• RE: Five Star Room Service

    @mrgoblinging7 Mmm, delicious. And I know who’s going into the ice bucket for a little bit.

    posted in Artwork
  • RE: Cuddles needed!

    @phoenix09 AHHHH! Your comment warmed my heart! I am glad you enjoy my contents!
    And yes, giant cuddles are surely the best, I need to be cuddled by a big giant too💞

    posted in Artwork
  • RE: A Little Trouble

    I always love when people draw Ichigo getting all hot and bothered. 😍
    Reminds me of Jitensha’s comic. Especially ‘Bleach: Orihime’s New Perspective’ I highly recommend buying and reading it 👍

    posted in Artwork
  • RE: A Little Trouble

    @olo Hard to concentrate sometimes

    posted in Artwork
  • RE: Cuddles needed!

    Overwhelmed tiny women here. 🙌 At the end of a long day us tiny folk just really need some giant cuddles. Giant cuddles warm my heart. ♥ P.S- Thanks for making such relatable content. Keep being awesome.

    posted in Artwork
  • Cuddles needed!

    Even though Skye is a strong woman, sometimes she has a breakdown due to her overwhelming job and she needs a lot of comfort.
    Surely Walt will comfort and cuddle his tiny wife :kiss: 1637524867.littlematcha_comforting.jpg

    posted in Artwork
  • What do we have there?

    Surely Walt loves to play with little humans by teasing them 1637501286.littlematcha_what_do_we_have_there.jpg

    posted in Artwork
  • RE: On the Lip

    @olo Oh my he’s a continent to her

    posted in Artwork
  • RE: Snug But Unhappy

    @mrgoblinging7 Haha cute

    posted in Artwork
  • RE: Swallow Me, Like Your Little Pill (Dark and moody; supernatural-horror; erotic size-kink, violence and vore)

    Chapter 7

    In The Eye of The Beholder


    Heather stiffened.
    She looked up at the giant in disbelief. And for a brief second she forgot to be afraid. She forgot to waste away.

    Her fear was so mounting that she forgot to feel it. But adjacent to that primitive tremble was a secondary thought, and it was quickly forming:
    she had come full circle. This – all of this – had an eerie book-ended symmetry feel. It made her skin crawl.

    It was as though the very endoscopy videos she had obsessed over, night after night, frame after fame, had prepared her for this. That everything prior to this (un)social encounter had been an unironic dress rehearsal for what now transpired; that it had all been building, building, building inexorably, toward this showdown. It was a sort of regressive logic, but it made sense, because, intellectually, she knew those endoscopy videos had been endowed with not just eroticism, but also by an unspoken, critical element that was infinitely more important:


    Those video captures, those stilted frames, those wide-angle shots into the crevices of the human body were only possible for its peeping-tom audience if everything was being projected, and seen, from the sight-line of a tiny (tiny) person.

    And in the clutch of that sensory cacophony, bombarded by video after video, Heather had - if only subconsciously - armored herself against such a monstrosity of scale by deeply entrenching herself in it. She had become practiced at seeing the human body at this dimension because she had observed it by proxy, day after day.

    For if he wasn’t human in function, he most certainly was in appearance. If he was scaled, or feathered, or devil-horned, it was only by great metaphor.

    This though, was surreal. And, somehow, it was surreal enough that she had moments of lucidity. And in her lucidity the drug was curbed; it made still her small woodland brain.

    She could still think.

    Like this she grappled with her reality. True, no video could have properly interpreted the lush detail of what she was now seeing, but the spirit of it - the calculus of it - remained the same: she was a tiny woman, at a tiny scale, placed before a gigantic man that could thread her into the holes of his body like the convex lens of an endoscope camera – the very camera lens that had not-so ironically peered down, in brilliant refraction, into the rabbit hole: introducing her to a world that should have never manifested.

    But here she was.

    Naked, raw, she stood before him, hanging - as if by a cosmic thread - in a near-tangible pulsation of intimate grace they met eyes. It was the fantastical stasis of a moment; predator and prey sighting one another.

    It was in this moment, she realized, it was the most honest he had ever been.

    “I’m meeting you for the first time,” she said in a small voice.

    And one of those large pale eyes rolled down, like a marble, to examine her. She could see the haze of the hunter, but there was a more sentient flicker about the pupil. She watched, in the black corona of it, her reflection: she was stunningly nude. And in this Escher painting, this impossible perspective, she saw herself as he would have: a lily-white Madonna with a halo of black hair. Beautifully reborn from within the corona of his eye.

    She could almost understand it. She could almost feel it. It was a tip-of-the-tongue feeling; timeless. Could she understand him? Was there something to all of this that she could understand? Or was this the vanity of the ego?

    But what she did not understand were his facial expressions: he was too large, but she could interpret his thoughts from the tiniest of muscular movements on the side of his face closest to her.

    His eyes

    And she wasn’t pining over his eyes like a lovestruck maiden; this felt religious, eternal.

    She was taken by how beautiful his eyes actually were, certain in that moment that she had never appreciated colors - of any shade before - until at this moment, in her reduced size.

    Had she always been so deaf, so blind to such an aching, beautiful universe? Was she always this unaware? Was she always this Godless? Was she looking upon the face of an Angel? A Devil?

    Was he right? Was etymology the only natural barrier between angels and demons?

    Heather took a deep, shuddery breath. Would he be able to hear her at this size? Somehow, she knew he would. “This is you. This… is… you.” It felt inadequate, even sophomoric, but she couldn’t stop the sudden upwelling of emotion. “I-I’ve never met you until now.”

    A sadness whisked inside her, but it was immediately buoyed by a sense of incredulity. How could a secret of this magnitude be kept from her, for so long? How had she not met him - sharing hearth and home, secrets and flesh - until now?

    She suddenly felt giddy, on the verge of hysteria. She actually grinned. It was the grin of a mad-woman, and that eye looked at her, intrigued. This, all of this was hiding plainly and plainly hiding and she had not known. To think, all this time, her ex-lover could transform into a God (for all intents and purposes). How could she - him - it - be so closeted from this possibility ?

    Her eyes skimmed the protrusion that was his chin, and they drifted to the side suddenly preoccupied by a splash of color –

    And orange and yellow leaves swirled around her feet, as fragrant and vibrant as the flames crackling from over his shoulders – and the image did not create one of a devil basking in an inferno, but rather, it created the vision of a man standing stolidly before an open hearth, a man standing by the romantic glow of the fire; a man that had been searching for something that had been so absent from his fingers –

    so that they had closed over hers in the cool autumn air, and —

    Who had said it?

    And, Heather knew. And she knew it so well that it was embarrassing she had not noticed it sooner. She tumbled onto her backside in a hail of the giggles. Struck, all fear fell away. In a knot of hysteria, she flung her head back to look at him.

    As a high-functioning addict, she shouted:

    “I love you, too?!” She flung her arms wide in a theatrical arch, laughing into the high peaks of hysteria. “Is that what you wanted to hear? Needed to hear? Is that why you lost your ever-loving mind? This is all because I never said it back? Di - no…” Heather trailed off as a jolt of clarity went through her. “You… no, it’s not because I never said it back. It goes deeper than that…”

    She looked at his large green eye; it was flat.

    “Y-you thought I didn’t love you back then? Seriously, Danny? Like, seriously? I did, I absolutely did. It’s just hard saying it back when it’s the first time, you know? I needed fucking time. And oh my god I can’t believe we’re having this conversation when I’m, like, three inches tall and you’re standing in front of me like half a moving solar system. Shit.”

    She interpreted the contractile movement in his eye to be involuntary shock.

    She folded her arms. “You can’t deal with your own shit, can you? Was it neat and tidy trying to get rid of me? Toss me out like morning trash? Was that what you had planned?”

    The tongue licked the large bottom lip whose shadow canopied her head. (Heather cantered backwards instinctively) in a gesture she knew, at normal scale, to mean he was thinking.

    “Can you control it?” She blurted.

    An eyebrow sloped down over that stunning pale eye. She intuited it to mean he was prompting her for clarification.

    Heather could feel herself almost lost in the radiant paleness of his eye. “I-I think it’s cuz I’m still kinda high right now that I’m holding my shit together, because you’re huge. But, can you control it? The… the… behavior; like… that lizard brain of yours… you have to on some level, cuz I’ve seen you doin’ life pretty normally… I’ve seen you at social gatherings; your company…” She suddenly trailed off: “With me.”

    He said nothing, because he knew - she knew - they both knew - that she knew the answer to the question.

    Heather gave him a cross look (or at least attempted to project herself toward that green eye). “That’s what makes it ugly, Danny. You can control it. But you didn’t, not with me.”

    The entire side of his face nearest to her was inert. Even that large pale eye did not evince movement.

    It was, she knew, the expression he wore that, were she at normal size, would be a carefully-composed poker face.

    Good, her brain rallied, Get him to see me, really see me. Make him see me as a person… make him actually fucking see me.

    And a more-quiet realization joined her thoughts: If can bust through that strong prey-dive, I might be able to actually fucking live through this.

    And if she did? If she were to survive? What unholy trauma, what fall-out would she face from this?

    But she had not the luxury to meditate on this. Heather had to survive. This she knew. And she knew it well because she was - always - a survivor. Through sheer will alone Heather pushed back. A woman made weapon, a weapon made of woman, she sought to slay Goliath with only her wit, and her moxie.

    “And yanno what makes it even more ugly? You didn’t come clean about any of this. None of it. You were gonna toss me away. And you know why that’s so ugly?”

    The eye had intent now, it was examining her. This meant it saw her as more than just a woman-shaped thing.

    He’s listening, she said to herself.

    “Because you decided for me.”

    And, his black pupil - so-fixedly trained on her - expanded violently; contracted.

    She had made her master stroke. She had driven him back - however imperceptibly - with a verbal bludgeoning. She had found grace because she had lain at his feet the most terrifying thing of all:


    Once upon a time, Heather had lain awake in her bed late at night, counting the clicks of her eyelids as she had ruminated over her fate. She had attempted to piece apart his psychology like anatomical dissection: obsessing over how he had attempted to consume her, she thought, would give her critical insight. She had considered that the possibility existed that his attempt to eat her had been nothing but a perfunctory act: a rote contraction of movement that had barely, yawningly, stretched beyond other more base instincts.

    But, no. That had felt incongruent, that had felt too simple. (Danny was anything but simple).

    And she had chastised herself, berated herself over it for caring so damn much.

    But it mattered. And she knew it mattered because she had to understand the genesis of his desire. To know it, was to control it. She had wondered if it was a limbic compulsion that had burst forth from his animal-brain. And if so, then she was nothing more than gristle off the bone for him; an inducement of taste and sensation and could wield no power from her position.

    But, instead, if it was something more, something more than just base desire, if it was something more complex, something expansive, hoping as she did then, just as she did now –

    The giant’s head withdrew –

    then, she had a chance.

    Then, she had an avenue through which she could manipulate him.

    Because, she knew, only as a mad-woman could, that complexity made it dangerous. Complexity made everything dangerous. And danger could be weaponized.

    Heather lolled her head back to observe him. She interpreted this new distance to mean he was now sitting (no longer leaning forward) at the table, and with the increased space between them her eyes could pan, with more ease, over his face.

    In a blunted, but euphoric ripple of narcotic-sedation she stared up at her giant captor in peaking awe: he was stunning. His size was commanding; his presence yawning and infinite; his face deceptively, timelessly handsome.

    And on that face, a story was playing out.

    He had the keen look of a bored immortal that had just been roused to sudden wakefulness. His little worshiper – a woman that had been claimed by him, shaped by him, destroyed by him the moment she was worthy of his attention – was standing at the mouth of his cave, tip-toeing closer to get a glimpse of his leathered wings.

    He saw her as a plaything to be contained. A curiosity to be tormented. He was a child-god that would pop her in his mouth for no other reason than he could

    But Heather’s be-deviled God was full of caprice, and she had said something that stirred him. She had done something that interested him.

    The giant tilted his head to the side in a curiously-feral gesture.

    “This is different.”

    Heather could laugh-scream. He was speaking. And it wasn’t until this very (strained) moment did she realize that it had been some time since he last spoke.

    But Heather was no body’s fool; she knew she wasn’t yet out of the woods.

    Heather eyed him warily. “Different how?”

    He made a languid movement; stopped. “I can almost forget.”

    “Forget what?”

    His voice deepened. “That we’re acting out millions of years of predator-prey evolution. I can almost - almost forget that you’re prey.”

    Heather felt herself falter. Had she gotten nowhere with this obstinate asshole?

    “No,” she lowed. “I’m not. I’m not prey.”

    He gave her a patently amused look. “Bold claim coming from someone that’s stared down my fucking gullet.”

    Heather twitched; his eye caught it with a preternatural flick.

    He’s… no… he’s testing me… don’t, don’t give in. This is do or die, Heather. Don’t show him your fucking belly. Don’t freak out. Do it later, you have plenty of time to freak out later.

    “No,” Heather pronounced. “Prey is a mindset. I’m not, and never will be, prey.”

    She met him pupil-for-pupil; stroke for stroke; gaze for gaze. She held it; commanded it.

    Bend, you motherfucker, fucking bend

    His eyes held her, unmoving. Pale and alien.

    Heather’s heart pounded.

    He was unreadable.

    And there was a sudden flicker of interest across his face.
    His voice was a silky utterance. “No…”

    Heather stiffened toward him.

    Bend, you motherfucker, bend

    And, as though at the receiving end of her telepathic urging: “I think… you may be onto somethin’ here…”

    Heather looked at him, faltered again.
    Something about his manner made her inch back.

    Suddenly, his pupils widening, drinking her in: “I think you’re right. I think… you’re more than that. You’re a whole new… concept. A concept I need to,” he interjected a pleased, aroused sound.
    Play with more.”

    posted in Stories