TW: fearplay, slightly AU-ish with altered height.
Fan art for @ilovegt's works, as always.
Seriously, me... Is this really okay for the second time I've ever drawn Hank on this account? He's terrified again... Poor boy...
B-but, I just really wanted to draw this...
(Itās okay. After this, Trevor noticed Hank at his feet, immediately stepped away gently, and went to call Bennett. So don't worry.)
In G/T tropes, I'm the type of person who can daydream forever just by looking at height and weight profiles, so I was playing around with a Giant/tiny proportion calculator today.
While messing with the numbers, a thought crossed my mind... Considering Hank and Trevor's heights, if we use Hank's human-scale height (140cm(4.6 feet)) as the baseline, then Trevor (from Hank's perspective) would be calculated at about 76 meters(249 feet) tall...
Wait, that is seriously, insanely huge...? He'd be taller than your average building... Even if it weren't Hank, anyone would be scared of that...
(Though, I'm so bad at math I probably should apologize to a random elementary schooler, so there's a high chance I messed up the calculation. Sorry if it's wrong.)
for any reason whatsoever. This could take a fluff angle where the tiny is asleep and the giant has to be super gentle, or angst if the tiny is injured/passed out or on the verge of passing out due to injury. The settling of weight, the lolling of the head, the rag doll aesthetic as a whole. If said tiny is cupped or scooped up thatās one thing, but I love the physical nuance of fingers holding the tiny by the waist and sides instead, so that their arms and legs hang limply as theyāre picked up.
there are so many possible dynamics for this: as a first meeting is great, but I love the concept of an established g/t relationship, platonic or romantic, with an injured tiny specifically and the giants heart LURCHING at the sensation of the limp body. Full of pure concern and fear and desperation for the little life form between their fingers.
I actually think one really good example of this is in Peter Pan: Return to Neverland, when Tink is assumed to be dead and Jane picks her up. Thereās that little ragdoll handheld scene and little me was so entranced at the concept. Also it was gut wrenching.
(Canāt find a gif of it but this was the scene)
the fearplay potential is also great. ESPECIALLY if itās accidental and the tiny doesnāt know the giant wants to help. On the verge of blacking out, too weak to fight back and just falling limp in the massive hold.
maybe Iām just a massive tinkerbell fan but there was also a similar scene with this trope in the Neverbeast movie? I vividly remember Fawn getting knocked out and Gruff nudging her with the tip of his nose, getting EXTREMELY distressed when her head lolls to the side with no response, thinking sheās dead.
^^stemming off of this, giant in distress with their fingers twitching, not knowing exactly how to go about this but knowing they need to pick the tiny up. The āNo, no noā¦ā whispered even then because the giant knows the tiny never liked loud noises. Not wanting to hurt them any further and a pained sound escaping them as they feel that head lolling that Iāve been talking about. The tiny hasnāt ever felt this small in their hands before, and theyāve never felt this big and clumsy/overpowering/useless.
put that giant in TEARS for me. āHey, hey. Oh my gosh. Itās okay. Itās okay. Iām here. Everythingās going to be fine, oh my gosh thatās blood. No, no no no, please.ā Fingers shaking. Feeling the limp form. Desperate to convince themselves everything in fact will be fine despite feeling so big and out of place and unable to help someone so delicate.
just a hyper specific one. I eat it up every single time.
my all-time favorite impractical g/t trope is "random person grown to giant size in unethical lab experiment." like wtf is the purpose of it? now you gotta feed and clothe and take care of someone 20x the size of a normal person. you can barely restrain them, and they're gonna be pissed as hell that you grew them without consent. you went through alllll that effort to create an angry, scared, and depressed giant, who is probably gonna end up escaping at the hands of an employee due to genre convictions. awesome. 10/10. no notes. if i was the government and someone pitched this to me i would invest five billion taxpayer dollars on the spot i am dead serious. i love lab rat giants
there are so few writers still operating in the g/t world, letās make a thread of some stories! They can be yours or, if you donāt write, post old ones from dead accounts that you love!
New Man X Mech Gt P1 but its in the desert lets gooooooo!
writing masterpost here!
Joe Bully was in deep shit.
He was handcuffed, bound, stripped to an undershirt and jeans. He was on his knees in front of the commune's heavy metal gate. He was hungry, he was exhausted, and he was about to be executed.
It should be impossible to be bored in the face of death, but as the hours had stretched on and he was kept here, sweating into his shirt, eyes still crusty from when he'd been dragged out of his bed and hauled here early in the morning, the only company he'd had was Howdig's gloating voice quoting sermons and the wind, and both were getting old fast.
"And he shall not go beyond where the desert gives way to iron and blood," Howdig continued, "unless he has committed the crime of unnatural creation, the sin of all sins, and attempted to forge a machine." If Joe Bully could speak he would croak out something clever, but his mind fogged with dehydration. At the moment he only managed to stare down at the dirt and swirl his swollen tongue against the back of his teeth. He was so out of it he almost didn't realize that Howdig was moving.
He heard Howdig step through the dust once, twice, and then a pair of clean leather boots-- his own boots, he realized, that he'd made at eighteen, the polished ones he'd kept for his father's homecoming before news of the mass death reached him-- appeared in the peripheral of his vision. He raised his eyes to consider their state. Even now, it was hard to picture his handiwork as an enemy. But the boots were connected to shins that shifted back and forth as the man wearing them spat on the ground in front of him, and the voice that rolled past his ears was the same oil-slick he'd heard since he was three years old and entered this community with his mother and father.
"I did my best with you, Joey," Howdig said. "Everything a man outta. Gave you chance after chance. You're out now. I'm sorry."
Joe Bully felt a touch of fingers on the back of his neck as Howdig placed a hand on his inclined head. He waited for the anticipatory blow.
"See you in another life," Howdig said, and that was it.
He nodded to someone out of sight and Joe Bully felt himself being pulled back as Howdig turned away and retreated inside the safety of the gated tunnel. The last thing Joe saw was the glint of Howdig's blonde hair shining in the sun before a bag was shoved over his head and he was taken off into darkness.
Joe was dragged and dragged, pushed along with his head shoved down, pummeled into the dirt again and again. At one point he felt his ankle twist, heard a pop, felt a spasm of sharp pain course up his leg. Whoever was escorting him dragged him on. Twenty minutes he staggered on in silence, knowing there was nothing to be said but trying to find the words anyway. He thought of his father, dead, and his mother, still alive, and the varying faces of his neighbors who would wonder what Howdig had done to him without ever knowing why. What a terrible fate, to kill a man. What a terrible man to be killed. Joe Bully felt some strange blurring between himself and the edges of the world, as if he was his captor, and maybe the desert, and maybe Howdig also. Delirium was taking him deeper and deeper into her deadly nectar and he was powerless to stop it. All men came up against nature, he told himself. Nature didn't care about the life of an animal. Animals were born to live and to die and a man was no different.
Eventually he was shoved against something rough and wooden, bound to it. He felt along the edges of the rope with his fingernails. Tied tight. He heard footsteps draw away, then silence. The wooden surface held steady.
He prayed to whatever god was left in the broken world that he might die before the flies planted eggs in his flesh.
A few minutes later, the sound of water came, and the first trickles of wet with it. In his half-mad state, he didn't realize it was the sacrificial river, that Howdig and the men had pulled out the levies and were giving him a ceremonial death normally reserved for the worst criminals in the commune.
The water kissed his bare toes and he wiggled them, taking comfort in the sudden rush of cold, the clarity. Joe had a solid minute of blinding, delirious joy before his heat-addled brain began to comprehend that the water was rising.
It reached his ankles in a few minutes without issue. By the time it hit his knees his fingertips were raw from scrabbling against the rope and wood of his bonds. He thought about giving up but couldn't stomach the idea of becoming a bloated thing floating at the bottom of a river. He wanted so badly to live, had always wanted so badly to live. The water touched his waist softer than a sigh, softer than his mother had when he was sick and vomiting, when she held one hand to his gut as if she could remove the poison there by force of will. Still the water came.
It wasn't until it was up to his nostrils that the rumbling on the ground became palpable and he realized the river and the presence of Howdig's men had alerted something nonhuman.
His head was tilted back, straining, nose flaring in desperation for a few last scraps of oxygen before his head went under. The vibrations in the ground rippled through the wooden post behind him and shook his heaving ribcage, pulsing through the bruises at his stomach.
Joe Bully closed his eyes. A fitting end, for a mechanic sinner to meet his death only minutes away from seeing what were perhaps the greatest machines in the world, who would-- to be honest-- have probably killed him anyway. Something funny about it.
Turns out, he needn't have worried.
He felt the currents shift as something massive shot out and around him, closing him in its grasp, and for a moment he felt a terrifying sensation of being crushed before it sliced through the wooden barrier he was tied to with the ease of a wire through clay. As the force lifted up he was able to suck in half-breaths through the soaked fabric of the hood. His immediate thoughts were those of shock, incomprehension. He'd inhaled some water and he coughed wetly.
"Look at that," a voice said, and it turned his stomach cold. Mechanical. He felt a section of metal press against his back and roll him onto his side, and he heard a strange whirring noise as something latched onto the bag strings at his neck and sliced clean through.
It tore the bag off his head and he choked in air, coughed it out, sucked it in again. He blinked the sun and water out of his eyes and tried to make sense of the blurry metal around him. How big was it? His arms and legs were numb.
In the foggy field of his vision shapes formed: cold green optics and an inhuman hand that had him in its nonnegotiable grip. He coughed again and shivered, from cold or fear he didn't know. He stared at the optics and the optics stared back at him.
"Howdy, little fella," the war mech said.
Joe Bully lay limp in the mech's grasp and tried to take inventory. He could breathe again, fine desert air, could feel it rush into his lungs and carry oxygen to his twitching, waking limbs. He tried to move a hand and found the cold fingers still functioned. Alive, yes. Well and truly alive.
For now.
"You okay there?" the mech asked.
It sank down to its knees (Joe dropped a dizzying 30 or so feet in the process) and placed him in the sand. Still stunned, Joe took in the sheer size of the thing. A battle mech from the old war. Jesus. It could crush a man with a finger. It had been created by something far beyond humanity. It was so huge it blotted out most of the sky above him, and its movements created aftercurrents in the air that he could feel, soft atonal breezes against the damp surface of his face and body as it moved hundreds of pounds of metal in a single gesture
. Two massive walls to his right and left were its thighs kneeling in the sand, and directly in front of him and up some twenty feet was the waist, and above that-- above that, his head craning so far back now that it hurt-- above that was a chest and an inhuman, platelike head, and those eyes, the green optics, and it was an intelligent creature staring back at him. That intelligence froze him solid and turned his blood to ice.
Joe Bully had always been afraid of crowds. Once he got up in front of folk, and they became a living, watching mass instead of persons, his breath got short and he couldn't stand the feeling of their sight on his skin. It was as if eyesight was a physical touch and the force of it overwhelmed him. Now, pinned under the eyesight of something decidingly inhuman, a living building, a creature so incomprehensibly huge he had to isolate which part of it to look at at a time: the hand, a twisted underpinning of metal cutlets that threatened him from the right; or the great foot, part claw with articulation in the toes like a hawk; or the face, a plated jagged helmet-like shape with the terrifying hint of something resembling teeth peering out from a gap in the bottom-- none of it was as terrifying as the realization that all of it was a living, sentient, intelligent being, infinitely greater than himself, and it was looking at him.
Overwhelmed by the weight of that horrible gaze, he curled into a half-ball and cowered in the dirt.
The mech made a deep rumbling noise, a slow reverberation that shook the teeth in his skull.
"Well," it said. "Can't blame you."
Joe stayed in his protective curl and let the blood pound through his head. A minute passed, then ten. After twenty minutes went by the force of his pulse slowed and he lifted his head.
The mech was still there, watching him.
"That ankle hurt?" it asked.
He'd forgotten about the injury. Joe twisted his head to look at his foot and saw it pointing the wrong direction. He realized the pain then, a great pounding mass of pain. It had been buried under the weight of his terror. With the pain came exhaustion, and he felt the adrenaline ebbing away, the softness of reactionary endorphins flooding his body, the muscle weakness, the danger of shock.
"You know," the mech continued, "I might be one tough bastard, but I'd hate to be out here with a broken ankle, tied to stake by idiots at the bottom of a repurposed irrigation canal. You should make better friends."
Joe Bully didn't respond. He hadn't had anything to eat for the past sixteen hours. He was lightheaded. He was nauseous. He was mute and cold and overwhelmed. He stared at his foot and rested his head against the dirt.
"You won't do well out here, little string-bean fella like you." The mech hadn't stopped talking. "That ankle's shattered. Even with the water, I'll estimate you'll be dead within seventy-two hours. It reaches sixty-five-point-five degrees Centrigrade between the seventeenth and nineteenth hour of the day, and you're hungry already."
Joe Bully opened his mouth and croaked. The mech paused in its condemnation of him to whirr and resettle its joints, bringing itself down closer to Joe with a great movement that was not quite the human act of lying down but still carried with it a sense of settling. Joe threw his arms over his head as a flimsy shield against the expected crush of metal, but the mech stopped itself about twenty feet from him-- still far too close.
"They put you out with a red tag," the mech said. "Which means you were dabbling in robotics. The other humans won't take you. You can't survive on your own. Looks like you're stuck with me or death from exposure."
"Stop," Joe croaked out, half mad with shock.
The mech spread its hands out in a placating gesture. Joe flinched at the sudden movement and curled his limbs (minus the ankle) tighter into the curve of his body.
"Believe it or not," the mech said, "I'm not a big fan of harming organics-- used to carry you little guys during the latter half of the Great War. I might scare you, but I won't hurt you. I can fix you up, get you something to eat. Its up to you if that sounds better or worse than the alternative."
Joe's ankle throbbed with renewed pain and he screwed his eyes shut, letting his head thump back against the sand.
"Then again," the mech continued, "it doesn't look like you're in the best state to be making big decisions, and you humans are skittish at the best of times, so it might be up to me."
At that, the great hand descended down at him.
Joe screamed in horror, picturing it seizing him around the waist where the bruises had already formed from Howdig kicking him in the ribs that morning, seeing the shattered ankle cruelly teased by giant fingers. He tried to push himself back but it was too late. When the hand reached him, though, it curled around his body without the expected crush of pain. The mech, he realized somewhere dimly in the back of his terrified and half-starved mind, had the self-awareness to be gentle. This fact terrified him even more and he cowered mindlessly, flinching back from the hand as much as possible given it was wrapped around his body as it hoisted him into the air. The position was uncomfortably intimate and alien, not the way a fellow human would touch him even if it was possible to do so-- the mech had looped its metal fingers around him with a carelessness that was both experienced (in that it prevented him from moving but didn't harm him) and also free of societal limitation (in that it was clear the mech had no issue with stringing its fingers around his upper thighs.) With a sickening twist in his stomach, Joe realized this was not the first time the mech had handled a frightened and injured human.
"It's alright, string bean," the mech said in its robotic tone but with a subdued bass that was almost gentle.
It brought Joe close to its chest, and then the chest was opening, and there was a space inside it was pressing him into-- a padded space that seemed to adjust to the shape of his body instantly- and something was wrapped around his arms and legs (glancing down for a moment Joe saw a confusing mess of sensors and wires and padded restraints) before his head was pulled back by another something that immediately shaped itself into a mask, and before he knew it he had taken a breath of a third something that wasn't quite air (gas, he thought, had to be, mixed with oxygen)-- and Joe Bully, survivor and mechanic and sinner extraordinaire, faded quietly into unconsciousness.
Book Summary: 'Let me help you.' It's a simple request, but it still manages to leave Kaylinā a human living in the undercities below a world of towering pertheansā a little confused. After being unexpectedly sent to a deskmate school, she had been trying her hardest to keep her fear of pertheans undisclosed so as not to hurt Derrick, her new deskmate. But after finding out about this fear, he's not hurt or upsetā rather, he's offering to help her overcome it. Why? Is beating this fear even possible? What's in store for Kaylin and Derrick when they begin to meet up after school with the goal of fighting this phobia?
Trigger Warnings: Some mention of blood, depictions of violence, exaggerated descriptions of the protagonist's fears that may be discomforting or upsetting to some readers.
Word Count: 50,875/~120,000
Last Updated: 12/20/2024
Author's Note: Once the story is completed, I'm going to go through it and create at least one more draft before having it printed. So, some details may change here and there in the future, but the over all plot should stay the same and I plan on leaving the story online for all to read for free for as long as I'm able to! I also plan on creating an audiobook and having the book translated into different languages. Let me know what languages you want to see! Thank you all for your continued support as I develop this passion project, it really does mean the world to me! ā¤ļø
This story is also available on Wattpad!
Table of Contents:
Chapter 1 or Chapter 1 Audio (Test, not final)
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
More to come!
Artwork (In chronological order):
Cover (Old)
Cover (New)
Chapter 7 - As Long As You're With Me
Chapter 14 - Wide-Eyed
Chapter 14 - Wait Up!
Chapter 17 - Peek
More to come!
Music (In chronological order):
A Longing For A World I've Not Known (UTAU version, new version coming soon)
My Hands (UTAU version, new version coming soon)
More to come!
Worldbuilding & Lore (In order posted, subject to change though):
Lately I've been thinking about a rlly intresting g/t dynamic, hear me out, a person who has like a very profound need for control, so much so that they want to be in constant control of the people they associate with and their surroundings, and ofc when they are not in control they don't respond well, causing them to have an outburst of emotions, very often anger. Now imagine one day that person wakes up and is now tiny. Being less than three apples tall all of a sudden, it becomes very hard to have control and the mental strain that the situation as a whole brings, beautiful for angst. After analysing the situation tho, the now tiny person realises that they still have their insecure, easily-manipulated best friend whom they know they can use to sort of overcome the situation they are in rn. I haven't explored this scenario that much, but I feel like it has hella potential.
Are we actually going to get the resurgence of gt media in the 2020's!?!? We haven't been this well fed since every cartoon had an obligatory gt episode back in the 90's/early 2000's
I have always liked Humans are Space Orcs. It is funny.
But so many posts are like
Alien: *notices weird thing about human*
Alien: *asks about it*
Human: *responds as if normal activity*
Alien: wtf
And I just canāt help but unsuspend the universal translator disbelief. Like, yeah, itās easy to say you could change one sound to another so that aliens who physically couldnāt make human language sounds can still communicate, but consider:
Aliens who canāt make noises at all.
Aliens who canāt see so sign language isnāt a thing.
Aliens with no sense of touch so even haptics are impossible.
Imagine aliens who communicate by smell (something that happens on earth with some animals) or taste. Aliens who sense different kinds of radiation and communicate that way. Imagine humans are completely incompatible with alien species because we donāt have the organ that senses gamma rays. Like, we take ears for granted because everything on earth can hear (if not disabled). But in the void of space, there is no soundāwhat if no one is listening, not because theyāre not there or because they donāt care, but because weāre talking at a blind person in ASL?
There are so many cool options for communication for aliensātemperature, pressure, microwaves, electric signals, you name it. Like, imagine a species that communicated by the physical sensation of wind.
And, like, you might think, āhow could an alien communicate in radiation? Thereās radiation all around and we donāt sense it. Plus, thereās so much of it, thereād be no way to tell it apart from natural radiation!ā But then consider. We communicate in vibrations of fluids. Thereās vibrations all around, and we can sense them allāyet we still manage to pick out human sounds from nonhuman sounds, and distinguish between!
Imagine in head.
Alien, learning how use a sound interpreting machine, being excited with being able to identify a human sound from a mess of nonhuman sounds. Then, realizing that not only can we do this effortlessly, we can tell one humanās sounds apart from another, even if weāve barely met them. We can make patterns of this incomprehensible gibberish, much in the same way our alien can determine which of their friendās protons are being reamalgamated.
Then.
Humans have their own unique āvoiceā in other alien languages, much in the same way aliens would still make sounds just from moving around. Or reactions we didnāt even know we had because we canāt sense them, like alien purrs they couldnāt tell they were making because they donāt have ears.
begging a giant to chase and hunt me down but they say no because itās kind of a weird ask and i get so so sad my light fades out like Tinker Bell and i die
Like, if the giant accidentally hurts their tiny, that sucks, but they can talk it out. But if the giant accidentally hurts this much more fragile creature? It doesn't understand them. Now this thing is hurt, and the giant is just reminded of how dangerous they are.
Or maybe the animal likes them, and the giant is freaking the fuck out because oh my god it's so small but it will NOT stay back.
Like, a cat that keeps circling the giant's feet (as cats do with someone they like), and the giant who refuses to take their eyes off it because they could so easily accidentally step on the cat.
Or maybe the tiny is the one freaking out. The giant is holding their beloved pet a little too casually, and the tiny is practically BEGGING them to be careful, and the giant is just "dude chill out I've spent my entire life handling things smaller than me."
If youāre not into g/t just scroll past but I had a thought
Imagine Tennaās doing a special episode for his show similar to the Susiezilla game, but he dials the premise up to 10. He has a semi-life sized and accurate model of a city made by his set designers and grows to twice his normal height (like maybe 30 feet) so he can really play the role of a giant monster threatening the city.
You bravely (willingly) take the role of helpless citizen, because you wanted to support Tenna, of course, and it would be fun. While thatās all true, really you just wanted him to look big and intimidating with you and have him pick you up by the scruff like a bug.
