Pop art Pushpin table lamp with cork base by VisualGram. (2004)
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Pop art Pushpin table lamp with cork base by VisualGram. (2004)
Anyone who likes minigiants and is looking for a fic to read, I highly recommend It's a Girl's World: Liam and Sloane by PerpetualSarchasmMachine on AO3. It's got some of the best world building I've read in a G/t story, with a cute polyamorous love story to boot. It hasn't been updated in a few years, but what's there is a delightful read.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Get Help but make it Disaster Twins
One of my hobbies is making a screenshot each time I see a stray car in my tumblr because of the gt tag
in my high school a few years ahead of me there was a polyamorous girl named luna who was dating a guy and a girl and the girl was named (i swear to god this is her birth name) marea. they were named moon and tide and they were lesbian lovers. i thought it was the most romantic fated thing ever as a tiny baby queer it would make me sigh in adoration. the boyfriend's name was frank
that last art has me thinking about this: imagine how cute it would be to be a minigiant and have matching furniture and dishware for your smaller friends smaller chairs alongside yours at your table, little cups in your glassware set, all perfectly matching with the same design, just miniature versions of yours so that your smaller friends can be included like any other person in your home.
no, but.. minigiants when they're sharing a bed with their smaller friend. either the bed is meant for a human person, in which the minigiant has to curl up on just to barely fit (if even that) as they sorta curl around their friend in a cuddle or the bed is made for minigiants, in which the smaller friend is like a teddy bear in comparison surrounded by a big fluffy blanket and strong arms as they're held to the chest of the big friend...
Cuddle Buddies
(~900 words)
I've been struggling to find the motivation to write the next chapter of "Up, Up, and Away," so I've just been writing little scenes like this with no regard for their order in the story. This one is relatively free of spoilers (if you don't count info I've revealed in other shorts like this) so I decided to release it to tide people over until the next update.
This takes place a couple of weeks after Weighted Blanket. That short story was pretty much the first bit of writing I did with these characters, and they've developed a lot since then, so that version of events is no longer strictly canon. I've done a rewrite of it that will appear later on in UUaA, but since it contains references to actual spoilers, I won't be releasing it out of order. That being said, the arrangement Trevor and Addie come to, where she sleeps on his chest and he rests his hands on top of her to keep her from drifting off in her sleep is still canon. They don't sleep that way every night, but it's becoming a more frequent occurrence by the time this story starts.
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I was thinking it'd kind of be nice sitting on the couch with someone, maybe watching a movie or just cuddling, close & comfy.. they start growing slowly, and it takes them a bit to notice, but they just keep growing. Being already so close and snuggled... I think it could be special.
No, but you're so right and you should say it. Casual, comfortable growth is an absolute champion and it should be celebrated more.
It's a movie the both of you have seen a dozen times, but you still laugh at the jokes and mouth key lines along with the actors. They lean their head against your shoulder, settling in under the blanket across both of your laps, a bowl of popcorn nestled comfortably between the two of you. It's a place the two of you have been so many times before and yet it's still so nice to come back to.
About half an hour into the movie, they start to shift. Something just feels a little off. The discomfort isn't bad enough to pause the movie or even get out from under the blanket, but it still warrants a little adjustment. They sit up and adjust their shirt, tugging it down where it's ridden up, their brow furrowed as it seems a bit tighter than it did when they sat down. Their belt, too, seems a little constricting, but it's at least easier to blame that on the now mostly empty bowl of popcorn. You glance out of the corner of your eye and maybe you recognize that their chest looks a bit softer, a bit fuller than it did earlier. Could just be the light of the TV, though. You brush it off as they settle back in for the rest of the movie.
Another thirty minutes and the growth is getting harder to ignore. On two separate occasions, their head has bumped into your chin and they've had to shift their hips to remain in the same spot. But the blanket is so comfy and the movie isn't even half over. The two of you share a knowing glance, eyes meeting as you glance to the side, and their lips curl into a charming smirk. They yawn, stretching their arms above their head, arching their back. The seam of their shirt audibly creaks and the anime characters on the front warp as the fabric stretches over their swollen breasts. They reach down and undo the button of their jeans, their hips surging out to the side as they're no longer contained.
But the end of the movie, the two of you are still cuddled up together, just in a slightly different way. Instead of them leaning against you, you're now perched on their lap, soft thigh and wide hips supporting you from underneath. Their enormous breasts make for slightly embarrassing but incredibly comfortable pillows as you lean back into them, feeling their chest rise and fall with each breath. After the credits roll, you tilt your head up to look at them, meeting their gaze as they look down at you. A tension fills the room, a question lingering in the air: which one of you will broach the subject first? Which one of you will acknowledge what's changed in the last two hours? They do have an easier solution, though:
"...You wanna watch another one?"
Dating when your 2ft
Mini Giants are my favourite.
The first thing you wake to is the feeling of weight. A mountain of quilt and warm muscle flattening you into the mattress. At barely two feet tall, you’re a little taller than a housecat, and right now you’re about as helpless as one that has been pinned beneath a sofa cushion.
It’s a pocket of stale warmth, your own little airless cave, stinking (comfortingly) of body wash and last night’s tea. You push against the wall of frabic, but your arms aren’t even long enough to dent the blanket fort sealing you in.
Above, something rumbles, a sleepy thunderclap tucked inside an ordinary human chest. You know that sound. Even when it is muffled through the mountain of blankets atop of you. You could pinpoint who that was even if it were storming outside
“Baaaabe…?” The sound vibrates the mattress coils. Your ribs buzz like tuning forks.
You kick until one bare foot pokes free. Instantly a hand, each finger thicker than your wrist, sweeps across the bed. It drags over your calf, your hip, then presses flat to your sternum. The entire heel of their palm spans shoulder to shoulder on your tiny frame.
“There you are.” Their morning voice is a gravel pit, half words, half purr. You squawk as they roll you, blanket and all~into the curve of their arms like a burrito.
“I can’t breathe,” you squeak, voice muffled in cotton.
“Didn’t ask you to.” They peel the duvet back from your face, and dawn light spills in. Your giant~ six-foot-something of bed-headed menace, squints at you. Eyes puffy, lips parted, hair everywhere. You get precisely one second to inhale.
Their lips pucker. Then they kiss.
Their mouth eclipses half your mouth and chin, some cheek too, hot and damp. You feel the plush weight of their upper lip slide from forehead, then chin, smearing drool. They hastily unravel you from the blankets so that they may continue their morning barrage of kisses. You’re easily flung from the sheets, now held in both of their hands like a prized figurine.
Your left breathless as their large mouth attacks your small face. Chin, forehead, cheek, other cheek. Neck, cheek, nose. Oh my god. A single finger tugs down your shirt collar, a kiss lands on your collarbones; another kiss turns into a large tongue slurping across your entire abdomen, ribs tickling from their stubble.
Like some kind of animal.
“Yuck! Stop!” You thrash. They just laugh, a rumble so low it tickles your bare soles. Then they fold you tighter against their chest. Your whole front molds to their left pec, the muscle as firm as a springy mattress topper, skin heated like a radiator. Every breath lifts you an inch; every exhale drops you like an elevator.
“Too much,” you gasp, scrambling, planting both palms on their sternum. Your arms barely reach nipple to nipple, which you’ve noticed have hardened in the cool morning air beneath their shirt.
You push~ nothing. Trying to budge 98 kilos of “morning monster” is like shoving a fridge.
They only growl, deep in their throat, a low, lazy diesel engine of possessiveness. When you try to slip down their torso, the arm beneath you hooks up, forearm thicker than your thigh, rolling you higher until your cheek smears into the soft hollow of their throat. Their pulse trundles under your lips, big and slow.
“Stay,” they instruct, voice reverberating through bone. “Please~ just cuddle me for a bit,” they groan “I need attention” they whine.
You squirm harder. You grumble about your back, your pride, your bruised dignity, but the truth is, you crave this too. The chaos. The closeness. Them.
They answer with nuzzles, broad nose dragging across your ear; lips suctioning at your cheek; a playful nip that makes your whole leg jolt. Schlurp. A hot stripe of tongue up the side of your neck leaves you slick.
“You’re disgusting,” you hiss, wiping drool.
“I’m awake now,” they correct, grinning so wide their dimples look like twin sinkholes. “And you’re breakfast.” Another cavernous kiss mwaaaas your belly, the impact folding you like a taco. Your spine cracks pleasantly.
You swing a flat hand at their chin. Trying to shove them off. They barely budge, just huff a pleased noise and tuck you even tighter, palms overlapping across your back so that your ribs creak. Buried under their crossed forearms, you can’t even wriggle; the thick weave of their sleep shirt rasps your cheek with every futile breath.
“Need…air,” you manage.
“Need…you,” they echo, mock-serious, breath ghosting hot across your scalp.
Finally you go limp. Not because they’ve won.. well, partly~ but because the steady drum of their heart under your hands is hypnotic. Boom…boom…each beat a gentle quake rocking your entire torso. Your own heart, hummingbird-fast, gradually syncs down.
“Fine.. five more minutes. But then I need air. And a coffee” you mumble into their clavicle, voice half smothered, breathing heavily.
“Okay~” They grin against your hair, rubbing a cheek against the top of your head.
You smile in return. But, in petty protest, you chomp the tip of their chin, just a nip, enough to leave faint teeth dents. They gasp theatrically, jerking, and the blanket avalanche re-buries you both.
They then roll, pinning you beneath their chest until you’re basically begging for freedom. And oxygen.
They’re never hurting you~ overwhelming, yes. Smothering, absolutely. Utterly humiliating at times… unfortunately~ but when they lean a large cheek into your small palm, pressing their mouth to every inch of skin, needing your touch, your warmth. No matter your size, your more then enough to them. Your heart warms when they look at you like the most precious thing in the world. Even if they carry you around like an accessory.
Five minutes turns into ten, turns into you losing count entirely~ because once the giant has you, time goes soft-focus. Their thumb keeps brushing your spine in lazy semicircles, and you forget you ever wanted coffee, or air, or dignity.
But eventually their stomach grumbles, an earthquake under your ribs~ and the spell breaks. “Food,” they mumble, as if the single word requires Herculean effort.
Before you can brace, fingers hook into the back of your shirt, lift, and suddenly your cargo. Your knees and arms dangle; the hem of your shorts flutters around your thighs. You sway against their thigh like a novelty purse while they stumble toward the kitchen.
“This is my last good shirt! You’re going to stretch it!”You protest, naturally, kick, hiss, call them a barbarian.
They reply with a fond “Mm-hmm,” and a pat to your backside so oversized it bumps your whole torso against their thigh. Each step jogs your organs; each jostle reminds you whose armspan rules this house. Yet you catch yourself grinning anyway, because being swung along, dangling from their hand offers the most ridiculous views: the fridge handle is a skyscraper; the kettle’s whistle could qualify as weather.
They set you on the counter for a heartbeat, looking incredibly sleepy still, hair sticking to one side of their face. Eyes partially closed as they butter toast, then scoop you again, this time belly-down across their forearm. Your chest molds to the warm slope of muscle; your feet dangle over the crook of their elbow.
Your arms and legs instinctively wrap around the width of their forearm, ankles linking like some kind of monkey gripping to a branch. Your cheek rests in the curve of their palm like a fleshy pillow, their fingers smell of bread.
A thumb as broad as a paperback drifts up and down your back, tracing your vertebrae like braille. You melt, traitorous, into a loose-limbed sigh.
“Thought so,” they murmur, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. They lean into the counter as they eat. Toast crumbs rain onto your hair. You grumble half-heartedly, but they finish their breakfast, then their thumb returns to continue stroking, and the complaint fizzles.
Later, on the couch, you’re promoted, if that’s the word~ to pillow. They recline, haul you onto their chest, and then, with a heavy exhale they seem to change their mind. They then lift you to the couch cushion so that they may lower their entire head onto your torso. One cheek alone covers from sternum to hip. It is absurd. It is beautiful. Their lashes tickle your collarbone; their exhale warms the thin fabric of your shirt in waves.
You slip a hand, small as it is, along the line of their jaw. They nuzzle, eyes slipping shut, like a lion claiming sunshine. The pressure should be uncomfortable, but the trust in that weight is its own comfort. They could crush; they simply…don’t.
“Comfy?” you ask, voice wobbly beneath the load.
“Perfect,” they whisper, the word vibrating directly through your ribs. Then a softer confession, almost shy: “You feel like home.”
That one sentence overrides every earlier indignity, the hoodie commute, the drool slick kisses, the threatened oxygen. Because no matter the scale, no matter the awkward angles or your reddening cheeks, you’re enough. Enough surface to kiss, enough warmth to chase the chill from their bones. Enough heart, small but stubborn, to steady theirs.
Sometimes that means being carried like a handbag; sometimes used like a teddy; sometimes a heartbeat under a mountain of muscle and messy, earnest affection.
Eventually your phone alarm chirps. Responsibilities beckon. But before you can wriggle free, a sleepy palm splays across your spine, pinning you with gentle finality.
“Five more minutes,” they plead around a yawn.
You huff, trace a tiny circle over their dimple, and grant those minutes, knowing full well they’ll turn into ten, then twenty, and that you’ll pretend to complain the whole way through.
After all, being overwhelmed has never felt so safe.
Still her little boy.
Originally this was going to be a fully colored illustration. But I got so dissatisfied and burnt out from it, I can't work on it anymore. Decided to post it as a rough sketch instead.
Ethan's growth spurts are stressful, but his mother Helena is always ready to comfort him.
i had a stupid idea
bonus points if you know what this is from
I haven’t drawn the gays in a bit Anyway Nona use to like making doll clothes but one of the couples who were fostering her thought it was dumb and told her it wasn’t a useful skill so she stopped. Jokes on them she gets to make all sorts of cute clothes for her girlfriend so suck it Nona also tends to talk a mile a minute when she’s excited
injured eye
THIRD BATCH DONE WOOP WOOP! Thank y'all for being so patient while i go crazy with tmnt au comp stuff hehe. As a treat I did full color on a few of the panels. I'm working on the next chapters! I want them all to be able to come out without breaks so I'll be building up the queue for a bit
Masterpost || Other Asks
usually we like to talk about giants that are completely friendly and humans who have to unlearn stereotypes, but what if giants had to unlearn human stereotypes?
a giant who has to come to terms with the fact that subconsciously, they don't see their tiny as a person, more as a thing. They hate it about themself of course, since, y'know, that's their friend, but it's still difficult to fully realize it. that subconscious belief leaks into how they treat the tiny. maybe they do things like preventing the tiny from doing anything on their own, they keep them to a confined area, or the tiny has a limited variety of food to pick from. subconsciously, they've been treating the tiny like a pet or possession. and they loathe it. they find themself so lucky that their tiny friend is so patient with them while they try to do better.
a giant who was taught from a young age that all humans were evil having to unlearn that for their own sake or for the sake of a human. maybe their injured and a human doctor comes along to try and heal them. the giant isn't just apprehensive, they're downright combative to the idea that a human would do something so helpful. they probably end up attacking the human, and they don't regret it until many months later when the two are almost friends. by then, the giant assumes it is too late to apologize.
a giant who was told stories of giants attacking and raiding human cities as a child, who idolizes the giants of the past who would do so. maybe those past giants even consumed human flesh, and the giant believes that to be something to strive for as well. when they play pretend with their toys, they pretend to be one of the raiders, and it isn't until they come across a destroyed human city that they realize that it isn't as fun as they initially thought. perhaps there's an exchange along the lines of "oh, I hadn't realized you could speak, I didn't know that you were sentient. im sure my ancestors wouldn't have killed so many of you had they known either." and the human, once they mustered up the courage, as this giant is sitting on their house like it's a seat, "ahah, yeah, um, we've been sentient for centuries." they say it in a joking tone that still holds a small semblance of exasperation for their situation. the giant will try to befriend any humans they come across, but they don't quite realize that casually talking about that destruction to those they're lucky enough to befriend is unnerving until one of their friends gets brave enough to say so.