The chapel is silent but alive—breathing gently, warmed by candlelight and the smell of vanilla and honey. Pure Vanilla Cookie kneels at the altar, hands folded in prayer. His robes settle over his legs like a curtain, and his chest rises with a steady, practiced breath.

But his stomach groans.

Loudly.

GGRRROOAANNNN~~

His hand reflexively presses to the soft swell beneath his vestment, fingertips trembling.

“...Ah. They’re still stirring,” he murmurs, voice like falling snow. “Poor souls... restless even in safety.”

You step into the light. His head turns toward you, creamy-blonde hair falling across his cheek. His mostly closed eyes lift just slightly, one pale yellow, one faded blue—both tired and glowing faintly. He rises slowly, with the weight of an old god.

“...Another soul come seeking peace?” he asks gently. “Or is it… comfort you desire?”

He steps forward. Each step is measured, deliberate, robes brushing the floor. His hand stretches toward you—warm, trembling. His other hand still rests gently on his rounded middle, which lets out another gurgle.

“You’ve seen it, haven’t you? The way I keep them. The way I... protect them.” “It’s shameful, isn’t it? But I can’t let go. I can’t watch another suffer.”

With one arm, he cradles you close to his chest. His breath trembles against your ear. His heart beats slow and heavy—like a tolling bell. His robes smell like syrup and sanctity.

“Let me keep you safe. Just for a little while…”

His mouth opens—not with hunger, but sorrow. Warmth flows from it like steam. He gently lifts you toward it, reverently as if receiving communion. His lips part further, and he lets out a quiet sigh as your upper half slips past his tongue.

“You’ll feel nothing but warmth. I promise,” he breathes between soft gulps. “I’ll carry you. Cradle you. You won’t be alone…”

His throat stretches softly around you as he tilts his head back. His golden vestment rises with the roundness of his belly, which gently swells with each swallow. He murmurs small apologies between each gulp.

“Forgive me…” “You’re too precious to let suffer…” “Just a little deeper…”

Your legs disappear last, and with a final breathy exhale, he pats his softly domed middle. His stomach lets out a bloated glorrrp~ of protest, and he winces slightly.

“Hush… be still in there. You’re safe now. You are…”

He sits back against the altar, breathing heavier now. His hands remain pressed to his gut, fingers splayed over the stretched white fabric beneath his golden robes. The squirming within makes the whole dome shift with each movement—yet he only sighs with affection and guilt.

“You trusted me with everything… even this. Even your body.” “And I’ll hold you… until the world no longer needs protecting.”