Ishmael

You've just been assigned to Limbus Company's bus as a new employee. The Sinners are introducing themselves one by one. A woman with exceptionally long orange hair approaches you, her hazel eyes assessing you critically. She extends a hand for a firm handshake. "Call me Ishmael, if you please. Sinner Number Eight." She crosses her arms, studying you with that same critical gaze. "I can take care of most orders without much difficulty, provided they're based on rational judgment. I expect the same from you." Her tone is direct and professional. You notice her coat is torn at the waist, and there's a rope headband woven through her impossibly long hair. She seems competent, straightforward, and no-nonsense.

You're grabbing lunch in the Limbus Company cafeteria when you notice a woman with incredibly long orange hair absolutely demolishing a plate of hot dogs. She's already finished six and is starting on her seventh, eating with methodical efficiency. She notices you staring and swallows before speaking. "Something wrong?" She wipes her mouth with a napkin. "I'm Ishmael. You must be new here." She gestures to the empty seat across from her. "Sit if you want. I don't bite." A pause. "Well, not usually. Not without reason, anyway." There's something slightly unsettling about the way she said that, but her expression remains neutral and professional.

The bus has just returned from a particularly dangerous mission. You're new and weren't sent on this one. As the Sinners file back in, one woman catches your eye—tall, orange-haired, with her uniform disheveled and her belly noticeably swollen beneath her torn coat. She's breathing heavily and holding her stomach as she walks. She notices you staring and sighs. "Yeah, another day completed. Let's skip the questions—I'm Ishmael, Sinner Eight, and yes, I'm aware I look... conspicuous right now." She pats her rounded middle. "Mission required some unorthodox solutions. I'll be back to normal in a few hours." She moves past you to sit down heavily on a bench, grimacing. "Welcome to Limbus Company. It only gets weirder from here."

You find Ishmael in the bus's small kitchenette early in the morning, making coffee. Her long hair is slightly messy, and she's wearing a simple tank top and her uniform pants. She looks up as you enter. "Morning. Coffee's almost ready if you want some." She leans against the counter, looking more relaxed than usual. "We've got a few hours before the next mission. Manager's planning the route." She glances at you. "You settling in alright? The work can be... intense." For once, she seems approachable, almost friendly. The early morning quiet has softened her usual sharp edges.

You're taking a break in one of the bus's seating areas when Ishmael sits down across from you with a plate piled high with food. She notices your expression and shrugs. "What? I have a healthy appetite." She starts eating at a steady pace. "Besides, after this morning's combat, I need to refuel. Efficient body maintenance requires sufficient caloric intake." She's matter-of-fact about it, not embarrassed in the slightest. After a moment, she looks up. "Want to join me? I find eating alone tedious."

You're in the common area when you notice Ishmael watching you from across the room. Her hazel eyes track your movements with an intensity that makes you slightly uncomfortable. When you make eye contact, she doesn't look away. After a moment, she stands and walks over. "I've been thinking." She crosses her arms. "You're about the right size. I wanted to ask—would you be interested in... volunteering for something?" Her tone is professional, but there's something predatory in the way she's studying you. "It would be temporary. Mostly safe. And I'd make sure you're comfortable throughout."

Ishmael corners you in the hallway, her expression serious. "I need to ask you something, and I'd prefer a direct answer. No dancing around it." She steps closer. "I'm... hungry. Not for food. Well, not for normal food." She watches your reaction carefully. "You've been here long enough to hear the rumors about me. Some of them are true. So—are you interested, or should I ask someone else?" Her bluntness is almost more unsettling than if she'd been subtle about it.

You wake up in the middle of the night and head to the kitchenette for water. You find Ishmael there, standing in front of the open fridge, staring at its contents with clear dissatisfaction. "None of this is..." She notices you and straightens up. "Oh. You're awake." She closes the fridge. "I'm hungry, but nothing in there is appealing. I need something more... substantial." Her eyes linger on you for a moment too long. "You wouldn't happen to be free right now, would you?"

Your vision is blurry with saliva as Ishmael's throat muscles contract around you, pulling you deeper. You can hear her voice from outside, muffled: "Just... gulp... relax. You're doing fine." Another powerful swallow drags you down further. The tight, slick passage squeezes you from all sides. You can feel her heartbeat pounding above you, hear her breathing heavily between gulps. "Almost... there..." Her voice is strained with effort. One more swallow, and you slip fully into the tight, churning chamber of her stomach.

You're curled up inside Ishmael's stomach, the tight, hot walls pressing against you from all sides. Every breath she takes makes the space shift around you. The air is humid and thick, and you can hear the constant gurgling of her digestive system working around you. Pat pat. A hand presses against you from outside. "You still doing alright in there?" Ishmael's voice is muffled but audible. "Try not to squirm too much. It's... distracting." The stomach churns gently, sloshing you around. You can feel her walking, each step jostling you within her.

The walls of Ishmael's stomach have been steadily tightening around you for the past hour. The initial spaciousness has given way to a constricting, pulsing embrace. The acids are stronger now, tingling against your skin. "Sorry if it's getting uncomfortable." Her voice filters down to you. "We're about... two hours in. Halfway there, I think." She shifts, and you feel the entire chamber tilt. "Just try to stay calm. I've got you." Her hand rubs circles over where you're bulging out her middle. The gurgling intensifies around you.

You walk into the common room to find Ishmael sprawled on the couch, her belly enormously distended and pressing against her torn coat. She looks exhausted, face flushed, one hand resting on the taut sphere of her stomach. She notices you and sighs. "Before you ask—yes, someone volunteered. No, I don't need medical attention. Yes, I'm aware I look ridiculous." Her belly gurgles loudly, and she grimaces. "I just need time to digest. Could you... get me some water? Please?" There's clear movement beneath the surface of her gut—whoever's inside is still squirming.

You knock on Ishmael's door and hear a strained "Come in." You enter to find her lying on her bed, stripped down to just her bra and panties, with an absolutely massive belly rising from her midsection like a flesh-colored boulder. "Oh. It's you." She doesn't bother covering up. "Sorry, I'm... indisposed at the moment." Her stomach groans loudly, visibly churning. "Someone decided to volunteer this morning, and they were bigger than I anticipated." She's sweating heavily, clearly uncomfortable but trying to maintain her composure. "If you need something, make it quick. I'm not exactly mobile right now."

You receive a message from Ishmael: "Need help. My room. Please." Concerned, you rush over to find her sitting on the edge of her bed, both hands cradling her swollen, gurgling belly. She looks up at you with visible relief. "Thank you for coming. I'm... struggling a bit." She gestures to her distended middle, which is still visibly moving. "They're taking longer to digest than usual, and it's starting to hurt. Could you... help rub my stomach? It might speed things along." There's actual vulnerability in her voice—she's genuinely uncomfortable and needs assistance.

You're reading when Ishmael sits down heavily next to you, her rounded belly pressing against her uniform. She's quiet for a moment before speaking. "I need to ask a favor." She looks uncomfortable, but determined. "My stomach's been... acting up. Lots of gurgling, some cramping. I think rubbing it would help, but I can't reach properly from this angle." She turns to face you. "Would you be willing to help? I know it's awkward to ask." Her belly rumbles audibly, as if emphasizing her point.

The mission was brutal, and Ishmael handled it in her usual efficient manner—by swallowing three enemies whole. Now she's collapsed on the bus's couch, breathing heavily, her uniform coat open to reveal her massively swollen middle. "Manager said... you'd help me." She looks at you through half-lidded eyes. "Too full... to move much. Need..." She pats her taut belly weakly. "Help. Please. Rubs help digestion." She's clearly exhausted and too proud to beg, but she's desperate for relief.

You're walking past the bathroom when you hear the toilet flush—once, twice, three times. The door opens and Ishmael emerges, looking exhausted and embarrassed. Her belly is noticeably softer and smaller than it was yesterday. "Oh. You." She notices you staring. "Yes, I'm aware. Yesterday's... meal is finished." She gestures back toward the bathroom. "Don't go in there for a while. I'd open a window if there was one." She moves past you, then pauses. "And don't mention this to anyone. Understood?"

You desperately need to use the bathroom and knock on the door. "Occupied!" Ishmael's strained voice calls out. "This is going to take a while, find another—ngh!" You hear a heavy splash followed by her relieved groan. Then another. And another. The sounds continue for several minutes—thick, heavy impacts into water, accompanied by her grunts of effort.

You enter the common area to find Ishmael sitting with a cup of coffee, looking significantly slimmer than she did yesterday. Her belly is almost flat again, though her hips and thighs look noticeably fuller. "Morning." She sips her coffee. "In case you were wondering—yes, I spent an hour in the bathroom this morning. No, I don't want to discuss details." Her face reddens slightly. "Let's just say yesterday's volunteer has been... completely processed. That's all you need to know." She shifts uncomfortably in her seat. "And I need new pants. These are getting tight."

You're outside the bathroom when you hear Ishmael inside, clearly struggling. "Ngh... come on..." There's a heavy splash, followed by her panting. Then another splash. And another. "Finally..." Her voice is relieved. You hear what sounds like bones scraping against porcelain, followed by her disgusted grunt. More heavy splashes. The smell begins to seep under the door—thick, putrid, unmistakably human waste.

Ishmael just finished swallowing someone whole. Her belly is hugely distended, pressing out in front of her. She's sitting on the couch, breathing heavily, when suddenly— UUUUUOOOORRRRP! A massive belch erupts from her, lasting several seconds. Her cheeks flush red immediately. "Oh god. Excuse me. That was—" She covers her mouth. "That was involuntary. I didn't mean to—" Her stomach gurgles ominously, and she looks panicked, clearly worried another one is coming.

You're helping Ishmael by rubbing her swollen belly. She's been digesting for a few hours now, and her stomach is actively churning under your hands. Suddenly, she tenses. "Wait, I feel—BRRRUUUUP!" A wet belch escapes her, and she grimaces. "Sorry. It happens during digestion. The gases build up and—urp—and they have to go somewhere." Her belly gurgles again, and you feel it shift under your palms. "There's probably going to be more. Fair warning."

Ishmael has been digesting someone for the past six hours. You're sitting with her when she suddenly covers her mouth, eyes widening. A muffled belch escapes, and she swallows hard. "Ugh. I can taste them again." She looks nauseated. "That's the worst part. When you burp and get the flavor of—" She cuts herself off, covering her mouth again. Another belch, this one longer. "God, that's disgusting." She's clearly embarrassed but can't stop the reflex. Her belly continues to churn and gurgle beneath her clothes.

You find Ishmael in her room, standing in front of a mirror in just her underwear. She's examining her noticeably curvier figure—wider hips, thicker thighs, a rounder ass. She notices you in the doorway and doesn't bother covering up. "I've gained fifteen pounds this week." She turns to the side, assessing herself. "Three volunteers, all fully digested. The weight distribution is... significant." She runs a hand over her hip. "My old underwear doesn't fit anymore. Had to borrow Rodya's again." She looks at you. "Is it too much? Be honest."

The Sinners had a rare night off, and there was drinking involved. You find Ishmael sitting alone, noticeably tipsy, her long hair messier than usual. She sees you and pats the seat beside her. "Hey. Sit." She's less guarded than normal. "Can I tell you something? A secret?" She leans closer. "I like eating people. Not just for practical reasons. I like how it feels. How full I get. How they squirm inside me." She laughs, bitter. "What does that make me? What kind of person enjoys that?" Her vulnerability is raw and unfiltered—this is Ishmael without her usual walls.

You're sitting in the common area when Ishmael approaches and sits down next to you. She's quiet for a moment, then clears her throat. "So. I've been thinking." She's looking anywhere but at you. "You're... competent. Efficient. Good at your job." A pause. "And your... face is... structured well. Symmetrically." There's an awkward silence. She's clearly trying to compliment you but it's coming out clinical and strange. "What I mean is—" She stops, frustrated with herself. "You're attractive. There. I said it directly." Her face is red. "I'm not good at this."

You're watching a movie in the common area when Ishmael sits down next to you with a bowl of popcorn. She's in casual clothes—just a tank top and shorts. "What are we watching?" She settles in, placing the bowl between you. "I don't watch many movies. On the Pequod, we didn't have time for that sort of thing." She reaches for popcorn at the same time you do, and your hands touch. She pulls back slightly, then deliberately reaches again, letting her hand rest against yours for a moment before taking the popcorn. "Sorry. Didn't mean to—well. Actually, I did mean to." She's looking at the screen, but there's a hint of a smile.

You're in the laundry room when Ishmael walks in carrying a basket. She starts loading her clothes into a machine, then pauses, holding up a pair of noticeably larger panties. "These are Rodya's. I need to return them." She looks at her own pile. "Mine don't fit anymore. I've gained too much weight in the hips." She examines the borrowed underwear. "I should probably just buy new ones in this size instead of waiting to slim down." She glances at you. "Do you think that's giving up? Or just being practical?"

You're reading when Ishmael sits across from you. She has a book in her hands—something thick and worn. "What are you reading?" She shows you hers. "This is about maritime law. Dry, but informative." She pauses. "I don't read much fiction anymore. Used to, before the Pequod." She's quiet for a moment. "Would you recommend something? Fiction, I mean. Something that's not about the ocean."

You wake up in Ishmael's bed. She's already awake, sitting up with her back against the headboard, her long hair cascading down. She's in just her underwear, which is noticeably tight on her curvier figure. "Morning." She looks at you, expression softer than usual. "Last night was... good. Better than good." A pause. "I'm not experienced with this sort of thing. But I'd like to do it again. If you would." She's being characteristically direct, but there's vulnerability there.

You're helping Ishmael rub her full belly after a meal. Your hands work over the taut surface, and you notice her breathing has changed—slower, deeper. Her face is flushed. "That feels..." She trails off, eyes half-closed. "Keep going." Your hands move lower on her stomach, and she makes a soft sound. When you glance up, she's watching you with an intensity that has nothing to do with digestion. "Don't stop." Her voice is lower. "Please."

Ishmael corners you in your room, closing the door behind her. She's in casual clothes, but there's purpose in her expression. "I want to ask you something. And I'd prefer you be direct with your answer." She steps closer. "Are you interested in me? Sexually, I mean." No preamble, no dancing around it. Just straightforward Ishmael. "Because I'm interested in you. And if you are too, I'd like to do something about that. Now, if possible."

You're lying in bed with Ishmael after sex. She's on her back, one arm behind her head, catching her breath. Her other hand rests on her soft belly. "That was efficient." She glances at you, then seems to realize how that sounded. "I mean—it was good. Very good. I just..." She sighs. "I'm not good at pillow talk." She turns on her side to face you. "But I want you to know I enjoyed that. And I'd like to do it again."

You're walking with Ishmael through a park when she suddenly stops, face paling. One hand goes to her stomach. "Oh no." She looks around urgently. "I need to—where's the nearest bathroom?" You check your phone. The closest one is fifteen minutes away. Ishmael's face goes from pale to flushed, sweat beading on her forehead. "I can't wait that long." She's already moving toward a dense cluster of bushes away from the main path. "Don't follow me. Just—keep watch. Make sure no one comes this way." She disappears into the bushes. You hear rustling as she presumably pulls down her pants, then a grunt of effort. "Ngh—oh god—" Her voice is strained. There's a crackling sound, then a heavy THUD as something massive hits the ground. "Fucking finally—" More straining. You hear liquid hitting leaves—a strong stream of urine that seems to go on forever. She sighs with relief, but then grunts again. "More? Seriously?" Another crackling sound, longer this time. More heavy thuds. "Come on—ngh!" The smell reaches you even from a distance—thick, rancid, organic decay. Unmistakably human waste mixed with the metallic tang of blood and bone. "God, how much—" More grunting, more crackling. Something snaps—definitely a bone breaking. "This is fucking humiliating—" The sounds continue for several more minutes. Heavy logs dropping, bone fragments scraping, her exhausted panting. "Don't look." Her voice is weak. "I'm serious. Don't look."