watched with a bored, smug sort of look on her face, arms crossed…then, just as he was about to flounder back up into a standing position, she stomped on the remaining half of his tail, which was still oozing a thin stream of blood. Striker’s yellow eyes were filled with stinging tears as he fell still with a breathless sound of pain. “No point trying to get out of this one, fucksticks!” grinned Blitz, aiming his gun at Striker to make sure he stayed down, then batted his eyes lovingly at Loona. “After all, my sweet Woona is a growing girl, she needs her protein!” “Fuck off and die!” shouted Striker, while Loona just rolled her eyes and grimaced slightly at Blitzo’s words and tone. “Eh, I’ll do one of those soon enough,” shrugged Blitz. “The other I’ll leave to you right now.” Striker growled as Loona’s stomach rumbled deeply somewhere above him. The wolfess reached down and grabbed him, this time pinning his arms to his sides so he couldn’t get away. The hellhound managed to pull him clean off his feet, leaving his boots dangling over the ground; Striker was tall, for an imp, but Loona was a fair bit taller. The wolf girl leaned in close; Striker grimaced as he could smell her breath - a blend of smoke, blood, and whatever the lupine had consumed for breakfast that morning. Her tongue slithered across the blend of scales and fur that framed his face, before slopping back into her mouth. Loona rolled her cherry-cheesecake-colored eyes upwards, mulling the flavor in her mouth for a moment…before sighing. “It figures,” she muttered. “Guy tastes like shit. Must be the venom in his system, or something. I hope you’ll be filling at least, stringbean…” “I’m not gonna beg,” Striker said. Loona smiled sadistically; she could feel the rival imp trembling in her grasp. “You will,” she shrugged carelessly.

So saying, Loona’s jaws opened wide; strands of thick drool dripped between her ivory fangs as they spread apart, revealing her long, slimy tongue and the pinkish-red muscles and flesh that lined her maw. Every inch of slick-looking meat sloped back and down towards a deep, black well, from which came the bass sound of her gurgling, empty stomach… “So long, dog food!” sang Blitzo from behind, waggling his fingers in a farewell wave. “Try not to go to my little girl’s ass, okay? I do NOT need more dumb boys drooling over her.” Loona let out an annoyed growl, ears flattening back; Striker, knowing his life in the outside world was now measured in seconds, tried one last sneering jibe… “I still think it’s embarrassing,” he said to Blitz. “Wasting a lot of potential on some weak, little-” OMPH! Blitz grinned toothily, arms crossed over his chest and head held high, as Striker’s words were cut off by Loona’s jaws snapping down and engulfing his head and shoulders. “Atta girl,” he whispered to himself. Striker may not have begged, but he certainly fought. Loona snarled and wrestled the slippery half-serpent down her gullet greedily, GULPing and CHOMPing noisily as she forced him deeper and deeper into her system. The collar around her neck stretched and strained, as if it had been made for a situation like this…but with the way the leather creaked and cried out, perhaps it was getting rusty. In any case, it did little to impede her progress as she guzzled her victim, swallowing Striker down as fast as she possibly could. The more the assassin kicked and struggled, the faster he slithered into Loona’s tract. Her throat bulged grotesquely, and lines of drool dribbled from the corners of her mouth as she crammed more and more of her prey into her body. Her eyes were alight with an almost rabid, single-minded desire to consume, as she stuffed Striker in past his chest, then his waist, then his pelvis, his thighs… GLUCK! Loona paused, mouth wide open; she panted around a full mouth, her stomach starting to swell as she felt her victims steadily sliding into her guts already. He hadn’t taken long at all to devour; such a slim, smooth framework went down nice and easy. The hellhound reached for her cell phone, one hand caressing her swollen gullet as the other held up the device, tapping it with her thumb a few times… …She grinned around her full, open mouth, as she turned the phone into selfie mode and then turned on the video feature. In the camera before her, she could see Striker’s twitching feet wiggling around inside her gaping maw, slowly slipping into the dark, extra-hellish passage of her esophagus. She took a moment, snapping pictures in the midst of the video to get some shots of her open maw and the prey about to take their final plunge within for a few moments…then winked at the camera, before her free hand slid up to stroke her throat as she swallowed one last time. GULLORLP! Loona traced the phone downward, following the bulge in her gullet as the last bit of Striker sank into her body. Her neck returned to its usual state as the last thick mound of him vanished behind her sternum…then, she sighed deeply, as her stomach swelled mightily, the usually curvy, soft, but still in-trim midsection becoming a bloated ball of fuzzy silver-white flesh as it drooped and bounced against her thick, strong thighs.

BUBLORSH! Loona grunted as her gut gushed with gastric fluid in response to the gigantic meal that had entered her stomach. She panted and held out her arms to steady herself as her epicenter of weight was thrown off for a moment. She swallowed thinly…then smiled widely, a single drop of saliva dripping from a fang into the dirt as she let out a soft, breathless chuckle. The wolfess soon regained her balance and smiled proudly at her bloated belly, giving it a sharp SLAP with one hand it. It jiggled as she put away her phone with other. “And that,” Loona announced, flipping off her own gut while her other hand rubbed in a circular pattern over her medicine-ball-sized belly, “Is you fucked, once and for all.” Muffled sounds came from Loona’s stomach - a voice, completely buried under her belly-flesh, mingling with the deep, thick “slorshes” of her guts as they set to work on her prey. Loona bit her lip and moaned, fingertips playing over her rounded middle as she could feel her digestive system starting to work on her prey…feel the muscles tighten and grind as her curled-up, cramped meat struggled in a near-fetal position, wrapped up in her body… She had missed this feeling. It had been so long since the hellhound had a chance to truly FEAST… Her musings were interrupted by the sound of applause. Loona looked over to the sound and frowned; it was, of course, Blitzo, who was clapping and grinning like a loon, eyes wide and sparkling with affectionate pride. “Good girl, Loony!” he cheered. “I’m so PROUD of you, you did SUCH a good job with your first big kill!” “Not like I haven’t killed before,” snorted Loona. “Now cut that OOOOOOOUUUUUUUUUUUUT-TOOOOOOORRRRRRRUUUUUUURRRRRRRRUUUP!” An abrupt belch blasted free from her gut, making her lips flap as her stomach squeezed tighter around Striker with the air being voided from her stomach. As it came to an end, Loona blinked; one of her ears twitched as she stood stock still, stunned by her own eructation. Blitz looked pretty stunned as well. He just stared at Loona for a few moments…then grinned and began to laugh and clap again. “Ha Ha HA! Nice rip!” he commented. Loona just sighed and rolled her eyes, then stumbled back and found the wall of the stable barn. She then rumbled as she slid along it and sat down, her stomach spilling into her lap as she placed one paw on it and picked her teeth with a claw. A soft chuff of amusement left her as she watched her gut jostle and jiggle from the movements of her prey within; she could only imagine how horrendous it had to be inside her own belly. She’d been to the Circle of Gluttony once, and after THAT trip, she had a decent idea of how her own biology and anatomy could be. Truly, the bottom of a hellhound’s belly was a fate worse than Hell itself. Neither more nor less what Striker deserved for pointing a gun at her employer. “I’m gonna need to buy new clothes ‘cause of this soon-to-be ass,” she said drably. “I can already tell.” “I’ll help out with that,” offered Blitz, approaching Loona with a smile. “So! Is Daddy’s Little Girl all nice and full, huh?”

Loona blinked dully at Blitz…then suddenly grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and pulled the imp closer. Blitz gasped in surprise…which led to him inhaling a good portion of the noxious gas when Loona favored him with a rolling belch to the face. Blitz coughed and gagged as Loona let go of him, smirking as she rubbed her stomach up and down with her free hand. “That answer your question?” she drawled. “Yep,” Blitz choked out, eyes watering as he fanned the air before his face. “Sweet Satan on a Crap Cracker…how the Here do you get gas that awful?” Loona just shrugged nonchalantly and looked down at her belly. She chuckled and drummed her claw-tips over the engorged dome of furry meat. Bulges and bumps formed on the surface of her stomach, resembling desperately pawing hands and kicking feet. Striker was putting up a fight inside her gut, probably trying to make her sick… “You can struggle all you want, bitch, it’s not gonna save you,” she said, and drew a circle around her middle. “Hellhounds have the strongest stomachs of almost anything in Hell. I can digest metal, bone, the energy of souls…nothing is gonna be left of you once my body is done. You’re gonna end up a steaming pile of-” “Ah, let’s…not go there, honey, okay?” Blitz broke in, lifting his hands in a placating way as he approached his daughter. Loona just snorted and rolled her eyes. “Whatever,” she mumbled, then grunted and grimaced before rumbling up another burp. “GWWWWUUUUUUURRRRRRRRRRRUUUUUUP! Ngh…damn…this fucker’s making me gassy…” “Need antacids or somethin’?” “Nah. I’ve eaten worse,” shrugged Loona, carelessly, and started to reach for her phone…only to wince as her stomach jolted violently from Striker’s shoving and thrashing inside her “blorting” insides. “Oof…he’s a fighter though…tougher than I thought he’d be.” “Well, lucky for me my girl’s even tougher,” Blitzo smiled, then paused before scratching the back of his head. Then a twinkle came to his eye as he inched even closer, tail swishing eagerly. “Soooo…would my little Loony Balloony like a belly rub?” Loona stared at Blitz. He immediately got the feeling he had fucked up. “Uh, j-just to, y’know…help work him down, and-” “Do I look like a puppy to you?!” barked Loona…then, when Blitz started to open his mouth, she pinched her brow, looking away from him as she muttered, “Don’t answer that question.” Blitz looked Loona up and down for a moment. The words from not so long ago filtered through his brain once more… I was nearly eighteen…I didn’t need you then, asshole! “...Ah…y-yeah, yeah, you’re right, um…sorry about that, Loony.” Loona looked up, moving her hand away from her face as she looked at Blitz. Something stirred inside her withered hell-heart as she saw the look on his face, and heard that tone of voice. She…really, really didn’t like it.

“I, um…ahem! I’ll go check on the others!” Blitz said, grinning widely and pointing off back towards the festival. “Gotta make sure those two fuckwits don’t screw anything else up, right?” He was faking it. He was bothered and he was faking that he wasn’t. Loona could tell. I adopted you! And that should mean something! Just as Blitz was preparing to go, a huge, fluffy tail swept around him and pulled him back. “Wait,” sighed Loona, and he looked up to her face curiously…and was surprised to see a hint of pink on her furry white cheeks. She was looking at her belly…seemingly to avoid looking directly at him. “I, uh…ahem…I…didn’t say it wouldn’t be nice,” Loona mumbled, then hastily added, “Just so I can get this dumbass added to MY ass faster, got it?” Blitz blinked…then smiled like a fool. Loona growled and turned a shade of red, ears drooping. “Wipe that smile off your face, or I’ll bite it off,” she threatened. With a mischievous gleam in his eyes, Blitz made a show of “wiping” his hand across his face, and when it was done, his expression had gone from a giddy one to a very, VERY serious one. So serious, that it was…kind of funny. Loona’s ears perked up…and she smiled, despite herself. It was gone in a fraction of an instant, but Blitz saw it. “That’s better,” she said. “Good,” Blitz said, and cracked his knuckles and his neck. “Now, let’s see if daddy’s hands can work some magic here…seems to work for the owl…” Loona was about to dryly remark she did NOT want to think of her adoptive father’s “magic hands” in relation to his “midnight rendezvous” with Stolas…but the feeling of his fingers playing across her swollen, gurgling, wetly-churning stomach silenced that. Loona gasped sharply…then sighed deeply, eyes fluttering closed as a smile slowly came across her face. Her tail began to wag, “thwapping” at the dusty ground beneath her as Blitz kneaded and massaged her ever-squirming middle.

“Ohhhhhhhhh…oh, that’s…ahhhhhh, that’s…r-really not bad…” “Heh…daddy’s still got it,” winked Blitz, and grinned as he poked at a few lumps and bumps that formed on the surface of her stomach. “How’s it feel bein’ covered in caustic sludge, snake meat? Don’t worry, you’re going to a MUCH better cause: feeding my Loony and making her all big and strong!” “Mmmmrrrrrrmmmmph…don’t embarrass me, or I WILL eat you, too,” Loona mumbled out, still smiling blissfully despite her words. “Trust me, I don’t think I taste very good,” Blitz said, as if this were a totally normal point of conversation, and patted her stomach, making it wobble. Loona opened one eye. “Tell anyone I let you do this, and we’ll find that out,” she said, darkly. Blitz made a show of zipping his lip. Somehow, Loona had a feeling he was planning to take a photo of this the instant she passed out into a food coma. Despite the way she scoffed and grimaced, internally, she felt she could live with that. “Thanks for - HIC! - ah, for helping out,” she said, somewhat begrudgingly. “Would have been embarrassing if I’d lost him.” Blitz smiled wider. “I’m your father, Loony; protecting you is my job,” he answered, then looked away, drawing figure eights around her stretched, tight navel. “Actually…I should be thanking you. For a second there, I…well…when I whistled, I was afraid you might not actually come.” Loona looked at Blitz briefly, then hummed deep in her chest, scratching her stomach with her claws. “You’re my boss,” she said, simply. “If I didn’t do my job, that’d be a problem.” Blitzo wasn’t sure how to respond to that, so he said nothing. With a grunt and a slight grimace, Loona fished her phone out from its hiding place - her belly rolled, and Striker howled as the cloying, fire-hot slime inside splattered all over him, the churning gut walls squeezing and kneading into his scaly skin. His furry parts became matted, clumps of hair falling out as his scales were scorched with boiling hot, putrid-smelling goop, and his spikes and horns were smeared in the mushy, masticated residue that stuck around in the gut’s foul chamber. The horrific stench was truly vile, even for Hell, and made the serpent-like imp hiss in a mixture of panic and anger as he squirmed for dear life, desperate to claw his way to freedom. He pounded at the sphincter above him, shoulder-checked the walls, and jabbed his heel at the pyloric valve leading into the gluttonous intestines below…anything he thought could make the Hellhound queasy. Loona stifled a burp in one fist, cheeks ballooning as she lazily let the gas out of the corner of her mouth and began to check her messages. She calmly looked over her phone while Blitz smiled lovingly, nuzzling her giant belly and cooing over her like an overgrown puppy as he rubbed and scrubbed at her gut with his hands. “We’re gonna need to eliminate more targets this way,” he commented. “I’ll bring that up to the others once we get the Here back to HQ tomorrow. I don’t know about you, but I’ve had about as much of this pissy Podunk as I can take.”

“Same,” muttered Loona. Her expression remained impassive as she glanced between her phone and Blitz, even as her tail continued to wag. Then, her eyes fixed on her phone, she uttered five words… “Thanks for the meal, Dad.” Blitz froze. His eyes shot open and he looked up. “Did…wh-what did you just say?” he gulped. Loona looked down at Blitz, seemingly confused. “Huh? I said thanks for the meal, dude.” Blitz narrowed his eyes. “Since when do you call me ‘dude,’ Loony?” “What did you think I called you?” growled Loona, sounding irritated. Blitz considered telling her…then her gut ROARED, and a sudden decision not to push the ire of a Hellhound currently engaging in predatory activity entered his mind. Besides, it was just as unlikely she’d EVER call him…that beautiful, wonderful, perfect word… “Ah…nothing. Just, uh…fuckin’ forget it, my bad,” Blitz waved it off, and gave Loona’s stomach a shake just to distract from the scene. Loona let out a hiccuping belch - “HIC-URP!” - and rolled her eyes before returning her attention to her phone. Blitz never noticed the look of affection and relief mingling in her eyes, as he listened to the screams of Striker as the rival assassin was digested in slow, hot, horrible pain in the belly of his baby girl…

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The Following Morning… Demon Lady Stella snarled as she angrily jabbed at her old-fashioned telephone, turning the dial to ring up her special contact. Her beak clenched and her talons curled into a hard fist as she listened to the ring coming from the earpiece. All the while, she glared across the table at her husband, who was calmly reading a book called “Imps in the Sheets” as he picked at his breakfast. Their daughter, meanwhile, was bobbing her head and dancing in her seat to whatever music was playing on their headphones, barely paying attention to her own food. Neither noticed her rage, and that was fine by Stella. Let them be oblivious; the cheating bastard always was, and the girl…she didn’t even want to THINK about the girl in that moment. She was much too focused on the fact her husband was STILL ALIVE! How?! She’d hired who she thought was the best independent assassin this side of Pride, and those wretched imps COULDN’T have been around to get in the way this time! Could they have? She guessed she’d find out when the failure of a killer answered the blasted phone. She was calling the number of the hotel where he was supposed to be holed up following the attack. Finally, someone picked up on the other line. It was a receptionist. “May I help you?” the voice on the other end asked. “Get me Striker’s room,” Stella demanded. “Striker?” “Yes! Striker! NOW!” Despite her shout, Octavia and Stolas remained totally unaware of her enraged call. She could hear the receptionist muttering to themselves as they apparently searched for the room in question. Finally: “Are you still there, ma’am?” “Yes, you fool! Where is Striker?! I must speak to him at once! He should have told you he was expecting a call, so-” “I’m sorry, ma’am, but no one under that name has logged in.” Stella’s rage gave way to confusion. She paused…then nodded to herself. An alias. Of course. “Very well. Ah…what’s the name of the gentleman in Room 218?” she checked, more politely, remembering the arrangement she and the assassin had made ahead of time. “That room is currently vacant, ma’am,” the receptionist responded. “Perhaps you have the wrong place?” Stella, a bit dumbfounded, lamely apologized and agreed that, yes, she must have…and silently hung up the phone. Staring with a flabbergasted expression at her eternally brainless husband as he chuckled at something his book through a full mouth, she began to stir at her own breakfast. This was…a revolting turn of events. What had gone wrong? Striker always finished a job, or so she understood…and he certainly wouldn’t have abandoned a chance like this. Especially not with the money she was offering for the rare murder. “Where is he?” she wondered aloud.

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Meanwhile…

“Urgh…damn. Guess I DO have to buy some new clothes…pain in my ass…” Loona frowned as she inspected herself in her bedroom mirror. Striker had been reduced to a hideous, mushy soup within a few hours after she’d gobbled him up…and by now, he was mostly fully digested, and the white wolf girl could see the luscious, thick results. The attractive young female hellhound had always had fine hips…but now, they had become thicker and wider than ever, expanding by a good couple inches on either side. Fitting her shorts over them was no easy feet, as she always wore tight clothes, and now she could barely get the button to fasten. Her butt had gotten a good deal of attention, too, resembling two huge, white moons of soft, heavy blubber; when she squeezed and groped them, her fingers sank in as if she were pressing into cake dough…and when she released, they wobbled like two big balls of jelly. Her thighs were now thick as a couple of Christmas hams, and even her belly had become slightly more heavy-looking, an extra layer of fat adding an attractive softness and appealing, warm width to her frame without ruining her preferred figure…but she could see the slight folds and divets in the flesh that formed when she moved in certain directions. With a slight blush, she noticed her breasts had been enlarged slightly, too…it appeared new pants weren’t the only clothes she’d have to buy. “For such a skinny little shit, you sure were fattening,” Loona mumbled…then smiled and began to preen, turning herself about in the mirror to better analyze her body. She wagged her tail and swayed her rear end, flexing her middle as if performing a belly dance. “Mmmmmm…gotta say…I think I kinda like it though. Just a shame prices for my stuff tend to be wallet-busters.” She shrugged that off. Honestly, she could live with that, she decided…and she could definitely live with the extra weight. Patting her belly with pride, and chuckling as slight ripples went through her hide from the impact, Loona scratched her butt lazily and then went to grab her phone from its charger. She’d take a few photos to commemorate her extra added pounds…then she’d go down to breakfast with Blitz before they got to work for the day. After all, Striker was no more - his body and soul absorbed into her adipose additions - and her stomach was empty again. And Blitz was making bacon. Loona licked her lips as she took the first photo of herself posing in the mirror. After how bad the outlaw tasted…bacon sounded REAL damn good.

The End

#kink fic #fanfic #my writing #commission #vore #fatal vore #belching #burping #big belly #helluva boss #loona #blitzo #striker

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twistedtummies2 · 14 days

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The Overlord's Game (Vore; Commission)

My first commission set in the universe of "Hazbin Hotel." It was requested by a user called Nickcasey over on FurAffinity, and since both Hazbin and its sister series, "Helluva Boss," seem REALLY freaking popular here on Tumblr as well, I decided to share it to this page, too. This story features Husk as an Overlord, known as "The Gambling Demon;" it's intended to be ambiguous if this is an AU where Husker never lost his power, or if this just takes place before the events of the show. You can read into it either way. In this story, the Gambling Demon decides to deal with a gang of sinners who made the mistake of trying to cheat an Overlord. It doesn't end well for them. I really liked writing Husk as an Overlord and figuring out what he'd be like in that kind of scenario. I'm very tempted to find ways to write for him in this context again in the future; maybe bring Angel Dust into things sometime, who knows? ;) Anyway, WARNING: CONTAINS SOFT, FATAL ORAL VORE, DIGESTION, BELCHING, SOME ACTION-BASED VIOLENCE, MACRO/MICRO SHENANIGANS, AND GENERAL INSANITY. DON'T LIKE? TOO YOUNG? DON'T READ.

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“HA! Read ‘em an’ weep, boys. Full House!” A gasp, a growl, and a groan answered this jeering declaration; the sounds were nearly lost in the din of the casino seated in the Greed Ring. The misshapen demons who sat at the poker table glared; one was a burly brute with the face of a crocodile, another resembled a short, fat pig, and still another had the beard and horns of a billy goat. All three were dressed in well-tailored suits; clearly gentlemen used to getting their way. It was clear they weren’t getting their way that night, as a low, deep chuckle heralded a pair of furry arms - with pawed hands tipped in long, ivory-hued claws - stretching out to pull a fat stack of cash towards their host. “Sorry, chumps,” purred the demon at the head of the poker table. “Looks like this game goes to the boss.” “Like Hell it does!” shrilled the goat. “Well, that IS where we are.” “I don’t care if you’re an Overlord,” the pig snorted. “Nobody is THAT lucky…” “...Unless they’ve been cheatin’ this whole time,” snarled the crocodile, scaly mitts balled into fists. A bored, somewhat smug sort of look crossed the face of the Overlord in question, as he leaned back in his seat lazily. He was about average height (perhaps slightly below average), and resembled a cross between a tuxedo cat and a bird of prey. He was dressed in a slim-fitting gray suit, and a golden bow tie. On the back of his chair, an elegant black top hat - with a golden hatband and a small red pin in the shape of a playing card diamond - was hooked. The feathered wings that stretched behind his back were red and black, with markings that resembled the marquis of the casino itself. His tail was long and furry, yet ended in a red-feathered tuft, and feathery red eyebrows stretched above a pair of yellow eyes, with slit pupils and tarry black sclera. His nose vaguely resembled a playing card heart, and matching symbols were dotted on his forehead above his eyebrows. If one looked closely, they would have noticed the leathery paw pads on his palms were similarly shaped. The strange bird-cat shrugged, and lifted the shot glass of whiskey on the table before him up. He took a moment to inspect the contents carelessly, then tossed back the whole thing in one slick swallow. “Everybody always says the same thing when they’re down on their luck,” he grunted, nonchalantly. “Y’all oughta be grateful it’s just money on the line with this game.” He smirked dangerously at the trio of losing players as he put the glass down, tapping one sharp claw near it. “Unless any of you wanna raise the stakes for one last game,” he suggested, with a sinister, HUNGRY sort of smile. The goat and the pig subsided with a shudder. The Overlord had a good point: losing so much money seemed far less worrisome than losing their lives…or their souls. (Or both.)

The crocodile, however, wasn’t quite so wise, it seemed. He snarled louder, and pushed his chair back. The musclebound beast rose to his full height, glowering down at the smaller creature, puffing through his nostrils like a buffalo. “Lemme see those cards,” he growled, darkly. The Overlord just blinked up at the beast. He sniffed, clearly unfazed, and responded by picking up the hand he’d just dropped down…and then putting the cards back into the deck, noticeably tucking them into the middle. “Sorry, big guy, but no dice,” the Overlord said. “Nobody touches my deck.” “Why not?” the croc demanded, somewhat petulantly. “Scared they’re gonna figure out your tricks, pussycat?” The Overlord’s fur rustled. He narrowed his eyes. He was getting annoyed. “You implyin’ I even need to USE tricks to beat a smooth-brained fuckface like you?” “Maybe I am, pussycat!” “I’m gettin’ mighty tired already of hearin’ you call me that, boy. If y’know what’s good for ya, you’ll take the loss and move on.” “We’re in Hell, pussycat!” roared the crocodile. “Nobody here knows what’s good for ‘em!” The Overlord gritted his teeth: two rows of yellowing fangs. His tail lashed as the croc continued to scowl down at him. The pig and the goat looked back and forth between the two like they were watching a tennis match. “I guessed that the moment you started shoutin’ at me,” the Overlord said. “Call me that name one more time, and-” “Bite me, you bastard!” spat the croc-faced devil in reply. “I don’t care who or what you are, I WANT MY MONEY BACK, YOU CHEATING LITTLE PUSSYCAT!” So saying, the croc reached into his pocket, and whipped out a VERY large handgun… SCHWING-THUNK! …And half a second later, before he could so much as remove the safety - let alone ready his finger on the trigger - the croc-like devil was lying on his back. Dead. His limp hand released the gun, which spun across the floor. Five razor-sharp playing cards (the Four Aces and a Joker) were stuck in his body: two in his chest, one in his gut, one in his neck…and the Ace of Spades in the center of his forehead. As the demon’s bright red blood spilled across the carpeted floor of the casino, the goat and the pig jumped up from their chairs, backing away nervously. Everybody in the tables closest to the scene froze up. All eyes turned anxiously upwards, where the Overlord now stood on the table. The golden eyes glared coldly down at the scaly carcass. “Toldja not to call me that,” growled the demon lord, and then turned his smoldering eyes towards the other two at the table, and scoured the room around him. “Any o’ you other motherfuckers wanna start somethin’ with me?” All those at the surrounding tables immediately turned away and went back to what they were doing. The goat and the pig quickly averted their eyes, trembling with fear. The cat narrowed his eyes, then snorted, crossing his arms over his chest. “Yeah, that’s about what I figured,” he grunted, and jabbed a thumb. “You two. Get the Here outta my place.”

The pair promptly pitter-pattered away as fast their hooves could carry them. The Overlord then hopped off the table and walked over to red imp that was marching around nearby. He snatched up the bottle of liquor that was on the platter they carried and used a claw to uncork it. The imp looked up with both fear and a hint of irritation as the Overlord began to drink straight from the bottle. “Um…excuse me, s-sir, but that’s for table-” “UUUUUUURRRRRRRRRP!” The imp stopped short, blinking tears out of his eyes, as the birdcat belched rudely in his face. “Fuck ‘em,” the Overlord said, and let out a slight hiccup before patting his stomach. “My place, my booze, my rules.” “Y-Yes sir, Boss Husk. I…I understand,” the imp said, squirming a bit. The little creature knew when the one who ordered the drink found out, they’d be taking it out on him; he was already praying he’d live to see his family later. Husk - the Gambling Demon - just smirked and took another swig of liquor before smacking his lips and pointing towards the body on the floor. “Find somebody to clear this up immediately; I fuckin’ hate bloodstains in my carpeting. Even in Hell, they’re a pain in the ass to remove.” “Yes, sir,” the imp said, and bowed his head in supplication before moving along quickly. Husk took another sip of liquor…then blinked…and frowned when he realized the bottle was empty. Sighing as if the loss of a single bottle was as painful to him as the loss of a life would be to most human beings, he placed the empty container on the table. “Should’ve taken my time with that one,” he muttered, mournfully…then his pointed ears pricked up as he heard a deep, rumbling, gurgling noise. He looked around, as if trying to determine where the sound came from… …Then winced as it came again, much louder. He looked down and palmed his stomach, pushing down through the fabric of his suitcoat with a grimace. “Damn…guess all that booze is wakin’ up the system,” he mumbled. “Didn’t you have enough for breakfast earlier?” His gut groaned greasily, as if to say “not even a little bit.” The Gambling Demon sighed more heavily than before. “One damn annoyance after another,” he grumbled…then his eyes widened as an idea came to him. He looked down at the body of the crocodile… …There was so much meat on its bones…so much going to waste… Slowly, a pink tongue slipped from behind his furry, whiskered lips and lapped over them.

Before the Gambling Demon could act on the idea snaking through his mind (and causing even more rumbles in his belly), he heard a voice call his name. Husk looked up and saw another imp - this time a female - come scampering towards him. “What’s up?” he demanded to know. “Sorry, Boss, but an important package just arrived for you,” the imp lady said, politely. “They said it was very urgent, so I brought it directly to your office. I wanted to make sure you knew right away.” “Hmmm…where’d this package come from?” “From the Wrath Ring,” replied the imp. Husk’s eyes widened for a moment…then narrowed again as a sinister smile sliced across his face. “Finally,” he said, then nodded to the imp. “Thanks, dollface. Think I’m gonna head up there now. I’m leavin’ the rest o’ the staff in charge o’ tables. But first…” He snapped his fingers, and the money on the table he’d claimed disappeared in a puff of green smoke. “There, straight to the vault,” he nodded to himself, then waved the Imp away. “Get somebody to run this one. An’ spread the word I’m not to be disturbed.” “Yes, Boss Husk,” the imp lady said, in a servile sort of voice, and scurried away to carry out the Gambling Demon’s bidding. Husk smirked darkly as he headed for the elevators. His stomach let out a bubbling sort of whine, and he rubbed over it, picking up his hat off the chair and popping it onto the top of his head as he went. “Be patient,” he whispered to his own belly. “Trust me, have I got a treat for you…”

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Colby Jack was the head of the Cheddarworth Gang. And yes, you’re allowed to laugh at those very silly names, dear reader. Pretty much everybody else in Hell did. Admittedly, it was usually to their detriment. The Cheddarworth gang was a band of thirteen outlaws - all resembling anthropomorphic rats - that waylaid travelers in the Circle of Wrath, robbing them of goods and money and usually killing them just for the fun of it. They were old-fashioned highway robbers, like the villains of a Spaghetti Western…but with whiskers and wormy tails. Colby Jack, their leader, was the meanest and most nasty of the lot. He looked it, too. He was larger than the other rat-men, with a burly gut and brawny limbs. His long tail was like that of a rat, save for a barbed stinger at the very tip, like the point of a scorpion’s tail. An eyepatch was over one of his eyes, and he wore a black leather vest, with spikes on the shoulders. Black fingerless gloves were on his hands, and black boots upon his feet, along with a black leather belt with a skull-shaped buckle of silver. The top of it all was a black derby hat upon his head; the only part of his costume that WASN’T black were the blue jeans that covered his legs, and had to be hitched up frequently due to his corpulent waistline. The twelve other rats all came in different shapes and sizes, but they were all dressed in Western-style outfits, and bore battle scars of some form or another. They looked the role they chose to play. But in this moment, none of the rodent’s were anywhere they recognized; no desert wasteland, no prairie trail, no invaded homestead or secret hideaway in the caves. Instead, as the thirteen rodents began to wake up together, they found themselves in a strangely cool and very dark environment. The surface they were on felt hard, yet not like any normal surface they’d touched before. “Ugh…wh-what happened?” groaned Jack, in a snarly voice, massaging his head. His cranium felt sore and heavy and somewhat hazy; the effect of some sort of drug, he realized. “I…I dunno,” one of the other rats answered in a reedy voice. “Ugh…I feel all woozy, shit,” groused another, in a somewhat lunkheaded-sounding tone. “Where are we?” murmured a third, in a young, light-sounding voice. Before the head of the outlaw team could answer, light suddenly splashed across their eyes, blinding them all for a moment. Colby Jack’s one good eye scrunched shut, then blinked open again. What he and his cohorts saw made them all freeze up, paralyzed with fear, alarm, and disbelief. They were in some sort of box, they realized, seemingly made of cardboard…and the walls were too high for them to climb out of. The rats, once the size of men (or even larger) were now seemingly the size of…well…rats. SMALL rats. Mice, really. The recognition of their boxy surroundings wasn’t the biggest giveaway of the situation, however. That came from the figure that loomed over the assorted rodents, smirking down at them with evil yellow eyes. Smirking down…and purring.

Husk chuckled again, as he peered into the large box that he’d found waiting for him in his office. It was labeled “Hellion’s Bakery,” which seemed fitting, as there was a Baker’s Dozen worth of live demonic rodents inside the container. His tail swished happily behind him as he wiggled his rump happily in his chair, a slight twinge of kittenish excitement flooding through him as he saw the tiny things peering up at him with their small, red eyes. “Gentlemen,” he greeted with a bow of his head and a tip of his hat. “Enchante.” “Overlord Husk,” whispered Jack to himself…then gathered his courage and stood up. “Wh-what are you doing here?” Husk blinked boredly, and waved a hand around airily. “Well, this is MY office, in MY casino, so…I think ya might be askin’ the wrong question there. Try again.” “How did you get so big?!” the reedy-voiced rat yelled. “Ah, now that’s a bit more like it!” snickered Husk. “Here’s the answer: I didn’t get big. Y’all just got real small.” “And how did that happen?” the younger rat half-whimpered, clearly more frightened of the Overlord than the others were. Husk reached into an inner pocket of his suitcoat, and pulled out a vial of strange pink liquid. “ ‘Cause o’ this,” he grunted, waggling the vial about teasingly. “I had one o’ my guys find yer hideaway, an’ they slipped just a little bit o’ this into yer pork belly an’ beans. With cheese. Ugh…you little shits don’t have much in the way o’ tastebuds, do ya? Moment I heard THAT was yer dinner, I think I nearly puked.” “Don’t knock it till ya try it!” chirped the lunkhead-sounding rat…only for Jack to smack him upside the head. “Ow! What was that for, boss?” “To shut you up,” Jack replied, matter-of-factly, and looked back up at Husk. He couldn’t deny he felt rather…apprehensive. The reasons why were obvious, and hardly need be stated; indeed, the simple sight of seeing an Overlord leering down at him, seemingly ten to twenty times bigger than they should have been, was more than enough to scare the head of the Cheddarworth Gang. “Okay. So…you had us shrunk down and brought here,” the head bandit said. “What for? I thought we had a deal!”

Husk’s smile faded into a chilling, frosty glower. “Yer right, Jack,” he said. “We DID have a deal. Lemme see…how’d it go again? Oh, yeah: I provide you with weapons an’ a place in Wrath you can call home, an’ all you’ve gotta do is turn over fifty percent of everythin’ you earn to me, each year, an’ keep the other fifty percent between you and the gang.” Husk leaned in closer to the opening of the box, till his whole head seemed to consume the vision of the tiny spectators who trembled inside. “So…where’s my fifty percent?” “W-We sent it to you!” Jack protested, coughing a bit. Husk’s breath was puffing into the box with every word, and it didn’t smell all that pleasant: a bit like a combo of rotten fish and bad beer. “You sent me money. You didn’t send me fifty percent,” corrected Husk, and pulled back with a glare. “When ya make deals with the Gamblin’ Demon, you oughta know better than to try an’ cheat ‘im.” Colby Jack squirmed. He glanced around at his twelve bandits. Reedy was glaring up with apprehension mixed with defiance. Lunkhead was just blinking up, rather dumbly, as if he didn’t fully understand the situation. And Junior was shaking with fear, clearly the most terrified of them all. The other nine were all in various states of confusion and fear. Jack looked back up at Husk, who had raised an eyebrow expectantly. The outlaw master knew better than to deny the situation: he and his crew had figured that if they could send just twenty percent to the Gambling Demon, they could still get away with it. After all, they had more mouths to feed, more to worry about, and Husk almost never even bothered with their operations - after all, he was a casino owner, first and foremost. But it seemed this ploy had been a bust. Now, all he could do was try to gain the demon lord’s mercy…if, indeed, Husk had any mercy one could gain. “Alright,” Jack said, in a slowly, cautious way. “I’m…I’m not gonna deny it. But…but what do you plan to do to us?” Husk smirked anew. “Heh. Straight to the point. I like that aboutcha, Jack. I’m the same way. So, I’m gonna cut right to the chase and ask y’all a couple questions…”

He pointed to himself, addressing all of the Cheddarworth Gang at once.. “First off, what am I?” “Uh…an Overlord?” Lunkhead replied. “Besides that.” “A c-cat?” stuttered Junior. “Mostly,” nodded Husk, and then reached down and poked Junior in the stomach with one claw. “And what are all of you?” “R-rats?” Junior peeped, covering the spot where he’d been poked. “Good boy,” grinned Husk at the young rodent, showing off his jagged yellow teeth. “And what do cats do to rats?” For a moment, every single one of the animals in the box was silent. Junior was frozen solid, pale as a sheet, staring into the Overlord’s enlarged eyes. Colby Jack bit his lip, clenching his fists, as he could see his other crooks shifting uncomfortably, clearly getting scared by the implication. It was Reedy who answered. “Eat them,” he shivered. “Cats…eat rats.” “Theeeeere ya go,” chuckled Husk with a nod, and tossed his head towards a clock he kept on the wall. It was shaped like a playing card club. “Right now’s my lunch break…” GRRRLLLB… Husk shivered and clutched his stomach with both paws. “Ooh-hoof…heh…an’ as y’all can hear, I’m REAL fuckin’ hungry,” he went on. “Puttin’ the pieces together yet?” The rats all began to back up, inching towards the back of the box. A few started to jump up and try to grab hold of the sides of the box, but it was too high for them to reach. “Heh. Sure looks like it,” snickered Husk. “Ain’t no point in tryin’ to run away, meatballs. See, the antidote for this is downstairs. An’ trust me, you ain’t leavin’ this office unless I allow it. Yer not even gettin’ offa my desk.” “S-So…so that’s it, then?” Jack exclaimed, trying to sound indignant, but unable to keep the tremor from his voice. “You’re…you’re just gonna EAT us?!” Husk opened his mouth to answer…but before he could, Lunkhead suddenly began to cry. “I DON’T WANNA BE CAT FOOD!” he wailed, and began to bawl, leaping into the startled Reedy’s arms like a scared housewife. “I’M TOO YOUNG TO DI-HI-HIE! BWAAAAAAAA!” Husk growled, ears flattening back. “Oh, for the love of…! Somebody shut his trap or he’s the first one I’m gonna wolf down!”

Reedy nodded, and dropped Lunkhead like a sack of potatoes. The dumb rat squeaked and then looked up with a whimper, his own ears flattened back. He sniffled childishly. “Thank you,” droned Colby Jack, then looked up at Husk. “Sorry about that.” Husk just scoffed. “You got a lot more to be sorry for,” he said. “Anyway…lucky fer you scumbags, I’m no ordinary cat. Otherwise you’d already be in my stomach.” “So…y-you’re not gonna eat us?” piped up Junior, timidly. “That depends,” smirked Husk. “On what?!” Reedy demanded to know. “You’ll find out in a sec,” winked Husk with a chuckle, and stood up from his desk, leering down at his victims. “First…I’m gonna get myself a drink. Don’t try to get away while I’m at it; trust me, it’s not gonna work out fer ya. An’ I don’t mind startin’ my lunch a little early…” So saying, Husk licked his lips, and then stalked away from the desk. The rats inside could hear his footsteps as he moved to another part of the office, and soon heard the sounds of him sorting through the bottles he kept in his liquor cabinet. For a moment, there was silence…then… “We’ve gotta get outta here!” one of the rats exclaimed. “But how?” another said. “We can’t climb out!” “What if we stood on each other’s shoulders?” a third suggested. “That’ll took too long with all thirteen of us!” protested a fourth. “Will you fuckwits shut it?!” snapped Colby Jack. “We’re not goin’ anywhere!” “Ya mean you’re given’ up?!” the fifth of the rats gasped. “But boss, we’ll be eaten alive! Literally!” a sixth wailed. “Shut up and listen!” Colby Jack thundered. When the rats all stopped squeaking, he went on: “That stupid cat is right. We try to get out, and there’s nowhere we can go. Not all of us, anyway.” “What do you mean ‘all of us?” the seventh cried out. Jack smirked, and waved for all thirteen to gather close to him. He paused, listening, and could hear Husk muttering to himself - “God damn it, where’s my good bourbon? Not in the mood fer the cheap shit…” - which told him the cat was still distracted. In a hushed voice, he addressed the gang. “One of us,” he said, “Just one has gotta climb outta here. I bet I know where he’s keeping the antidote.” “Where?” whispered Junior. “One of the back rooms of the casino, where they keep a lot of the supplies,” said Colby Jack. “I’ve been here before, and that fuzzy freak keeps a ton of weird stuff in those rooms. If one of us can get downstairs and find it, the rest of us might have a chance.” “Why don’t we all try?” suggested Reedy.

“Because, like they said, we don’t have time,” Jack said patiently, tossing his head towards one of his minions. “And I don’t think he’s gonna kill us right away. One of us has a chance of slipping past him quickly. But we have to act now.” Jack paused, then began to speak, “So, I’ll just go downstairs. Lunkhead, can you give me a hand up?” “Sure, boss!” said the dumb rat. “Good, then let’s-” “No, boss!” Jack blinked. It was Junior who had spoken up. “No?” he repeated, and narrowed his eyes. “And why not? I’m the leader, aren’t I?” “Yeah, and that’s the point,” Junior nodded. “If one of us leaves, that overgrown housecat might not notice, but if YOU leave…” Jack bit his lip hard. He was trying hard not to get angry: he had been lying through his teeth the whole time. He had no idea how to get any of them back to normal, if there even was a method…but he’d hoped he could use this ploy to escape himself. Creating a new gang was easy. The other rats, in his mind, were expendable: all that mattered was getting away with his money and finding a way to avoid Husk’s wrath. Even if he remained puny for the rest of time, not having his body and soul gobbled up was worth it. Unfortunately, Junior had raised a good point, and Jack couldn’t think of a way to argue it without giving his hand away. He would have to find a different method to escape…but first, he decided, he’d need to get rid of Junior. He was the closest thing to an honest person in the gang, and that was dangerous. “Fine then,” he nodded, and then smirked. “How ‘bout you, kid? Think you got the guts for this job?” Junior’s courage faltered. He squirmed nervously. “I…w-well, I dunno, boss…what if he s-sees me?” “He won’t,” soothed Reedy, interjecting smoothly with a smarmy smile. “C’mon, Junior…you’re new to the gang, after all. This is a good time to show us all what you can really bring to the party, don’t you think?” “Yeah! You can make it!” urged another rat. “But you’ve gotta move now,” warned another. “Show us what you’ve got, kid!” a third challenged. Junior looked around at his other gang members. All of them nodded solemnly. He took a breath and nodded back. “Okay. I’ll do it. Lunkhead, give me a lift…” Meanwhile, as this conference was going on, Husk stood with his back to the desk. He calmly lifted a bottle of bourbon from his personal storage of alcoholic beverages, and popped the cork. He sniffed the contents and nodded to himself, satisfied, before grabbing a glass… …Then one of his fluffy ears swiveled as he heard a rattling and a scraping sound. He froze up for a moment…then, a rather drab, frustrated look crossed his features. He knew that sound…the sound of little claws scraping against the cardboard…of a small, soft body dropping onto the desktop. Of tiny toes tip-tapping towards the edge of the table, delicately…

The cat closed his eyes and shook his head. He put his glass and bottle down. He took a deep breath. “...Dumbasses.” Then…with a feral screech, like an alley cat, he whirled around and pounced faster than any of the rat-faced demons expected. Junior barely had time to squeal in fear as Husk flew across the room back to his desk. He was so stunned, he failed to even TRY to run to the edge of the desk and leap down. In an instant, Husk slammed into the desk, making it rattle, and his jaws swooped down, wide open, towards the rat ruffian. Junior had just enough time to get a good look at the cat-like demon’s open maw - at the drool dripping from his nasty fangs, at the scarlet tint of his gums, at the mottled pink-and-black flesh of the mouth and the thick, sloppy, sandpapery tongue in the middle of it all, all trailing back into a dark, abyssal gullet… …Before those vast jaws snapped around him. CHOMPH! The other rats all winced and shuddered as Husk lifted his head, looking annoyed as a long, supple tail still wiggled around beyond his lips, like a worm on a fishing hook. With a loud SSSLLLUUURRRRLLLLP, the Gambling Demon sucked the tail into his mouth. His cheeks bulged for a moment…then he tossed his head back and swallowed once. GULP! Husk then glared down at his captured ex-associates, before leaning closer to the opening of the baked goods box they were inside. He then opened his maw, showing off the inside of his hot, horrible mouth to them. Several shuddered with horror, and Colby Jack noticeably backed away, inching behind Doepy (whose teeth chattered with fear), as they could see Junior scrabbling at the back of the feathered feline’s maw, trying to avoid dropping down into the esophagus. “No…no, please…PLEASE, MR. HUSK! DON’T EAT ME!” Junior wailed. “DON’T! BOSS! BOSS, HELP ME-RRRMMMLLLGPH…! GLUCK! Husk gave an opened mouth swallow. His tongue rose up, pressing Junior into the throat…and when it lowered, he was gone. Swallowed alive. Husk let his empty maw hang open for a second or two before licking his teeth and closing his mouth. He gave a rather grumpy sort of look at the twelve remaining rodents. Not enraged. No furious. Not disappointed. Just…grumpy. As if they were a bunch of idle children compared to him, irritating him with their antics. “Y’all can consider that a warning,” he growled, then grunted and stood up to his full height. He thumped his chest and let out a thick, disgusting belch. “BUUURRRRRUUUUULLLLK! Mph…damn…li’l idiot’s a real kicker, gotta give him points for that…” His claws swept down and almost elegantly undid the buttons of his coat, revealing the fluffy white belly beneath; he wore no vest or shirt, instead his chest fluff had markings resembling black buttons. His claws scratched at his lithe, gurgling gut, which had just a tiny amount of fat to pad it out in a pillowy way. “Here’s how this is gonna work,” he said, putting some of that “Overlord oomph” into his voice, strict and firm. “I’m about to give all of you a chance to escape. You might not HAVE to be my food today at all. We’re gonna play ourselves a game: if any of y’all win, then yer free to leave my casino, full size an’ all, and head on back to the Ring o’ Wrath like nothing ever happened. No more deals, no more threats, no more worryin’ about me an’ my appetites. But if y’all try any o’ that shit again, I’m callin’ that a forfeit. Bottom line: either you play by my rules, or you go down the hatch. Got it?”

“G-Got it!” Colby Jack exclaimed, and his eleven mob members all voiced similar words of agreement. “Good,” smirked Husk, and walked back across the room. He grabbed his bottle and glass, then returned to the table and sat down. Once he did, he lifted a hand and snapped his fingers…and summoned a deck of cards into his paw. “So, if yer all payin’ attention now, here’s the rules,” he said, as he began to shuffle the deck. “I’m guessin’ at least a few of y’all have played strip poker, or know what it is?” “Oh, yeah! That’s the boss’ favorite game! Uh…but he always loses,” chortled Lunkhead. Jack growled, flustered and embarrassed as he glared daggers at Lunkhead. “Shut yer pie hole, you cheese-brained idiot.” “But he asked, Boss!” insisted Lunkhead. Husk just rolled his eyes. “Well, then I don’t need to explain how the game itself works. Here’s how this is gonna go down: each and every last one o’ ya li’l fuckers is gonna take a turn. I’ll deal you a hand - I’ve got a card stand here, before you ask, I know you can’t exactly hold these - and if you win that hand, I’ll let you live. If you lose…” He pointed into his open mouth with a sadistic grin. “...Get the picture? Simple enough, huh?” “Y-Yeah,” nodded Jack, with a shudder, and his other cronies agreed. “It’s…it’s simple enough. So, uh…who’s going first?” “How about YOU decide?” suggested Husk, raising an eyebrow. Colby Jack held back the urge to sigh with utmost relief: he’d been hoping he could do that. And he knew exactly who to pick. “Lunkhead,” he ordered. “You’re on.” “M-Me?!” Lunkhead squeaked. “B-But boss, I’m AWFUL at poker! I’m worse than you are!” “Not my problem,” Jack replied, and pointed. “Step up and play the first hand.” “B-But…but what if I lose?” whimpered Lunkhead. “It’s either play now or play later,” growled the one-eyed rat. “Now get over there, or I swear I’ll kill you myself!” Shocked, Lunkhead begrudgingly obeyed. He gulped nervously and stepped forward, raising a hand. “I…I’ll be first, Mr. Overlord, sir!” he called out. “Heh. Kinda figured that,” snorted Husk and reached down. He held out a hand, claws spread out, palm up and open. “Hop on. I’m not gonna hurt ya…not unless you lose.”

This wasn’t very reassuring, but Lunkhead obeyed all the same. Husk lifted him up in the palm of his paw, and then placed him on the desktop beside the box. It was a credit to Lunkhead’s intelligence (or perhaps to his stupidity) that he didn’t even CONSIDER running away once his paws were on solid ground. Instead, he sat down, nervously fidgeting, as Husk inched a wooden card stand close to him and gave the deck one last shuffle. Then, he dealt out five cards for himself…and made a show of closing his eyes as he did the same for Lunkhead, so he wouldn’t see what the cards where as he placed them on the stand. “Now,” he said, slapping the deck down and lifting his hand to take a peek. “Let’s play.” For a moment, there was silence as the two players looked at their cards. Husk calmly peeked over his hand at Lunkhead. He smirked when he saw the rat wipe a bead of sweat from his fuzzy forehead. He was trembling from his whiskers to the tip of his tail. “Well? Gonna stick with your hand, or would you like to call?” checked Husk, swishing his tail with amusement as Lunkhead whimpered. “I…w-well, uh…um…I’m gonna…” “Clock’s tickin, rat, and my stomach’s churnin’.” “I’ll take five!” squeaked out Lunkhead. Husk barked out a laugh, and shook his head, as he waved for Lunkhead to toss away the cards. The rat carefully removed each of the strips of colored card stock - which were actually taller than he was, but thankfully also very light - and watched as Husk dealt him a brand new hand. “Now, whatever happens, you have to stick with it,” warned Husk. “R-Right, I-I know that, Mr. Overlord,” said Lunkhead. He was shaking. He was shaking very very hard. Husk purred. He inhaled and shivered. The smell of fear…so tasty… He could already feel his belly rumbling more, even as Junior squirmed around inside his stomach. The sensation of those tiny fists banging at his belly walls made him quiver…he had the feeling he’d be sensing that a lot more intensely very soon… “I’m keepin’ my hand,” he shrugged. “So…do you call, or do you fold?” “Call!” Lunkhead cried out, impulsively. Husk grinned, and turned his cards around with his wrist. Lunkhead turned the card stand around, in turn, and each looked at the other’s hand. The look on Lunkhead’s terrified face made Husk feel goosebumps of predatory excitement: the rat-faced little demon had a mere one pair: two fives (one of spades, one of hearts), followed by the Two of Spades, the Three of Clubs, and the Four of Diamonds. It was an absolutely awful hand. Meanwhile, Husk had managed to get a nearly unbeatable Straight Flush: he had the Queen, the Knave, the Eight, the Nine, and the Ten of Spades, all lined up in a neat little row. “Jackpot,” hissed Husk, and slapped down his cards before reaching out with his claws. “Now c’mere…!” “NO!” Lunkhead wailed, and scrambled away, racing not to the edge of the table but towards the box. “BOSS, SAVE ME! SAVE ME-AGH!”

Husk chuckled darkly as his claws snatched Lunkhead up by the tail, and lifted him into the air. He squeaked and squealed, limbs flailing through empty space as he was hoisted up, up, up…seemingly a mile away from the floor, and who-knew-how-many-feet off the surface of the desk. He could see Jack, Reedy, and the other rats all watching with tense horror…then, all he saw was Husk’s face. He whimpered as the feathered feline smirked at him with half-lidded eyes, leaning back in his chair…his free hand rubbing over his bared belly. Then, Husk opened his mouth. Lunkhead felt tears prickle his eyes as he gazed into the steaming, stinking, slimy maw of the hungry cat demon. The purring echoed up into his ears. “P-Please!” he whimpered. “P-Please, gimme another chance! One more hand! Mercy!” Husk just smiled a little wider. He didn’t say anything. Not even as he released Lunkhead’s tail. Lunkhead let out a yowling scream…which was cut short as he plunged head first into the mouth of the cat. Husk snapped his jaws shut, and - just like with Junior - slurped up Lunkhead’s tail. He then placed a claw to his throat, as all the rats could see a lump form in his gullet…and squirm its way down his neck…past his chest…until, with a sigh, Husk felt his prey drop into his stomach. He let out an “Mmmmmm” of pleasure as he felt Lunkhead and Junior get tangled up around one another, each struggling in the pit of his belly. “Ahhhhhhmmmmmmmm…two down,” he mused, and patted his stomach happily…before opening one eye and grinning wickedly, his wings fluttering with anticipation. “Heh…and still eleven more to go. So…” He gestured towards the waiting card stand and the deck beside it. “...Who wants to play next?” For a moment, there was no answer…then, suddenly, one of the rodents yelped as Colby Jack shoved him forward. “B-Boss?!” “Play the game!” Jack shouted, and then snarled, rounding on his fellow rats. “We got no choice now! Damn it all to Here, I’ll make each one of you pla, if I have to!” Whatever reasons the rats of the Cheddarworth Gang had to obey their wild leader, they worked wonders. The rat who had been shoved forward flinched, but gave in, nodding to Husk as a signal he was ready to go next. Husk, who had been watching the exchange with amusement, just nodded back, and scooped up the mousey thing before setting him in place and dealing the cards. About a minute later, that same rodent was screaming the word “PLEASE!” repeatedly, as he lost the Hand (“Three of a Kind beats Two Pair. Sorry, ratface. Down the hatch!”) and was shoved into the maw of the titanic Overlord. Husk’s cheeks bulged for a moment as he suckled and slurped on his prey - clearly enjoying the flavor, given how his purring seemed to vibrate the very air around the remaining rat-men - before GULPing down his second victim. He grunted and patted his gut, then flexed a claw beckoning at the rest, with a simple call of, “Next up!”

Thus, a third rat was shoved forward…and lost their hand just as badly. So it continued. One by one, each of the rats was drawn from the box: a fourth, a sixth, an eighth, et cetera. For the dwindling number of whiskered bandits, watching with their miniature eyes, it was like a horror show brought to terrifying life: each of their fellows squealed and cried, pleading before they were fed into the mouth of the giant cat. Husk showed no mercy; he was grinning and smirking and generally showing total joy the entire time. Sometimes he would stuff the mice into his mouth, their flailing limbs and twitching tails being sucked past his lips before a wriggling bulge descended his throat. Other times he would dangle them over his jaws, teasingly holding them by the tail before either dropping them straight down his gullet, or lowering them steadily into his mouth and slurping them up sloppily, spittle spattering past his black, rubbery lips. Either way, he feasted. And the rest could do nothing but watch and listen to the screams for mercy and help that would never be offered. They couldn’t do anything for their fellows, and nobody else was around to even try and come to their aid. The office was deathly silent, aside from the gulping, slurping, and occasional burping that accompanied each morsel’s consumption. There was little decorum in his gorging; he wasn’t interested in savoring his food. Just the eating mattered; just getting them into his stomach. Colby Jack watched the demon cat carefully. If he could catch the Gambling Demon cheating, he hoped he could use that to his advantage. After all, nobody could be THIS lucky, to not lose a single hand after so many tries! He did notice that every time a new pair of hands were dealt out, the birdcat would shuffle the cards again…but there was nothing inherently suspicious in that. Beyond that slight, arguable oddity, there were no signs of anything that could even remotely hint at the cat cheating: he never saw him draw a card from his sleeve, never saw him glance at the cards as he shuffled them, never saw anything that could imply a cheat or act as a tell for a scheme. He simply had the luck of the Devil on his side, it seemed. “GWWWUUUUUHHHUUUURRRRRRLLLPK! Mph…felt good comin’ up…” Husk leaned back lazily in his chair. One paw picked his teeth crudely with a claw, the other resting on his middle. His abdomen was visibly growing swollen, puffing up as he now had eleven rats all wriggling around inside his stomach. His paw roamed across his belly, pushing through the fabric of his custom-cut suit, fingers pressing lightly upon the churning mass in his gut. Another thick, rumbling belch rolled out of him, blown out the side of his mouth in a crude fashion as he nonchalantly fished a scrap of fur from between his teeth and flicked it away. To the Overlord, the outlaws in his stomach were no more than meat, and he treated them exactly the same way: no taunting, no cruel mockery…just more fuel to be processed. “I hafta admit…ya li’l shits are more fillin’ than I expected,” he mumbled, and sat up straighter, still palming his belly, to look into the last two rats in the box. “Still got room for more. So, Jack…guessin’ yer last li’l pal here’s gonna be next on the menu?” Jack looked towards the “last li’l pal” in question: it was Reedy. The thin, high-pitched rat glanced back at his boss. Jack smiled faintly and nodded, trying to look reassuring. Reedy just blinked at him. There was a tired, hollow sort of look in his eyes. It was clear he didn’t buy for a second that Jack had any real encouragement to give, or that they could get out of this…nor even that his boss ever had any interests in mind other than his own. He then looked up at Husk.

“I am,” was all he said. “Fine by me,” shrugged Husk, and stretched out his paw. “C’mon up, runt. Let’s play.” Reedy obediently stepped into the center of Husk’s paw. Like the ten other rodents before him (not counting poor Junior), he was placed down in front of the card stand, and the paper-printed strips were dealt out. Reedy inspected the cards with a drab expression. It wasn’t a bad hand, to be honest: in fact, it was an EXTREMELY good one. Four of a Kind: he had all the Aces, plus the Seven of Spades. There actually weren’t very many hands that could beat that. Reedy looked up. Husk was looking at his own cards quietly. The rat narrowed his eyes, trying to find some hint of weakness. Some sign of anxiety, of vulnerability…some hint that this hand would be different. That Husk had a chance of losing. That he, Reedy, could somehow survive. There was nothing. The Gambling Demon had the most perfect poker face imaginable. Husk caught the rat staring at him, and arched an eyebrow. “Well?” he grunted. “You gonna call for more cards?” Reedy looked at his hand, then back at Husk. He shook his head silently. “Suit yourself,” shrugged Husk. He then tossed two cards away and plucked two more from the deck into his hand. Once again, he showed no sign of concern. Reedy looked at his hand upon the stand, at the cards looming over his shrunken form. It was an impressive hand…yet somehow…he felt it wouldn’t be enough. “Call?” questioned Husk, calmly. Reedy paused…then shook his head. “Fold.” Husk blinked. He looked surprised. “What?” he murmured. “I fold,” Reedy said. “It means I surrender. I forfeit the game.” “I know what it MEANS, ya li’l dipshit,” sneered Husk. “But…seriously? Yer not even gonna try?” Reedy glared back. “What’s the point?” he retorted. “I don’t know if you’re cheating or playing fair, but there’s no reason to expect this will end differently. I give up! You win!” He spread out his arms, walking around the card stand. “Go ahead! Eat me! JUST EAT ME!” Husk blinked, looking a bit startled by the sudden rant. Gradually, his expression cooled…and he shrugged. “Jeeze…fine, if yer gonna be that way…”

Husk slapped down his cards, face-down, and then reached out and snatched up Reedy by the tail. Then, he tossed him upwards into the air. Reedy squeaked shrilly, taken off-guard by the action; the sound was cut short by the wind being knocked out of him was he flipped head over heels towards the ceiling…then plummeted like a meteor back down towards Husk. The Gambling Demon was waiting with an open mouth and a greedy gut. SNAP! GUUULLLP! “BUUUUURRRRRP! Mph…fuckin’ wastin’ my time like that, I hope that one digests slowly,” muttered Husk, wiping some gob from his jowls with a grimace. Curiosity piqued, he decided to look at the hand he’d just been denied seeing… …And his eyes widened when he saw the high-ranking pick of five his tiny opponent had been dealt. He then flipped his own cards over: all he’d had was a comparatively humble Flush, and obviously one without a single Ace, at that. “Huh. You actually woulda survived, if you’d Called,” he muttered, and clucked his tongue, crinkling his snout. “Shit…can’t tell if I oughta be grateful or not, that’s just fuckin’ pathetic…” Husk slapped his gut; it wobbled at his touch, and he smirked slightly. Over the gastric gurgles that signified a stomach hard at work, he could hear muffled whines and keening noises as his prey were mashed and pumped around in his swirling stomach. He could feel the muscles of his belly stretch as they pushed and kicked at his stomach walls, even make out light lumps beneath the cloth of his costume as puny fists and shrunken feet tried to keep the gastric cell from doing its digestive duty. He chuffed through his nose. “Such fuckin’ pathetic snacks,” he mumbled, and stifled another burp, cheeks ballooning as he lifted a fist to repress it. “BRRRLLLMMMPH…phoosh! Ugh…disgustin’...I can taste the damn bourbon on that one…” Husk puffed the excess gas away and fanned his face…then, still scratching his belly with one hand, he looked to the box and smirked superciliously. His golden eyes quickly connected with the scared, beady little optics of Colby Jack, alone in the box where his whole gang had once stood. “Heh…and then there was one,” Husk almost sang out, bobbing his head a bit with each word. Colby Jack glared, and backed up. His scorpion-barbed tail twitched warningly. Husk snickered. “C’mon, Jack. Y’know that li’l hairpin ain’t gonna do shit to me. ‘Specially not now,” he said. “I am NOT going to be your lunch.” Husk smirked wider and rested his head in one hand, looking at the shrunken rat-demon with all the smug satisfaction of a cat eyeing up a canary before pulling it apart. “That’s right, Jack. Yer not. Because y’all ain’t WORTH bein’ my lunch. On your own, rat? You ain’t NOTHIN’. Yer a small fry of the highest order…or should I say ‘lowest order’? Either way, nobody’s gonna miss you when yer gone. You were just one more thing makin’ Hell that little bit more fuckin’ miserable, wastin’ yer time scroungin’ fer scraps like the vermin you were in life…and the rat ya became in death.”

“Shut up,” snarled Colby Jack, clenching his fists. “Shut up, SHUT UP, YOU OVERGROWN-!” Husk snarled and lashed out, suddenly grabbing Colby Jack firmly in one fist. Only his head and tail were free from the curling, clawed fingers, which tightened threateningly around him as Husk glared daggers at the puny insubordinate rodent. “Y’ALL DON’T TELL ME TO SHUT UP!” he roared. “I’m an Overlord, ya country-grown fuckbrain! Yer just a piss-poor excuse for a lesser demon; barely any higher on the food chain than an imp. A fuckin’ scab on Hell’s skin just waitin’ to be peeled off and flicked away. Me?! I’M THE GAMBLIN’ DEMON! If y’all valued yer survival so fuckin’ much, ya should’ve known: when you make a deal with me, yer ass better follow through, otherwise it becomes part o’ MINE!” Colby Jack squirmed. He tried to respond, but his words were choked up in his own throat, rendering any attempt at an audible reaction useless. Husk growled, gave him a squeeze that made his bones creak…then dropped him onto the table. He glared down icily as Jack wheezed, on his hands and knees as he struggled for breath. “One last hand,” said Husk, darkly. “Play the game. Show me you ain’t such a loser, baby, if ya think you got the guts. Otherwise, I can promise you: yer gonna get a real intimate experience of mine.” Jack coughed once…then gave a feeble sort of nod. Husk snorted, content with that response, even as his tail twitched in aggravation behind him, fur and feathers ruffling in various parts of his body. Colby Jack turned the card stand so that it would face him again. He took his seat. He knew now this was his only shot: if he could just win one simple hand of Hold ‘Em, he could be free. He could still make it out alive. But this was the only way, the only option, the only chance. He was going to take it. He wouldn’t make the mistakes Reedy and Junior had, and he vowed not to face the same fat as Lunkhead and his other gang members. He was going to live. So, patiently, he waited, watching as Husk shuffled the deck. The demon’s usual smile returned - the one that seemed to indicate he knew something you didn’t. It made Colby Jack feel sick seeing that smile; he silently prayed to a God he’d long betrayed that, someday, Husk might know what it was like to see someone give him that sort of look. Then, the Overlord dealt himself and his opponent each a standard hand of five. The final crisis for the head of the Cheddarworth Gang had begun.

“Let’s play,” Husk hissed, and lifted his hand to inspect it. Jack inspected his cards. His heart began to pitter-patter in his chest. He could feel his breath hitch. He strained to keep his composure, to hold himself steady inside and out: he needed to keep his own poker face on. He had an ASTONISHINGLY good hand: a Straight Flush. The same sort of hand that had defeated Lunkhead, although the cards themselves were different: the rat-man had Ten through Six of Hearts. This wasn’t a problem though: the numbers didn’t matter when one had such an amazing turn. A hand like this was a stroke of almost unbelievable luck! It was nearly undefeatable! Like Reedy before him, Jack looked up to inspect Husk’s face. Like Reedy before him, he found no signs of weakness…but he also spotted no signs of strength. There was no visible tells of supreme confidence, nor of impending victory. Jack had to physically hold himself back from smirking and wagging his wormy tail. In his mind, this could only mean one thing: he might well triumph. He might survive! “Care to exchange cards?” rumbled Husk, in a cool, detached voice. “No,” Jack said, trying to sound equally unconcerned, despite the intense stakes. “I think I’ll stick with what I have.” “Fine by me,” grunted Husk. “I’m doin’ the same. Call?” “Call.” “Good. Then show me your hand first, little rat.” As hurriedly as he could, Colby Jack turned the card stand around. His composure finally slipped away, a slightly manic look of victory on his face. “HA!” he crowed out, pointing madly with one shaking finger. “THAT’S IT! I’VE WON, YOU HAIRBALL! YOU CAN’T BEAT A HAND LIKE THIS, CAN YOU?! YOUR LUCK HAS FINALLY RUN OUT! HA HA HA HA HA!” Husk blinked slowly at Jack as the rat breathed heavily after his brief explosion of spastic glee. “...Ya done?” “...Yeah, yeah, actually, I-I think I’m good.” “Good to know,” smirked Husk. “Because I hate to burst your bubble, boy…” Husk flipped his cards around, revealing his hand. “...But NOTHING beats THIS hand.”

Colby Jack felt as if his heart had broken into 666 pieces and fallen into his feet. The whole world seemed to be paralyzed in a moment of time as he stared with absolute mortification at the Gambling Demon’s winning hand. Somehow, Husk had managed to draw a Royal Flush of Spades. Husk’s smirk became a sinister smile as he saw the blood drain from Colby Jack’s tiny face. The rat’s ears drooped. His one good eye was insanely wide. His scorpion-barbed tail went totally limp. Husk chuckled lowly, and slapped the cards down, rubbing his paws together. “Well. Game’s over, and there’s no point wastin’ anymore time is there?” he teased. “So, if ya don’t mind…I’m gonna finish my lunch.” “NO!” screeched Colby Jack. It was the only word he could think of. The only response he could give to this total defeat. He whirled around, scurrying on all fours like the rat he was towards the edge of the desk. He had no idea if he’d survive the drop to the floor. He had no idea if he’d make it out of the office. He just knew that he had to try and get away. His mind was in animal mode, desperately seeking simple, plain survival. It was a fruitless thing to seek. Before he could leap over the edge of the desktop, he felt the pressure to two clawed fingers grabbing hold of his tail. His stinger flicked back and forth to try and jab at the limbs that held them…and his limbs flailed, thrashed, as if he were a drowning swimmer, as he was pulled up off the desk and into the air. “LET ME GO! LET ME LIVE!” he howled. Husk didn’t even seem to hear his words. He grimaced slightly as he looked at the stinger still trying to poke his hand. “Tch. Yer poison may not mean much in my gut, but I get the feeling that little detail’s gonna be a pain in my ass…possibly literally,” mumbled Husk. He then shrugged. “Ah, well. Guess there’s an easy way to fix that.” SCHLACK! “YYYYEEEEAAAAARRRRRRGH-AH-HHHAAWWWGH!” A wild, feral shriek left Colby Jack, his one good eye all but bugging from his skull as pain struck him. The barbed tip of his tail had been sliced off by one of Husk’s claws, and dropped onto the table below. The slashed section flipped three times in brainless convulsions before going limp, as blood oozed from the wound and dribbled down Jack’s tail. Husk - showing absolutely no concern - flicked the same claw, and it ignited with fire like a cigarette lighter. He then pressed the heated claw to the wound, cauterizing it and stopping the bleeding before things could get too gruesome. “That’ll do,” he said, as if this thoroughly normal, swiping away the heat from his claw the way one might flick the fire away from a match. “You b-bastard,” Jack said, trying hard not to sob as tears of swiftly numbing pain leaked from his eyes. “Yer actin’ like I oughta give a damn about whatever my meat says to me,” Husk replied, boredly. “I toldja, Jack: yer a loser. Y’all should have kept to my deal. Now, yer gonna spend the rest o’ yer time in Hell on my hips, an’ that’s if yer lucky.”

“Don’t…don’t eat me…p-please…!” Husk rolled his eyes. “Man, you an’ yer gang are a broken record. Psh. Ya think I give a damn about all that whinin’ an’ shit?” “I’ll give you anything!” “Uh-huh. Yeah, we tried that,” Husk almost yawned…then his ears pricked up. “Well…actually…I guess there’s one thing I’d like from you an’ the rest o’ yer gang in my belly.” “Yes! Yes, n-name! I’ll give it you! Anything you want, just tell me! JUST TELL ME!” bawled out Jack desperately. Husk smiled sneakily, and moved the rat closer to his mouth. His voice dropped to an appropriately husky whisper. “I want you to squirm, baby,” he said, duskily. “Squirm, suffer, an’ scream. The more you do, the better it feels out here.” Husk pulled Colby Jack away again, just to inspect his horrified, flabbergasted face…then winked and childishly lifted his finger and his thumb in the shape of an L on his forehead. “So long, loser. Have fun in my gut.” So saying, the cat opened his jaws up wide. Colby Jack squealed in terror, shaking his head desperately as he was lowered into the dripping chasm, seeing the saliva snap and stretch between the yellowing fangs. He babbled and yowled as those cavernous jaws inched closer and closer; he gagged as hot, pungent, bourbon-stinking breath pelted his fur and nearly made his toenails curl. Once close enough, he thrust out his arms, pushing against the cat’s supple lips…his fleshy gums…his hard, sharp teeth…before a claw poked his backside and pushed him forcefully into the mouth with a sloppy, choppy sound. Husk sealed his prey into his mouth, closing it up tight. Colby Jack felt his injured tail slide past those lips; felt the suction and heard the slurp around him. All around him, he could feel slime, slime, and more slime. The broad, floppy tongue beneath his rat’s paws rocked like the hull of a sinking ship on the sea, tossing him about and rolling him through the maw’s interior. He cried out as he was spun into one rubbery, tough cheek…then the tongue slapped around him like a fat squid’s tentacle, and smacked him into the other cheek. It lifted up, mashing him into the hard, ribbed palette above him, then slipped him into the pool of salivary glands beneath before slopping on top of him, battering him down like a muscular hammer. As the rat-man struggled - limbs and tail flying out in every direction in a blind attempt to find some method of survival - he heard the deep, low rumble of Husk’s purring. Apparently, he tasted appetizing. Finally, after much suckling and slurping - much more than he’d offered his previous snacks - Husk tilted his head back. Colby Jack knew this because he felt gravity change around him. He was swung back onto the top of the tongue…and began sliding towards the black, throbbing passage of the esophagus. A puff of foul breath burst from the well of meat; it was accompanied by the distant screams of the other rats that once served Jack in his gang. With a frightened, plaintive whine, the rodent cutthroat tried to back away, but he only slid further down no matter how hard his paws tried to push himself out of range of the throat. He scrabbled and squirmed, as his last scream in the maw was cut short by an awful SCHLORP sound, his head and shoulders entering the gullet. From that point on, he was already dead…at least figuratively.

GULLUP! The swallow was an all-encompassing thing; Colby Jack not only heard it, but FELT it, as the muscles of the esophagus seized him, and began to ferry him downwards. Smooth, slick, slippery walls surrounded him on all sides, with a snug closeness that a coffinmaker could not have achieved for their clients with their craft. It was completely black, without a single speck of light, and no matter how the rat’s one eye strained, he couldn’t see a single thing. He therefore jerked in alarm when, suddenly, it felt as if he were being kissed: a rubbery, puckered set of “lips” smushed over his snout…and then came a sensation as if being eaten a second time, as they pulled him through the partition between them, the esophagus pushing him at the same time, hastening his journey. Then, he fell head over heels a short distance through the void…before finally splashing down into a mucky, murky pool, which reminded him of an old bog. Of course, most bogs didn’t have “shores” that felt sticky, hot, and meaty to the touch. Most bogs didn’t echo with deep, bellowing, booming borborygmi. Most bogs weren’t accompanied by the distant drumming of a beating, blackened heart. Most bogs didn’t cause your skin to burn and tingle and smart as waves of gunk splashed over your hide. And while certainly most bogs stank, none smelled quite like a combination of more fermented concoctions than you could shake a stick at; it was like being inside an old bar that had seen better days, the odor of aged alcohol and bad meat filling the inky pit and creating an invisible miasma of lung-burning stench. “H-Help…HELP! HELP MEEEEEE!” Colby Jack’s hoarse, immediate hollering was lost in the damnable collection of similar screams that echoed around him. Within a second of being deposited into the belly of the beast, he fetl the stomach wall buck against him like an angry bull, and he was thrown headlong into a scrambling pile of madly fumbling limbs and heaving bodies. He felt an elbow crack against his spine, and a knee push into his gut. A foot banged its way into a place near his ischium, and another skull bopped against his shoulder blade. Everywhere he tried to turn, tried to claw his way to the top, some other rodent would step on him, smack him away, or just knock him down. He yelled at them to stop, shrieked for them to listen to him…but there was no organization here. He was no longer their boss. Only meat like the rest. Just a dying animal, struggling for life…and as a splash of acid from the ever-pulsing, every churning stomach walls soured his mouth and left him spitting and sobbing in agonized despair, somehow Jack knew: he wasn’t going to win that struggle. “BUUUUUURRRRRRRLLLLLYYYYAAAAAARRRRRK!” Outside, Husk belched sloppily…then grimaced, and reached into his mouth with a claw, sticking out his tongue as he peeled something off of it. He blinked at it, sniffed it, and grimaced further, scrunching up his heart-shaped snoot in disgust. It was a small scrap of cloth he soon recognized as Colby Jack’s eyepatch. “Gross,” he muttered, and flicked it into the nearby trash bin without another thought. He then wiped his claws on his suitcoat before sighing and reclining in his chair. A satisfied, half-lidded smile soon stretched across the cat’s face as he placed one hand behind his head, crossing his legs, and let the other arm drape itself over his stomach. His tail curled with pleasure; he could feel every single rat wriggling around just beneath his skin. It was a beautiful feeling, really…that sense of power over his prey, and the satiating fullness of a fine meal. He burped again, this time with a note of victory, and patted his gut proudly.

“That’s it…keep strugglin’, boys. Struggle till you can’t fight anymore,” he rumbled. “You’re trapped, and it’ll get worse with every hour…an’ I promise you, it’s gonna be PLENTY of hours till you stop kickin’. My gut likes to take its time with sinners like you. But soon enough, y’all an’ your souls are gonna be mine. Psh. Not even that, yer gonna be ME. There won’t BE a ‘you’ anymore. Not that anybody’s even gonna give a damn…I definitely won’t…” Husk shivered happily, licking his fangs as he heard a few shrill screams and felt his gut clench up with “glort” sound. Snickering, he purposefully flexed it again, and growled with pleasure as he felt a few rats get more tightly packed than before…heard a few muffled sounds of anguish. He wasn’t sure, but he thought one of the screams might have been Jack’s. “I’ll melt y’all down an’ make you disappear,” he sighed, almost dreamily, drawing circles over his stomach with one claw. “I’d say it’ll feel heavenly, but…heh…well, present location bein’ what it is…” His stomach just warbled in reply, and he rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, bad joke, I know,” he grumbled, grabbing the bourbon he’d had on hand this whole time, and taking a swig to wash the food down. He moaned as he felt the liquor spill down and pour over the heads of his assorted morsels inside, before lowering the bottle back onto the table with a wet, bubbly belch… …Then he blinked as he heard a soft bell ring out. The winged beast glanced up at the clock. He hummed thoughtfully as he saw that his lunch break was already over. He’d given himself a nice, long one…but after all, this was his casino. And duty called. There were more souls to collect…more deals to make…more games to win. With a wicked smile, Husk kicked himself out of his chair. He staggered slightly, shuddering as he felt a bit heavier with so much meat stewing in his stomach. His stomach sloshed heavily as gravity changed, and he hiccuped before grabbing the unfinished bottle. He took another swig and began to walk out of the office. “Well, boys…you all enjoy your stay in my ‘negotiating chambers,’” he slithered. “Heh…who knows? Maybe before the evening is out…” He scratched the soft, silky underside of his stomach. “...I’ll have found somebody for dinner.” Swishing his tail and bouncing his hips, humming to a ragtime-esque tune only he could hear, Husk the Gambling Demon swaggered out into the hall, and headed to the casino. He rubbed his sloshing, swaying stomach the whole way. It was so good to be an Overlord…and a good meal always made him feel like a winner. The End

#kink fic #fanfic #vore #my writing #commission #fatal vore #macro/micro #digestion #belching #burping #hazbin hotel #husk #overlord husk

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