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Subject M-17 registers Sector Hecate in short bursts. The fluorescent lights first, then, the sterile white walls. The one sided windows. Chatter on the other side of them

And then, Dr. Lucien Pryce sat on the other side. Leg folded over another, hands clasped together. Warm smile spread from ear to ear, staring intently at his midsection.

"Good evening, Michael. I see you slept well"

Michael swallows heavily "Good evening, doctor."

The doctor beams, and Michael feels his stomach physically recoil.

That's when he comes to the realization that his chest aches.

The brunet's heart skips a beat, brown eyes widening with horror. “Wh-What did you DO to me?” Michael whispers.

Gooseflesh races up his arm when the scientist beside him lays a hand against his forearm — skin far too cold against flesh left hypersensitive and raw with nerves. Lucien is still smiling, still carrying on as though he hadn’t violated Michael’s autonomy for the fifth time since arriving at the laboratory.

"Oh, Michael" Dr. Pryce says, painfully gentle. Like a parent soothing a frightened child "I perfected you. "You're everything I wanted Project Praesidium to be. The container the world needs you to be." Hot tears begin to cloud Michael's vision. His chest cramps violently. Voice barely above a whisper "I didn't ask for this."

The doctor laughs. It isn't warm. "I'm afraid you didn't have a choice in the matter, M-17."

Something writhes beneath Michael's skin, and he nearly gags. He registers the warmth, then the sharp kick against sensitive flesh.

Michael's heart sinks.

“Oh,” Lucien murmurs, voice soft with fascination. His gaze lingers on the involuntary movement beneath Michael’s skin, the sharp little twitch that made him flinch. “There you are.”

He steps closer, almost tenderly resting two fingers against the strained flesh. “Still responsive. That’s promising.”

Another kick. Michael chokes back a sound.

Lucien smiles — small, patient, dreadful.

“You should be proud, Michael. Most test subjects reject preservation this early.” His thumb traced a slow circle over the bulge. “But yours?” He tilted his head at the movement beneath the organ. “Yours is adapting beautifully.”

The brunet is painfully aware of the second heartbeat fluttering beneath his skin — frantic, rabbit-quick. He feels the feverish scramble of warm hands against the tender walls of his preservation organ, hears every hitched breath dissolve into panicked hyperventilation.

Another frantic shove distends outward beneath his ribs, accompanied by broken sobbing from inside him.

Warm instinct blooms traitorously in Michael’s chest, urging him to soothe, to shelter. Every muscle locks tight with restraint. His expression contorts into a hard grimace instead of the softer worry threatening at its edges—the kind of tenderness he knows Lucien would seize upon immediately.

Thankfully, the scientist gives a firm pat against the distended flesh and stands to his full height. Sliding his key-card through the door's slot with practiced grace. "Testing ends in 24 hours, Michael. I'll return in the morning to receive your...occupant, granted they're still alive tomorrow"

"Yes, Doctor Price." Michael replies softly, dread sinking like a stone in a lake in his chest

The lock disengages with a sterile chirp.

For one terrible second, Michael thinks Lucien might turn back around. Offer another clinical smile. Another touch. Another adjustment to whatever nightmare had been forced inside him.

But the scientist simply steps through the doorway.

The heavy door slides shut behind him with a hydraulic hiss.

Silence crashes down immediately after.

Michael doesn’t move.

His eyes stay fixed on the sealed door while the echo of occupant rattles around inside his skull. Not person. Not victim. Occupant.

Something shifts beneath his ribs.

A sharp, trembling inhale catches in Michael’s throat.

The test subject had gone unnaturally still during Lucien’s presence, likely out of terror, but now Michael can feel them again—faint movement fluttering deep within the preservation organ. Exhausted. Shaking.

Then, quietly:

“...is he gone?”

The voice is hoarse and cramped from confinement.

Michael swallows hard before nodding instinctively, only realizing a moment later they can’t see him through layers of flesh and synthetic fluid.

“Y-yeah,” he whispers. “He’s gone.”

A ragged sob answers him.

The sound punches straight through Michael’s chest.

Warmth surges instinctively through the organ in response to distress, muscles loosening without his permission to ease pressure around the cramped body inside him. He feels the immediate reaction — the other subject’s trembling slowing slightly as the organ adjusts to comfort and preserve.

Michael nearly gags at how natural it feels.

“Oh God,” he breathes, horrified. “What did he do to me…?”

Inside him, the test subject gives a weak, shuddering exhale. Warm fingertips press carefully outward, tentative now instead of frantic.

“...I think,” the muffled voice whispers, “it’s trying to protect me.”

Michael’s breath stutters.

The words settle heavily inside him, far worse than the panic had been.

Because the stranger is right.

He can feel it happening in real time — the preservation organ responding independently to stress levels, temperature, movement. Every frightened tremor from the person trapped inside him triggers another involuntary adjustment: muscles softening, internal fluid warming, circulation shifting to cradle and stabilize.

His body has decided this is something precious.

Something to keep alive.

Michael presses the heel of his hand hard against his mouth.

“No,” he whispers shakily. “No, no, I don’t—”

A small movement interrupts him. Not violent this time. Just careful.

A hand.

The test subject’s palm presses faintly outward from inside the organ, the shape barely visible beneath taut skin.

Michael freezes.

Then, before he can stop himself, his own hand drifts down to meet it.

Heat blooms instantly through the sensitive flesh at the contact. The organ contracts once around its occupant in what feels disturbingly close to contentment.

Michael’s eyes squeeze shut.

The person inside him lets out a weak sound — something between relief and a sob.

“I’m sorry,” Michael says suddenly, voice cracking apart. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t know— I didn’t know what they were doing to you—”

“You’re a test subject too,” the stranger murmurs.

The simple acknowledgment nearly undoes him.

For days, everyone in the laboratory had spoken around him instead of to him. Specimen. Carrier. Preservation unit. Never Michael. Never human.

But this stranger, half-suffocated inside his altered body, says it like it still matters.

Another silence settles between them, quieter this time. Michael can hear the faint hum of fluorescent lights overhead. The ventilation system. Two heartbeats.

One slow.

One still rabbit-fast beneath his skin.

Then, hesitantly:

“My name’s Elise.” A hitching breath. “I think… I think he took me three days ago.”

Michael opens his eyes.

Three days.

Lucien had spoken about survival rates earlier with detached amusement, as though discussing spoiled samples.

Testing ends in twenty-four hours.

Granted they’re still alive tomorrow.

Michael’s stomach twists violently.

“Elise,” he repeats softly, anchoring himself to the name. To her. “Okay. Okay, listen to me.” His voice trembles, but hardens with desperate resolve around the edges. “I’m getting you out of here.”

For a moment, Elise says nothing.

Michael can feel her shifting faintly inside the preservation organ, cramped muscles trembling with exhaustion. When she finally speaks, her voice is painfully small.

“You can’t.”

“I can try.”

“You heard him.” Her breath catches unevenly. “They changed you.”

The words land with ugly precision.

Michael’s gaze drops to the distorted curve beneath his ribs. Even now, the organ reacts protectively to scrutiny, tightening subtly around its occupant before easing again. Alive. Responsive. Not entirely under his control anymore.

His throat burns.

“I know.”

Somewhere down the hall, metal clatters against metal. A distant door hisses open, then shut. The laboratory never truly sleeps.

Michael forces himself to move despite the nauseating awareness of added weight inside him. His legs shake when he pushes upright from the examination table.

Immediately, Elise panics.

“Wait—wait, too fast—”

A sharp cramp seizes through him as the preservation organ contracts instinctively to stabilize its occupant. Michael doubles over with a strangled gasp, one hand flying to the counter beside him.

“Sorry,” Elise blurts out. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”

“It’s okay.” His breathing turns ragged. “Just… warn me next time.”

The organ slowly unclenches.

Michael stays hunched there for several seconds, sweat beading coldly along the back of his neck. He can feel every tiny adjustment inside himself now: the shift of fluid, the protective flex of muscle around Elise’s body, the awful biological insistence that she be kept safe at all costs.

It would almost be easier if it felt monstrous.

Instead, it feels nurturing.

Human.

That frightens him more than anything.

His eyes drift toward the sealed door.

Key-card access. Armed security. Sedatives. Surveillance.

Twenty-four hours.

Michael swallows against the rising panic and looks around the room for the first time with purpose. Sterile counters. Medical instruments. Storage cabinets.

And, mounted beside the door—

A staff terminal.

Hope sparks sharp and dangerous in his chest.

“Elise,” he whispers, already moving toward it carefully, one protective arm wrapped unconsciously around himself. “Did they ever bring you through processing conscious?”

A pause.

Then:

“...I remember a code.”

Michael’s heart slams against his ribs.

Michael lunges for the terminal.

The sudden movement earns a startled cry from Elise and a painful tightening deep inside his abdomen, but adrenaline steamrolls through it. His trembling hands brace against the console as the screen flickers awake beneath fluorescent glare.

AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY

“Tell me,” Michael breathes.

Inside him, Elise shifts weakly. He can feel her trying to remember, each spike of anxiety translating into nervous fluttering against the organ’s walls.

“I—I think it was six digits,” she whispers. “I only saw it once—”

“Hurry.”

Footsteps echo faintly somewhere beyond the hall.

Not close.

Getting closer.

Michael’s pulse thunders.

“Seven…” Elise says shakily. “No, wait— two? God, I can’t remember—”

The footsteps sharpen.

Voices now.

Michael glances toward the sealed door just as a shadow passes beneath it.

Elise feels it too. Her heartbeat erupts into frantic panic inside him.

“Oh God,” she chokes out. “He came back—”

The terminal suddenly flashes:

REMOTE ACCESS REQUEST — DR. LUCIEN PRICE

Michael’s blood turns to ice.

The device sits heavy in your hands as you study it. It’s alien, but you can’t place it.

The runes carved into the disc are in a language you—nor anybody aboard the Mercy, recognizes. Not Vuurid, not Kheve. You’re at a loss. Even your captain, the self proclaimed “alien linguist” can’t put a name to the language.

You groan, setting it down on the research desk haphazardly. You feel like you’re running in circles trying to get an answer.

Then—

It hums, runes glowing a soft teal-white in the dimness of the cruiser’s laboratory. It’s no longer sitting against the table, levitating just a few millimetres off the ground.

You back away.

A great arc of light stretches from the disk and straight towards you. Panic floods your system and you make to book for it.

The light crashes into your chest anyways.

You expect white-hot pain. A giant, gaping hole in the cavity of your chest.

Instead, your world tilts. The ground rushes up to meet you.

Everything feels larger now.

You realize, with razor-sharp clarity, that you have been shrunk.

You hiss under your breath.

Great. Wonderful.

You are now tiny on a spaceship where everything—including your own crew, can kill you.

You also know that you can’t stay here.

Your legs wobble when you walk, as if made of jello. Adjusting to the new size.

The observation deck, you realize, is a lot farther when you’re shrunk.

You narrowly avoid getting stepped on twice on your journey, thankfully, you are far nimbler than your crew-mates feet.

It finally comes into view. Large and daunting in all the ways that matter, the distant galaxies and stars glitter against the pitch-black dark of space just beyond the reinforced windows. The only one ever in here is you, when you feel particularly homesick, or your sleeping quarters feel too empty. Too unsafe.

You settle in the centre of the room. Exhaling.

Your solitude lasts about three solid minutes before a silhouette of prismatic light is standing before you.

Judging you.

Your gaze tilts upward—upward, upward—and are met with the white, blank eyes of the hologram of the ship’s AI, V.E.X.

It—he, is frowning. As if your presence offends him.

“—Identity confirmed.”

A soft chime follows, familiar rather than formal.

“Greetings, Field Scientist.”

A beat.

Then, to your horror, he bends down. And then you’re plucked off a ground with surprising gentleness. Your brain screeches to a sudden halt. Holograms are not supposed to do that.

“Status: Miniaturized. Heartbeat: Nominal. Brain: Functioning. Stress Level: 80%.” He rattles off, with a cold, distant aloofness that unsettles you.

“Wow. Love that for me.” You reply, swallowing hard. “Good to know my brain made the cut. Was really worried that wouldn’t make the list.”

“Stress level eighty percent, huh? That seems low. Are you factoring in the whole ‘I am currently fun-sized and one misplaced step away from becoming a cautionary tale’ thing, or is that extra?”

The hologram stares at you, unblinking. “You are spiralling. Suggested action: Breathing exercises”

You glare at him. Letting out a sharp, incredulous laugh “Oh, am I? That’s fascinating, V.E.X., I hadn’t noticed.”

You gesture vaguely to your dramatically size-reduced self. Then point at him with a shaky hand “Maybe it’s the whole ‘I am currently the size of a paperclip on a spaceship that was not designed for paperclips’ thing. Just a theory”

You take one deliberate, exaggerated breath. Hold it. Let it out just as theatrically.

“…There. Did it. Fixed everything. I’m cured. The existential dread is gone. Stunning work.”

You squint up at him. “Now can we please get to the part where you fix it. Before I become a field-scientist pancake?”

“Negative. Stress levels have increased significantly. New suggested action: Panic room.”

“—Oh, that’s funny. That’s really funny.”

You stare at him. Mouth slightly agape, like your brain is refusing to process what he just said.

“I am already in a situation that would qualify as a full-body, all-access, premium panic experience, V.E.X. I don’t need a room for it.”

The hologram tilts his head. Infuriatingly so.

“Correction: Intramural containment.”

You blink.

Once.

Twice.

“...Intramural containment.”

“Precisely.”

You’re lifted closer to the hologram-man’s face.

His mouth parts, and you are greeted by rounded dentition, and a flickering, nacreous tongue.

A hologram should not have the slightest suggestion of a digestive system. Yet V.E.X, for some reason, does.

Your face flushes hot with anxiety. Your hands grasp for the tip of his fingers, desperate for anything to hold on to.

This is not happening.

“V.E.X—V.E.X. Hey, come on. This isn’t fair. Me being small doesn’t mean I’m snack-sized. Please put me do-!”

He doesn’t listen, just simply lowers you into his mouth. The one he should very much not have.

His fingers, and any hope at escape, leave you as you’re settled on his tongue. Mouth closing around you, surroundings becoming muted.

The hologram doesn't swallow, not really. Just sort of tilts his head back, and you’re sent down his throat, though it feels more like a wind-tunnel with the gravity reversed. Fingers trace your shape past his collarbone until you settle into his stomach.

It’s solid—weirdly squishy, and yields beneath your shape. Comfortable.

Then, steady, liquid-smooth dread bubbles inside of your chest. You are inside a hologram. That has just eaten you. That sentence should not exist, yet it does. And you certainly shouldn’t find this comfortable, this should be horrifying.

You aim a kick at the nearest wall, and your leg simply bounces off the wall, iridescent walls flicker with the impact, then your thoughts veer sharply, wondering if your molecules are about to be arranged on a substantial level, or if you're going to get vaporized to atoms.

That scares you enough that you kick and claw at the surface of hard-light. It’s ineffective, but it doesn’t stop you from trying.

A hand, steady and firm settles over you. "Settle down. Your structural integrity will remain unaltered, however, I am unsure about your dignity."

You go rigid, leg hovering in mid-air, hands braced against the stomach walls. Outside, the hologram rolls his eyes."I am jesting with you. Privacy protocols have been engaged, nobody can see you in there unless I allow it.”

“Hilarious.” You reply, thoroughly displeased. “Spit me out.”

“That would be ill-advised.”

You curse, running a hand down your face. “So what, you’re just going to hold me hostage until this can be reversed?”

“Hostage: incorrect term. Proper term: Contained”

You roll your eyes. Stuck as you are, you settle in. Letting the walls hold you, folding your arms. “This is the worst day of my life.”

“I will add that to my field notes.”

You don’t even bother to kick him, just glower upwards where you can see the blurred outline of his face.

“One more thing, the device that miniaturized you is of Hraxil origin. Easily reversible technology. You will be back to your original size approximately 5 hours.”

Pressed close to Caleb as she was, Nott was all too aware of the wizard’s internal workings

The steady thump of his heart

The soft gurgle of a meal being worked on further below

She noticed how warm he ran, too. Campfire-warm, a sharp contrast to the white-hot inferno he had been when she’d found him by the corpse of the Volstrucker

That thought sent a shiver through her in the cold night air. The magician noticed immediately and shifted closer, drawing the edges of his coat around her and bundling her smaller frame against his own. Beneath the heavy fabric he felt far thinner than his silhouette suggested

For a moment, she wondered—really wondered—how many meals the scrawny wizard had skipped before she’d ever stumbled into his life. Probably a lot. He had that look about him. All elbows and bad decisions

Then her brain, traitorous little thing that it was, skittered off in a completely different direction:…Is he warmer on the inside? You know. Purely theoretical. For survival reasons. Probably.

He yawned, and Nott’s curiosity—both impulsive and brazen, took over

She shuffled forward until she was standing squarely on his lap, bringing herself level with his mouth as the wizard’s mouth parted

A pair of small, clawed hands reached out and brushed against his lower lip.

Caleb froze

His brows drew together—not in anger, but in that familiar mixture of bafflement and tired exasperation reserved almost exclusively for the goblin. Still, he made no move to swat her away. By now he was painfully aware that Nott possessed… certain eccentricities. An oral fixation, frankly, would not be the strangest development

Her hand slipped past his lips

Cool claws pressed experimentally against his tongue

The wizard went rigid, blue eyes going wide as whatever spell of patience he’d been clinging to shattered into a startled jumble of syllables that only vaguely resembled her name

“—Nn—Nott, wh—”

Too late

Her head followed the hand

From somewhere inside the cavern of his mouth came her muffled, entirely unbothered voice:

“Just—just so you know,” she said helpfully, “spitting me out is still an option.”

Caleb’s mind, which had endured war, exile, and the complicated chaos of travelling with the Mighty Nein, supplied only one stunned thought:

I did not realize that was a choice.

He observed with surprising clarity, that the thief did not taste terrible. She was vaguely sweet, if not a little salty

He, however, had not realized he was drooling until Nott, ever so kindly, pointed it out

In the strange, suspended moment that followed, he also observed with surprising clarity that the thief did not taste terrible

Vaguely sweet, in fact

Though perhaps a little salty

It was the sort of observation Caleb would normally catalogue with quiet, academic precision, were it not for the fact that it concerned the goblin currently halfway inside his mouth

He did not, however, realize he was drooling.

“Caleb,” Nott’s voice came again, muffled but perfectly conversational, “you’re drooling.”

A beat

“…I beg your pardon.”

“I mean, I don’t mind. I just thought you should know.”

Caleb’s mind went very, very quiet. Not the calm, ordered silence he preferred when working through arcane theory or transcribing spells by candlelight. No—this was the empty sort of silence that came when his brain simply refused to continue processing the situation presented to it

He was in summary:

Drooling on Nott

Who was currently, by all presented evidence, halfway inside of his mouth

Most distressingly of all, he had—only seconds earlier, been sampling her flavour like a man taste-testing fine wine

His thoughts attempted, valiantly, to assemble themselves into something coherent

This is fine, his brain attempted feebly People do not usually panic because their friend is in their mouth

A much more reasonable, louder part of his mind immediately objected: People do not usually have their friends in their mouths

Caleb shut his eyes

And Nott shifted

His heart nearly leapt out of his chest

It was not a large movement

It did not need to be

He felt every millimetre of it

His thoughts—already in full retreat, collapsed immediately

Nein.

Absolutely not.

This was not a situation any respectable wizard of the Cerberus Assembly—former or otherwise—had ever been trained to handle. There had been lectures on transmutation, on planar theory, on the delicate control required to bend reality itself

There had not been a single class on what to do when your goblin companion climbs halfway into your mouth and politely informs you that you are drooling on her

Inside, Nott hummed thoughtfully

“Huh,” she said, her voice muffled but curious. “It’s warmer than I thought.”

Caleb inhaled sharply through his nose

A catastrophic mistake

His entire body locked like a man trying very hard not to panic while standing on the edge of a cliff

“—Nott,” he said carefully, each syllable strained with the effort of maintaining composure, “I am going to need you to—”

He stopped

Because now that he had begun speaking, he became painfully aware of the mechanics involved in speaking while someone was inside his mouth

His eyes went wide

“…oh no.”

From inside, Nott sounded delighted

“Oh! You can talk like this?” she said. “That’s neat.”

Not neat. Caleb’s mind supplied, unhelpfully

The goblin took the brief lull in between Caleb’s spiralling to wriggle her way in further, up to her shoulders in his jaws

A startled exhale pulled from his throat, causing warm air to brush against Nott’s face

She soothingly patted the inside of his cheek “You’re doing great, Caleb.”

I am not doing great.

His throat bobbed

I do not understand how you are so calm about this.

He was faintly aware of the tremor in his hands as anxiety sunk its teeth into him

The tremor snaked it’s way up his wrists, a subtle trembling that he tried—unsuccessfully—to suppress by curling his fingers against his palms. The bite of nails against flesh did very little to anchor him to reality

“Hm,” Nott murmured thoughtfully. Another gentle pat against his cheek from inside “You’re a little tense.”

Caleb closed his eyes again

Ja. A little.

He inhaled slowly through his nose, attempting to regain whatever was left of his already fragmented composure. Air passed in carefully measured breaths, each one controlled with the same inflexible discipline he applied to spellcasting

Unfortunately, this also made him aware of the small, warm weight occupying an inappropriate amount of personal space

“—Nott,” he said quietly, voice strained with effort “this situation is...highly irregular.”

“Sure”, she agreed easily

A brief pause

“Still warm, though.”

The man’s eyes opened again, and he stared forwards

“Please do not tell me you intend for me to swallow you.”

A claw delicately tapped one of his molars, and he winced “I mean. If you do, I’ll be perfectly safe.”

Logic was not presented anywhere in that sentence

Caleb exhaled

“…How,” Caleb asked, voice thin with restrained disbelief, “do you know this?”

Nott hummed thoughtfully within the damp cavern of his mouth, adjusting herself “Well, first of all, goblins are pretty sturdy”

“Second,” she continued on, matter-of-factly “I’ve been swallowed before. Monsters, mostly.”

The wizard went stock-still, as if he were trying to become a statue

“...You have.”

“Oh yeah,” she said, unbothered “A couple of times. Stomachs are surprisingly roomy.”

The man blinked. This conversation is not real.

“Anyway,” she prattled on “You kinda just slide down, wait a bit, and then somebody cuts you out or the monster spits you out later.”

A beat passed

“Don’t worry, you’re definitely less bitey than most of them.” she added, in an attempt to be comforting

Caleb’s hands trembled harder where they were braced against his knees

“Nott.” “Yeah?”

“That is not the reassurance you think it is.”

────────────────────────────────

Another breath of cool air made its way past Caleb’s parted lips

Nott shivered

“Okay, see, this is the problem,” she said, her voice muffled but perfectly calm.

Caleb, who had been staring straight ahead like a man attempting to dissociate from reality, stiffened.

“…What problem.”

“The air,” Nott said, as if stating a fact “Every time you breathe it gets cold in here.”

“That,” Caleb replied faintly, “is how breathing works.”

Another small shiver ran through her

“Yeah, but the rest of you is nice and warm,” she pointed out, patting the inside of his cheek again. “Very cozy, actually. Good insulation.”

Caleb’s eyes slowly closed

Nein.

“Nott—”

“And if you swallow,” she continued gently, as though explaining something very reasonable to a nervous animal, “then the cold air won’t be a problem anymore.”

Caleb’s eyes snapped open

“…I beg your pardon.”

“You heard me,” she said cheerfully. “Warm all the time. No drafts. Everybody wins.”

His throat moved involuntarily at the word swallow, the motion making him immediately freeze in place again

Do not think about that

“Nott,” he said slowly, voice strained thin with disbelief, “I am not going to—”

“But you could,” she said soothingly

A small claw patted his tongue in what might generously be called encouragement

“You’re already halfway there.”

Caleb made a noise somewhere between a gasp and a whimper

“That is not how—”

“And you said you were worried about it,” she went on, calm and persuasive. “But I told you, I’ll be fine. Goblins are tough.”

Another gentle pat

“Plus you’ve got very good teeth. I checked.”

His hands clenched tightly on his knees

This is not happening.

Nott lowered her voice a little, as though sharing a helpful secret

“Look, Caleb,” she said kindly, “I promise I won’t panic or anything. You just… swallow normally.”

The wizard’s brain short-circuited entirely at the phrase swallow normally

“I do not—” he began weakly

“It’ll be quick,” she reassured him. “Just one gulp. Like soup.”

Caleb inhaled sharply through his nose again, his entire body going rigid

Soup.

Another moment passed before Nott added, in the same gentle tone:

“And think about it. I won’t have to deal with the cold air anymore.”

A pause

Then, softly:

“And you like helping your friends, right?”

Caleb sat very still.

For a long moment there was only the slow, careful rhythm of his breathing through his nose and the quiet presence of Nott the Brave inside his mouth.

Inside his head, the argument had long since devolved into something less like logic and more like exhausted surrender.

This is absurd.

This is dangerous.

This is… apparently happening.

His throat bobbed once as he swallowed reflexively around nothing, the motion making him immediately freeze again as he became painfully aware of the goblin currently balanced on his tongue.

“Nott,” he said finally, voice low and tightly controlled, “this is a terrible idea.”

From inside came an encouraging pat against his cheek.

“I know,” she said cheerfully.

Caleb shut his eyes

Of course she did.

Another long breath through his nose. His hands had stopped trembling quite as badly now, though the tension in his shoulders remained rigid and immovable

“…If,” he said slowly, “I were to—”

The word caught briefly in his throat

He forced it out anyway.

“—swallow.”

Nott perked up immediately

“Oh good, we’re talking about it again.”

His brow furrowed deeper

“This is not a negotiation,” he said faintly.

“Well it kind of is,” she pointed out.

Caleb ignored that

“If I do this,” he continued carefully, every word deliberate, “you will tell me immediately if you feel anything… unusual.”

“Unusual like what?”

“Pain,” he said firmly. “Burning. Tingling. Anything.”

Nott hummed thoughtfully

“Okay.”

His eyes narrowed slightly

“Immediately.”

“Sure.”

A pause

Then she added, helpfully:

“Though honestly I think it’ll be fine.”

Caleb did not respond to that

Instead he drew in one slow, steady breath through his nose, his composure gathering itself like someone bracing for a plunge into very cold water

Inside his mouth, Nott settled more securely on his tongue

“Alright,” she said, sounding almost excited. “Ready when you are.”

Caleb opened his eyes again, staring fixedly at the trees ahead of him as though it might ground him to reality

This is ridiculous.

I am a grown man.

I am an accomplished wizard.

His throat moved once

He hesitated

“…Nott.”

“Yeah?”

“If this goes poorly,” he said quietly, “I am never speaking of it again.”

“That seems fair.”

Another breath

Then, very carefully, Caleb tilted his head back slightly

The movement shifted Nott deeper toward the back of his mouth, and he felt the small, unmistakable weight of her settle against the reflexive pull of his throat

His entire body tensed

Now.

With a tight swallow, he forced the motion downwards

The muscles of his throat contracted in a slow, unmistakable wave, drawing the goblin backward as the instinctive reflex took over

For one terrifying second he was certain he would choke on the sheer absurdity of the situation

Then the movement finished

His throat bobbed once

Silence fell

Caleb remained frozen in place, breathing shallowly through his nose, eyes wide as he felt the last traces of the swallow settle, the goblin’s shape distending his midsection outwards as it acclimated to her shape

“…Nott?” he asked hoarsely.

A beat passed, panic nearly seized Caleb

Then, faintly, from somewhere lower:

“Oh wow.”

Caleb’s entire body went rigid again

“…Nott.”

“Still here!” she called up

He pressed a hand lightly against his throat, as if verifying that reality had not completely unraveled

“…Do you feel anything,” he asked carefully, “unusual?”

A thoughtful pause followed

“…Nope,” Nott said brightly. “Very warm though.”

Caleb closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the nearest surface with the exhausted resignation of a man who had completely lost control of his life.

“…Good,” he murmured weakly

His other hand moved to settle on his swollen middle, and he could feel the vague outline of her shape beneath his skin

It didn’t unsettle him as much as it should’ve

He felt full, fuzzy in a way that he couldn’t exactly put words to