@nephilim Here is mine.
One of my characters in a glass of water. This is actually one of my characters, and not a random seed-generated woman. I used my writing from one of my chapters to prompt this. (Premise: Heather is shrunken and put in a glass of water…)
I was able to get size difference/scale. And you can make out a tiny bit of a giant hand
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RE: Foreverlurk's AI artwork
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RE: Swallow Me, Like Your Little Pill (Slow burn | Intimate| Dark | Size-kink | Erotic Vore)
Chapter 9
Cache
Heather
I never want to be that small again.
Heather stared at the ceiling for what felt like a biblical age. Time itself felt curiously elastic, as though their interaction had stretched across multiple lifetimes. It felt impossible for all of that to happen, as it did, in one night. Could all of that happen in one night? Had it? It felt like an eon had ebbed between them. How had she been able to get so far - so far - outwitting, outlasting, outsexing him - for decades it seemed - only to contract down to Thumbelina and ride the pendulum back to the beginning?
It’s like I’ve gotten absolutely nowhere.
Tears pricked her eyes.
And now I’m stuck.
These were shackles that were of the worst kind because they were shackles of the mind.
And at this point it was almost laughable. Would Heather be able to escape to her apartment? Could she? How could she ever hope to out-run, out-last, out-wit the membrane cross-thatching into this pulsing organism between them: this organism of their mutual secrecy?
Heather looked at her fingers; flexed them. It felt like anatomical dissection trying to break this bond.
It was the bond of predator and prey: something timeless and unspoken when first they locked eyes in the wood.
Raw, uncensored, he had looked at her thus.
It was his moment to harvest; hers to resent.
A moment that would shape his memories: which were hers to keep, hidden, codified, in her breast.
It had felt like everything had unfolded on the head of a pin. She: atop it, twirling, hanging by a cosmic thread, a quantum Ballerina spinning in Pandora’s music box. But instead of musical notes, the pantomime of a man had surged forth.
And this pantomime had pushed her over the edge. It was a feeling she would never forget, being small and dispossessed, drowning in his size.
Heather got onto her hands and knees. I don’t ever wanna be that small again.
But he controls it, her brain whispered, self-aware. He controls you.
And that was the worst of it, wasn’t it? There was nothing she could take from him to protect herself. He was the arrow drawn back against the bow; the weapon. He brandished it, like a dark tendon.
At his whim.
She hated that he held that sort of power over her.
Heather took one step, then two; three - then started a slow, measured walk.
She couldn’t reconcile her thoughts, so she tried to outpace them.
Staying a judicious step before her thoughts had the effect, apparently, of inuring her to her environment, because it wasn’t until she had felt the pellets striking her skin did she realize she had — like a sleep-walker — abscond of the living room and enter the wet room, the shower pelting her back.
She hated that she moved with such ease, that she moved with such knowledge inside his home.
Granted: it was beautiful and well-appointed. It was an open-floor plan divided by planes of glass that sequestered the woods by a thin, condensing breath. The rooms were crowned by lofty ceilings which were bracketed by long wooden cross beams that were fashioned, also, underfoot in warm pines that married to broad, geometric-spiraled staircases. A magnificent grand room abutted the wet room, which was anchored by open-faced fireplaces; one was outfitted with digital flames that rotated through fluorescent colors.
Once upon a time, she had treated his wealth as she did the water from the shower: it rolled from her possession with little thought and little consequence, and, certainly, with little interrogation into its source because it was pleasant and comforting, but not hers to hold.
And, perhaps, that was admittedly the reason he had been -was?- so attracted to her.
Heather was, and would only ever be a goal digger.
Your money don’t impressa me much.
But money did afford certain luxuries, didn’t it?
The remoteness of his home held a different meaning now. Even if she was fortunate enough to find her cell phone, there was no guarantee the signal would be robust enough to chaperone her escape.
Heather meditated on the porcelain tiles of the wet room, watching with a sort of disconnected stupor as the water streamed away from her, toward the perimeter, creating an ankle-high tide that, should she exit the shower stall, serve as a borderless bath.
Once, this had been a source of pleasure for her. Now, it felt vaguely unsettling and perplexing: like being in a stomach or a tomb.
She remembered how she had felt, back then, first walking into his home, which was not unlike the farmer’s daughter entering the king’s castle. But, even then it had been clear that he hadn’t been born with a silver spoon in his mouth (no, he had other things of interest to put in his mouth), nor cosseted by an unwieldy trust fund, so there had been something remarkably relatable about him. And that accessibility had prevented him from becoming woefully unreachable and pretentious. In fact, she had been rather certain, from the context clues she had pieced together: that he had been self-made.
He was a person (the term being used loosely) moving through that nebulous cloud of ‘business’ that had an almost effortless enchantment for making wealth with nothing (suspiciously) descriptive about his conquests other than the ever-rising, ever-upward feel of exploitation through the machine, until he ascended the summit: spidering across several boards, steering committees, and think tanks. He had found his niche in the financial sector, and pincered onto it like a parasite; subsisting off of multiple retainers with enough trailing zeroes to make Heather dizzy.
A sort of savant, Heather vividly remembered him tying-up every conversation with a flippant I have good instinct.
He was a creature that shouldn’t exist making money off of numbers that didn’t exist. These financial systems were meaningful only to digital voyeurs that wanted a carve-out in currencies and contempt; their beliefs were affixed to a scale that existed only because it was determined to exist. And so it must.
This was a nigh-religious tithing. Big, big money exchanging hands just to seek advice from the oracle. Whetting the appetite of their greed.
The monster feeds.
Even the financial markets were part of this banquet. A banquet of which she had somehow (accidentally?) become center piece.
But there was a lot to unpack here, wasn’t there? Heather tried to triage her thoughts, to give them shape and meaning.
So, my ex-boyfriend — boyfriend? — is an evil creature boogey-man-thing that can contract me down to the size of a fucking peanut.
Heather hated saying it out loud, it made her feel like a lunatic.
But, somehow, avoiding overly-stylized words (even in her head) like shrink or shrunk made the concept feel less cartoonish; but the relief was premature because no matter the descriptor used, the calculus of it remained the same:
He shrunk them.
What? (The women).
Why? (To eat them).
He eats them, so they die; they die because he eats them. Fuck.
It was simple math. Simple transitive properties. And she could not undo one fact for the other, because the other twin fact still remained — evil, insidious, and haltingly familiar:
Just like he tried to do to me.
Somehow, saying he eats them felt safe because of how absurd it sounded. But, to get to the heart of it, to peel back the skin of it, to look at the innards of that system —
Heather shuddered. He’s killing them.
And as a sane, moral person, she could not wrap her brain around that fact that he was extinguishing human lives.
Fuck. She had lived with, sexed with, bonded with the instrument that had killed those women. It felt like a separate consideration that didn’t quite belong. It felt like an after-thought. I was with someone that had done terrible things. End of paragraph. Next thought.
What did that say about her?
She had promised herself even then — even when she had not understood the collection of thoughts disjointedly pieced together from her incomplete memory — that they would never (ever) get back together again because of the befouled strangeness he had visited upon her that one fateful evening (that now she understood to be a rite of consumption) — because even then, in her heart of hearts she had known that what he had done — what he had attempted to do — had been ugly, and that ugliness was now magnified because he had done it before: to others.
Which meant she was now lumped in with those faceless others.
And Heather did not relish the thought of it, because if she was the prey, and he the predator, then that meant there was a design to this system: a, dare she say it, ecosystem.
Which was all together infuriating because that suggested his existence was intentional in spite of - or because of - a so-called loving God. He had been no terrible accident to surge forth from primordial muck –
(or had he?)
And worse: she hated assigning liturgical meaning to his existence because then there existed the possibility – no matter how small – that he was the product of a compound sentence cast down from the stoic shadows of biblical lore.
Stymied, Heather padded out of the wet room, slid into a cotton robe, and shuffled deeper.
She navigated back to the living room, folded down onto the couch, and cast a calculable glance at the coffee table. It felt impossible, like some kind of temporal unmooring was happening. She couldn’t believe that she had been trapped on that table, just the other night, scarcely three inches tall with nothing but her moxie to shield her.
Other night?
Heather had first assigned the meaning of the diminishing light to be that of approaching dusk, but now, she was acutely aware that it was, in fact, dawn — of the next day. Which meant in the time intervening she had lived through almost one entire calendar square on the wall.
Which meant she had survived an entire day, an entire rise-and-fall of the sun, and, somehow, despite this — or because of it — she had slept the entire time (emerging unscathed), yet still felt bone tired.
But if Heather thought she could not drift she was certainly wrong. Outside: the dusk expanded into the soft, mellow light of midday. Inside: half an hour, two hours at a time she would slip off into a light sleep only to be awoken again with a start. But she would bed down again on the couch, grabbing the afghan, like this, several more times, until daytime finally sunk into night.
Heather woke.
The seconds ticked by; her eyelids clicked audibly in the dark. It was disorienting to wake into the nighttime.
But the rest of the night dawdled on, uneventful save for the sudden nausea that clutched her.
It took a moment to assign meaning to it, but when Heather shifted her weight, she understood it thus.
I need my pills.
She was not sure by which metric she had finally determined her surroundings to be safe – but it seemed to have been a fair one — because when she had carefully, oh-so carefully, whisked herself free from the afghan, nothing had troubled her.
So on silent cat-feet she went.
It felt wildly inappropriate to move so freely through his home. Even when they had been dating there had always been a crinkle of awkwardness whenever she moved freely through it; but now, now it felt like a spiteful joust.
Which is why she could barely smother her glee as she moved ghostly through the walls.
The master bathroom loomed. It pulled her.
It was far from the living room proper, rather perfectly tucked out of sight: the perfect place for him to hide her pills. It was the last place she’d look; obvious, but not.
First, Heather tried her old spot in the toilet, behind the flush mechanics – but they weren’t there. Rolling her sleeve down, she checked under the floating sink; between the Roman shower panels; behind the diffusive shower head.
Nothing.
Heather rotated around and she was struck by the mirror. Fascinated, she looked at her reflection. Her black hair was a bit tangled, and there was a flush pricking her cheeks, but otherwise she looked as hauntingly familiar as her surroundings. And the most terrifically frightening thing about this - about all of this — she realized - was that there had been no evidence left behind: that he had shrunk her.
He had been a silent predator. Not even his fingerprints had left marks on her. And had he successfully consumed her, there would have been no evidence of that either; she’d have slipped into him with nothing but a whimper.
Stop it. Stop the bad thoughts.
Heather reached out to touch her reflection in a surreal attempt to scold herself.
But the mirror clicked and came forward.
“The fuck?”
It was a cabinet, but it didn’t look like one: the vanity was seamless and streamlined, illuminated by digital LED strips that spangled bright light across the marble counter top. And opening it had sluiced forward a waterfall of brilliance.
Momentarily dazzled Heather froze, then re-animated. She peered inside.
Oh yeah my pills will be in here. Nice try, Danny.
Feeling fiendishly clever – she reached.
Well. There were certainly bottles in there. And they certainly resembled those for pills. But there were too many of them and none of them were like hers.
She studied them for a long moment, feeling a sort of paralysis.
Why did a man-monster, with a fetishistic impulse for small women, need a stockade of pill bottles? (A stockade that was hiding behind a recessed cabinet and a false wall? ) Wait, maybe this is what he takes? It’s some sort of experimental drug? Does he feed it to his victims like a date-rape thing?
(Far be it for her to doubt his pronouncements that he had black magic. He had a terrible habit of contorting the truth. See, she was a clever girl, she was learning).
Heather looked at the orange bottle menagerie with new eyes. Is this how you get your hocus pocus?
It felt leering. The cache was hidden; but not. It was an advertisement; but not. Heather felt her theory solidify. This must be it.
But she wavered.
This feels too much like Chekhov’s rifle.
Defeated, she turned away — but not before grabbing a bottle and placing it neatly inside the robe.
Plot twist: grabbing Chekhov’s rifle.
She gave the pocket a proud little pat. If he had gone through such trouble to hide it, then it had value. Value she would ascertain later.
Heather retreated to the living room. She gazed out the picture window; the moon gazed back. Under it: the woods were canopied in thick, breathing shadows. She twisted her fingers together, her brain slowly ticking like a still-animation book, each frame flickering through the possibilities.
Skilled as she was, even she would have trouble running non-stop to the nearest town.
Unless,
Heather studied the door to the walk-in pantry.
Resolved, she eased it open, and stepped inside.
To the fore: a climate-controlled wine cellar airbrushed by platinums and silvers; to the sides: a litany of labels and sensuous bottles stacked like lovely little ladies, all neat in a honey-comb row. To the back: a sequestered room full of stocked shelves.
There was something disquieting about seeing a cache of alcohol in a man-beast’s lair.
But to it she went, her fingers running over the tempered glass.
Being in the presence of this alcohol cache churned so many embittered thoughts to the surface. Namely, if this need of his to consume women was not actually a requirement, and instead, a voluntary practice… Then everything flowing from that was made uglier. Uglier, because it was a choice. A selfish, demonic choice. Otherwise these bottles were very stately, very expensive prop pieces.
And here I am, entering stage-left.
Heather ticked her nails against the glass. It was a damning proposition wasn’t it? If this was a voluntary practice, then it meant he could control it, which was in of itself problematic because it meant he had chosen not to. However, if instead, this was a biological imperative — and Heather felt so proud of herself for mentally producing that word — then, perhaps, she could forgive him the sin; but, then, that ushered in a whole new host of problems because it meant she would be pushing up against a pounding, irreconcilable animal instinct.
Blend of varietals.
Heather traced her finger around the cursive script of the label. It was a blend, wasn’t it? Yes: that felt right. How else had he exercised such control during their courtship?
But, fuck. She banged her fist against the wine vault. That meant he had turned on her. But, why?
Feeling cranky, she turned away from the menagerie of glass bottles.
And the ground, underfoot, spun.
Heather buckled. But she grabbed the wire-rack before impacting with the ground, but in so doing, something impacted with her.
Smarting, she rubbed the back of her head; the foreign object clattered to the floor; she reached and her fingers closed around a familiar shape that sent a spike of excitement through her.
My phone!
She stabbed the screen; it lit up. The battery meter winked in the corner.
Clattering her fingernails over the screen — one lurching behind the phone case to tap the biometric lock — the display sprung to life.
Hundreds, if not thousands, of text messages windowed onto the screen. Normally she would have harvested them with adolescent glee, but tonight her goal was not social media adulation, no - she had more pressing matters to attend to —
her pointer hovered over the Uber icon; she clicked.
There was signal. Weak, but there.
Heather felt her lips part in wordless wonderment. She had signal. Dear God in heaven, she had signal.
She made the arrangements for a driver. The system proceeded and funneled her to the confirmation screen.
Declined.
Heather stared numbly at her phone.
She tried again.
Declined.
She thumbed up the notification: card declined.
Fuck!
She clacked the phone against her forehead. Think, Heather, think. Jesus, just think. Panic later.
Her eyes moved. She surveilled the pantry. I guess I’m hoofin’ it.
Her feet re-traced the steps her eyes had taken. To and fro, to and fro, hickory dickory dock, she went, the mouse running up and down the face of the clock, desperately moving, desperately scuttling against the invisible pounding of time. Like this, she made several trips from the pantry, out to the tree line, and back, her ill-gotten goods tucked under her arm. She had found a suitable hollow in a tree trunk and had begun creating a cache.
I need to store enough for a few day’s travel.
But she knew she had to move delicately. Not only did she have the disquieting sense that she was creating nigh-tangible vibrations along an invisible trip-wire; but also, she had the arduous task of oh-so carefully pinching things here and there without becoming so unnecessarily gratuitous that the theft became obvious.
Much like the pill dispensary back home, she’d have to steal one or two things at a time, depleting the inventory surreptitiously.
Heather returned, once again, from the outdoors, and stood quietly to assess her damage. She had been able to manipulate what was left on the shelves. A twist here; a turn there to camouflage the absence of things with other things. However, she realized, if she whittled away at the pantry any further her ploy would become obvious; she knew this, and sighed deeply.
This could not be done in one night. She would have to be patient, but she felt like jumping out of her damn skin. How much time did she have left? Hickory dickory dock. She could feel the atmosphere thinning around her; time slowly desiccating.
Heather angrily rebuffed the Uber app, swiping it away. In its place, she pulled up the screen lock, intending to retire her phone for the evening.
And she would have conserved the battery on the phone,
If it were not for a very peculiar notification that suddenly lolled across her screen. It pulled at her eyes not because of the content of it, but because of the purported name of the sender, which was couched in the corner: the evidence of it drew a gasp from her throat —
as she peeled open the email. It had to be a cruel practical joke; it had to.
It wasn’t.
Heather laugh-sobbed.
You’re alive.
Elation. She winnowed through the notifications and pulled up the email. This was good. This was so good. This was incredible. Her Joey, Her Joseph, her bespectacled saint, her canonized white knight was alive.
Drunk on relief, dizzy with purpose, she looked around at her surroundings. The scheme she was hatching for her escape plan no longer felt infantile. She had a plan, she had a safe harbor waiting for her at the end of this labyrinth.
And all she would have to do was survive. All she would have to do was stay out of the minotaur’s jaws —
Heather held her head in silent prayer. Don’t go tiny. And stay out of…of his body. If I can do that, if I can pull that off, I’ll be all right.
But if he gets you, if he shrinks you, her brain said sneeringly, it’s game over.
Renewed by purpose, she crafted her text message. She didn’t even care to weigh the wisdom of it; it felt like this was her next act. It felt like this was the next level of descent. Deceit? Was she to distract; disorient; appease the beast? She knew the ploy: look over therethere while I do stuff over herehere, so I can I rob you blind.
But this required his cooperation.
She knew it was the digital equivalent of poking a bear (and it was similarly impossible to predict the outcome).
But it had to be done.
Heather: We need to set ground rules.
And instead of waiting for the recipient to respond, Heather toggled back to Joseph’s email.
She shot off:Hi. I'm so glad you're ok. I'm ok, too, I think. I'll be out of this mess soon. I'll go to you, ok? please wait up. I'll go to you.
Please, her brain added, at the end of the sentence. Please -
And a notification tone shattered the quiet. Heather jumped.
It was a text message.
Danny: New phone who dis?
There was a moment of disorientation.
Seeing it, seeing his name, felt so comically strange. It did things to her. Least of all, it sent her down a most-unwelcome rabbit hole. When first he had forced himself back into her life, just as he so-markedly did when augmenting his name to her contacts, she had thought it to be a gesture of mockery, a feint; not an overture at something more enduring. It had never occurred to her, at the time, that the pedestrian act of reinserting his name had symbolized something more.
Had he never actually intended to harm her? Just as he had so-widely and laterally suggested to her during their cat-and-mouse game? Is this why he answered her thus?
Fuck, no. Heather said to herself, caustically. Don’t fall for that.
Heather’s eyes traced the letters of his name and read the text of his response. That was so like him, responding like a side-winding snake: indirect but not devoid of threat. He was, she realized, simultaneously acknowledging that she had reclaimed her phone, yet also cavalierly deflecting her perfectly reasonable request.
Heather felt a pang of envy, so-wishing she had that level of talent. But, now, she had his attention. She had him. She knew him enough to know that he wasn’t rejecting her idea; not entirely.
Distract him. That was the name of the game. Heather knew to keep his eyes, his ears, and his mental keenness away from the pantry.
Heather: Gasp! You actually answered?!
Danny: Obviously.
Heather: I mean, I thought for sure you'd go ghost on me.
Danny: Why?
She could sense his genuine prickle of curiosity.
Heather: Because it's another way to torture me.
Danny: I've got much better ways to torture you. Trust me.
Heather grimaced, but she refused to be intimidated by his jab.
Heather: I mean it. We need to set some ground rules.
A pause, then:
Danny: I don't disagree.
Heather was shooketh. She had not been expecting this.
It was back-handed agreement. His response did not quite dispel her concerns, but, it did not enflame them either. He did not agree so much as not disagree. That was so on-brand for him, always twisting words.
Don’t fall into that trap, Heather’s brain cautioned. She could sense, she could feel, he was trying to carve out a resemblance between them, he was trying lure her into complacency.
Danny: Stay put. We'll talk it out.
Heather crumpled. I’m so not ready. I’m so not fucking ready for another encounter. I just…
For one wild, gripping moment she entertained the thought of sleeping in the hollow, in the woods, like a wild animal. But a thought came to her, unbidden, and it was that of the green-eyed wolf loping through the wood, scenting the hollow, and lapping her into his jaws like Thumbelina.
Heather grabbed her cell phone. She navigated to her email.
The battery meter blinked at her once, twice; the screen went dark.
She plunged into darkness.
And there was a procession of sounds that moved slowly, as though through water.To her they advanced:
the low thrum of a car engine; the lift, and close, of a garage door; the wet glide of tires; the muffled opening and closing of an entrance, and then, muted, purposeful footfall.
Carefully: Heather extricated herself from the darkness. Carefully: Heather moved to the light switch. Carefully: Heather turned, her fingertips squeaking against the wine bottle as she did so; but her body in motion had not been able to complete its rotation because,
the pantry door sprang open. -
RE: Swallow Me, Like Your Little Pill (Slow burn | Intimate| Dark | Size-kink | Erotic Vore)
@ilikehell Thank you for that! Not a professional writer in the conventional sense… but I do do a lot of writing as a profession, and hobby.
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RE: Size-Kink GRAPHIC NOVEL [Dark | Pulpy | Erotic | Gripping]
Danny Graphic Novel Concept Design
This is the Giant’s working concept comic design.
To See More Comic
7-Day Free Trial Unlocks️ X-Rated Art
️ Concept Comic Designs
️ Read Ahead LibraryI have a membership paying for the privilege of seeing more, so I can only share public material
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RE: Swallow Me, Like Your Little Pill (Slow burn | Intimate| Dark | Size-kink | Erotic Vore)
@TakoAlice8 Same, tbh. It creeps across you one day. And you realize, gee, I think I like this.
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RE: Size-Kink GRAPHIC NOVEL [Dark | Pulpy | Erotic | Gripping]
Heather Concept Design
This is the protagonist. The “tiny.”
Background: This is Heather; the strong intrepid pill addict that refuses to be “prey” (or victim) because it is, after all, a mindset.
Artistic direction: Heather has an intangible feline quality about her refined features. This is why her Giant calls her “pretty kitty.”
They are a true, dark romance. This is not your fluffy romantic couple. If you crave intensity, paraphilia, and deep psychological travails, then their story is for you. (Because the one tiny inconvenient detail here, is that her boyfriend is a demon with a sadistic streak a mile wide…)
Medium: Created from scratch in DAZ 3D 4.22 It is from this model that I derive a bounty of images to transpose into the story panels.
To unlock more
To See More Comic
7-Day Free Trial Unlocks -
RE: Swallow Me, Like Your Little Pill (Slow burn | Intimate| Dark | Size-kink | Erotic Vore)
@SmolChlo Aw thank you !! I love the energy nom nom nom. So, so much.
I wish I had it.
We are almost there. Just 14 weeks left!
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RE: Swallow Me, Like Your Little Pill (Slow burn | Intimate| Dark | Size-kink | Erotic Vore)
Thank you for indulging me.
My Anthology has been rebooted: https://aryion.com/g4/view/923188
Necessarily, “Little Pill” has been swallowed into it: https://aryion.com/g4/view/926749Because you have expressed a special sentiment, or interest in my writing, I am respectfully informing you that I have shifted my focus back to the Aryion gallery. https://aryion.com/g4/user/nephilim
I am pouring myself into it.
The chapters are gorgeously crafted in PDF, with attendant artwork, and I feel it is best viewed in the Aryion Gallery.
I can crosspost to this forum if there are enough people interested. Especially since it’s so perfectly niche here.
So,
Let me know… I’ll feel out the vibe.Anthology: https://aryion.com/g4/view/923188
Book One: https://aryion.com/g4/view/926749 -
RE: [Revelations 2023] : Dark Romance Series (Giant-Kink | Vore-Kink | Layered Narrative)
Little Pill Story Map - Beginning The Ending
Chapter 9: Glass Jars For Broken Boys & Bitter Bitches - a very intense vore-kink, size-kink chapter concluding the “DeSade/tormented love” story arch.[released]Chapter 10: My Pills, My Priest , My Demon - very important chapter for story direction, that introduces us to the central
mystery, setting up the Bigger StoryChapter 11: Vore, Violence & Vendetta - a revealing chapter for story direction, where two story-lines twine, that surges forward from the exposition in chapter 7 and 10, creating the first stunning plot twist, and staggering smash to black, ending the series.
Chapter 12: The End Is The Beginning
Sub-titled: Spit, Spirit & Semen - the epilogue with an elegantly embedded twist within a twist, that serves as the bridge-chapter for Book Two/Season Two.- Publicly - you will get each chapter every 2-4 weeks.
- Paid Subscribers - you will get each chapter every 1-3 weeks (in addition to drabbles and working drafts)
I lay out the story map for your intrigue, so you can see the shape of things to come, being fully aware that we are on the approach; getting ready to unravel the ending. Remember, this is a novel with an intricately layered narrative, full of mystery, intrigue, complexity, and plot twists… Vore and size kink is interwoven throughout, yes; but this is a story. This is not a formulaic grab-and-gulp.
If you don’t like to invest in a tale unless you know it’s finished; do not fret, the ending is written. Or, if you are uncertain of the story direction, be assured, I write very good lead-ups and very satisfyingly-chilling endings
This post is to entice you to start reading, if you haven’t already; or are afraid to do so because you only want to invest into something completed. Don’t worry,
We are almost there. <33 Hang on.Source:
https://aryion.com/g4/view/926749
https://subscribestar.adult/nephilim
https://www.patreon.com/MistressNephilim/ -
RE: [Revelations 2023] : Dark Romance Series (Giant-Kink | Vore-Kink | Layered Narrative)
Author’s Note:
I now have a Subscription Star and Patreon for early-release content, exclusive content, and visual content. You can also bear witness to me creating the comic/graphic novel with a scene technician.
https://subscribestar.adult/nephilim
https://www.patreon.com/MistressNephilim/I will always post the chapters publicly because I enjoy sharing the story.
I just want my readership to be aware that this option exists. And that I will have to delay release to this website. because I have paying subscribers, now
I have started rendering in DAZ Studio 4.21 again, producing 3D art and 2D art, and digital painting, so I have started creating concept art for the graphic novel.
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RE: [Revelations 2023] : Dark Romance Series (Giant-Kink | Vore-Kink | Layered Narrative)
I am releasing Part 1 of the “Series Finale” this weekend. In the lead-up, here is some eye candy to set the mood.
Some of you are aware (on my other haunts) that I have finalized the 2023 Danny model. Here he is, created in DAZ 4.21.
I rigged his entire anatomy from scratch. It took me 3 weeks to sculpt him.
The benefit of having him as a 3D model is that I can extract an endless array of images from him, to paint into 2D. He starts hyperreal then I whittle down the details more befitting a graphic novel.
Artistic direction: He has a shiny veneer of human about him, but there’s something intriguingly feral about his appearance.
Anatomical direction: his “jaw clench” maxes out the slider on the anatomy scale (he’s a bitey boy); his masseter muscles are over-developed (hypertrophied from excessive eating); his ocular orbit is recessed giving him that look of pathological disinterest; his mouth is inherently sexual; visible philthrum; plush density to his lips, which form a cupid’s bow; and pronounced nasolabial folds from oral fixation
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RE: [Revelations 2023] : Dark Romance Series (Giant-Kink | Vore-Kink | Layered Narrative)
The character cut sheet for the graphic novel. His 3D model extracted and painted into a 2D model.
Perfect for story-boarding
As mentioned, because I made him in DAZ Studio 4.21, I can derive endless images from him to transpose into the comic book. This is all original art done by me and a scene technician. I do all of the art, he does the panel structure. <33
This is his cut sheet. His vibe. He is the charismatic villain. And unapologetic predator.
Danny loves indulging in a lot of sizeplay, and voreplay.
Some Trivia: my avatar and my forum signature are images derived from his 3D model <33
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RE: [Revelations 2023] : Dark Romance Series (Giant-Kink | Vore-Kink | Layered Narrative)
@SmolChlo just wait until you see his text messages with Heather <33
Lot of sexting and vore-texting… vorexting? … vexting?