Work Text:
Kade should have known better than to say, “I just want to understand it.”
Marvin is standing in the center of his tiny East Paloma kitchen, hands hovering uncertainly near the counter, staring down at the eight-inch man perched beside the sink like a disgruntled action figure.
“You don’t need to understand it,” Marvin insists for the third time, voice soft but strained. “You’re already inside me most of the time. That seems like… enough understanding.”
Kade crosses his arms, dark brows knit. Even at eight inches tall, he manages to look stubborn. “That’s different. That’s microscopic. Abstract. I’m interfacing with signals and tissue responses. I’m not experiencing it the way a person would.”
Marvin swallows. The irony of that word is not lost on him.
Kade continues, restless as ever. “I need context. Spatial awareness. You keep describing it as ‘warm’ and ‘fine’ and ‘not scary,’ but that doesn’t mean anything to me unless I can map it.”
“You want to map my stomach.”
“I want data,” Kade corrects.
“You want to get swallowed,” Marvin says faintly.
Kade hesitates, then lifts one shoulder. “Temporarily.”
The kitchen is quiet except for the hum of the refrigerator. Marvin’s blue eyes flick from Kade to the glass of water he’d poured earlier out of nervous habit.
“I don’t—” Marvin rubs the back of his neck. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
“You won’t.” Kade’s voice softens just a fraction. “I trust you.”
That lands heavier than it should.
Marvin looks at him properly then—really looks at him. Eight inches tall, proportional, solid. Not a speck. Not theoretical. A person. Lean build, tense shoulders even now. That faint scar across the bridge of his nose still visible at this scale.
“You’re sure your suit can handle it?” Marvin asks.
Kade taps the small device secured at his waist. “Scaled shield. Adaptive barrier. It’ll keep fluids off me. I’ll be fine. I just need you to stay calm.”
Marvin lets out a weak huff. “You’re asking the wrong guy for that.”
But he kneels slowly, bringing himself closer to eye level. The movement is careful, deliberate, like he’s approaching a frightened animal instead of someone about to voluntarily climb into his mouth.
“I won’t do it if you’re not completely sure,” Marvin says quietly.
Kade studies him for a long moment. The sarcasm is gone. “I’m sure.”
Marvin nods once.
“Okay,” he whispers.
—
They move to the couch. It feels less clinical there, less like an experiment.
Marvin sits back, palms resting on his thighs. He looks pale.
Kade steps onto Marvin’s knee first, testing the stability. The fabric of Marvin’s jeans bunches under his boots. From this angle, Marvin’s torso rises like a wall, chest lifting and falling with quick, shallow breaths.
“Slow down,” Kade says automatically.
Marvin obeys, inhaling through his nose, exhaling through his mouth.
“I’m not panicking,” Marvin mutters.
“You’re absolutely panicking.”
“I’m managing it.”
“That counts.”
Kade climbs carefully up Marvin’s hoodie, gripping fabric seams. He’s close enough now to feel the warmth radiating from Marvin’s skin. The steady thud of his heartbeat reverberates through the cotton like distant machinery.
He pauses near Marvin’s collarbone.
“You can still back out,” Marvin says.
“I know.”
Kade looks up. Marvin’s lips are parted slightly, nervous habit. His blue eyes are wide but steady. There’s fear there—but also resolve.
“Okay,” Kade says quietly. “Open.”
Marvin hesitates only a second before opening his mouth.
From Kade’s perspective, it’s… not monstrous. Just human. Warm breath spilling outward. The faint scent of mint toothpaste. Soft pink tongue shifting uncertainly to make space.
“Well,” Kade murmurs. “This is new.”
“You don’t have to narrate,” Marvin mumbles around the open posture.
“Sorry. Coping mechanism.”
Kade steps forward.
The first sensation is heat. Not overwhelming—just enveloping. The surface of Marvin’s tongue yields slightly under his boots, soft and damp but not unpleasant. The suit’s barrier flickers faintly, a transparent shimmer protecting him from direct contact.
Marvin’s hands grip the couch cushions.
“You okay?” he asks carefully.
“I’m fine,” Kade replies, voice echoing slightly in the cavern of Marvin’s mouth. “It’s… surprisingly gentle.”
Marvin makes a tiny, embarrassed sound.
Kade steadies himself as the tongue shifts beneath him. The space is alive in subtle ways—muscles adjusting, breath moving around him. He can feel the coordination in the way Marvin holds still, fighting reflex.
“You’re doing good,” Kade says.
Marvin’s eyes soften a fraction at that.
Kade takes one more step forward, toward the back.
Marvin closes his lips slowly, sealing the warmth in. The world dims for Kade, replaced by muted pink and the rhythmic rush of breath through Marvin’s nose.
“Last chance,” Marvin whispers.
“Go ahead.”
Marvin swallows.
The motion is smooth, practiced by a lifetime of instinct. The tongue presses upward and back, guiding rather than forcing. Muscles contract in a coordinated wave.
Kade feels the shift—the gentle compression around him as he’s carried backward. It’s tight, yes, but controlled. The suit compensates instantly, maintaining a buffer of space.
The sensation of descending is unmistakable. Warmth increases. The soundscape changes—subtle internal echoes, the amplified rhythm of Marvin’s heartbeat.
Then—
He arrives.
The stomach receives him with a soft, muscular flex. Not violent. Not crushing. Just a firm settling.
For a moment, everything is still.
Marvin’s hands fly to his abdomen, fingers splayed protectively.
“Kade?” His voice trembles.
There’s a faint vibration against his inner ear—Kade’s emergency transmitter interfacing gently with his auditory nerve.
“I’m here,” Kade says.
Marvin’s shoulders sag in visible relief.
Inside, Kade takes stock.
It’s dark, of course. But not chaotic. The walls around him move in slow, rhythmic pulses. Warm. Consistent. The suit’s barrier hums softly, keeping digestive acids at bay.
He presses a gloved hand against the inside of the shield, feeling the steady, living pressure beyond it.
“…Huh,” he breathes.
“What?” Marvin asks instantly.
“It’s not hostile,” Kade admits. “It’s just… active. Like being inside a biomechanical engine.”
Marvin lets out a weak laugh. “That’s the least romantic description you could’ve chosen.”
“You weren’t going for romantic.”
“No,” Marvin agrees faintly. “Definitely not.”
Another slow contraction shifts Kade slightly, nestling him more securely into a curve of muscle. It’s oddly… stabilizing.
Marvin sits very still.
“How does it feel?” Kade asks.
Marvin considers.
“Full,” he says finally. “But not uncomfortable. I can tell exactly where you are.”
“Sorry.”
“You’re fine.” A pause. “You’re… warm.”
Kade huffs softly. “You’re warmer.”
Marvin’s thumb rubs absently over the spot he thinks Kade might be beneath. The pressure translates inside as a muted shift of light through the stomach wall.
Kade stills.
“Don’t press too hard,” he says gently.
Marvin jerks his hand back like he’s touched a hot stove. “Sorry—sorry, I just—”
“It’s okay,” Kade interrupts. “I’m secure.”
There’s a silence that stretches—not uncomfortable, just new.
“You don’t seem scared,” Marvin says quietly.
“I’ve been in worse environments,” Kade replies. Then, softer: “And you’re not trying to hurt me.”
Marvin swallows reflexively at that, feeling the subtle movement inside.
“You’re sure you can breathe?”
“Suit handles oxygen exchange. I’m fine.”
Another slow pulse around him.
Kade leans back slightly within the protective field. The motion of Marvin’s body is constant but not aggressive. Each breath expands the chamber slightly. Each heartbeat reverberates steady and strong.
It’s… grounding.
“You know,” Kade says after a moment, voice quieter now, “for someone who thinks he’s weak, you’re remarkably steady.”
Marvin stares down at himself, at the faint rise and fall beneath his hoodie.
“I don’t feel steady.”
“You are.”
The words settle between them.
Marvin leans back against the couch cushions, carefully adjusting his posture so he doesn’t compress his abdomen.
“Tell me if anything changes,” he murmurs.
“I will.”
Minutes pass.
Marvin’s breathing evens out. The initial spike of panic fades into cautious awareness. The warmth in his stomach no longer feels foreign—it feels occupied.
Inside, Kade runs quiet diagnostics, then lets them idle. There’s nothing urgent to fix. Nothing to survive.
Just warmth. Movement. The constant, living rhythm of another person.
“…Marvin?”
“Yeah?”
“I’ve got your pulse mapped.”
“That’s reassuring and unsettling at the same time.”
“It’s strong,” Kade says simply.
Marvin’s lips curve faintly.
“Stay as long as you need,” he whispers.
The stomach gives a slow, almost protective curl around its guest.
Kade closes his eyes.
“For now,” he replies, voice steady in the dark, “this is good.”