Sen lay sprawled out on his couch, rendered lethargic and dull-headed by the heat of that scorching July day. What had once been red fabric had been worn over the years down to a grayish-pink, covered all over with stains of forgotten origin. The cushions were each leaking their stuffing from multiple wounds, and the springs below had long since lost their zest. It stunk to hell and back, but Sen was usually too exhausted to care. He didn’t really mind being tired after a hard day’s work, though: there wasn’t anything to do for fun at home, anyways. After fashioning some inferior approximation of every potentially-useful thing he could think of with the unspecialized tools and shitty materials he had, he occupied himself with solitaire until he came to hate that, too. His new time-killing strategy was to tire himself out until he was content to simply vegetate. He had already read all his books and comics at least a dozen times since the war broke out, so much that the very thought of revisiting one sickened him. The radio had been spouting the same worthless propaganda since then, but he listened to it anyways just to hear the sound of someone else’s voice while he worked his fields. The little solar-powered gadget was the only electronic device he had taken with him when he fled the city, knowing that he would have no power in the wilderness. That was 4 years ago, though it felt a lot longer. He hired a boat to bring his key belongings (as well as some rope and bamboo for a house) out to the middle of nowhere, placed his stuff on a hastily-built platform, waved the driver goodbye, and had not spoken with a living person since. He saw the writing on the wall, so he decided to abandon civilization before it could kill him. He got out just in time: for the next few days, thick black smoke blocked out the sun over his improvised hut, drifting from the fires which consumed his old city. He had invited everyone he knew to come along with him, but nobody listened. Everyone had an excuse. All the old folks said that they were too weak and frail to make it in the swamp, and that they would rather take their chances in the city. They had spent their whole lives there, they said, and would be worthless anywhere else. A mixture of laziness and wishful thinking overpowered their better judgment, and Sen could only insist for so long before they got tired of him. The young people, on the other hand, had the opposite excuse: if there really was going to be a war, then strong men like them would be needed to stay and fight. They were just saying that to get him off their backs, as they clearly did not think they would actually have to take up arms - when he offered to bring their wives and children to the safety of the outlands, they all declined. Often he thought of his old friends cowering under piles of rubble or bleeding out in the streets, and often he contemplated going back to rescue whoever he could. He could certainly use the company, not to mention an extra hand to maintain the crops. But he always concluded that he would not be able to return alive, if he could even procure a means of reaching the city in the first place. 

Sen’s house stood on bamboo stilts, a foot above the water’s surface. For hundreds of miles on every side, it was surrounded by ocean. It was situated on the Avathian plateau: a flat landmass jutting out from the South of a much larger, more elevated continent. Except for a few islands, which varied in size, the Plateau was submerged under about 5 feet of water at all times (Sen had never known of high or low tide, as his planet had no moon). The ocean was always still and stagnant there, colored an opaque yellow from a mixture of mud, chemicals, and leaf juices (though the house was many miles away from the nearest tree). The air never moved either; neither wind nor rain had struck Sen’s habitation in some years, and cloudy days were a rare blessing to his sun-scorched eyes. In the summer, noonday temperatures floated around in the late 30s and early 40s centigrade. Even in “winter,” the temperature rarely dropped below 35 degrees, as the water retained the heat of the previous day after sundown. Sen was consequently boiled by the humidity without relief, and could scarcely remember the last time he had not been soaked in sweat. He missed his life on dry land, but he knew he could not go back.

And then, there was the food situation. Ordinarily, one would fish and grow crops to live on an Avathian homestead. About half of the country was underwater, and the rebels couldn’t hope to control all of it, so they sought to make the areas beyond their grasp as unliveable as they could. When they seized the means of doing so, they chose to poison the water, so that neither fish nor crop could live in it, ruining the enemy’s hopes of living off the land. The infrastructure was already in place; the Plateau was only inhabitable for most sentient species by virtue of the anti-mosquito insecticide which its countries poured into the water. All they had to do was switch it out with something stronger. Fortunately, Sen had managed to enclose a sizable patch of ocean in a wall of mud, keeping it pure enough to sustain himself. He spent most of his waking hours filtering and pumping water into the pool to keep it from evaporating. It was perhaps the most repetitive and arduous work he had ever done, but he had managed to maintain an adequate stock of juicyroot and tastycane in his reservoir (neither of which were tasty or sweet unprocessed), and a substantial school of fish for protein. He had to ration his produce, so he was never quite full, but he survived. 

______

Varasom clenched his teeth, knowing full well that complaining would only make things worse, and that all his comrades were just as tired and hungry as he was. For weeks on end, his company had been marching through the unbroken monotony of this cursed land without an end in sight. The slightly-thickened water through which he was slogging made his scales itch. Its dull, waveless surface made it look more like sand than anything else, much to the reptile’s disgust. The commander assured his men they were nearing their objective, but even he began to wonder whether they would ever see the enemy. 

Varasom sighed, but he knew there was no other place he could be. For far too long, Scoravia had allowed a failed state to languish on its frontier, and was consequently inundated with an endless flood of refugees, drugs, and tainted water from across the border. All other trade between the two countries had ground to a halt for obvious reasons, to disastrous economic effect, and pirates seemed to multiply endlessly in the absence of a functioning Culdesian government. Every great power watched in disgust as the region fell into chaos, hoping someone would fix the problem, yet unwilling to sacrifice the blood and treasure to do it themselves. So it fell to the Scoravians to restore order in Culdesia, or watch helplessly as their neighbors slaughtered each other down to the last man. As natives of an Avathian nation, they were particularly well-suited to lend a hand, after all. Aside from the obvious benefits of being a semi-aquatic population, Scoravians were well-adapted to the intense heat of the Plateau, and were considerably larger than most other intelligent species, generally standing between 8 and 10 feet tall. 

Varasom tried to lose himself in memory, hoping to escape his present discomforts, and his mind wandered to the day that had led him to his current conundrum. One sunny afternoon, while at the gym with his friends, the discussion turned to Culdesia. Tired of all the desperate Culdesians who roved about the town begging, picking pockets, robbing stores, and shitting under porches, he said that Scoravia ought to invade and put a stop to the nonsense that was driving them here. After making the usual arguments about “minding our own business,” “staying out of quagmires,” and saving money, one of the other guys called him a hypocrite for wanting a war he would not sign up to fight in. Though he had no opinion on the Culdesian question two minutes earlier, arguing about it caused Varasom to commit to his newfound position. He retorted that one more soldier would not make any difference, and that he would gladly go if doing so somehow ensured that the government would commit enough troops and arms to win quickly and completely. The conversation ended there, but his acquaintance’s comment stuck in his head. Two hours later, he forced himself to the recruitment office despite his misgivings, internally cringing all the way - if there was one thing Varasom hated, it was discipline; and what was the army but one big lump of discipline? Indeed, he spent more time thinking about how awful his superiors would be, and barely considered his enemies before he started training. He knew there was a significant risk involved, but never found it interesting enough to think about, nor did it register on an emotional level. He had a certain arrogance, in fact: the idea of a Scoravian getting shot to death by a mere mammal seemed rather silly in his mind, and whenever that possibility occurred to him, he dismissed the idea that it could ever happen to him. When faced with the choice between retaining the relative autonomy of civilian life or getting rid of his nagging sense of uselessness, he had to choose the latter. He would never feel like a man again, otherwise - am I really going to stay in this worthless existence because I don’t like being ordered around? 

Back home, Varasom just wanted to be left alone. His older brother was studying advanced chip fabrication techniques at the university, and his parents always wanted him to follow a similarly-lucrative path. They tried their best to build him up as they did with his brother, delegating him all sorts of tasks and keeping a close eye on his grades, but his resentment only grew. All he wanted to do, it seemed, was eat, sleep, jack off, and work out. Thus, they were stuck in the classic predicament of “making your kid hate you forever by sending him to boarding school” or “letting him throw away his future and refuse to grow as a person.” One day, they caught a lucky break: Varasom got a job at the convenience store across the street. They would have preferred it if he went into law or medicine, but at that point, they had already tried and failed to get him on that track. They supposed that if they forbid him from work, he would end up spending the spare time on dumb shit, rather than school. They supposed that he would hate cashiering so much that he would come back to school motivated by the unpleasantness of uneducated work. They supposed that he would build the basic skills of punctuality, patience, and not-being-a-dick that would allow him to be an average student. They supposed they should be thankful he had not decided to become a bum, as they sometimes feared he would. After graduating high school with an average mark of 51%, he stayed at the cash register and met any parental inquiries about his future with a dismissive, exasperated stare at best, and by leaving the room or shouting at worst. This state of limbo persisted until that fateful argument in the locker room. When he departed for training camp that evening, he left his parents a nonchalant note on the kitchen table instead of saying a proper goodbye, rather glad that they were not home at the time to try and stop him. He knew they would be mortified by his sudden departure, but did not care enough to dwell on it. When the recruiter expressed reservations, Varasom insisted that he had discussed the matter with them previously and had their full support.

Varasom found that getting ordered around was not so bad when the tasks were not pointless, as nearly all his work back home had seemed, whether it be in school or behind the counter of the convenience store (he enjoyed the money, of course, but he could never quite shake the feeling that he was wasting his time there). It was nice to finally be around elders who were worth respecting. His disdain for other species gradually disappeared as his journeys forced him to work and train alongside them; he remained insensitive towards them, but only because he was naturally insensitive to everyone. Unlike in civilian society, however, nobody seemed to hold this against him (except sometimes the commander). Varasom hated people with thin skin, and found it profoundly liberating to inhabit a community where smack-talk could be exchanged without anyone fussing about their feelings. He no longer had to choose between constantly policing himself and making people hate him. He even made a few friends. Shooting a rifle came naturally to him, and he was quickly regarded as one of the best shots in his unit. He was among the physically strongest, too. Soon enough, the president decided to send the troops into Culdesia, and Varasom’s battalion was among those deployed.

Varasom was broken out of his reverie by an excited shout. Apparently, someone had spotted some sort of homestead up ahead. The despair which had slowly been creeping into the company’s mentality was instantly pulled out by the root. A sense of helpless unease had come over them after so many days of walking, since their chief afflictions had been hunger and exhaustion, but at last, they were on the doorstep of an enemy that could be defeated by force. They visibly perked up all at once when they heard the scout’s call - they would be out of the wilderness soon. If they were lucky, they might even find something to eat in the little hut.

______

That day, while working the pump, Sen saw an unusual speck on the otherwise-flat horizon from the corner of his eye; for the first time since he left his city, something had happened without him causing it. He rushed back into the house, simultaneously exhilarated and terrified by the prospect of seeing another intelligent lifeform. He pulled his rifle out from under the couch, rested the barrel on the windowsill, and scoped in on the distant sparkle. It was the glint of bayonets in the midday sun, jutting out of far bigger guns than he could wield. The sparkle grew as more of them emerged from the horizon, carried on the backs of a scaly, green mass. The Scoravians had arrived.

Feeling real hope for the first time in years, Sen fell to his knees and shouted thanks to his god, crying tears of joy. Suddenly, he was no longer used to the arduous monotony of his exile. Long ago, he had stopped trying to figure out whether or not he would ever set foot in his beloved home again, but he now knew that he would live to see his city in peace. He laughed with relief, sure in his heart that it would all be over soon. He saw himself triumphantly stepping back into his nostalgic apartment, and reuniting with his friends in the bombed-out remains of their favorite coffeehouse. They’d complain bitterly about the lack of a roof, but knowing that the worst was behind them, they would converse with light hearts, internally rejoicing at the return of law and order. Sen shook himself out of his daydream. He told himself not to get his hopes up: his apartment was probably burnt, his belongings all looted, and at least some of his friends would surely be dead. No regiment of lizards could reverse that, no matter how well-armed or trained. But perhaps their arrival now would mean one more living acquaintance to come home to, who would not have survived if they came a day later. 

Sen once had a Scoravian friend, way back in high school. He had never gotten along better with anybody else outside his family, in fact. Sen had many friends among his countrymen, but Kurom was a breath of fresh air. He was consistently and absolutely blunt unlike anyone he knew, but didn’t go out of his way to be punchy or take any joy in making others sting, as most of the “brutally honest” people did in Sen’s life. He never made a single effort to seem smarter than he was, nor did he show any shame in amusing himself with dumb shit, but not once did he rub his uniqueness (or anything else, for that matter) in anyone’s face. Everyone else their age either forced themselves into an ersatz classiness to impress their parents and teachers, or exaggerated their own rebelliousness for the admiration of their peers in a bizarre sort of arms race. Kurom was the only one not trying to build a brand. Sen was Kurom’s only friend, and the lizard was perfectly content with that, even grateful. Over the course of those 2 years, Kurom (unintentionally) influenced him more than anyone else had, parents excluded, and Sen confidently believed he was better off for it. His forthrightness made him a bit of an oddball among his classmates, but while this earned the resentment of some, it earned the trust of others. If Scoravia had raised all of her sons as well as Kurom, the occupation would be positively delightful. If only he remembered the little bits of Scoravi that Kurom taught him!

Sen found himself trembling, and took a few deep breaths to calm himself down. His hands still shivered a little, but he stood up and began to prepare for his guests as best he could. He took his biggest bowl and chopped a mixture of fish, tastycane, and juicyroot into it. He knew it would be neither impressive nor delicious, but he at least wanted the Scoravians to know he tried his best. He glanced through the window, and could clearly make out the stern expressions on the approaching reptiles’ faces. He opened the door and slowly approached the Scoravian in front. He held out the bowl to him and bowed; the beast blinked in surprise, taken aback by Sen’s enthusiastic welcome and unfamiliar with the human custom of cutting up prey as small as fish. He sniffed the food suspiciously, wondering if it was poisoned, but was too hungry to refuse it. He stuck his snout in the bowl and noisily slurped up its contents in seconds, getting the juices all over his face.

~Urp!

The lizard bowed to thank Sen, not knowing a word of Culdesian. The farmer, for his part, was very happy to have earned the invading commander’s good graces. The other Scoravians were already uprooting his tastycane field, chewing up the bamboo-like rods like pocky. They scooped up or skewered his fish and gulped them down squirming, laughing as they watched each other lose their grip on the slippery creatures, but Sen was not too upset about it - he would soon be going home thanks to them, and abandoning this worthless shack anyways. Feeling slightly guilty anyways, the commander barked harshly at his men to slash the cane stems, rather than yanking out the roots, and they complied at once. Sen smiled, knowing his hard work made a lot of men happy that day.

While the others were still outside feasting, the commander went into Sen’s hut to learn what he could. He took one of Sen’s wooden plates and carved a pictogram of a water-poisoning plant on the bottom, with a question mark after it. Sen understood, and pointed him in its general direction (though it was beyond the horizon). The Scoravian first considered hitting it with rockets until it collapsed, but he knew he was not supposed to damage critical Culdesian infrastructure more than necessary - the objective was to restore order in the country, not to turn it into a parking lot. He would probably need the munitions later, anyways. He considered blasting open a hole or two and storming the breach, but that would likely cost more lives than necessary. It would be a great deal easier if someone infiltrated the facility beforehand and disabled (at least some of) its defences. Out of all his men, Varasom seemed the least likely to panic and fuck it up. The local, of course, would be needed to work the plant systems, which had their language set to Culdesian. The commander poked his head out the window and yelled for Varasom, who waded over shortly. His tall, wide build filled out the entire doorframe, and he had to bend over to get through. His sluggish movement, his stocky frame, and his serious, narrow-eyed expression intimidated Sen. Yet he was taken by a desire, not rooted in fear, to please the unfriendly-looking reptile. He found himself wanting to make friends more than wanting to be left alone. Sen could not tell whether he was being examined with curiosity, pity, hunger, lust, or contempt. Something inside him made Sen want to stare at the ground, but he instead met Varasom’s half-glare with a wide-eyed, neutral face, letting him know he had nothing to hide, and that he wanted to know him better.

The commander cleared his throat, breaking the impromptu staring contest between Sen and Varasom. He explained the mission to him, gave him the necessary supplies, and sent him on his way. But Varasom had a question: if he had to stay underwater to avoid being seen and shot on the way to the pumping station, how would he take the human with him? First, they tried making a snorkel out of tastycane, but it was a bit too noticeable for their purposes. After considering and scrapping a few more dumb ideas over the next two hours, they retired to Sen’s shack to think of something else. Nobody came up with anything viable, but when Varasom’s stomach growled, they all agreed on a snack break. After mashing up a few dozen pounds of sweetroot between his jaws and gulping down some fish, he lay on Sen’s deck to catch some rays while digesting his meal. Sen nibbled on his vegetables, staring at Varasom’s abs (they were the prettiest sight within a 50-mile radius, and he had nothing better to do). At one point he saw something squirming in Varasom’s tummy, but found it difficult to believe his eyes. He pressed his ear against it, and could hear the fish flopping around inside. The Scoravians looked at each other, unsure what to think about Sen’s sudden fascination with Varasom’s midsection. Only when Sen pried open Varasom’s maw and pointed inside did the commander figure it out. He told Varasom the plan: he could keep Sen in his stomach while they were underwater, and if they broke into the facility fast enough, he could let him out before his acids caused too much harm. He could not verbally reply with Sen sticking his head in his mouth, so he gave the commander a slight nod before helping Sen inside. 

Varasom was impressed by the human’s apparent willingness, bordering on excitement, to risk a painful death in his belly. If I had been cooped up in his crappy little shack for 4 years, he supposed, I’d be desperate too. Still, he had to respect his prey. He looked at the vast field that he and his comrades just ravaged, and marveled at the effort that Sen must have put in to build it all and maintain it for so long unassisted. He knew quite a few people who would rather let themselves die than struggle so hard for such a miserable survival. He found himself disturbingly invested in this funny little creature’s story, and felt it would be an unmitigated tragedy if the human never got his old life back. He took it upon himself to bring Sen safely to his rightful home by any means necessary. He never thought he would care so much for a foreign stranger, and was prone to ridicule anyone who did, but there was something special about Sen. 

Varasom had never tried human meat before, but he had to admit it looked appetizing. Sen’s brown skin shone delectably in the sun, dripping with sweat; his tender texture and salty taste felt perfect on Varasom’s tongue. There was something nice about eating a meal who wanted to be inside you - never before had Varasom eaten something to please someone else. He noticed Sen’s effort to make himself as edible as possible, as the boy eased himself in hands-first. He did not force himself down, but allowed Varasom to consume him at his own casual pace, which the lizard appreciated. Thanks to his cooperation, swallowing Sen was no more difficult than eating any other dish. His slim physique fit Varasom’s throat snugly, and his smooth skin slid down without any resistance. All he had to do was suck him up.

Ulp

Sen’s pecs, and then his abs, slipped effortlessly over Varasom’s tongue, bathing it in his meaty flavor. He secretly enjoyed handling Sen’s balls and limp cock with his tongue, carefully and affectionately guiding them through his jaws.

Glk

Though quiet as a mouse, Sen was having way too much fun getting gulped away. He felt right at home in Varasom’s warm spit, finding the atmosphere of his humid maw no different from the muggy air outside. Being totally manhandled by a bigger, stronger male was where he got his thrill. It was not everyday that Sen lost control of his body to somebody else, and knowing that the lizard could do anything it wanted to him at a moment’s notice made him feel more alive than anything else in recent memory. But at the same time, the fact that Varasom chose to be so gentle despite his utter dominance made Sen feel loved. The impenetrable darkness was the cherry on top - Sen enjoyed the relief after working all morning with the sun in his eyes.

Glrp

Plus, the movement itself had a certain novelty - Sen enjoyed how Varasom’s throat molded itself around his lithe physique, massaging every inch of his body as it carried him towards the beast’s gurgling stomach. He wondered what it would be like to dissolve away in there, how easily and peacefully he would melt down into slop. The more he fantasized about it, the more he was convinced that he would not even notice being digested until it was already done. He would fall asleep, Varasom’s body would absorb him, and all his troubles would be over. He would be lizard fuel, to be expended within a day and forgotten within a week. A simple change of plans, a little bad luck, or a single slip of the mind, and he would be nothing more than padding on Varasom’s ass. He was shocked at how hard the idea of being protein for the big brute turned him on. 

Shlrk

Sen’s feet slipped through Varasom’s maw, and that was that. Sen had been at his mercy since the moment they met, but now it sunk in deep: unless he decides to throw me up, I’ll be dead and liquefied in ten minutes.

Urrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrp~

____________________________

When Sen reached his destination, he predictably landed in a pile of writhing fish. Not wanting to deal with the stink when they started melting, Sen pushed them back up the way they came, to Varasom’s understandable chagrin. Sen didn’t mind the sweetroot, though: it was warm, soft, and odorless, and would divert the acidic heat away from him for at least a little while. With the approximate texture of mashed potato, it molded around his body like a beanbag chair. Sen had never been in somebody’s stomach before, and found it surprisingly pleasant. The heat somehow failed to affect him as much as he expected, the squeeze of the stomach walls was cozy rather than claustrophobic, and if there were any acid eating away at him, he could not feel it. The darkness did not bother him; he knew there was nothing to see anyways, and felt perfectly safe. All in all, the experience was comforting, intimate, and perhaps even arousing. He received a reassuring pat from Varasom, and before long, they had reached the plant. Sen was reluctant to leave his bed of sweetroot, but nevertheless climbed into the open air with a little help from his predator. They were crouching in the shadow behind some sort of shipping container, having emerged from a small hole in the wall Varasom had discreetly(?) blown open. Varasom drew his gun immediately - somebody would surely come running to investigate the source of the water flooding in through the breach, if not alarmed by the sound of the blast itself. The guards did indeed hear it, and advanced upon the crate from both sides with arms drawn, but did not expect someone as tall as Varasom to be behind it, and were caught by surprise when he peeked over the top of the box. He felled them both with one shot each, but had to duck back down to avoid their comrades’ fire. They would not fall for the same trick twice. The right side of the shipping container was only a half-meter away from the wall, so Varasom unscrewed his bayonet, which was a good deal larger than an ordinary chef’s knife, and gave it to Sen so he could guard the tighter corner while he covered the left side himself. Varasom was able to pick off a few more guys, while Sen waited in terror for somebody to jump out at him from around the corner. Eventually, the enemy smartened up and threw a grenade over the container. Varasom bolted back into the hole in the wall before it could go off, but Sen was too far away to try that. He was able to slip into the container, as all the soldiers were watching the opposite side of it. He waited in the dark, listening helplessly to the surrounding gunfight. Stray bullets burst through the container wall every few seconds, narrowly missing him by good fortune alone. 

Eventually, the noise died down. Despite being badly outnumbered, he kept hope that Varasom had won the fight. He peered through one of the bulletholes, and though he could still see living Culdesians, he could not find Varasom’s body. The container door flew open just then. Sen stabbed the fellow who discovered him, and dashed behind a second container with another guard close behind him. Sen ran to the other side of it before his pursuer turned the corner, but was stopped in his tracks by a second gunman. He stepped back behind the crate, where he found the barrel of the first soldier’s gun staring him in the face as he turned around. He dove away just in time to avoid the shot. Slow and vulnerable on the floor, Sen could do nothing but shut his eyes and brace for death. But the second bullet never came. Instead, he heard a sickening CRACK, and then the dull thump of fur hitting concrete. When he opened his eyes, he saw Varasom standing over his foe, the butt of his rifle spattered with blood. The second fighter turned the corner to finish him off, but Varasom blasted out his chest before he could pull the trigger. He offered Sen his hand, who gratefully pulled himself back to his feet. It took herculean effort on his part not to hug Varasom, but figured he would not appreciate such an inconvenient display of sentimentality in the midst of combat.

The last guard in the room decided not to be a hero and ran for the nearest door, quickly slipping through and locking it behind him. No longer concerned with friendly fire, he emptied his pistol clip into the nearby coolant pipe as he retreated, spilling a pale blue fluid all over the ground below. The temperature in the room dropped precipitously, from a comfortable (to Sen) 24 degrees to a crisp 5. Varasom had found the place pretty chilly before, but the temperature shock was too much for his cold-blooded body, and he collapsed. Sen was relieved to find a pulse, but could not get him to wake up. Without hope of wielding his oversized weapon effectively, Sen took a pistol from one of the defeated guards instead. His first priority was to take out bunny the who had fled; he could not safely watch the stairwell door with an enemy behind him. Thinking quickly, Sen carried a tall, narrow crate beside the door where his adversary was. He picked the lock with the bayonet and opened the door about halfway, but did not attempt to enter, figuring there was a loaded gun trained on the doorway. Instead, he took a grenade from one of the men Varasom had shot and threw it in. He slammed the door, tipping over the crate to keep it shut. He leaned against the door with all his weight, and was just barely able to keep the guard from ramming his way out. Sen felt him throw 2 heavy blows against the door, each one almost knocking him over, before the grenade went off. 

When Sen was sure the rabbit was dead, he entered the room. Luckily, there weren’t any more guards inside. It was a bit brighter too, thanks to the sunlight streaming in through the windows: apparently, it was an observation area of some sort. A gush of hot air poured in through the shattered glass. It would hopefully be enough to bring Varasom back to his senses, if Sen could get him close enough to the window. He grabbed the lizard by the shoulders and tugged with all his might, but found his muscles aching after sliding him a yard. No matter, Sen thought, I’ll get there eventually. Then, he heard a noise coming from the dead guard’s radio. His colleagues were asking him to report in with increasing urgency, and nobody was answering. All of a sudden, time was of the essence. Reinforcements would be sent shortly, and Sen knew he could not fight them off on his own. For a moment his heart sank, but luck soon returned to his side when he spotted a large platform dolly sticking out from behind a container. He wheeled it over, flipped his lizard onto it, and pushed it up the ramp to the observation room door. As soon as he dragged him in, a squadron of rebels emerged from the stairwell, and he shut the door just in time to block a hailstorm of lead. He locked it behind him, but it was only a matter of time before they blew it open. He laid Varasom on his back next to the window, shaking him, fanning him, massaging him, slapping his face, and doing whatever else he could think of to wake him up. He could not feel his breath at all, and could not tell whether or not he was imagining the occasional heartbeat that seemed to emanate from his chest. A clear puddle had appeared under the door, slowly expanding with every passing second. Sen did not normally mind the smell of gasoline, but it was not so pleasant when he realized he was about to be cooked alive. He dragged Varasom as far as possible from the door, but the fluid kept chasing them at a sluggish but unremitting pace. The soldiers knew Scoravians had fireproof scales, and figured they would have to saturate the room quite thoroughly with fumes if they were to kill it with the initial explosion. Too much was better than not enough. Sen, meanwhile, squished himself into the far corner with Varasom, with little to do but pray he would awaken. He implored him to come back, hoping he could somehow hear him. The gasoline reached almost to the last wall, and Sen realized it would be his last minute on Earth unless Varasom could save him. 

please wake up please wake up please wake up please wake up

When Varasom first regained consciousness, he could neither move nor speak, or even open his eyes. All he could remember was that awful cold, slowing his body and mind down to the point of lifelessness. The air had solidified in his lungs, his muscles had become brittle as straw, and his blood had coagulated in his veins. His heart would not listen to his brain, settling in to take a long rest while he begged it to keep beating. After experiencing that episode of near-nonexistence, pain seemed trivial, even welcome. The ice still remained in his bones, paralyzing him with an unbreakable grip. But the chill was slowly receding, starting from his scales. He slowly regained feeling in his legs and arms as his life seeped back into him from the hot summer air. The familiar sour smell of the Avathian Sea slithered into his nostrils, carrying a heavy humidity that revived him from the inside. When he was once again able to open his eyes, the first thing he saw Sen, his face streaked with tears as he begged him to wake up. Varasom flashed him a weak smile to let him know he was fine, if a little tired.

He then noticed the wetness coating his legs and back, and with it, the smell of gasoline. Uh oh. Varasom jumped to his feet in an instant, to Sen’s amazed relief, and charged for the door. He tore it out of the wall with one quick yank, wielding it as a shield with one hand while shooting his rifle with the other. Enemy bullets plinked harmlessly off the thick steel as the rebel gang split up, trying to surround Varasom and hit him from multiple angles at once. He covered his left with the door, and shot each man that fanned out to his right. He was able to get his back to a corner before they could accomplish their design, and could scarcely be hit in that position. They could do nothing but spray, hoping to hit his hand. One bright-minded guard had managed to slip behind some cover, and pulled the pin on his grenade. Let his unit be damned; he had to kill the scaled beast by fire, or it would slaughter every last man in the building. He let it cook for a moment and lobbed it into the gas puddle. The subtle clink of the grenade on the concrete floor seemed louder than the din of submachine guns, and everyone in the room supposed they were toast when it touched down. But the unfortunate soldier had not cooked it long enough, and Sen was able to punt it away from the gas and dive behind Varasom before it could detonate. The fragments ran through everyone else, though. The guards crumpled to the ground full of holes, all except the one who threw the device. Recalling where it came from, Varasom shot up the wooden crate the last soldier was crouched behind, and watched the blood flow out from behind it. Safe at last, he let out the loudest sigh in his life and dropped his battle-scarred shield. His arms were killing him: one tired out from carrying the iron door, and the other badly strained by the recoil of his weapon, which was not intended for one-handed use. He slumped himself against the wall and let his back slide down to the floor, sitting down to catch his breath. Sen gazed in awe at the bloody mess around him, wondering how he was still alive. The walls all around him were pockmarked with bulletholes and shrapnel dents - only the section behind Varasom survived unscathed. If it had not been for his defender’s quick wit, strength, and fearlessness, Sen realized he would have been less than swiss cheese. He sat down beside him and hugged him tight, burying his face in the hard muscles of his broad chest. Varasom had not ignored what Sen had done for him, either: he fished him out of the icy lake of hell with bullets whizzing over his head, and by running into the line of fire to kick away the grenade, had saved him from some very nasty burns. Sen could have jumped out the window and gotten away with a broken leg (owing to his immense weight, the lizard would die from such a fall), but instead, he looked death in the eyes and kicked it in the face. Dwelling on these thoughts and more, Varasom wrapped his arms around Sen too, silently and passionately swearing he would do anything to protect the boy he now held, over and over again. They stayed this way for what felt like hours, but time did its work quickly, and after five minutes, they remembered they had a job to finish. Varasom took a deep breath and pulled himself upright; Sen stood up by his side, his solemn face tempered with renewed determination. 

Sen found a map of the facility pasted on the wall upon entering the stairwell, and learned the control room was straight upstairs. They met no resistance on the way up, as all the guards had already been defeated at the observation chamber. When Varasom kicked down the control room door, the turtle at the panel was ready, kneeling behind an overturned desk with his revolver drawn. He had heard his friends’ radios go silent, and knew he was the only one left to make a stand. His preparation was insufficient: after firing off 2 rounds into Varasom’s “shield,” he was run over by the charging Scoravian, slammed between an iron door and the base of the control dashboard. He snatched a key (which was required to operate the controls panel) from atop the dashboard and withdrew into his shell, narrowly avoiding having his head chomped off by his assailant. As Sen and Varasom learned the hard way, neither knife nor gun could damage the turtle’s shell, and it twisted so that his head, tail, and limb-holes were covered. A set of interlocking appendages inside the shell ensured Varasom could not pry it open, no matter how hard he tried. 

Sen tried to reason with the guy: “You know nobody’s coming to save you, right? You can’t stay in there forever. I guess you can try, but sooner or later you’ll suffocate. Do this the easy way, and you won’t have to get hurt.“

The turtle replied with a bitter chuckle. There was a small ventilation grate naturally built into his shell, rendering Sen’s threat ineffective. When it became clear the turtle would not consider giving up the key voluntarily, Sen decided he would scorch him out: he went to fetch the gasoline previously used to drive him out of the observation room, but found the can empty. He returned to the control room to find Varasom using the turtle as a stool, managing to look glum, bored, and annoyed all at once. The apparent source of his discontent, aside from having to deal with the stubborn turtle, was hunger: the last of the sweetroot had left his stomach, and it was growling once again for want of food. Sen was planning to drown the turtle in undiluted mosquito poison, but seeing his companion in such a sorry state gave him a better idea. He could kill two birds with one stone: by feeding the turtle to Varasom, he could cure his hunger and save himself the trouble of bursting open the poison pipe. Stomach acid would do the trick a lot faster, anyways. He tugged at the turtle shell, and Varasom stopped sitting on it. Sen pointed at the turtle, then jabbed his thumb at his own open maw, and Varasom got the message. Judging by the devilish grin that spread across his face, he liked the idea even more than Sen did. 

Sen tried to solve things bloodlessly one last time: “Hear that? My Scoravian buddy is getting a little hungry, and it looks like you’re on the menu. Aw man, I wish you could see how he’s looking at you right now. You’re making him drool. Give me the keys, and maybe I can convince him to find something else for dinner.”

“Choke on a dick and die,” said the turtle fearlessly.

“Suit yourself,” replied Sen. He gave Varasom the nod, and the ravenous reptile descended upon his prey with unabashed greed. Within seconds, he stuffed the whole turtle into his salivating maw, eager to fill his belly without further delay. He had no reason to savor his meal, as the turtle’s armor was completely tasteless. 

SHLRP

That smooth shell went down his throat easily, practically slipping its way through the slimy tunnel. The turtle still refused to leave his shell, neither to fight nor to surrender. 

SHLRK

ULP

GLUNK

The turtle was plunged into a sea of searing acid all at once. When it started to pour into his shell, he gave up on defense. He popped out of his shell and kicked for his life, biting viciously at the stomach walls and shouting obscenities at his predator. The thick muscles which confined him showed no sign of damage, crushing him harder the more he struggled. Meanwhile, his skin started to sting all over, already suffering the harsh toll of digestion. He managed to claw himself halfway up his esophagus, but the turtle’s mortal struggle was never more than a game to the great lizard, whose powerful throat forced him right back where he belonged with two hard gulps. Crushing his prey so indomitably got Varasom rock-hard; he had only ever eaten dumb beasts at home, and he always liked it when they squirmed, but digesting another person was something else. Overpowering a fellow anthro and breaking him down just like any other insignificant piece of meat tickled his primal temptation to dominate, and the longer he dwelt on it, the hotter it became. The thought of destroying an entire individual just for the protein turned him on hard; not only was he melting his body down, but all his plans, fears, and memories too. It gave him an irrepressible thrill, knowing that his prey would have done absolutely anything to escape, but was too weak to stand up to his raw physical might. Having his cock out of its slit in front of Sen embarrassed Varasom badly, especially owing to the grim, degenerate source of his pleasure, but he did not try to make him leave. Sen took this hesitance as an invitation, placing a hand on Varasom’s belly and making the poor reptile blush even harder. It was unthinkable to him that he would enjoy the touch of another male, but the attention felt too good to turn down. He was afraid of learning how much he would like it, but was too curious to push his acquaintance away. Sen leaned over Varasom’s gut, bearing down on the bulging green mass with his full weight. It started out with simple massage and a few nuzzles, but soon devolved into outright worship. Sen shoved his face into Varasom’s belly while he rubbed, starstruck by the deafening growls and the muscular surface of the predator’s jam-packed tummy. The lizard’s lusty groaning turned Sen on even harder. He could not wait until the turtle softened up. He simply could not stop rubbing, even when he felt something warm, wet, and hard jabbing into his chest. 

Seeing his mate fully warmed up, Sen bowed his head and enveloped Varasom’s fat boner with his slimy maw, not removing his hands from the lizard’s belly for a moment. Sucking dick came naturally to Sen. He did not have to look up to know how much his mate loved it. Within minutes, he had the predator panting and moaning. Sen kept working his flexible tongue over Varasom’s meat, offering him no respite from the ever-escalating pleasure. He was thirsty for his cum, and did not intend to let go until he tasted it. Until then, he was happy to gulp down mouthful after mouthful of pre. The scent of the bigger boy’s balls and the sound of his hungry gut pushed Sen into an all-encompassing state of lust. Pure dedication to his master crowded every other thought and feeling out of him as he slurped and slobbered all over Varasom’s thick, throbbing wad. While enjoying the fun down below, Varasom occupied his hands by playing whack-a-mole with the bulges made by his prey’s struggling. When Sen heard the snap of the turtle’s acid-burnt fingers breaking from the impact of a particularly well-placed punch, he ramped up the suction. Varasom smirked, struck by a devilish idea. 

You like that, huh? Watch this. Varasom grabbed the bump formed by the turtle's head with both hands, throwing his prey into a panicked frenzy. He tried to pull his head back into his shell, but Varasom’s grip was too strong. Sen could see the imprint of the turtle’s distorted face crying out with the loudest, most horrifying yell he ever heard. His whole body thrashed like mad, but he still failed to slip his head out of the larger reptile’s cruel hands. Varasom’s biceps bulged out, shaking from the sheer force he exerted on his prey. His labored breath blew through clenched teeth, bathing Sen in warm, acidic air. The turtle knew nothing but pain and terror as the pressure mounted on his skull, each millisecond bringing it closer to its breaking point. With a final grunt of effort, Varasom won against his prey, shattering his existence once and for all. After watching the turtle struggle and scream for fifteen seconds, Sen heard the sickening CRACK of his skull collapsing, and Varasom’s belly went completely still. The turtle’s brains gushed into the acids, instantly liquefied by the force of his head exploding. Varasom took hold of Sen’s head and yanked it off his cock, leaning in to give him a close-up view of his dark, dripping maw.

HURRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRP

Varasom belched a massive, raunchy shower of acid, blood, and skull fragments into Sen’s face. For almost 10 seconds, he could not breathe with the pungent vapor pushing itself down his nose and mouth. Sen went in for a hot, aggressive kiss, lapping up the taste of the digested turtle from inside his mouth. Varasom squeezed him tight against his chest and thrust his tongue to the back of Sen’s throat. Sen moaned under the pressure of this rough affection, much preferring his boyfriend's thick saliva and strong tongue to oxygen. He was immobilized by Varasom's hug, and loved every second of it.

KRSH

The turtle’s shell, weakened by Varasom’s enzymes, caved in. Too caught up in the action to care, the last two guys in the building kissed, rubbed, and burped the minutes away. A pile of bloodstained, acid-eaten bones accumulated on the floor beside them, expanding as Varasom hacked more up. They had bits of flesh clinging to them at the start, but soon enough, the flesh had all melted off and the bones started to come up clean. Before they knew it, every fragment of that “unbreakable” shell had either been belched out or gurgled to chyme. Sen had even more fun with the squishy orb that now rested on Varasom’s lap than he did when the prey was still alive. He squashed and molded that perfectly pliable paunch obsessively, hearing no complaints from the beast. Inside, a heavy soup drained out of his vicious stomach and started to flow through his burbling intestines, producing a heavenly sensation for Varasom. His potbelly slowly shrunk as the turtle’s mass went to pad out his rear, with the remainder settling down as brown paste in his colon. When he was done, only a thin layer of additional fat stayed on his belly. 

URRRRRRRRP

A slime-covered key flew from Varasom’s jaws amidst a cloud of spit and stale air. Sen caught it, stuck it in the terminal, and twisted. 

“ACCESS GRANTED”

____________

After what had been the most stressful day of both their lives, Varasom and Sen wanted to relax. They wanted a moment to be alone with each other and forget there was a war on. After slipping away from the regiment’s celebrations, they met in Sen’s cabin. The perfectly red sun was dim enough to stare at, and its rays even managed to make the filthy water of the Plateau look nice. It no longer seemed stagnant, but tranquil; the paralyzing heat had become relaxing warmth. Varasom sprawled himself out on the couch, and Sen nestled himself under his arm. The air was filled with sauna-like humidity, heavy with the smell of their fresh sweat. Varasom tasted a delicious hint of Sen’s flesh every time he inhaled. After a few minutes of listening to one another’s heartbeats and watching the sun set, the same feeling took hold of the both in an instant. They locked eyes, each knowing exactly what the other wanted. Varasom leaned over Sen, and Sen put his arm around Varasom’s neck. He lowered his maw onto Sen’s, sliding his tongue into the hot, meaty cavern. Sen’s mouth overflowed with the intoxicating flavor of lizard spit as he pushed his own tongue up into Varasom. The two slick muscles grappled in the muggy darkness, driven by an insatiable taste for the other. Steamy breath hissed from his nose, flowing gently down Sen’s neck. Varasom sank his torso down towards the couch, gradually laying his mate down on the cushions. Sen stayed limp, allowing the great beast to manage his body as he pleased. He felt the Varasom pushing his long, hard cock between his thighs, and spread his legs to let him in. Varasom cautiously accepted Sen’s invitation, slowly working the tip of his oversized boner into his anus. Dripping with torrid pre, it pressed in at a slow, almost imperceptible pace, stretching Sen to his limit. An overtone of pleasure rode on his every breath, wordlessly begging Varasom to go deeper. His tight pucker felt heavenly around Varasom’s cock, smooth and slimy. It went in at the perfect pace, achieving that slight burn which Sen found so pleasurable, but strictly controlled to avoid hurting the boy too badly. Every second of friction electrified him, and every millimeter felt better than the last. Varasom’s firm grip on Sen’s hips at once reminded him of the beast’s deadly strength and immutable care for him, turning him on that much more. It was not a painful pinch or a hard squeeze, as one would employ to threaten or tame another, or to glory in one’s own strength and dominance. Instead, it conveyed a grateful acceptance of Sen’s willing submission, which he knew with complete security would not be retracted. Sen appreciated this sensitivity, and every move Varasom made deepened Sen’s desire to serve and please him. He admired the reptile’s smooth, durable scales in the reflected twilight glow, barely able to make out the outlines of his immaculate muscles in the darkness of his hut. In just one evening, the Scoravian monster had destroyed every last trace of the loneliness which had tortured his human for the past 4 years, and the unadulterated reverence Sen gave back killed the emptiness which had plagued his hero for so long. Varasom drilled in and pulled out of Sen in long, slow strokes, pausing for a few seconds whenever he was hilt-deep to let Sen rest. Nobody kept track of how long this went on, but when they had finished, the dark blue of a cloudy night sky had long ago replaced the last hints of the red sunset the two men came home to. They remained immersed in the afterglow for a while, enjoying the throbbing of each other’s bodies in a long, sweet hug, before Varasom withdrew from Sen’s inner reaches. Having both exhausted their seed, neither wanted another round, but tranquil as they were, they were not ready to go to bed. They still wanted to be closer, and snuggling up would not suffice. Varasom lowered his massive maw onto his Sen, guiding his head through that slimy cavern with his tongue, while his prey softly slid himself down his throat hands-first. Without having to think, both of them knew exactly what to do. Sen smiled, totally serene as his predator gently gulped down his limp, cooperative body. He was coming home. Varasom simply allowed his instincts to take their course. He could have swallowed Sen in his sleep, being so impeccably adapted to eat humans. Sen curled himself up in his tummy, absolutely comfortable. The thought of digestion never even crossed his mind, but if it did, he would not have cared. 

As much as his guts would have loved to melt down such a juicy meal, Varasom was bound to disappoint his biology this time. He stayed awake for some time after Sen fell asleep, basking in his own fullness while absorbing the body heat of his prey. Best of all, his boyfriend was safe and happy, no doubt having the best of dreams in his slimy new bed. Eventually, Varasom’s belly started to rumble, and he knew his time was up. Careful not to wake the younger man, he pushed him back up his esophagus and carried him safely out from between his sharp teeth. He cradled him in his arms, gave him an affectionate nuzzle, and kissed him on the cheek, just as a parent might. He laid him down on the couch and took his place on the floor below it, where he closed his eyes on a day well-spent, already looking forward to spending tomorrow with his lovable little twink.