benjaminthewolf - Tumblr blog

benjaminthewolf · 27 days ago

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Conformation bias pleeeeeeeeeeeeease work with me here-

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benjaminthewolf · 2 months ago

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The person I reblogged this from is awesome as fuck.

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benjaminthewolf · 2 months ago

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What are you talking about? Should people not help the marginalized members of their community?

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benjaminthewolf · 5 months ago

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benjaminthewolf · 5 months ago

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Warm Refuge (Demo Pred)

*Growls softly as I crawl out of my cave.* "Me gib story from prompt." *Tosses out the following pages* *Slinks back into cave.*

****

Your body gives a violent spasm as a shockwave rattles its way through your bones. The force knocks you deeper beneath the heap of scraps and rubble you sought refuge under. A puff of dust swirls around you and aggravates your lungs, a violent coughing fit erupting from your trachea as a result.

Your eyes fog up as tears are secreted to wash away the irritants upon your eyelids. That was when a blob of the color brown appeared at the corner of your peripheral vision.

"Aye! What~ya...what'~er~ya doin'~'ere...ya-" the most drunken, Scottish accent you've ever heard babbles out. You scrunch up like a rolly-polly and wait for death to come.

You yelp as the Scotsman's fingers wrap around you, hoisting you up off the ground. Blinking rapidly as to at least get a glimpse of your captor's face, the form of an inebriated one-eyed black man graces your view. You glance down. Some kind of gun you couldn't even begin to classify lays at his feet, whilst a full bottle of Scrumpy hung clenched in his other fist.

In an instant flat he chugs the bottle's contents down his throat and flings the bottle to the ground, causing it to shatter on impact. You are only able to watch as each gulp sends a slight bulge of liquid down the man's esophagus.

Finally, he directs his gaze back towards your general vicinity and speaks. Well, tries to speak.

"Ya~nat~gonna~makeit-" a sizable pocket of air travels its way up his esophagus, resulting in a deep, hardy belch getting launched in your direction. "Eeeeer-sorry..." he subsequently apologizes. "INCOMING!" someone screeches from behind you. Something whizzes towards the back of your head. And then, it all went calm. ****

Warmth...that's what it was. Warmth. Slickness. Softness. It was like a water bed... and...

No sooner had you taken in a breath through your nose did you involuntarily lurch upwards in nausea. Slamming your head against something hard and rugged, an "OW" is forced out from your voice box.

Your eyelids flutter open. That was when you became aware of two things at once. Firstly and most importantly, you were still alive. Secondly, however, whoever that drunken black Scotsman was back there, he had placed you inside of his maw. Sealed rows of alcohol-stained teeth lay still at your sides. A humid, misty air, no doubt consisting of mostly gaseous Scrumpy, enveloped your being. And directly in front of you hung the bulbous mass of his uvula, glistening from the constant deluges it had experienced over the course of the day.

Shivering out a gargantuan sigh of relief, you flop your way back down onto his tongue, sprawling out your limbs and squishing your cheek into its hot, squishy surface.

That must've been what tipped him off as to the fact you were awake, as the muscle shifted beneath you moments later. It wiggled from side to side, whilst the roof of his mouth rose, and his two rows of teeth separated. His sublingual glands beneath his tongue secreted even more saliva, soaking its way into the palms of your hands; and before you knew it, the tip of his tongue was touching his upper incisors.

Slipping across the muscle's now downwards-facing slope, it dawns on you just what is happening.

Your body chose freeze, and your neurons pulse in panic across your brain. You find yourself unable to move.

The Scotsman's pharynx opens up, resultantly forcing you to gaze down the larynx, past the vocal chords, and into the trachea's depths. You sense his irregular, scrumpy-flavored breaths in and out his lungs as he nudges you further down. The soft flap of the epiglottis nearly brushes against your fingertips whilst the moistened, swampy air of the pharynx envelops your being.

At last, the pharyngeal constrictor muscles squeeze against your lower body, prompting the epiglottis to flip over the laryngeal inlet, and the soft palette to block off the nasal cavity. The upper esophageal sphincter squelches open, and pharyngeal constrictor muscles thrust you forth. You slip past the Scotsman's upper esophageal sphincter, and into his esophagus proper. The powerful muscular ring closes behind you, and you are relegated to nothing but a subtle bulge moving down his throat.

Whilst the lumen behind you contracts, the lumen in front relaxes, the involuntary motions of peristalsis escorting you down to your doom. You whimper as you remind yourself of what waits for you below the esophagus. Nothing but a deathly, bubbling broth of acid, eager to churn you down into mush.

Eventually, you slide past the Scotsman's collarbone, giving you access, in full 3D sound, to his ragged attempts to breathe as he hobbles around the battlefield drunk. His lungs rise and fell around you, while his heart tries its darndest to keep pumping, ensuring the mucked up insides of the barely functional alcoholic continued operating at least somewhat properly.

It wouldn't take long, however, before the unmistakable sound of a hungry, enthusiastic gurgle echoes from the depths of the stomach, anticipating your arrival with restless impatience. With the esophagus contracting and relaxing around you, the rumbles and growls of the Scotsman's stomach grow louder, the organ increasingly desperate to house you inside.

With only a few more seconds of waiting, the lower esophageal sphincter appears in your gaze. With nothing to do but wait for the valve to squeeze you into your final resting place, you close your eyes and brace for the moment of agony to engulf you.

The lower esophageal sphincter squelches as it pushes your head through its form. Your body easily slips through the rest of the way, and a moment of free fall begins. One more second, and that was it. One more moment without pain. That was all that you had.

You plunged into the waves of the Scotsman's stomach contents, waiting for the pain to hit.

It doesn't.

It takes you quite a while to actually process the fact you aren't being brutally digested by stomach acids, and once it does, the obvious question smacks you so hard, you scramble up to sit where you lay, and open your eyes.

No doubt, there is quite a bit of liquid within the area, sloshing about and crashing onto the churning, slick walls. You swivel your head left. Then right. Then you shift your whole body around as to stare at the wall once behind you. You extend out your arm to run your hand against the glossy, pink walls. There's some sort of thick, slimy substance coating it, which sticks to your hand as you somewhat regretfully drag it back. Glaring at the goopy slime in your palm for but a second, you sigh and wash it off within the liquids around you. The deep, wet grumbling and gurgling resonate around the humid air. Yep. This was indeed a stomach.

So...how? How was the organ not doing exactly what it had evolved to do?

That was when the answer, quite literally, hit you. Well, it was less of a hit, and more of a splash, but the effect was still the same. Drenching the top of your head, and cascading down your shoulders and back, you gave a half-shocked half-annoyed yelp at the soaking, before the downpour finally ends and you're able to shake some of the liquid off.

You take a breath in through your nose in order to release it as a sigh, only to find that your scent receptors recognized that smell. It was...

"SCRUMPY!" The Scotsman on the outside calls out, causing you to scramble to the side before you were caught in yet another deluge.

Witnessing the inevitable gush of alcohol into the stomach, the water levels, or rather, alcohol levels, rise further up along the organ's walls.

And then, it all made sense. The acids weren't digesting you because they were far too diluted to have an effect! The liquid in the Scotsman's stomach was 99% Scrumpy! The stomach posed no danger to you at all!

Taking several heavy breaths as you allow the realization to sink in, an explosion loud enough to alert a mole boomed from somewhere amidst the outside. Yet the Scotsman remained standing. You reasoned he must be an expert. That was also when you reasoned that you were far safer in here than you ever would've been out there. That was the reason he'd swallowed you. He wanted to keep you safe.

A shuddery heave of release ripples throughout your being, the panic from the situation subsiding. The Scrumpy surrounding you continued to simmer and slosh within heated ambiance of the growling, rumbling stomach.

You wade your way over to the walls of the stomach and plop yourself down in a newfound sensation of ease.

The sensitive muscular tissue shifts around beneath your touch, the sleek, warm, pillowy surface giving you the first real comfort you had ever felt since the battle had begun.

It finally settles within you that you were going to survive this battle. One last comforted sigh travels its way out your nose, as your cheek nuzzles lovingly against the Scotsman's stomach walls.

Yes, you were going to be just fine, and you had this stomach to thank.

demoman my beloman...

my man

my demo

my big lad <3

would be a great giant <3

YES.

This man does NOT have a mean bone in his body. Would pick you up. Would let you sit on his head. Would give you kisses. Would sob to you.

Calls you a wee lad/lass and lets you ride on his shoulder or inside his stomach while he blows people up. 10/10 giant and would recommend to others.