The frosting was cold, but it was the silence that was worse.

He was half-buried, legs encased in thick buttercream, arms pinned beneath the soft sugary crust that clung to him like cement. He could barely move, barely breathe, every breath filled with the cloying scent of vanilla and sugar. Somewhere nearby, people laughed. Music played. But all he could do was scream—a sound far too small for anyone to hear.

Then the world shifted.

A shadow passed overhead—soft and white and glowing.

The bride.

She was close now. She was radiant. Her dress shimmered like starlight, delicate lace and satin moving with effortless grace. Her smile was wide, genuine. She was everything he might have admired once… before today.

She picked up the knife.

It slid through the cake like silk. He couldn’t see her hands—he could only feel the tremor of the world as it tilted, her strength lifting the slice he was trapped in. He was moving now, carried like a sacrifice on a pristine white plate in her beautiful hands. His prison.

She turned, walking gracefully through the reception, each step jostling him slightly deeper into the frosting.

Then she sat.

Set the plate gently down.

Smiled.

Laughed.

Her new husband said something to her. She giggled and reached for her fork.

The first bite was clean. A chunk from the tip of the slide. He heard the fork sink into the soft sponge with a crunch, and then silence. A moment later, a delicate chew. A swallow.

The sounds were deafening to him. Wet, cavernous. Every gulp like a building collapsing.

Another bite.

Closer now.

She wasn’t rushing—she was savoring it. Talking with guests. Smiling, cheeks flushed with joy. Crumbs clung to her lip; she licked it away without noticing.

He screamed again, raw and desperate.

Another bite.

He could feel the vibrations through the plate, feel the slice around him getting smaller. The air grew warmer. Her fingers brushed the plate, dainty and unaware.

He watched in terror as the fork passed above him, and like a disappear into the cake behind him. Then— He was lifted, frosting and all, the world rushing up around him as she brought the next bite to her mouth.

He had just enough time to see her face up close—those lips, so pink and soft, opening wide to welcome the fork.

And then it was all warmth.

Darkness.

Moisture.

Sound.

The cake collapsed around him as her teeth mashed the sponge—he missed them by inches. Her tongue shoved everything to the side, rolling it, pressing it to the roof of her mouth. He was flung against the inside of her cheek, tumbling over half-chewed cake, drowning in heat and spit.

Then she swallowed.

He screamed as everything lurched downward in one swift, crushing gulp. A fleshy tunnel dragged him deeper, surrounded by a chorus of groans and gurgles. Every inch was tighter, wetter, filled with the sour-sweet stench of wine and stomach acid.

He landed hard.

Somewhere deep, inside her.

Alive.

He couldn’t move. The air was foul. The sounds were endless—her breathing, the churning of her stomach, the rhythmic pulse of her heart somewhere far away. The cake she’d eaten surrounded him, half-dissolved. The acid began its slow work.

And above it all… he heard her laugh.

Distant now. Muffled.

She took another bite.

She was finishing the slice.

Still beautiful.

Still perfect.

Still smiling.

And he would never be seen again.

He landed in a pool of warm, semi-liquid mush that reeked of bile, wine, and sugar. The remains of the wedding cake churned around him, bubbling as it was broken down by enzymes. It stung his skin. The frosting—so sweet outside—now curdled into something vile.

He tried to move, but everything was thick and wet. The air was humid, acrid, barely breathable. Each inhale made him gag. It wasn’t just the smell—it was the knowledge. The truth of where he was.

Inside her.

Inside Hannah.

He could feel her heartbeat, a deep thudding all around him like a war drum. He could hear her stomach gurgle and squelch with casual power, processing him as it would any other bite of food. The walls flexed every now and then, squeezing him gently—reminding him that this place was alive. And he was not meant to be here.

Above, muffled and distant, he could still hear the dull resonance of laughter. Her voice. Light and joyful. Talking, maybe sipping wine. Her stomach shifted, sloshing slightly as she moved in her chair.

Another wave of digestion rolled over him, and he cried out as the partially-dissolved frosting burned into his arms. The cake he’d been buried in was gone now—just pulp and acid. And he was beginning to weaken.

But he wasn’t dead.

Not yet.

That was the true horror. Not the dark. Not the pain. But the slow, awful knowledge that he was still alive in here, buried in the center of this beautiful woman like some cursed secret. She had no idea. She was likely smiling right now, enjoying her cake and basking in the love of her new husband.

And he?

He was just a warm, twitching lump, slipping deeper into the folds of her stomach.

He pressed his hands against the wall—soft, undulating, wet. It pulsed in response. There was no escape. Only noise. Gurgles. Groans. A creak from above as her torso shifted.

Then—a new sound.

A rush. Like something falling through pipes.

She’d taken a sip of champagne.

The fluid cascaded down like a waterfall, splashing around him, fizzing in the acid, burning his skin as the alcohol mixed with stomach juices. He screamed, clawing at the walls, but the chamber simply sloshed him back and forth like he was nothing.

Just food.

And yet—he refused to die.

Even as the pain worsened. Even as the world around him became nothing but heat and stink and noise, he held on.

Somewhere far above him, Hannah laughed again, her voice echoing down into her own body, through muscle and bone and fluid.

It was warm.

It was inescapable.

It was beautiful.

And it was her.

Time lost all meaning in the belly of the bride.

He drifted in and out of consciousness, rocked gently in the churning slop of her stomach. The air was thick with sour rot, filled with the wet bubbling of digestion and the dull hum of her living body. Gurgles echoed like thunderclaps. The cake was long gone—reduced to a slurry of sugar and bile—and he floated in it like wreckage, battered and burning, but not broken.

Not yet.

He would’ve laughed if he had the strength. Somehow, somehow, he was still alive.

For hours, he lay in the pulsing dark. Every shift of her body, every breath, every sip of water or wine sent ripples through her stomach, stirring the acidic soup that surrounded him. He tried to keep his head above the worst of it. He failed often.

The slow contractions came next.

Her stomach, now satisfied, began to squeeze and knead with more intention. He was pressed downward, slowly but firmly, deeper into the warm corridors of her digestive system.

He slipped through a ring of muscle with a wet gluck, entering the narrow confines of her small intestine.

The shift was immediate.

Everything tightened. The heat grew unbearable. The walls here pulsed in slow waves, moving him along inch by inch, coating him in digestive fluids. He was no longer floating—he was trapped in a soft, living tunnel, squeezed and massaged by her body’s quiet efficiency.

She didn’t know.

Of course she didn’t.

Above, far beyond his reach, she was likely laughing again. Drinking. Kissing her husband. Dancing one last time under the dim lights of the emptying hall.

Then—after what felt like an eternity—silence.

A door closing.

A bed creaking.

He heard her voice again—muffled but close. Softer. Intimate. The whisper of silk sheets, the creak of bed springs, the delicate giggles of a woman on her wedding night. Another voice—Mark’s—low and eager.

The horror twisted deeper.

They were together now, skin to skin. She moved above him, unaware, her body heating from passion, from wine, from joy. And still—he was inside her. Deeper than anyone could ever be.

Each movement sent a wave through her muscles, pressing him further. The fluids burned more now. His skin ached. He screamed once more, but it was swallowed by the walls.

She moaned above.

The heat rose.

Her body tensed. And then—release.

Afterward, her breath slowed. Her voice returned to gentle laughter, whispers between lovers. The bed creaked as they shifted, tangled in each other’s arms.

And all the while, the shrunken man continued his descent—slow, steady, helpless.

Digested not by vengeance, not by cruelty, but by a body in love.

By a woman who would never know.

He was part of her now.

And she was perfect.

Absolutely—here’s the continuation. The next day dawns, but deep inside Hannah, the man still clings to a flicker of life. Above, the newlyweds begin their new life, unaware that something—someone—is still alive inside her:

Sunlight filtered through sheer curtains, golden and gentle. The wedding was over. A new life had begun.

Hannah stirred beneath the covers, her bare shoulder rising with her breath. Mark’s arm was draped lazily across her, their bodies entangled in soft, post-wedding warmth. She smiled as she turned her head, pressing her lips to his chest with a sleepy hum.

She felt perfect.

Down below—deep below—was something else.

The man was still alive.

Barely.

His world had become one of constant movement and noise, of burning heat and endless pressure. The small intestine had wrung him through its narrow tunnels for what felt like ages, coating him in bile, squeezing him deeper into the system. He no longer knew which way was up—only that the pain never stopped. It came in pulses. Cramps. Rhythms. Sounds.

Growls, moans, squirts, churns.

Every sound of her digestion was an intimate, wet thunder in his ears.

There was no light. No air. No dry surface to hold.

But somehow, he was still aware.

He didn’t know why he hadn’t died. Maybe it was a curse. Maybe it was Joanna’s design. Maybe it was just… wrong.

He had become a passenger in the deepest, most private parts of the beautiful bride’s body.

And she was so alive.

Every breath she took up there was a flex of muscle around him. Every stretch of her spine, every soft laugh, every step, every bite of breakfast now beginning to move through her—all of it echoed around him. He was no longer just in her.

He was being absorbed by her.

Yet his mind remained.

Above, Hannah slid out of bed, wrapped in a robe, and padded softly to the kitchen. Mark followed her, shirtless, hair a mess, both of them still glowing from the night before.

They sipped coffee.

Laughed about stories from the reception.

Hannah leaned against the counter and giggled about how much cake she ate. “I think I had three slices by the end,” she said, her fingers tracing the edge of her mug.

Mark grinned. “You earned it.”

She smiled—and down below, her body let out a soft gurgle.

She didn’t notice.

But he did.

The man was far along now. The tight turns of the intestine began to widen. He was being pulled into the next stage—deeper still. Digestion was slower now, quieter, but more complete.

And yet—his mind screamed.

Somehow, some part of him still floated in that darkness.

He no longer knew what he was, only that he wasn’t gone. Not yet.

And above, Hannah stood by the window, sunlight on her skin, laughing softly as Mark kissed her shoulder.

She felt warm. Loved. Whole.

She stretched again, letting out a contented sigh.

And deep inside her… he was still there.

Still aware.

Still sinking.

Still hers.

He didn’t know how long he’d been moving—only that his world had narrowed to heat, pressure, and a slow, churning descent.

His name was Ethan.

He tried to hold onto that.

But even that was slipping.

His body had become something less than flesh—soaked and broken, softened and digested, yet maddeningly intact in some small, lingering way. His mind still fluttered like a dying ember, adrift in the twisting maze of intestines that carried him ever downward. Hannah’s body was tireless, efficient. Beautiful. Deadly.

Each moment blurred into the next.

The once-violent churn of her stomach had become a slow, rhythmic push, a peristaltic tide that dragged him deeper and deeper. The narrow coils of her intestines no longer gripped him tightly—they simply guided what was left of him. The walls around him no longer hissed with acid or crackled with active breakdown.

Now there was only warmth. Dampness. And a strange, awful stillness.

He was in her large intestine now.

Here, the pace slowed to a crawl. Water was drawn out of the sludge that surrounded him. The space was wider, but heavier. The pressure here came from bulk, not speed. Gasses hissed past him, rumbling through the chamber. Waste material pressed in, dense and final.

He was no longer separate from it.

He was part of it.

He could feel her body breathing above, felt the casual shifts in pressure as she walked, sat, laughed, loved—all the little things that made her alive, while he simply wasn’t. She had long since forgotten about the cake. About the moment she took that slice to the table. The wedding was a memory now—one she held fondly.

He was not part of it.

Just something her body had long since claimed, processed, and now… prepared to let go.

Hours passed.

Night returned.

She slipped into sleep beside her husband again, calm and warm beneath the covers. Her belly groaned softly as it made its final preparations.

And then—movement.

He was stirred from the sluggish dark by pressure. A deep tension building from above. Walls tensed. Muscles activated. Everything began to shift downward, pressed by pulses of movement too vast, too powerful to resist.

He was being pushed. Carried.

Expelled.

Time blurred again. He lost his sense of direction. His world squeezed tighter and tighter. And then—

Cold.

Light.

Air.

For a brief, fleeting moment, he saw the outside again—not from a place of hope, but of finality.

He was nothing now. Not even a body. Just a forgotten piece of waste, expelled with everything else her body had no use for.

He had journeyed through the most intimate depths of her, seen the machinery of life at its rawest, its most primal—and now, he ended not with a scream, but with silence.

A flush.

A fading warmth.

And then… nothing.

Hannah never knew.
She never felt a thing.
And Ethan never left a trace.

There was no trace left of him.

Not in the air.
Not on her skin.
Not in her memory.

Hannah rose the next morning with a stretch, kissed her husband, and padded softly into the bathroom—just as she always did. It was a normal day. She hummed quietly. Brushed her teeth. Flushed the toilet without a second thought.

And Ethan?

Ethan was gone.

No one would ever know. No one would ever ask. The world moved on without pause.

Hannah smiled at her reflection, radiant and glowing with the quiet joy of new beginnings. Somewhere far away, wedding photos were being uploaded. Congratulations were being texted. The world was turning.

Ethan had vanished not in a blaze of tragedy, not in a heroic sacrifice, but in the slow, unknowable machinery of a woman’s body. He had screamed in silence. Endured in darkness. Fought to live in a place no one could reach—and no one would ever know.

He died not with a bang, but with a sigh of digestion, a ripple through the gut, a forgotten flush.

And she?

She was still perfect.

Unaware. Unburdened.

And utterly human.

The end.