Grabbing a Flight Bite
By: CuttleScuttle

“I have to stay in what!?”
Cleopatra’s soul tears out at the mere thought of staying inside a bird’s belly.
Her silky-soft gray fur stands on end. A delicate paw placed on her chest, she counts her racing heart. Her ears perk straight; the sprawl of white scarfs that wrap around Cleopatra shake with her trembling body. 
Mistral, meanwhile, peers down at the poor Pokemon cloaked in her imposing shadow. A worried frown darkens the bird’s face. The Swellow’s golden eyes look down at the critter that barely crosses a third of her height.
The Cinccino—an upright chinchilla-like Pokemon—is Swellow Air’s newest client. A transportation company, Swellow Air ferries around swallowable ‘Mons to wherever they desire.
“L-look,” Cleopatra stammers, “do you not comprehend the gravity of what you’ve said?”
“Sweetheart, I understand.” Mistral crouches closer, trying to make herself seem smaller. But Coredlia stumbles backwards, eyes fixed on her opening-and-closing beak.
“It’s perfectly safe.” Mistral says. “I promise. You have money for first-class, right?”
“Of course! But…”
“Then you won’t have to stay in my belly, dear.” Mistral backs off, letting afternoon’s blue sky return to Cleopatra once again. “First-class passengers stay in the crop. It’s nothing but a squishy sack. No acids. No food. No danger.”
“Preposterous!” The Cinccino throws her arms about like an angry windmill. “Will you not swallow you spit? Look at my fur! Behold at my ribbons! Look at my fur!”
“I see it.” she replies.
“Then you must understand the delicacy of my maquillage.”
“Um,” Swellow bites her tongue. “I apologize, but I don’t know what that means.”
“Then let me tell you!” Cleopatra pops up straight, with an accusatory stabbing paw. “My dear, I’ve been blessed as the esteemed lead in Dreaming of Cresselia! A famous play. Surely you know that? Well, the show is of utmost importance. And I simply cannot risk being late.”
“Swellow Air will ensure you arrive just on-time—”
“—And reapplying all my cosmetics will devour my time!”
Mistral sighs, wings sagging. “Would you rather walk?”
Cleopatra sheepishly moves her black eyes away. “Is it possible I could ride on your back?”
“Not happening.”
“...” The rodent plays with her paws nervously. Finally, she speaks.
“I suppose there’s no option but to endure this… unpleasantness. Proceed. But I ask—please make it quick!”
Mistral gives a short nod. Bending closer to the smaller Pokemon, she locks onto her eyes. Mistral’s twin-toned face fills Cleopatra’s vision. So much so, it’s as if the Cinccino’s pupils were splashed with dark red and blue paint. And amidst the swirl of color, Cleopatra can’t help but take in the details: the individual, short facial-feathers bending with the wind.
Her gaze traces the string holding Mistral’s turquoise stewardess hat.
Don’t look at her beak. She chants in her mind. Do anything but—
Saliva pops; Mistral’s beak opens. Saliva was already building inside: gushing from beneath her tongue as her body’s primitive functions recognize the presence of a meek, defenseless meal.
Grouuuurg. Her stomach rumbles—starving—aching for a meal it’s been bereft of since breakfast.
Mistral, of course, doesn’t view Cleopatra as a meal. But her body’s functions are not under her control. It only cares that lunch is on its way. That maybe this time—it’ll  soupify the rat before Mistral catches on.
Cleopatra’s heart stops. Mistral’s beak yawns wider. The threads stringing from beak’s top and bottom thin whilst her jaw stretches apart. The Cinccino’s own jaw drops and her ears droop. She stares into the gaping maw. Ferocious pink stabs her eyes. Zigzag ridges line the top of her beak. Backwards facing, the spit-shined spines point towards the darkness beyond: a slick, fleshy tunnel—pulsing as Mistral swallows away unwanted spit.
Then, the muscles widen back up. Relaxed after constricting, swallowing, her gullet dilates with a puffed breath. Boiling breath torches Cleopatra. Wet and hot as steam from a boiling pot, the smell of Mistral’s gut soaks her fur as it wisps past Cleo’s cheeks. The scent of the bird’s body is a neutral one. A bit musty, a given for the innards of a living creature. A vague hint of sourness permeates the air, vaguely covered by the dying touch of vanilla.
Ugh. She smells like vanilla yogurt. Cleopatra’s frightened face wrinkles into one of disgust. Good heavens, that was her breakfast, wasn’t it!?
Mistral pushes herself a nudge closer; Cleo winces, nudging her face away. Just as Cleo expects herself to be swallowed, the heat retreats. The Cinccino dares peak from her near-shut eyes. And she sees the Swellow’s chin upon the ground. And her beak at Cleo’s toes.
The bird’s eyes look to Cleo with expectancy. And it’s clear what she must do.
Cleo’s palpable revulsion contorts her face to something quite ugly. Lifting a foot while standing on an unsteady leg, she hovers her toes above the Swellow’s tongue. Gingerly, she sets her paw down. The flat of her foot overtakes all of Mistral’s tongue. The gooey, spit-squishy sensation is a punch in the gut to the prissy Pokemon. Her cheeks tense hard enough to feel the flesh suction the front of her teeth. But it doesn’t stop her from putting her next foot forward.
The ground shifts beneath her. Mistral moves her head. Near instantly, Cleopatra loses her grip. She slips, bottom-half sliding along the slippery insides. Her paws squelch into the bird’s throat. Her belly collides upon her tongue. Her front half hangs from Mistral’s jaws.
“Ah! Ew!” Cleo cries as she’s lifted away. She tilts upwards; Mistral points her yellow beak to the cloud-smattered sky. Sun gleaming in Cleo’s eyes, she yelps. Mistral’s gullet clamps her waist again and again. Her fur goes dark with fluids, pressed down by powerful muscle. Cleo’s stomach curdles with disgust; her tail slinked down the throat. And it just squished past a slimy, snotty valve.
Mistral, ever the professional, swoops her head down and bucks it forward—swallowing Cleo in one effortless gulp.
The rodent is wrapped in muscle. Not a single inch of space is spared. Mucus-lubed meat vacuum seals her body, clenched tight as can be. The Cinccino makes an impressive lump in the bird’s throat. A massive, indistinct mound oozes ever slowly downward. Feathers stick up at the lump’s widest point, giving peaks at the flesh below.
On the inside, Cleo screams before Mistral’s swallowed spit shuts her up. Waterboarded to silence, she blubbers from her filled maw. A pressure builds at her feet. For a moment, they sit solid on a plappy surface. Slicked with copious amounts of sticky grossness, Cleo feels the wrinkled ridges of a bundled muscle: a pinprick opening in the center. Stuck in the throat for a few breath’s time, she feels Mistral swallow again.Rippling muscle pounds her body, coaxing the orifice at her feet to spread..
The peristalsis carries her down, kicking her into a low build-up of musty fluid.
Bird drool. Cleopatra correctly surmises. The walls are covered in it—and more.
Wild Cinccino live in burrows. So it was only natural for them to develop night-sight. She sees wrinkled walls crest and curl. Thick mucky webs of bird snot stretched between the furrows in the flesh. When the walls collide during their constant churning, the yucky stuff audibly squishes. It spurts from the pressed-together folds, jetting out Cleo’s forcibly-prostrate body.
Because just like Mistral’s gullet, there’s little room for Cleo to stretch.
“How does anyone like this!?” She screams.
“It’s okay, ma’am.” Mistral’s voice hums around her. “Think of it like a hug.”
“My scarves!” Cleo wails, watching the walls gnaw her ribbons with their filthy flesh. “This can’t be happening! I’m covered in bird goo!”
“A-are you okay in there? I can evict you if—”
“Just fly!” Cleo cries. “Don’t waste a second more! Ohhh, how am I going to explain this to my makeup crew…”

Buffeting wind dulled by layers of flesh, the sound of the outside world is a low rumble felt in Cleo’s bones. Cramped up inside the crop,she’s curled up with her belly smeared to the wall.
Mistral soars through the sky. It’s midday, though she can hardly tell. The cloud cover is obnoxious, leaving her to fly blind—lost in gray mist.
Her head’s held high; and her beak points forward. This leaves her neck at a slanted vertical. With the crop positioned right above her collar bones, this leaves poor Cleo in the awkward in-between of laying belly-flat and riding up the wall.
“By Arc,” she groans, “I can’t even manage to wiggle my toes. It’s so tight! I’m soaked.”
A well-timed swallow sends a spurt of spit pouring her esophagus. Fluid thickened with the phlegm caught on the way down splats between her ears. A wall immediately crunches down to rub it in.
When the flesh pulls away, yolky residue strings between her drenched, dripping ears.
“I despise everything about this..”
“Just be glad you’re in first-class.” Mistral grumbles, thoroughly tired of Cleo’s constant complaints. “Flight code allows us a non-smelly, easily-digestible lunch—so long as coach stays off limits.”
The flexing walls of the crop tense up, lathering hot slime across Cleo’s fur. Pressure builds at her spined and sides. And her eyes widen with fear as the oozing wall laps at her face.
Mistral speaks again. “Yogurt is not really my thing. I like things a bit hardier. Wurmple and Razz Berry, delicious! But certainly… fragrant.”
Cleo pushes at the spongy walls. “And you think soured yogurt is much better?”
“Certainly.” Mistral replies. “I heard another flight company employed a Mandibuzz. You know what they eat, right? A Pachirisu hopped in for a ride after lunchtime. He came out covered in stomach juices. They weren’t Mandibuzz’s.”
Burbling liquid pops from the unseen chamber below. Momentarily, Cleo spies the entrance to Mistral’s belly open. A brief wisp of air adds spiced air: steamed yogurt, tainted by the late stages of its digestion.
Another belly rumble bellowing through her cramped world, Cleo feels ready to cry.
“Can this get any worse!?”
“Cleo? Shh.” Mistral snaps with unprecedented terseness.
“You be quiet!” Cleo snaps back. Her outburst surprises the bird, prompting gooey muscle to tense around the disgusted rodent.
“No—Cleo! I hear something…”
“Certainly. It’s your contemptible stomach!”
“Cleo!”
“Mis-tral.” She mocks.
“Cle—!”
Ten-times the bird’s weight. Double her size. An orange bullet punches through the clouds. The monster’s body is a blur—Extreme Speed.
It only stops when its claws hook around her ankles.
Bird and rodent scream; Mistral is ripped from her coasting flight, jerked into violent winds, and left dangling from the creature’s hand. She flaps like a madwoman, screaming frenzied confusion. Her head, constantly knocked by whipped winds, seeks the face of her captor.
She fails. She tries and fails again. She can only spot their sleek, orange scales. It’s a powerful body. Pear-like: powerful legs sandwich a thick, lizard-like tail.
“I…” the dragon growls, rich and feminine—syllables lengthened rustic drawl.
Their speed slows. Upside-down, Mistral’s face is hauled up to the beast’s chest as caught prey.
And a Dragonite glares from above.
“...Told Swellow Air to keep their pigeons off my turf!”
“W-wait!” Mistral sputters, fear-tightened body smothering the passenger within. Her eyes flick about, settling to ride the road of flat cream scales that lead up the dragon’s belly and end at her neck. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know!”
“Orrrr you didn’t care.” The Dragonite’s gray eyes are stormy thunderclouds. What could’ve been a friendly face with a thick, round snout is now the glower of a very, very pissed-off dragon.
Muffled screaming bursts from the pouch in Mistral’s neck. “Tell her we care!”
“Pardon, please!” Mistral tucks her wings close to her body. “There must’ve been a miscommunication between Swellow Air departments. I’ll bring it up with the higher-ups the second I touch down!” One wing gently, submissively, extends outwards to emphasize her point.
The Dragonite lifts a brow. “What’s your name? Spit it out.”
“Mistral.”
“Breezeflight. Call me Bree.” The dragon introduces herself. “And wouldn’t ya know, the last Swellow I caught spat the exact same crap. Now, Mistral, what in tarnation makes you think I’m gonna trust you.”
Pounding heartbeats thunder in both captured ‘Mon’s minds. Cleo hyperventilates in the stale air. Mistral’s throat croaks like a dying frog, stalling in her indecisiveness.
“Can’t think of anythin’, huh?” Bree pulls the frightened bird up to her face.
Mistral is forced to stare right into Bree’s dark eyes. “I have a passenger.” She swallows heavily. “On the behalf of all of Swellow Air, I offer my sincerest apologies. Intruding on your air space was, and never will be, our intention. I just want to bring my passenger to her destination—to her fans—safe and sound.”
“Hmph.” Bree continues her hovering flight, bobbing up and down in the air. “Where you headin’?”
“I don’t want to die!!” Cleo sobs in a tiny, pitiful voice.
“Greenbush Village.”
“Good to know, bird.” Bree scoffs. “Hmm... that's, phew, way too far.”
A smirk slips up Bree’s lips. Apprehension builds in Mistral’s breast. Her heart is heavy. It beats faster. Her chest grows tighter and tighter until a mewl from inside reminds Mistral of the vulnerable Pokemon within.
Saliva pounds into Bree’s throat, shuttled away with a swallow whose sound hits like a punch to Mistral’s chest. Afterwards, Bree softly hums. Her lips slowly part. Hot, damp breath blasts the Swellow’s face as Bree huffs a sensual sigh.
 “I ain’t goin’ to Greenbush. Way too far for something so mundane.”
“She’s an actress!” Mistral pipes.
“Who cares? You won’t be shit soon. Or, rather, you will be.”
Cleo hears the once thundering heart stop. Mistral feels it drop. Her face goes slack. Her eyes, wide.
Bree’s fat tongue pokes from her lips and drags across her thin mouth scales.
“How ‘bout once I'm done with y'all, I'll drop you off in one o’ my berry bushes. All indiscreet-like." A corner of her lips lift in a snarling smile. Slightly-yellowed teeth flash for only a moment before her tongue slathers it in slobber.
Mistral’s wings whip into action. They flap, beating the air as their master squawks.
“No! Help! Somebody—she’s going to eat me!”
Feathers fly as she kicks up a frenzy. The behemoth that grips her ankle flinches. Pulling back slightly, Bree’s eyes burn behind their squint.
Weak feathered limbs beat her face and arms.
“You’re not gonna go down easy, huh?” Bree growls. “I was gonna savor you, featherface. But now it looks like I’m gonna have to gobble you up like you’re hot trash.”
Their gazes interlock. They look, eye-to-eye. Mistral becomes stone-still as if her sight is chained.
One beast’s eyes are filled with fear; the other radiates hunger. Staring deep into her dinner’s eyes, Bree sees her own widening maw. And from the bird’s point-of-view, it’s all she can see. 
Conical fangs sprout from pink gums. Thick sheets of yolky drool are muck between molars. Their weight drags them down. Heavy, they barely lift above the fleshy floor.
And Bree’s tongue is on full display. Her jaws now wide enough to fit Mistral’s slimmed, aerodynamic head, the bird is given no reprieve from teh alien sights before her. It’s a glimpse into a nother world. Bree’s tongue is a hamburger patty splashed with thick patches of snotty saliva. Cloudy liquid blobs flow with the natural contours of the muscle, pooling into the insidious bath that swamps her mouth.
The scent of dragon spit is strong. But it pales in comparison to the stench wafting from the flesh pit beyond. Her gullet is dark, spongy, and meaty—soft and supple. Mistral knows what it feels like before she even touches it. A fact she has little time to ponder. The eye-watering  reek of putrified fish spears her soul and hooks into her lungs. Mistral is thrown into a fit of convulsions wheezing at the great stench as she’s dropped lower—hung above the great dragon’s open throat.
Seizing Mistral’s momentary stillness, the dragon clamps her lips around Mistral’s face. Jelly-like lips cradle her skull. Her chin squelches into that miserable tongue. Her beak points towards Bree’s rotten throat. And pitiful Cleo sucks in the rot Mistral breathed. And she wracks her throat, dry heaving in the twisted crisscross of vanilla, filth, and digestion.
“You like that?” Bree’s muffled words blast sour-stencehd, salty spittle from her throat.. “You’re greasy, fuckin’ pigeon?”
Mistral is ripped from her maw, heaving and ripping.
Spit slingshots into her eyes as the drooling dragon snaps. “That’s how I’d’ savor my food. Good food. Like my dearling Razz Berries.”
She smacks her lips, tongue swishing in Mistral-flavored water.
“But you decided to be a troublesome meal. You’re not good food. So this is how I eat trash: slop sold from some shady Kecleon with a taste I don’t give a fuck about. Shit I eat just to feel full.”
Mistral squeaks out a plea in the face of the dragon’s beastly breath. “I’m begging with you Bree…”
“No,” Bree pops the word out bluntly.
Her claws smash Mistral’s wings close to her body, clutching her like a squirming, oversized bird-ritto.
“You’re lunch.”
The sibilant -ch of her last syllable lengthens as her jaws stretch. Her tongue flops, its greasy saliva flinging off its flesh in the fish-scented gale. Beads of spittle splattered across her face, Mistral winces. She nabs a glance at the oily insides deep within the Dragonite’s gullet. Then, she’s shoved forward. No grace. No care. Simple, efficient—Mistral delves into dragon slobber. She scrapes onto the fat face of a tongue like every other piece of junk Bree has ever eaten.
The instant she touches it, Mistral’s stomach quakes. Swamped in sickness, a hoarse gag retches from her throat while her beak barrels towards Bree’s widening gullet. With little distance to cover, the back of her throat fast approaches.
Cleo feels Mistral smash upon the gullet’s backboard. The bird screams as putrid stomach air pumps from the depths of her guts. Gooey crinkling floods the air as the shaft lubes itself up with swallowed spit. Drool spurts between clenched muscles as the passage begins to chew, dragging away feather-flavored saliva in the cacophony of its peristalsis.
The Cincinno is crushed by Mistral’s anxiety. The crop quivers. Flesh jump and presses at random, having the inadvertent effect of slobbering her up and ramming her closer to Mistral’s spine. Her terrified heartbeat pounds Cleo’s ears as the Dragonite lifts her tongue. The muscle rises beneath Mistral, digging its tip at the base of her neck. Bree’s just squeezing out a few drops of flavor as she adjusts her grip. But the bird’s convulsions coupled with the unexpected press upon her crop-filled bulge have dire consequences.
Cleo feels Bree’s disgusting tongue mash into her back. Currently, the rodent has her belly pressed against the quivering fleshy wall, and her back faces the surface that points outwards from Mistral’s body. Her head faces the sphincter that leads out—and she sees that fleshy portal slowly dip away.
As her legs are kneaded into an orifice of yolky flesh: squishy to a near liquid level—like a waterbed.  A burning-moist breeze puffs from within, brushing past her paws, tickling her privates, and wisping along each end of her body—all until that sticky air reaches her face.
Her nose.
She breathes. She screams.
Sour vanilla yogurt violates her lungs. Now, she smells what taints it: the leftover scraps of Mistral’s hearty late-night dinner. Ever the glutton, most of the meat-and-seed gruel flushed away into her intestines long before her shift. But like vomit on a carpet, it takes a lot to remove that ever-faint odor. It’s a fact that creeps up now and again; Mistral has dealt with it many times. But she ate just a bit too late last night. And the horror still lingers.
“Mistraaaaalll!” Cleo screams, slowly fed into hell. Her ferrier erupts into another revolted wheeze—jetting hot yogurty barf onto Cleopatra’s fluffy little toes.
Outside, the bird feeds into Bree’s maw steadily. Her hot gullet clamps upon her head, crushing her into silence as a great bulge forms on Bree’s neck. Her shaking wings puff Bree’s cheeks. And the Dragonite feels her prey’s belly rumble as a strange, screaming object comes sliding into the viscid soup of the Swellow’s belly.
Glurk. Glourp. Awful noises erupt around Mistral. The dragon’s throat smashes her with each swallow. And each convulsion leaves her wrapped in throat mucus and spit. She groans as the walls pull away, revealing her muddied, wet face. Inevitably, the torture resumes anew. Her hat torn off her head and crushed against her body, Mistral oozes down Bree’s thick throat. Her legs and tail remain as-of-yet, devoured. But her face terminates at an impenetrable, grimy sphincter.
More gulps drag her down. She’s forced to have half her whole body’s weight rest upon her neck, as she’s stuck with her cheek braced against the twitching valve. A gag spurts from the Dragonite, gorged with her meal and her neck  puffed like a grotesque balloon. Mistral is dragged backwards. Her beak aligns with the reeking portal. After moments of humiliating agony, it stickily spreads. The slimy walls clap down. And Mistral is dragged inside.
Her beak pokes into the swamped expanse of molten death. Mistral rots from the inside-out as she smells the putrid remains of Bree’s meals. The fish from earlier is marinated Combee honey. Mistral’s eyes, just squeezed in, see the tuna-like slop churning below as she momentarily hangs from the ceiling. Pushed forth, bit by bit, she begs whilst she nears the nasty soup.
“No, no, no!” She cries. The pinch of seawater, surely swallowed with the fish, stings her sore throat.
“Please!”
Bree snarfs down the last of Mistral’s legs, humming in delight. A couple more swallows shuttles the rest of her disgusting body into her filthy destination. And upon her arrival, a wondrous weight settles her belly. And relief of a clear throat is an unmatched ecstasy.
She can’t help but sigh.
“Aaah…” Bree doesn’t even notice she’s losing altitude until her clawed toes touch the forest’s soft soil.
“Arceus, you’re a real gut-stuffer!” She hefts her drooping gut with a cradling claw. Smirking, she gives it a squeeze.
“Go catch a Farfetch’d!”
“Aw, that’s the best comeback that can come outta ya, snack?” Bree barely contains her snickering as her claws knead deep. Immediately, she feels her belly jiggle with the bird screech. Mistral is rammed into digesting fish heads. Their softened bones bend on impact. And their gooped flesh spurts across her face. The sickening stench of their rotting insides plagues the dragon’s belly while Mistral is forced to mop the sides with her soiled feathers.
“Aw, seafood not your style?” Bree coos. “Shame. Every bit of you is gonna be as stinky and rotten as the gunk you’re swimming in.”
“B-barf me up!” Mistral pleads, desperately searching for unsullied sanctuary. But every inch of Bree’s gut is vile. Mistral crams her face up against the wrinkled wall, trapped barf squirting about between folds as the stomach surface smushes in. Noxious odor rises from the sewage in the neck-high swamp. Mistral’s own bitter spit dribbles from her maw, courtesy of her queasy—and squirming—bird belly.
A new bite of horror digs in as a valve below opens up. Belly soup sinks away to her lower guts with a sound similar to water bubbling down the bathroom drain. In exchange, intestinal gas seeps through. It disperses into the chum, agitating it. Gurgling bubbles break the surface, releasing a rancor that splinters Mistral’s dying remnants of her cherished professionalism—leaving her as a screaming animal desperate to escape the raw, intestinal funk.
A flex of her belly sloshes its contents. Promptly, Bree’s throat stretches as hot gas works its way up her gullet.
“Gwuaarwp.” A rude belch sends a buckshot of spit pelting the ground. “Heh, that was a wet one. You really are a rotten, greasy meal. You know that?”
The Dragonite licks her fangs as the struggles in her belly slow. Mistral isn’t anywhere near death. But all that struggling’s caught up with her. She’s exhausted.
Exasperated weeping pipes from Mistral’s belly.
“No! No, Mistral! Mistral, please! Get up! Keep fighting! Don’t leave us like this!”
“Ah-hem!” Bree clears her throat. Her belch gave her a second tasting of mistral. The flavor still dances on her tongue.
“I don’t know about y’all, but I feel like showin’ you two a look-see of my home turf. Sample its cuisine. You’re gonna be a part of it forever, yeah?”
Bree’s begins her march down the forest path. Heavy stomps and swaying hips make that all too clear for Mistral. The Dragonite’s gait is unbalanced: marked by long strides and an imbalance waddle. Her legs are short; her hips are wide. So, to keep her balance, Bree twists her waist just a smidge at the apex of her foot’s outstretching.
This stirs up hell in her insides. Mistral didn’t know things could somehow get worse. Now fresh, hot dragon vomit is churning into waves. It laps at her face. She’s smacked from both directions, each side taking turns to push her around. Timed with the Dragonite’s waddle, the buttery barf sloshes like cake batter in a bowl. Lumpy. Hell, even gritty. Undigested fish bones and berry seed nick the Swellow’s features. Her stomach grinds against silt trapped between it and the wall. Her magnificent wings are speckled with fish guts. And her face is devastated with thick, globby tendrils of slime.
Meanwhile, Cleo is far more immobilized than Mistral. The force of two oppressive guts crush the rodent’s enclosure tight. Yogurt and bile to just a hair below her upturned nose. Gooey water invades her body. It flushes into her ears. It tickles her lips. It rinses between the wrinkles between her joints: underarms and where the torso meets the thigh.
Both of them start to feel the burn.
Cleo feels it inside her head. Acids nibble in her ear canal. Brief relief is only brought by the occasional squirt of the bird’s swallowed spit. A lucky shot causes it to drip right in, canceling the acidity just a bit on her outer ear. But it hardly helps the growing pain deeper within.
Mistral? She’s luckier. The presence of other food in Bree’s stuffed belly dilute the acidity.  The dragon’s stomach has to constantly pup in more to even keep up. But that doesn’t save her. At first, it struggled with her feathers. Now, it attacks the roots: eating away, bit by bit, at the flesh that connects that impervious plumage to their owner.
She can’t help but note that her hat, despite being covered in some of the most vile filth imaginable, is faring far better than her. Despite the feather emblem having gone matted, and the putrid orange color that’s settled into its fibers—it’s barely worse for wear. 
Bree’s half-digested meal rolls up the walls as the dragon’s movement stops.
“Y’all can’t see this due to bein’ a turducken dinner in my belly, but right now I’m starin’ out at the sparklin’ waters right-near Silver Bay.”
Mistral simply whines in response. Arceus, it’s really starting to hurt…
A heavy open-handed smack drums her fat, jiggling gut. “You even listenin’? You better be.”
“Can’t…” Mistral croaks. “Breathe…”
“Mm-hm. Anyway, it’s got the best Basculin around! I’m sure you know. You’re swimmin’ in them right now.”
Abrupt bubbling screams break from within Mistral’s grumbling gut.
“Cleo!?”
Bree huffs. “Ugh. Shaddup.” Her belly visibly pumps, compressing Mistral tight, forcing sludge to swamp over her head. Belly walls grow nearer. Squeeze tighter. The tight space compels the sloshing gut slurch to drain into the duodenum—and for another sluggish belch to burst from the dragon.
“Save your screamin’ for the berry bushes; we’re headed there next. I heard that hollerin’ makes ‘em grow better too.”
Her tortuous waddle begins once again. Mistral barely can eeke out a plead to stop.
“Don’t… walk. No more…”
Mistral’s stomach burbles out disgusting sounds as it begins to crunch. Admittedly, it feels good. As disgusted as she feels about it, Mistral softly moans in her filthy habitat. She feels her gut walls smear their horror all across the Cinccino. She feels Cleo’s struggles. The bird’s stomach twitters from the many bubbles stirred up fro Cleo’s panicked, underwater screams. Even as Bree’s stomach starts to churn Mistral much the same, the wonderful sensation of digesting a big meal almost outweighs the the bird’s own suffering.
She can feel it all: how Cleo’s skin grows softer and softer. Pulled and pressed by the walls, the actress weeps as rips form in her flesh. Her skin is sloughing away. Acid-infused, smelly yogurt flows into her wounds—and the agony becomes white-hot.
She twists and turns within the confined space. Mistral’s stomach bumps around inside her body, squelching into other organs, sharing their slime. Gas from Cleo’s rambunctious activity stirs up in the disturbed organs. Mistral’s bowels bubble. Small belches pop out her beak, carrying a wonderful meaty taste.
Near the end of Bree’s current journey, the pleasure of Cleo’s digestion is utterly crushed by the misery of her own. The dragon’s gut is rougher. Mistral’s wings catch in belly folds. Once they press down as her stomach squishes, the fragile wing bones between the folds are crunched. She yelps in pain, tossing and turning in the filth. The few articles of clothing she had rise and fall from the surface: her hat and Swellow Air tail banner. Her handkerchief remains a wet napkin wrapped around her neck. What was once a vibrant blue is now a sickly color, just like the rest of Mistral’s feathers. Maroon and dark blue plumage are now repulsive and patchy. Exposed skin is bloody and raw. Stray feathers are now adrift in the melange.
Mistral catches the sharp sound of a berry picked from its stem.
“This here’s a Pecha Berry bush.” Bree decrees. “The Pecha Berry bush. Mine. Soil hasn’t been right for a few. But it ain’t nothin’ a load of fresh fertilizer can’t fix, eh?”
Crunching. Chewing. Bree tossed the bright pink heart-shaped berry in the grinder. Her fangs rip it apart in seconds, forming a sweet gruel that seeps into her throat. A hearty swallow jostles her belly slightly, disturbing the waves of gruel while Mistral waits in fearful anticipation. Soon enough, the belly sphincter eases open. Hot mess smacks into the stuffed cauldron. Lumpy islands of conglomerated Pecha drift atop her vomit and splatter the ruined bird.
Bree has another. The sickeningly sweet smell continues to grow. More berry pulp drops into Mistral’s hell.
The Dragonite licks her chops. “Mmm. Sweet as nectar.”
Mistral cringes as she senses her own stomach crush something that makes a gooshy, cracking crunch.
“Nearly sundown! Jumping Jumpluff, I hate it when the days start endin’ this early.”
“Help me…” Mistral slumps her wing from a gut wrinkle’s grip. Its tip is a destroyed wire hanger. Feathers hang off shattered bone and revealed muscle. Red blood mixes with the ugly colors of Bree’s puke.
And speaking of her, Bree doesn’t acknowledge Mistral anymore. At this point, her fun has had. Mistral’s voice is just another belly gurgle: a slightly-improper bodily noise. Mistral notices this too.
“Legends… this is what I’m reduced to?” She’s already lost feeling in her legs. It’s just as a surprise to her when she hears her legs crack like twigs.
“She doesn’t see me as a Pokemon anymore.” Tears trickle down her acid-eaten face. Their saline stings as it passes by overlapped lines of her exposed muscle.
Meanwhile, Bree settles down on a hay bed overlooking the wondrous lake. Her fat gut touches the plushness, distorting as the Dragonite rests her entire weight upon it.
“Aaaagh!” Mistral’s caterwaul is drowned out by Bree’s comfy sight. A small wisp of gas puffs from below her tail: courtesy of the dragon’s recent heavy meal meal.
Mistral whimpers, nearly suffocating under unbearable weight.
“Can’t… breathe!”The Dragonite’s heartbeat drums away as Mistral’s picked apart until she’s dead woman walking. Kept alive due to the pressure and adrenaline, she’s a meat-covered skeleton with glued-on bits of ugly plumage. No matter how much she tries, she hasn’t the strength to stop the walls from crushing her. They follow a pattern: deathly squeezing, slight relaxation. The stomach crunches and balloons as the bird floats in a soup of her own bodily viscera.
Amongst the pain and shock, a sudden stab of queasiness dominates her mind. A wet rattles shakes her barely-intact throat. Mistral’s exposed guts pump. Her bloated belly goes taut, vomiting ugly noises as it struggles to process the marshy soup within.
And just like that, a great ripping occurs.  Her stomach splits open. The squishy remains of what was once Cleopatra, actress of region renown, gushes out like a gallon of heavily-spoiled milk. Fur and ribbons dress the creamy hamburger Cleo has become. The tight space forces it right back towards Mistral—as the Dragonite’s stomach begins its final series of deathly crunches.
Mistral is steadily bludgeoned to feather-filled paste.

It isn’t long before Mistral’s corpse finds itself near-totally liquefied. Tendons and fat have blended into meat stew. And it’s something Bree’s small intestines sip away at for hours. The sludge recedes. Mistral’s uniform and Cleo’s ribbons are pushed to the bottom by the stomach’s constant kneading. Then, they too flush away. Spilling into the messy stretch of her villi-lined pipes, the slop-slathered clothes find themself slippery enough to pass through smoothly—surrounded by the soupified remains of their owners.
But they were a big meal. Their progress is slow. And Cleo’s ribbons have only just gushed into the sludgy start of the Dragonite’s colon when Bree finally awakens.
“Woo-weee,” she whistles, feeling around her added weight as she stands. “Rat and turkey really pack on the pounds.”
Her lower guts garble. Deep inside, Mistral’s hat drowns in a back slosh of porridge-like, fur-and-feather-peppered dragon shit. Pouring up from the left edge of her large bowel, the gruel slops over the filthy items at colon’s start. The scummy walls churn, mixing the items with their abominable, muddy roommates.
Pfrrrbt. After a brief grunt, a rancid fart  rumbles out down below. Bree relaxes, unaware her recent expulsion smashed The Pokemon’s belongings even deeper within their remains. A fresh gushing of intestinal squalor burps out the small intestine, ballooning the start of her tract.
Not that she minded, though. Bree finishes her stretches and moves on. As she trods towards her cute lil’ garden, her meal’s messy remains pump further along.
Bree fills a Phanpy-shaped watercan. Then, as she’s sprinkling it on her berry bush’s leaves,  Mistral’s Swellow Air banner carves through fudgy horror. The Pokemon’s various items separate, dispersed throughout the ever-growing train.
More and more crap barfs into colon as Bree enjoys a light lunch of a Caterpie who dared nibble at her Oran Berry bushel’s leaves. As the dying bug sits in teh stomach, they’d surely hear the turmoil of the bowels below. Stuffed to near capacity, a king’s feast oozes with near constant, tiny trumpets of gas.
It isn’t until past noon that her well-cooked waste worms into her rectum. Bree felt it for a while: her meals slithering around down there. But now, her body urgently asks for a bathroom break.
To which, she graciously obliges.
An Aspear Berry bush’s leaves tremble as Bree’s nearby steps shake the earth. The plant isn’t faring well. It bears no fruit. It’s just a great mass of green leaves: little more than a hedge.
Without a word, Bree turns around. A great breath exhales from her as she leans forward. Her tail lifts. Her ass enveloped in the greenery, the dirty deed’s sight is hidden from all.
But one took a peak in that bush, nothing would escape one’s sight. Her ass is framed in leaves. Foliage brushes her rear’s tan scales. A shot of gas leaks from her yawning anus. Snaking forth, a fat potato of a shit.
Slodgy, its rounded tip is soft and compact. Scraps of Mistral and Cleo’s hide poke all along its surface. It oozes free, growing longer and longer as its slithers towards the earth. Eventually, Mistral’s banner returns to the world. Weaved in-and-out of Bree’s crap, it glides out with ease—only for the Dragonite’s anus to clamp down. Cutting the shit off, the banner gets caught in her tailhole. A bubbling builds. And a fart blasts it off onto the ground—followed by a new thick log.
Dreadful sludge pelts the ground. The plant’s leaves are left gooey and wet.  Eventually, Mistral’s hat joins the clumps on the ground. Embedded in a rather wet section, the ichor around it is stuffed with blue and red feathers, and a pinch of gray fur.
Once Cleo’s stained ribbons meet the earth, the Dragonite grunts. Pushing out a few final clumps of shit, Bree feels total relief.
“Wonder if another Swellow’s gonna swing by…” She mutters, stomping towards the river to clean herself. “Never thought I’d say this. But I wouldn’t even be mad.”
Her toes touch water. “Best damn meal there ever was.”