Put Me Down Your Pants. Nothing Bad Will Happen.

Saturn - Adult - 18+ size diff side blog, minors dni and whatever. Any pronouns! I make M/f mostly - I’m the tiny.

[saturnallyy]

Hi im saturn/enn/nari <-guy who is cursed to collect new names whenever cooler ones come up/mid 20s/any pronouns/swears up and down that he’ll get a bluesky eventually/micro girlie

Uhhhh primarily giant man enjoyer. Not a lot of gts here but I will post it every so often as a treat for my beloved bestie bc I #supportourtroops. Anyway if you’ve stumbled across this blog and you’re like what the fuck. Go away.

If you’re here because you’re into this hiiii hi hello hi :3 hi <3 welcome to my! Blog :)

I was high when I wrote this and I’m not changing it once I sober up.

P.S. I like extreme size diff mostly. Anything between 1in and. Well. Smaller.

Important Addition:

I might even draw about it >:3c

[ambiguouspuzuma]

Writing prompt? No. Writing much delayed.

[micromentality]

need to be caught btwn two giants fucking passionately

[outofcontextgarf]

[coolerdracula]

[saturnallyy]

Yorgos Lanthimos The Lobster G/t. Send tweet.

[saturnallyy]

Friend got hooked on this post after scrolling my tumblr and we came to the conclusion that the rebel guys in the forest would be insisting that they’re all medium sized even when that’s just blatantly not true

[saturnallyy]

Playing TOTK in an attempt to not fall asleep again and I’m grinding for gear. Completely forgot that the final upgrade great fairy animation is Like That and I got sooooooo fucking blindsided confusedhorny by it

[saturnallyy]

Great fairy: grabs link and cuddles him to her face b4 dragging him to the fae realm or whatever

Me, 2 hrs of very restless sleep after staying up all night, has forgotten this happens:

[saturnallyy]

Playing TOTK in an attempt to not fall asleep again and I’m grinding for gear. Completely forgot that the final upgrade great fairy animation is Like That and I got sooooooo fucking blindsided confusedhorny by it

[jabberfoxy]

figuring out obie's day to day clothes pre-time loop. somehow these drawings make me want to kidnap & shrink him down even more he would never even Think about wearing a cute little dress and that's a goddamn tragedy. i have to fix it.

[the-messenger-of-the-gods]

— Gold pt. 2 —

Writing Masterpost (parts 1 and 3 here)

Rating: Mature

Word count: 4.3k

Dynamic: F/m, little bit of M/m

Summary: Beth meets with Eloise Elliott for a consultation of her custom ballroom shoes. Questioning, tracing, and measuring follow. Feet people, done my best to do you proud. Got hit with the ao3 author curse, so wrote most of this in the er. Hope it's any good.

Beth got up early the next morning to finish preparations. When he set out with a cart full of equipment, the watch strapped to the wooden handle read 10:43 am. It was just noon when he arrived at the black-and-white art deco building. 

A tall, round human with hickory skin met him at the side door. He was dressed all-black in a morning coat, a single-breasted waistcoat, crisp trousers, and polished oxfords, except for his shirt, bow tie, and gloves, which were stark white. His coiled, combed-back hair was also white at the temples. His face was round and full, dotted by moles from time under the sun. His pencil moustache creased as he smiled, umber eyes wrinkling at the corners. “Mr. Beth?”

The tiny shoemaker nodded. 

“Excellent.” The man put a hand to his chest. “I am Mr. Cuffee. Miss Elliott sent me to receive you.” He stepped aside as he opened the door. “Right this way. Can I help you with your cart?” 

Beth shook his head. He pushed the cart harder; faster. Mr. Cuffee followed with slow, careful steps to the elevator. The bellhop eyed the odd pair, but kept his mouth shut. 

Up, up, up they went, down the hall, and then, there she was.

Eloise Elliott awaited him on the lounge couch of her parlor, in a sage day dress embroidered with small, yellow flowers and framed in lace. Her curly, honey-blonde hair was styled in loose finger waves, pinned behind one ear with a matching beaded clip. Pearl earrings hugged her ears, while a pearl necklace draped lazily around her neck. Her sharp cupid’s bow was painted plum again, but now her warm, fawn cheeks were painted too; a melon-pink rouge, and her eyelids a light taupe, lashes lined with kohl. 

“Mr. Beth,” Eloise Elliot smiled. She made no effort to get up. He supposed she was closer to him like this, anyway. “How marvellous to see you again.” 

Beth mustered a curt nod, already regretting coming.  Standing before the giant woman’s intense eye, he might as well have still been naked. He felt a mad man for even daring set foot in this apartment again. Repressing his nerves, Beth wheeled his cart to the slender cocktail table between couch and chair like he had any dignity left.

The room was tiffany-blue, the shade and hue of a fresh robin’s egg in April. Velvet, eggplant-purple drapes framed the long French windows behind the couch, their tassels dancing in the sun. A wide, arched doorway led to the pale blue dining room on the right. The ceiling was as high as heaven, and looked it, too; painted with songbirds soaring across crystal skies and curling clouds, a work of art framed by crown molding dusted in gold-leaf. Tall, potted palms fanned built-in bookshelves and a grand piano with a lacquered walnut veneer. The seating was just as purple and velvet as the drapes. Two plush chairs were adjacent the lounge couch in audience of the piano; seated on either side of a cocktail table with their backs to the wall of the dining room. A turquoise and amethyst rug covered the hardwood with an orange and pink floral scene bursting from a Chinese tree. 

“Can I get anything for you before you begin, Miss Elliott?” Mr. Cuffee asked.

Eloise looked to Beth. Heart furious, he shook his head. “No, that will be all, thank-you, Mr. Cuffee. Just ask Jack to pick up the refreshments for the gala on Saturday.”

“Will do, Miss.” The butler bowed his head and left. 

Eloise set eyes on the borrower. “I’ve never had bespoke shoes before, Mr. Beth. Tell me, where do we begin?”

“A few questions.” Beth turned to his cart, riffling to pull out his notepad and borrower-sized pencil—a broken off piece of lead, sharpened to a point. “What style are you looking for?”

She crossed legs, setting her chin on her knuckles. “Mary Jane.”

“And the shape?”

“Almond.”

“Heel?”

“French. Three inches.”

He lifted eyebrows. “Tall for dancing.”

Eloise smiled shamelessly. “I like to be tall. A gal’s only five foot four, you know. I’m still not gonna look a fella in the eye, but.” She shrugged. 

Beth ogled the woman sixteen times his size. After a second too long, he asked, “Leather or wood?”

“For the heel?” Miss Elliott thought for a moment. “Leather. Better impact.”

“These shoes will absorb shock better than your standard.” He affirmed. “Color?”

She stood. “On that, I intend to take advantage of the promise of custom.” Beth clutched his pencil and notepad as the living mountain rumbled by; beans still moved far too fast and far too loud for his liking. Eloise breezed past the front door and headed down the hall where Beth remembered her bedroom was. He shivered. 

A moment later, Eloise Elliott returned with the most spectacular gold gown in the world. 

The long, sleeveless bodice was embroidered with swirls of golden beads, spread like branches whose leaves were full and made of sunlight. Amber beads the shape of raindrops hung from the trim of the dropped waist, before the fabric turned to a gathered skirt with a handkerchief hem. He caught the shape of rose petals in the brocaded lamé as the skirt moved. The neckline was scooped, but Eloise turned it on its hanger in a twirl for him and revealed the deep, plunging V of the back, lined with more droplets of the beaded amber trim.

“I would like shoes to match this, do you think you can manage?”

Beth gaped at the glittering gown. He closed his mouth. “I—I’ll have to order fabric.”

“No need. My designer left me some for repairs. This should be enough, no?” She held up at least a yard of the gold brocade lamé. It would be the finest material Beth had ever worked with. His palms began to sweat just thinking of it. He bobbled his head.

Eloise placed the folded fabric on the cocktail table, setting the gown’s hanger on the coat rack by the door. She stood to admire it a moment before turning back to him. “I have some beading for it, also. I’ll have Mr. Cuffee find it before you go.”

Beth scribbled that down. Gold brocade lamé. Beading. “Any cut outs?”

“Teardrops. Over the ankle.” 

“And a leather sole?”

“Yes. With extra support.” Beth wrote it down, then realized she was staring. He took a sharp breath and made himself meet her eye. “Do you think you can do it, Jimmy?”

He looked to the folded gold on the table. His cart, full of tools. The exquisite gown hanging by the door. He nodded.

“Excellent.” Eloise’s smile was radiant. His insides felt like they were made of liquid. “What next?”

Beth held up a finger, then climbed his cart to pull a roll of paper from the pile. He carried it to the hardwood behind the chairs, set weights on the curled corners, and pushed it flat. Eloise craned her long neck to follow his movements. His heart pounded. Eyes accompanied him to his cart as he pulled a sharpened, human-sized pencil and returned to the paper. 

“Here,” he said. “I need to trace you.” 

An eyebrow raised. “Of course.”

The weights rumbled. Beth craned his chin up. Then up. And up. He gripped the pencil to himself as a looming shadow fell over the paper. He took several shuffling steps back to the edge, but it was hard to meet her face from this angle. A gigantic pair of white, stocking-wrapped feet settled before the paper. 

Toes the size of his head lifted off the hardwood. “Do you want these off? Barefoot, I mean.”

Beth glanced at the giant, then back to the paper. “If you would.”

The green curtain of her dress dipped as Eloise balanced to take the stockings off one at a time. Beth occupied himself with his pencil until she draped them over the back of a chair. Her eyes dropped onto him expectantly. Smacking lips, Beth gestured to the paper. 

Eloise stepped up. “Ready when you are, Jimmy. As long as you promise not to look up my skirt.” 

His face bloomed red. Eyes pointed fiercely down, he approached her right foot. It was rough and calloused, but still neatly-kept. Working feet, he supposed. Even they smelled of sweet florals and wood, over twice as long as he was and almost as wide. He’d find out by exactly how much soon. 

He stopped by the side of her big toe and put pencil to paper. Careful not to wrinkle it, Beth dragged the pencil down the inner line of her foot. When he reached the arch, the muscles beside him tensed. Eloise fidgeted her toes. 

He put a hand against her ankle.

“Sorry.” She relaxed. “Ticklish.”

He continued. The pencil line wrapped around the wall of her heel, all the way to the outer joint of her pinkie toe. She only wiggled a little when he got to the tips of her toes. Beth wasn’t even sure the giant woman was aware of the movement, but he could feel her eyes on him as he finished, gaze as intense as it had been in her sink. Quickly, he moved to her left foot and asked himself again what the hell he was doing. He scurried away when he was done, setting down the giant pencil to run to his cart. He grabbed his measuring tape, throwing it over his shoulder like a bundle of rope and hurried back to the towering titan, still standing on the paper. 

Beth settled in front of Miss Elliott, brushing his hair back. It still smelled faintly of coconut. He dared to look up momentarily. “Clear the way, if you please.”

Giant feet rose and stepped back. “Whatever you say, baby.” 

His ears turned scarlet. With a nervous nod, Beth shifted his measuring tape from his shoulder, unravelling it as he walked from the outline of her second toe to the center of her heel. He tried to straighten it. 

“Let me.” The dancer descended upon him. Massive, manicured nails pinned down the ends of the tape, as effortless as she’d pinned him.

Beth collected himself, throwing a thumbs up while he ran to get the large pencil. “Hold it tight,” he called, not even sure if the towering woman could hear him. She kept it secure regardless. 

Beth dragged the pencil all the way down the measuring tape, then shifted it into the crook of his arm while he pulled out his regular pencil and paper to note the length. Two-hundred-and-twenty-one millimeters. He checked the arch length and wrote that down, too. 

“Great.” He directed eyes to Miss Eloise, who was still watching him from her kneel. “Thank-you.”

“Other side?”

He nodded. 

Two-hundred-and-twenty-three millimeters. 

Staring at the giant with wide-eyes, Beth wet his lips and hesitantly tugged at the measuring tape. Eloise released it. He blinked, relieved. He still expected her to grab him at any moment, and fingers would spread him wide and open, vulnerable and powerless again, but she never did. She was following his lead now. 

He could not believe it. He made sure not to turn his back as he went to remove the weights.

“Here, allow me, sugar.” Eloise lifted hands.

He jumped out of the way of her fingers as they plucked the weights from the floor, like they were nothing. She shifted, and the paper rolled onto itself with a snap. 

Before Beth could say a thing, she collected the roll and rounded the chairs. He met her by the cart, and she let him direct her to the best spot for it. It was odd, how helpful she was now. He supposed that was because he had something she wanted. He could not decide if he was better for it.

When her hands were clear, Beth put the giant pencil back and looked across the parlor. “Just, um,” he gestured, “just take a seat.”

Eloise sat on the velvet couch. The long, French windows stretched as a strip of brilliant blue sky behind her. Sunlight framed the frizz of her golden hair as the sun slipped down her shoulders, light wrapping around her like folded wings. Like an angel, his mother would say. His heart pounded like piano keys again.

“I need to take some more measurements,” he explained. “We can start with circumference. Ball of the foot?”

Eloise lifted the front of her right. Beth tossed the measuring tape over the widest point, then paused. The other end of the tape dangled on the opposite side of her foot. He could not go around and gather it at the same time without losing his purchase. He realized what he had to do.

“Hold still,” Beth said loudly, trying to push the fear from his voice. Hands over his head, he clutched one end of the tape and crouched to dart under the giant’s foot. 

It did not move. 

In the clear, he breathed a heavy sigh of relief as he joined the two ends of tape.

“That worried, were you?” Eloise asked. He stopped. The giant was grinning. “Trust; I’m a woman of control, Mr. Beth.”

He swallowed and made sure the tape was aligned with the pinkie and the joint of the big toe. “A hundred-and-eighty-seven millimeters.” 

The process repeated for the waist of Eloise’s foot, the instep, and the heel, which he found the most nerve-wracking to be under; right where all the weight of her hundred-something-pound body met the floor. Right where she could crush him the easiest. 

His nerves began all over on the second foot. 

“Has anyone ever pinned you during this?” Eloise flexed her toes, as he tossed the measuring tape over the arch of her foot. He stiffened, afraid to meet her eyes. She bounced the ball of her foot. “On accident, or… on purpose?” 

Beth fidgeted with the fabric of the measuring tape. Shaking, he reached out and stilled her jittering. His hand looked so tiny against the curve of her foot. “...It—It’s been a long time since I did this.”

“That’s not an answer.”

Beth closed his eyes. Against his better judgement, he held his breath and went under. As he lined up the tape, a knock sounded at the front door.

He sensed Eloise look up. “Come in!” 

The handle fiddled and in shouldered a long, lanky man in a faded navy suit and scuffed oxfords. His coral-red tie was loose and his jacket unbuttoned. He looked of similar age to Beth, with tanned skin, a stubbly, square jaw, and a sharp, Roman nose. In his arms, he carried a large, wooden crate, unlabelled but clinking with glass. With the jerk of his head, the man flung fussed black curls out of his eyes. They scanned the parlor, landing on the scene at the lounge couch. He grinned. 

“And what’s going on here?”  

“A consultation for bespoke shoes,” Miss Elliott answered smoothly. Once again, she made no effort to get up.

“Ah.” The giant man said. Dark eyes fixed on Beth, still holding the measuring tape around the arch of Eloise’s bare foot. The man leaned back in his scuffed oxfords. Beth wondered if he also qualified as dirty, and if so, what was he doing in the house of Eloise Elliott. Perhaps she was about to wash him in her sink, too. His grin grew wider, crooked with amusement. “You’re the shoemaker, are you?”

Beth clenched his jaw. He nodded. “That’s right.”

Miss Elliott gestured to him. “I present, Mr. James Beth.”

He sniffled. “It’s just Beth.”

The man tilted his head and regarded him curiously. “Giovanni Lo Jacono. But you can just call me Jack.” He grinned again. “I’m Miss Elliott’s errand boy, among other things.” He took his eyes off Beth for the first time since he saw him. Raising brows at Eloise, he lifted the wooden crate. Glass shifted and clinked. “I’ll just put these in the back, shall I?”

“That would be appreciated, thank-you, sugar.”

Dark eyes settled on him again. They looked like old, dirty pennies or brown glass, he thought. Like broken bottles littering the shore, scuffed by the sea until smooth and worn. They remained fixed until Jack crossed from parlor to dining room. Heavy footsteps echoed through the apartment, followed by a loud thunk from the kitchen. 

Beth remained still; hovering by the arch of Eloise’s foot as the steps returned. Hands free and weight lifted, Jack slunk lazily from the dining room to the front door. There was an air to him, the kind of careless trouble Beth hadn’t surrounded himself with in years. It raised the hair on the back of his arms. 

Jack whistled at the golden gown on the rack. “That’s mighty fine, Miss Elliott.”

Eloise crossed her free leg and Beth jumped. “Isn’t it just? Mr. Beth is making me a matching pair.”

“Is he now?” Jack gave Beth a look as he pulled open the door. “Must be quite talented, keeping up with something crafted by angels.” The corner of his mouth tugged into a cheeky smile, framed by dimples. He winked. Then he nodded to the other giant. “Miss Elliott.” With that, he was gone.

Beth stood motionless for a minute.

“Are we clear to continue, Jimmy?”

“Yes, uh…” He collected himself and looked down at the tape. “Two-hundred-and-twenty-five millimeters.”

He measured her heel next. He did not know what to make of the odd feeling in his chest. It was… not just intimidation. He was unnerved, but in a way he could not describe. He finished recording the circumference and Eloise tilted her head at him.

“Done?”

Beth shook his head. “Stand up?”

“Stand up, please. Statement. Command.” She scrunched and unscrunched her toes. “Are you the one conducting this consultation, or not?”

Beth cleared his throat. “Stand up, please, Miss Elliott.”

“Oh, and how formal.” He could hear the slyness in her voice as she stood. “Thank-you for the direction, Mr. Beth. Tell me, what is it you’re doing now?”

He held up the length of tape. “Measuring your ankle. I need to know how tall it is.” He pinned one end to the floor with his shoe. The other end, he set against her skin, just where the ankle bone was. 

“Yes,” Eloise said, her tone turning contemplative. “I feel that.”

A shiver travelled up his spine. Acutely aware, Beth pressed his hand to her inner ankle, the tape under his thumb. The skin was warm to his touch. Alive. He checked the tape; exactly ninety millimeters. He moved on quickly to the other ankle, but it was just as warm. 

“That’s all for measuring,” he announced, binding the measuring tape. 

Eloise clapped. “Wonderful. Then we can break for dinner.”

“Dinner?” Beth scampered out from under her shadow. 

Thin brows raised. “A little late for lunch, don’t you think?”

Before he knew it, Beth was presented with his second feast in two days. This time, it was held in the honorable host of the dining room. Beth had insisted on making his way to the table himself. Not only was it her, but this was the first he heard of a lady of high class sharing a formal dining table with a borrower, and he wouldn’t shame his people by being carried. Eloise seemed to understand this, at least, and remained hands free. Still, she did not seem overly fond of his borrowing hook as he pulled it from his cart and latched it around the walnut arm of a dining chair. She hovered nearby as he jumped from wooden armrest to white tablecloth. 

While he climbed, Mr. Cuffee came from the kitchen to prepare the table—not with food, but a set of giant dishes and a second, tiny table, complete with its own chairs, tablecloth, and ware. Beth took a bewildered seat. He turned the flawlessly sized silverware between his fingers with wonder. Everything looked as it would in a fine household magazine, shrunken and made perfect for a borrower. 

“You will find I am never unprepared for guests twice,” Eloise remarked. 

He didn’t know what to say. He was touched. No one had ever… to go through the effort of… Beth closed his mouth and swallowed the dryness. “Thank-you.” 

Eloise gave a pleased smile and took a seat. Mr. Cuffee brought him a much appreciated washcloth to freshen up, and dinner began. 

To drink, Mr. Cuffee presented the tables with ginger ale lemonade, then brought out chicken salad and tea sandwiches; perfect triangles free of any crust. They were trimmed even smaller for Beth, the bread halved vertically with an expert cut and filled with a spread of cream cheese and thinly sliced cucumber. All together, his meal barely contributed to Eloise’s single human-sized serving, but this, he learned, was only an appetizer. 

The main course made his mouth water like a dam burst free. Seared pork chops simmered in red wine came with a side of roasted carrots, potatoes, parsnips, and turnips, tossed in oil and herbs, cubed and garnished with fried sage. Tomato soup, thick and creamy, wafted the aroma of sauteed onion; topped with crushed crackers and served with toasted sourdough coated in melted mozzarella, fresh basil, and roasted garlic. His head spun. His nose tingled. His mouth was busy. 

Eloise watched him with an amused little smile as she sipped her ginger ale lemonade. If she had any comments about his hunger, she kept them to herself, but she seemed to enjoy watching him eat. He was not sure he could say the same about her; he only dared glances as the giant dined. She took small, polite bites, but they were still far closer to borrower-sized than not. She corrected his table manners only once, on which spoon was for soup. 

Dessert was butterscotch cake, spongy and moist from a brown sugar syrup. It was frosted with whipped penuche between layers of toasted pecans, chopped fine enough for even a borrower to enjoy. Though Beth would never dare tell her, it rivalled his mother’s best cake. Mr. Cuffee even brought him a to-scale glass of cold, fresh milk straight from a bottle, and Beth could have gotten to his knees to thank the man without it being enough.

“Have you reconsidered my offer?” Eloise asked as he shovelled cake into his mouth.

“Mm?”

She took a bite of frosting and pecan. “Chicago, Paris, Sydney. The rest.”

“Oh.” He shook his head vigorously, gluing eyes to his plate. 

“Hm.” Eloise shrugged and delivered herself another mouthful of cake.

While she finished dessert, Beth busied himself with his notepad. He had plenty of time; he still could not believe humans could keep eating so much. It now had to be worth his body weight ten times over, and then some. Or maybe it only seemed so because he ate like a ravenous rat.

Finally, the silver of a fork clinked against a china plate. Beth tried not to tense as the mass of Eloise’s blonde head leaned to look over the edge of the notepad. “Checking measurements?”

Beth looked up and cleared his throat. Carefully, he turned the notepad to the giant. She squinted. 

“It’s a sketch.” He said quietly.

“I see that.” She brought her hand to his table. “May I?”

Hesitantly, Beth rested the notepad on her fingertip. She was mindful to keep steady as she withdrew it, turning the notepad with a long nail before holding the page up to her face. Beth drummed fingers against his table and spied the smear of leftover butterscotch on his plate. After a long, scrutinizing silence, Eloise returned the notepad to his table. 

“I approve.” She rose to fetch her purse, pulling out a fountain pen and a leather checkbook. Wordlessly, she sat to scrawl pen across paper and tore a check free to set it across his table. 

Beth stood so fast he knocked his chair over. He took the massive check with both hands. “I… I can’t accept this, Miss Elliott.”

“Is there a better form? Cash? Coin?” 

He looked up with wide, baffled eyes. He thought he might cry. “Do not make fun of me, please, Miss Elliott.”

Eloise set down the pen and book. “I am not making fun, Mr. Beth.”

He stared at the still-drying ink, the elegant cursive. 

She twisted lips and snatched the check back. “No, you’re right, cash or coin would be better. I don’t know the banks accept borrowers.” 

Beth stood like a statue. Finally, he put hands on the table. “Miss Elliott, I cannot allow you to pay me a hundred dollars.”

Eloise waved a hand, riffling through her purse. “Nonsense. When a foolish client overpays you, you keep your mouth shut.”

“I can’t do that.” He shook his head. “You don’t understand. This is more than my yearly salary.”

She smacked a wad of cash onto the table. With a jingle, a handful of coins followed. “Then you’re making it up in the world, Jimmy. The polite thing is to say ‘thank-you’.”

“Thank-you—?”

Eloise Elliott stood abruptly and charged off. When she returned, she had one hundred dollars, half in cash, half in coin sleeves. She dropped it with a defiant clang on the pristine white tablecloth, next to the remnants of their magnificent dinner. “You will accept my payment, Mr. Beth, or you will accept losing my business.”

Beth stared at the pile of money. It was wider than his entire immediate family, standing shoulder to shoulder. Slowly, he collected his notepad and its open sketch of Mary Janes with French heels, teardrop cutouts, and beaded brocade. “You said six months?”

Eloise Elliott nodded firmly. 

He gripped the paper. “I can do it faster than that.”

[saturnallyy]

Man I think I just need size relationships but there’s something really wrong with everyone. I need there to be no love no peace no hope just kink and then the most horrendously toxic emotional relationship you’ve ever seen. Anyway I will be posting some sort of story soon I think. I’ve got like. Almost all of the stuff ironed out? Probably?

[the-messenger-of-the-gods]

— Mulberry —

Writing Masterpost

Rating: Mature

Status: Completed, but will probably post more of these guys

World Count: 3.8k

Dynamic: F/m

Summary: In a 1920s New York where borrowers are known but generally regarded as lowly, a tiny, struggling shoemaker falls into the lap of a lady of luxury. In other words, Ryan Gosling in phm and Driver ruined me and now I'm into blondes and want to manhandle them in my sink. Sorry Ryan. Made new ocs, I'm a little obsessed. I love a little man with a job. And a girl who knows what she wants. Fearplay/non-con ? My non-con tubby time. Mature but no sex. It's cute. To me.

—

The job went horribly. 

It was alright, at first. A rich, smart-dressed human commissioned him to fix a pair of black, cap-toe oxfords. A last, hush-hush resort, apparently, to hire a borrower. Beth doubted the man knew or cared cobbling was a last resort to him, too. 

Demand for cordwainers just wasn’t the same as it was when it was still his father’s trade. No one wanted custom shoes anymore, not when they could get shiny, new standardized ones from a factory. No one wanted anything beautiful or hand crafted. Now, his only business was in repair. Still, business from beans was rarer yet. They refused to pay full price, and it was twice as hard and took him twice as long to do the same labor as someone whose pointer finger could be his dance partner. 

Even harder and more laborious was the journey to deliver the oxfords. Repair and delivery, that was his slogan now; easier to follow when his customers weren’t as towering as the skyscrapers sprouting up through Manhattan. Still, Beth promised discretion. He pushed the giant unlabeled box of shoes in his cart from his shop, down the street, all the way to the opulent, modern apartment building, complete in its sophisticated art deco. He went in the side door and thought the bellhop was going to squash him like a bug when he threw up in the elevator. That would be fitting; meeting his end under a standard-issue size nine sole. 

He left the box outside the apartment door. The button for the bell loomed several feet above him, an entire eternity away. He’d checked the address twice before a sleek, silver cat came slinking across the checkered-floor, a butter-yellow bow tied around its neck. It chased him in his cart to the window, up the curtains, and out the fire escape. They broke three potted plants and fell two balconies before Beth spotted another open window. 

He ran for his life. Claws narrowly pulled at the threads on his old tweed jacket. Wiping the mud from his eyes, he lunged for the lace curtains flapping in the breeze. Gloved fingers snagged the fabric and clung on for all he was worth. 

The silver cat skidded through the window, across a vanity tabletop, and hit the floor with a thud. It hissed at him, shaking as it crouched to pounce. Beth could see himself in the vanity mirror to his right; clothes in shreds, blond hair a ruffled mess, crooked nose smeared with dirt, and blue, close-set eyes watery with terror. His final moments. Not as a bug, but a mouse. 

The carpeted floor rumbled. A giant woman thundered into the room, wrapped in a storm of silk robes the color of mulberries. A matching scarf covered most of her curly blonde bob, pearl earrings swinging as she came to a sudden stop. Dark eyes were furious. “What in the—oh, you damn creature! Out! Out!” 

She shooed the hissing silver cat back through the window and slammed it shut. Beth grimaced against the ring of his ears. 

Muttering most unladylike curses, the woman in mulberry knelt to collect a necklace and hairbrush. She put it on the vanity and froze. 

Beth could only watch in horror as she slunk to her feet. The giant towered higher than the doorbell had been, an even further eternity. Eyes like priceless mahogany scrutinized his muddy little form. “My, my. What is this?”

His breath seized in his chest as hands twice as long as himself swept to the curtains. A pinch pulled the back of his jacket. He hugged desperately to the lace. 

“Come on, now, little man. Don’t ruin my curtains.”

A cry died in his throat as giant fingers found his hands and pried them from the fabric. He clawed for purchase, before it dropped terribly out of reach. The fingers turned him to face their owner, but he could not look. He could only stare down, at his leather brogues dangling above the vanity and the potted palm to its left, and even that was too much to bear. Eyelids squeezed shut. Hot, salty tears rolled down his mud-covered cheeks. All this for a pair of oxfords. He shook with an involuntary, all-over tremble. 

“Afraid of heights, are we?” The giant mused. She smelled like wood and sweet florals.

Beth blinked fat tears out of his eyes, but they stuck to his lashes and blurred his sight. He sucked in a wet gasp. It had been a long time since someone grabbed him like this. “Don’t—don’t hurt—”

“What’s that, baby?” She jerked him closer to her face and raised an arched brow. 

Beth tugged at his jacket, desperate not to fall out of it. “Don’t hurt me,” he wet his lips, keeping his gaze averted. “Pl—please.”

Something stirred in her expression, but he wasn’t looking direct enough to follow. She raised him again, this time over her face as she tilted it back. Forced to look down at it, Beth was met with large, fluttering brown eyes and plum-painted lips. They parted. He glimpsed the white of teeth. Every horror story he had ever heard flashed before his eyes. 

“Don’t eat me,” he blurted. 

The woman laughed. 

“Oh no, I never put anything dirty in my mouth.” She lowered him to properly catch his eye, and now he didn’t dare look away. Sweat dripped down his forehead. Mud slid down his back. She pursed her lips. “Who knows where you’ve been. Scurrying around with the rats and the cockroaches, running from cats.” She wrinkled her lip. “I don’t let anything dirty in my house.” 

The giant turned sharply on her heel. Air rushed past him as she headed for a door and all he could think was she was going to literally throw him out. Or worse.

His fears were not alleviated when she marched through the door to a bathroom tiled orchid-pink—he heard once of a borrower flushed down the toilet—and then she dumped him on the narrow sink counter. Crossing the spacious room, she collected bottles from the claw-foot tub and set them next to him.

The woman paused in the doorway and pointed as if to a poodle. “Stay.” 

He stood there shellshocked for a second, then slowly peered over the edge of the sink. The black-and-white diamond tile stared up at him with an equally blank face. The bottle next to him rumbled. The woman in mulberry was back, with the flare of a silk robe and a jade butter dish. He watched fearfully as she flipped the lid over and filled it with hot water, placing it next to the faucet with a bar of soap.

She turned to him again, hands on expectant hips. “Well?” 

He ogled up at her. 

The mulberry woman smacked her lips. Without warning, she swooped him off his feet. Fingers grappled with his limbs. Pointed red nails just avoided his face.

“What are you doing?” His voice cracked.

“I don’t let anything dirty in my house.” She yanked his jacket from his arms. “Off with this.” 

Beth twisted and writhed, but the well-kept fingers pulled him from his waistcoat, snapped off his suspenders, and ripped three buttons on his shirt. He kicked extra hard as she wrenched off his brogues. Then went his gloves, his socks, and his trousers, and finally he was left in his long johns. The woman wrinkled her nose at the worn, beige cotton with its many gray patches, and promptly ripped it off him. Then she dropped him naked into the butter dish. The water was so hot, he yelped. She pointed promptly down at the bar of soap. “Use that.”

She swept the pile of discarded clothes into a hand and left in a flurry of mulberry. 

Beth lay frozen in the jade tub. It was longer than he was tall, and his feet looked like blobby pale fish in the distorted water lapping at his chest. Steam rose in wisps off the surface. He clutched the sides. His heart was insane. Sweat coated his neck. He could pull himself out. And then what, if he could manage to open the window? What would he be then? Dripping wet and naked, catching his death while he scurried down a fire escape and into the approaching city night? 

He sunk lower with the scrunch of his shoulders, watching the door. It was open. Warm, honeyed light pooled on the tile floor. 

He blinked for what felt the first time in an hour. Clenching his jaw, Beth shut his eyes and pushed himself below the water. It was so, so hot. He didn’t remember the last time he’d been in a real tub, not some tin can boiled over a candle. Not even a real tub—this butter dish was worth more than his rent for six months. The last time he’d been this hot, it was sweltering in June. It was not like this. 

The jade rumbled. Beth opened eyes just as fingers sloshed into the tub and snatched him out. He flopped against them uselessly for purchase, wide-eyed and heart wild again. His feet kicked at the empty air as giant eyes found him. Gasping, he clutched her thumb against his chest. 

“Oh good, I’d thought you drowned.” He gawked open-mouthed while the mulberry woman turned attention to the tub and the untouched soap. Her face soured. “I told you to use that.”

He swallowed. “S—sorry.” He didn’t know what he was apologizing for. He didn’t agree to anything. 

But the woman twisted lips like he had. “Fine then, we’ll get you clean, right and proper.”

His eyes bulged as she jerked him towards the sink. With her free hand, she grabbed the bar of soap and ran it under the tap until it lathered. 

Beth struggled to push her fingers off him. “Please, you really don’t have to—”

“Hush.” She set aside the bar and enveloped him in suds. It looked like caramel and smelled like jasmine and sandalwood, so strong it burned his nose. She ran circles with it across his chest. Beth tried to grab her thumb and she seized his arm, lathering his bicep and working her way to his forearm. Everything was happening so fast, he felt ill. She even cleaned between his fingers, trying to get the grime under his nails. Then she seized the other arm, sweeping her thumb to scrub his armpits, along his sides and his belly, his hips—Beth dreaded what came next, a yell in his throat as the mulberry woman spread his legs. But she skipped to his thighs, rubbing shins between pointer and thumb.

“Here.” She held out a finger of bubbles to him. “For between the legs.”

Beth stared at the fingertip. The soap suds slowly slid down her skin. He glanced up, then back to the finger. She was serious. Her face was expectant, stony and indifferent to the view, like she was cleaning a careless puppy that tracked in mud rather than a grown man and his pride. His face was such a mortifying shade of red, Beth could have passed for a ripe cherry tomato in August. At a loss, he scooped the suds into his hands until they lathered anew. He couldn’t look at the woman, even as he lay in her palm. 

It was like she never knew a man to have shame before. Never knew, or never cared. 

She flipped him over. Now she used both thumbs to scrub his back. She spread apart the muscle of his shoulder blades, dragging the sides of his neck and down his shoulders. She did the same along his back on either side of his spine, over his ribcage and his hip dips. It was forceful but meticulous, the pressure nigh unbearable, like it was her aim to squish him into jelly. Still, the tissue in her wake was loose, slack like it’d never been. 

Then her thumbs found his rear and everything was tense all over again. Beth clawed into her fingers below him, clamping down his jaw until she was satisfied. She moved onto the back of his thighs like it was nothing, massaging behind his knees and along his calves. 

I have to call the police, he thought. And tell them what? A human lady washed me like a baby in her sink? Rich. He squirmed with a shriek when she got to his feet. 

The mulberry woman rinsed her hand and worked up a new lather. “Now, don’t move.” 

Beth held his breath, eyes squeezed tight, while she scrubbed his face and behind his ears. The bubbles fizzled and popped. With a breath, she blew what Beth presumed she thought was a gentle breeze to clear the suds from his eyes. He kept them closed. 

While he tried not to have a silent heart attack, she turned on the tap and let it run hot. He whimpered. He feared she would plunge him under it and drown him, but she stuck her hand above him and let the water cascade down her fingers, like a crude shower. The suds melted off him. He was warm from the inside out. She turned him this way and that until she was convinced he was spotless; thumbs rubbing at his chest like there was invisible dirt leftover. His skin shone squeaky-clean. But she was not done when the tap turned off. 

Grabbing a brown glass bottle with a yellow label, the woman juggled holding him and opening it. “Keep still, sugar.” She warned. “We don’t want it in your eyes.” 

Beth turned himself into a statue as she poured a dollop onto his once-blond head. This soap smelled like coconut. 

“Good boy.” The bottle clinked as she set it gently on the counter. He dared look up at her; at her pointed face and strong, painted cupid’s bow; at her downturned, thin brows and thick lashes. She was a breathtaking beauty, a modern model like the ones Beth saw on posters. He could have sworn he’d seen her before. Maybe she just had one of those fashionable faces. Her gaze returned and Beth stared at his feet, hands clasped to cover himself. 

The coconut dollop had started to slide down his forehead. Mahogany eyes gleamed as she tilted her head to look at it, pinching his temples to work the soap into his hair. She stirred her fingers; swirling above his ears, over his forehead, down the back of his head, to the base of his skull. Beth had to brace himself, lost against the dizziness. She spent extra time on his crown, until he could feel the blood pumping in his ears. Long, manicured nails scratched at his scalp. This, was gentle. Why, he wanted to ask. Why are you doing this? Why are you doing any of this? It was almost enjoyable, but…

Water ran again. She shielded him, same as before, and he didn’t dare breathe until the tap stopped. The coconut lingered. 

A hand towel wrapped around him, stainless white and smelling like a crisp, clean breeze. It was too big, but warm. She rubbed him dry. The towel peeled back and he squirmed as she spread a cool cream over him. It smelled powdery and thick. She took her time, lifting arms and spreading legs to work lotion until he was smooth as her silk robes. She left no crevice behind. It was the most intense and most fixed a human had ever regarded him. His heart still beat like a runaway drum, hammering against his ribcage like passionate fingers on piano keys.

“Last step.” The mulberry woman dabbed a drop of argan oil in his hair, running fingernails through until it was soft. “There.” 

She wrapped him back in the towel. The water in the abandoned butter dish was dumped and with the lurch of his stomach, she carried Beth out of the bathroom. 

The dim bedroom glowed with a rich amber light on the right bedside table. The potted fern still sat by the window vanity and its lace curtains that no longer flapped in the wind. It was dark beyond. The yellow panels of a changing room stood tall in the corner with foreign scenes of painted birds. Across from the window, a dark-stained door with a crystal knob was ajar to the hall, and a matching closet door rested next to the bathroom. The walls were a moody wine, trailing to a high ceiling with crown molding. The queen bed was grand and luxurious, even for a bean, with its broad walnut headboard and padded plum-blankets. The mulberry woman deposited Beth and his towel cocoon on a fluffy feather pillow on the left of the bed. He watched with wide eyes as she rounded the other side.

“Where—where are my clothes?” He dared. 

She waved a flippant hand. “Those dirty little rags? I took care of them.” His heart dropped. She met his eyes across the sea of her bed. “They’ll be dry by morning.”

He tried not to let his relief or his despair show. Beth turned back to the towel, gaze darting over its folds. He pulled it closer. Her bed only smelled more strongly like her, like the soaps and creams and oil she scrubbed him with. He was clean enough to be a new man, but he was still him. 

The mulberry woman pulled open her bedside drawer and retrieved two little objects. Dusting the leather brogues off with her fingers, she studied the patterned perforations closely. “These are beautiful shoes,” she said. 

Beth held himself still.

She looked up and frowned. “Where did you get them? Shoes like these, with those rags?”

Breath still trembling, he wet his lips. “I made them.”

She raised her eyebrows. “You made them?”

He nodded. 

She inspected them again with new eyes. “I’ve never seen a pair so detailed. Even so small.”

His ears turned scarlet. He couldn’t look at her, facing away from the mulberry mountain. 

“Won’t you say ‘thank you’?” 

Beth realized she was watching. He swallowed. “Thank you.” 

She nodded with approval, setting the shoes on the titan of a table. She lined up and straightened them with a perfect fingertip. “A good craftsman takes pride in his work.” She thought for a moment. “Do you make women’s?”

He turned his head in surprise. Brow furrowed, he asked, “You… want a pair?”

“Well, not this style, of course. And bigger, naturally. I go through shoes quickly, you see. I’m always needing them fixed and replaced.” 

He gawked at her. 

She smacked her lips. “Eloise Elliott? I’m performing in Manhattan Center.”

He raised eyebrows. So he did know her face from the posters. “The ballroom dancer.” 

“That’s right.” The star looked the naked borrower over. “And you are?”

He ground his jaw. All that, and she only asked him his name now? He sucked in a troubled breath. “Beth.” 

“Just Beth?”

“James Beth. Nobody calls me James. Only my mother.”

Eloise Elliott gave a teasing smile. “Do they ever call you Jimmy?”

“No. My sisters call me JB.” 

“And your friends?”

“Beth.” He could not believe how normal this conversation was. “Do you intend to keep me here all night?”

She shrugged. “That depends.”

“On what?” He tapped anxious fingers against his crossed arms.

“On how long your rags take to dry, and if you’re looking for a job.” 

Beth glowered. 

The earth dipped as Eloise Elliott draped her silk-wrapped body across the mattress. “Oh, don’t give me that, Jimmy.”

He stomped his teeth, heart feral and confused. “I don’t get it. Why did you…?”

Miss Eloise tipped her head. Her mahogany eyes twinkled in the low, amber light. Her hair shone like spun gold. “Maybe I have a soft spot for small, sad things. You looked awfully pathetic, dangling from my curtains. Very small. Very sad.” Her lips curved into a smile. “Very scared.”

He closed his eyes to press the image of the smile away. He’d just about had it with beans. The earth dipped again. Beth looked to find her a towering mountain again.

“So, do we have an agreement?” Her hands traced the V of her silk collar. “I will pay you, handsomely, if you will make and repair ballroom shoes for me. I will supply you with food and lodging, and you will tour with me.”

“Tour?”

She shrugged, twirling the sash of her robes. “It’s a very demanding job. But well-travelled, too. You’ll come with me across the states, to Paris, to Florence, to Sydney. To name a few.”

He fixed on the deep plum color of her blankets. His sisters told him once, when he was a boy, purple was the color of royalty in antiquity. He had never been further than this city, never mind the lands where giant emperors once ruled.

“Well? What’ll it be, Jimmy?”

He gripped his arms. “Can I think about it?”

“You have until morning.” With that, Eloise Elliott sauntered to the painted panels of the changing room in the corner. He watched the wispy trees and diving cranes as she flung her silk robes over the top. The dancer reappeared in a lily-green nightgown, taking off her pearl earrings. The nightgown was also silk, with a square, delicate neckline of lace and a raised waist. The fabric was thinner than the robes, and Beth could see her nipples through it. He averted his eyes.  

The earth dipped for the last time that night as she slid under the covers. The bedside light flicked off. Moonlight illuminated the lace curtains. Beth sat upright in his nest of a towel, one hand clutching his arm, the other fiddling with a fiber so fiercely, he thought to rip it out.

Custom shoes. For a famous formal ballroom dancer. He could almost feel his father’s hands on his shoulders, shaking him like he was stupid. He could brush up on women’s shoes, make her Mary Janes with a French heel and rosettes, or T-Straps with a spool heel and embellished rhinestones, the best dancing shoes she’d ever worn… But to leave his mother and his sisters, to leave New York… to go to Paris… Florence… Sydney, an entire hemisphere away… 

Beth ripped the towel fiber out. He never knew a borrower to do such things. The world was too big for him. 

He sighed. The night was quiet. A clock ticked elsewhere in the vast apartment, somewhere down the hall. He felt dark eyes on him.

“Do one job for me, here in Manhattan. Decide then.” Eloise proposed, and he could see the huge silhouette of her head against the moonlight. “I saw the shoes. You can do so much better than rags, Jimmy.”

Beth swallowed and turned away, pulling the oversized towel around him like a blanket. The feather pillow was the biggest bed he had ever had. It smelled so much like jasmine and sandalwood, it burned his nose. He chewed his bottom lip and shook his head in the dark, where the giant could not see. 

“One job.”

[saturnallyy]

hairy old man tits once againe

[andtheyreonfire]

crawls on my hands and knees. can we talk more about normal people getting isekai'd into fantasy worlds but they're giant. please. imagine some random person delivering doordash on bike through the city and then WHAM they get hit by a truck and wake up...

the size of a building?

only, there aren't buildings around. just an endless expanse of grass, and tiny trees, and various woodland creatures, and—tiny people screaming up at them. great. maybe they isolate themselves and learn how to survive on their own, ridiculously strong but soul-crushingly lonely as they become an urban legend. maybe they're mistaken for a villain, or drafted into the villain's forces, a tiny weight standing on their shoulder and whispering empty promises of being able to bring them home. maybe they land in a world where giants are commonplace, with dedicated giant hunters to boot, and they're stuck having to fend off anti-giant weapons that...aren't really effective. jeez, how'd you guys even survive this long with this equipment? what do you mean i'm the biggest giant you've ever seen? oh, well. at least some the tiny "heroes" look kind of cute, dangling as their weapons are pinched between two fingers. maybe this whole "giant" thing has some perks, after all

[microposting]

being a decade plus deep into a fantasy fetish is so funny you're like "oh and one more thing i hate about The Virus That Only Shrinks Men"

[pyrenes]

[saturnallyy]

I’m drinking tomight………I draw porn soon after I watch my awesome tv show lalala

[microposting]

tumblr gets very fixated on like numbers in representation for some reason? idk. but when your exposure to erotica is very fandom based it can be easy to forget that the person who only depicts men in erotica is probably equally as misogynist as the person who only depicts women.