Warnings: Leon Kennedy x Claire Redfield (I know some don't like this, but I do and I have the writing power. Contains safe vore.
"Leon, you absolute bastard," Claire gasped, her voice muffled against the slick surface beneath her. Her entire naked body barely stretched the width of his tongue, her toes curling against the ridged muscle as she tried and failed to push herself up. "This was supposed to be ONE round, not... oh fuck... not a damn marathon."
Leon’s low hum vibrated through her, the sound predatory and satisfied. The wet heat of his breath washed over her, making her already overheated skin prickle. His tongue flexed lazily beneath her, tilting just enough to slide her toward the slick pool of saliva gathering at the center. Claire groaned, thighs trembling as the tip of his tongue pressed teasingly between her legs again. "God Leon~ I tap out!"
Above her, the shadow of his uvula swayed ominously, the pink walls of his throat twitching with suppressed laughter. His lips, those damn lips she’d kissed full-sized more times than she could count, curved into a smirk she could feel. "Mmm," he rumbled, the sound shuddering through her bones. The tip of his tongue flicked once more, just to watch her jerk. "Thought you had more stamina, Redfield."
Claire’s fingers dug into the spongy surface beneath her, her lungs filling with the humid, musky air of his breath. She was drenched, partly from his spit, partly from herself, and every shift of his tongue sent fresh tremors through her exhausted body. "You," she panted, glaring up at the dark cavern of his mouth, "are such a fucking cheater." The word cracked into a moan as his tongue arched beneath her, pressing her flush against the roof of his mouth, slick and relentless.
Leon exhaled through his nose, a hot gust that sent her sweat-damp hair fluttering, then deliberately relaxed his tongue, letting her slide back down toward the wet center. His teeth gleamed faintly in the dim light, just far enough apart to remind her how easily he could trap her there if he wanted. Not that he NEEDED to. She was already at his mercy, her tiny body utterly spent, her limbs heavy and uncoordinated from hours of overstimulation.
The broad muscle beneath her flexed, tilting her onto her side, and Claire whimpered as his tongue traced up the length of her body, slow, deliberate, savoring. The flat of it dragged over her breasts, her stomach, the sensitive dip of her waist, lapping up every last trace of salt and musk clinging to her skin. Beneath her thighs, she felt the tip of his tongue curl, probing insistently, coaxing out one last shuddering twitch from her abused cunt. "Fuck, Leon," she slurred, half-delirious, her nails scraping uselessly at the slick surface beneath her. "M'empty..."
A rumble of amusement vibrated through his chest, and his tongue rolled her onto her back again, pressing her flush against the ridged roof of his mouth. His saliva pooled around her, thick and warm, carrying the bitter-salt taste of her own exhaustion. Claire squirmed, oversensitive, but he didn't relent, his tongue dipped between her legs once more, just to luxuriate in the mess he'd wrung out of her, before drawing back with a satisfied hum. "Mmm," he breathed, the sound curling around her like steam, and she could practically hear his smirk.
His head tilted back then, and Claire's stomach lurched as gravity threatened to send her sliding toward his throat. Her fingers scrambled against the slick muscle beneath her, but she forced herself to still, trusting him, even as instinct screamed at her to fight. The pink cavern of his mouth stretched wider as he exhaled through his nose, his uvula swaying hypnotically above her. Leon's tongue pressed flat beneath her, nudging her upward, and she caught a dizzying glimpse of the dimly lit room beyond his parted lips before he rolled her again, tumbling her against his cheek.
The heat was everywhere, suffocating and intimate, his saliva coating her in a sticky sheen as his tongue worked her mercilessly. She could feel the faint scrape of his teeth against her back, not biting, just grazing, a silent reminder of how easily he could crush her if he chose. But he wouldn't. That was the thrill of it. His tongue curled around her body, dragging her back toward the center of his mouth, and Claire gasped as the tip flicked over her thighs, lapping up the last traces of her arousal with a slow, indulgent swirl. He was savoring her, tasting every inch, and the realization sent a weak throb through her spent body.
Leon exhaled, the warm gust rolling over her damp skin, and then his head tilted back further, the movement deliberate. Claire clutched at the wet muscle beneath her, her pulse kicking up as gravity tugged her toward the dark, pulsing throat. She forced herself to go limp, to trust him, even as her instincts screamed at her to fight, to scramble away from the yawning abyss. His tongue flexed, nudging her gently toward the back of his mouth, and she caught a fleeting glimpse of his uvula twitching above her, slick with spit, before his muscles tightened around her in a slow, inexorable wave.
The first constriction made her gasp, her ribs pressing inward as the warm walls of his throat swallowed her whole. His saliva slicked the way, easing the passage, but the pressure was still overwhelming, every inch of her squeezed, massaged by muscles that knew exactly how to coax her deeper. She squeezed her eyes shut, focusing on the rhythm of his breathing, the steady thrum of his pulse beneath her skin. The heat was suffocating, intimate in a way that still sent a thrill of fear and something darker, racing through her. His body worked her downward in slow, rolling pulses, the wet sounds of his swallowing impossibly loud in her ears.
Above, the pink cavern of his mouth vanished, replaced by the slick, pulsing tunnel of his esophagus. Leon’s tongue had given one last teasing push, just enough to make her whimper, before letting gravity and his own muscles do the rest. Claire forced herself to stay limp, though her fingers twitched uselessly at her sides, itching to brace against walls that wouldn’t yield. She felt him swallow again, deliberately this time, and the sensation dragged her deeper, the tightness around her shifting from oppressive to possessive. A low, satisfied hum reverberated through her, vibrating every nerve ending.
The descent was slow, methodical, Leon never rushed this part, savoring the way her tiny body slid down his throat, his muscles kneading her like dough. His stomach rumbled beneath her, eager and impatient, the sound muffled but unmistakable. Claire could already feel the heat radiating from the organ, the walls slick with digestive juices, though she knew they wouldn’t harm her. Not yet. Not unless she wanted them to. Another swallow sent her tumbling past the final ring of muscle, and then she was spilling into the soft, wet chamber of his gut, the air thick with the scent of musk and Leon’s last meal.
Leon sighed, rolling his shoulders and stretching his neck as Claire curled into a ball inside him, the rhythmic pulse of his stomach walls already coaxing exhaustion deeper into her bones. She nestled against the warm flesh, too spent to even protest when his hand settled over his abdomen, she felt his fingers press gently, possessively, tracing the outline of her body through the stretched skin. His chuckle vibrated around her, low and satisfied. “Sleep tight, Redfield,” he murmured, voice muffled but clear enough to make her lips twitch into a tired smirk.
Maybe I'm weird but if I stumble upon fanfic that isn't my taste or that I don't like, I literally just move on and don't say anything because someone else might like it and it costs me nothing to not be a jerk on the internet.
I am a major Fortnite fan... so I made a Midas x FEM! READER
TW: This has NSFW elements!!
"Keep your eyes on the road," I muttered, gripping the leather seat as the golden sports car screamed around a dusty bend. Midas chuckled, a low rumble that vibrated through the steering wheel. His thumb traced lazy circles over my inner thigh instead. "Relax," he purred. "I've driven this route a thousand times."
My head rested heavily on his lap, the scent of gunpowder and expensive cologne thick in the air. Above me, his golden hand remained steady on the wheel, cool and solid as polished metal, while his other fingers slid deeper beneath my waistband. They moved with deliberate precision, exploring every fold, every sensitive ridge. His touch was calculated: no accidental grazes, only purposeful pressure that made my hips jerk against the seatbelt. Outside, the battlefield blurred into streaks of green and brown.
Suddenly, Midas stiffened. His fingers didn't pause, if anything, they worked faster, as he snapped his gaze toward the rearview mirror. "Annoyance," he growled low in his throat. The engine roared as he slammed the accelerator, pinning me back against his thigh while his fingers curled ruthlessly inside me. A choked gasp escaped my lips as the car fishtailed around debris. Through half-lidded eyes, I saw the glint of another car barreling toward us.
He didn't pull his hand away. Not even when he snatched the gold-plated pistol from the dashboard. The muzzle flashed once, a deafening crack that rattled my teeth, as Midas fired backwards through the open driver's window. Glass shattered somewhere behind us. "Damn pests," he muttered, tossing the gun onto my stomach where it lay warm and heavy against my belly. Only then did I catch the faint metallic tang of fresh blood mixing with his cologne. His fingers resumed their insistent rhythm, slick now with my wetness, pressing harder as if rewarding himself.
Sunlight glinted off his golden knuckles moving beneath my skirt. I bit down on the leather seat, tasting salt and grit, as his fingertips found that swollen ridge again. His pinky brushed lower, a teasing, maddening stroke over my asshole that made my legs tremble. "Watch the road," I choked out, but he only laughed, dark and velvety. The car swerved violently onto an overgrown dirt path, branches scraping the golden paint like fingernails on stone. His thumb pressed hard against my clit, grinding in time with the engine's growl.
"Almost," he murmured, not to me, but to the horizon. His eyes flickered to my face, watching tears gather at my lashes, watching my mouth slacken, before snapping back to the cracked windshield. Below, his fingers were ruthless now: two plunging deep while a third traced tight, dizzying circles. The rhythm hitched, a deliberate pause, before curling upwards. My cry dissolved into the roar of tires hitting asphalt again. Sweat dripped down his temple where it met gold, catching the light like molten honey.
Ahead, a rusted pickup truck blocked the muddy path, doors swinging open. Four figures scrambled out, scavengers clutching makeshift pipes and pistols. Midas sighed, the sound vibrating through the seat. His wrist never slowed its relentless rhythm inside me. "Distractions," he muttered, almost bored, as he lifted his pistol one-handed. The golden barrel gleamed briefly. Three shots cracked sharp and quick… pop, pop, pop! And three bodies crumpled onto wet grass. The fourth lunged, howling. Midas didn't flinch. His thumb pressed my clit hard, so hard stars burst behind my eyelids, as he squeezed the trigger one last time. The scavenger's head exploded in a wet spray that pattered against the windshield like crimson rain.
He tossed the gun back onto my stomach, warm metal slick against my skin. His fingers curled deeper inside me, finding that sweet, trembling spot with agonizing precision. "See?" he growled, his voice thick with smug satisfaction. "Nothing interrupts us." The golden knuckles of his other hand flexed on the steering wheel as he drove straight over the fallen bodies. A sickening crunch shuddered through the chassis, mingling with my choked whimper. Leather groaned beneath my clenched fists as his fingertip rubbed tight, furious circles around my asshole, a searing counterpoint to the relentless thrusts higher up.
Twelve minutes. He’d counted. Every drag of his calloused fingerpad against that swollen ridge sent sparks up my spine. Every curl against that deep, secret place made my hips buck against his thigh. He watched me unravel, eyes flicking down to where his hand worked beneath my skirt, then up to my slack jaw, my tear-streaked cheeks. Cool gold grazed my inner thigh as he adjusted his angle, driving deeper. "Almost there," he murmured, low and velvety. The car jolted over rocks, the jerking motion forcing his knuckles hard against my clit. My gasp tore through the rumble of the engine.
Then, his fingers went utterly still. Deep inside, pressed firm against that trembling ridge. A cruel, perfect pause. He watched my choked sob, the desperate arch of my back straining against the seatbelt. "Look at me," he commanded. His golden thumb traced a slow circle. My eyes snapped open, meeting his, gleaming, predatory. A smirk touched his lips. And then he curled. Hard. Twice. Three times. The world dissolved. My cry shattered against the windshield as my body seized, back bowing off his lap, thighs clamping around his wrist. Wetness flooded his fingers, slick and hot.
Midas let me tremble there for three ragged breaths, counting each heave of my chest, before slowly withdrawing his hand. Gold glistened in the afternoon light, coated in my release. He brought those gleaming fingers to his mouth, tasting deliberately, eyes locked on mine. His tongue slid slowly between knuckles. "Sweet," he murmured. The car idled, engine purring low as jungle heat pressed in. Outside, cicadas screamed. Inside, my heartbeat pounded in my ears.
His golden thumb traced my lower lip. "Still tight as a coiled spring," he observed, voice rough as gravel. He didn't wipe his hand, just slid it back beneath my waistband, palm flat and hot against my shuddering belly. With brutal efficiency, he unbuckled my seatbelt. The click echoed like a gunshot. Leather sighed as he hauled me up sideways, legs draped over his lap, until I straddled him. My skirt bunched around my hips, denim grinding against the gold-plated buckle of his pants.
Cool metal knuckles brushed my inner thigh while his other hand unfastened his belt buckle with practiced ease. The rasp of the zipper filled the car, loud against the sudden silence of the idling engine. Outside, jungle shadows deepened. Inside, his gaze held mine: predatory, possessive. "Hold onto the wheel," he commanded softly. I grasped it blindly, leather slick under my trembling palms. Below, his golden fingers gripped my hips, lifting me effortlessly.
I felt the blunt, heavy pressure of him against my soaked entrance. "Ready?" he growled, not a question but a promise. Before I could gasp, he thrust upward, deep, unforgiving. Gold flashed at his collarbone where my hands scrabbled for purchase. I cried out, the sound swallowed by the humid air pressing against the windows. He filled me completely, the stretch searing where his fingers had teased moments before. His hips rolled slowly, deliberately, letting me feel every ridge, every inch of him buried inside.
His golden hands anchored my hips, thumb brushing punishing circles on my clit as he dragged me down onto him again. "Tighter than I imagined," he rasped, watching my face crumple. The car engine’s idle thrummed beneath us, syncing with the slick slap of skin against skin. Sweat trickled down my spine, mingling with the scent of gunpowder and sex. Outside, a distant explosion echoed, muffled, unimportant. His gaze never wavered from mine, dark and scorching. "Eyes here," he commanded, thrusting harder. My knuckles whitened on the steering wheel, leather creaking under my grip.
He moved with deliberate, grinding slowness, a torturous rhythm that stretched me raw. Gold glinted where our bodies joined, catching the dying light filtering through blood-speckled glass. His thumb pressed harder, relentless, forcing choked whimpers from my throat with every downward stroke. "Feel it?" he growled, his breath hot against my ear. "Every inch." Below, his fingers dug into my hip bone, possessive and bruising. The car shifted slightly, settling into the mud, but he didn't relent. His pace intensified, hips snapping upward sharply, punctuated by the wet sounds filling the cabin.
My fingers slipped on the steering wheel, slick with sweat. Vision blurred as he angled deeper, hitting a place that made stars burst behind my eyelids. His golden palm slapped hard against my thigh, a stinging counterpoint to the assault inside. "Arch," he commanded, voice rough. When I obeyed, trembling, he groaned low in his chest. "Perfect." Outside, shadows lengthened. Something metallic clattered in the distance, abandoned debris, maybe, but his gaze stayed locked on mine. His thumb worked faster now, circling my clit with brutal precision as his thrusts turned jagged, uneven.
The scent of gunpowder sharpened suddenly. Through the haze, I registered movement, a glint of scope glass atop a ruined billboard. Before recognition fully formed, Midas' free hand snatched the pistol from my belly. Gold flashed. Three shots cracked… pop-pop-pop! Drowning my choked gasp. Glass rained down eighty yards away. "Focus," he growled, tossing the gun onto the dashboard. His hips snapped upward hard, driving himself impossibly deeper as my nails tore into his shoulders. Blood welled where my fingernails scraped gold, thin trails mixing with sweat.
His rhythm became a piston, short, brutal thrusts that stole my breath. Below, his thumb never ceased its grinding circles, relentless even as his knuckles bruised my inner thigh. The steering wheel groaned under my death grip. "Look at you," he rasped, eyes darkening at my trembling mouth. "Taking every inch." Jungle humidity pressed against the windows, steaming the glass where crimson droplets streaked. Inside, the air thickened with salt and copper and musk. His groan vibrated through me when I clenched involuntarily, a raw, possessive sound that drowned distant gunfire.
Abruptly, he slowed. Torturously. Dragging himself almost out before sinking back in with deliberate fullness, stretching me anew. Gold fingers tightened on my hips, controlling the agonizing pace. "Not yet," he warned, though sweat slicked his brow where it met metallic skin. His thumb shifted, barely, applying pressure to the side of my clit instead of the peak. A shudder ripped through me; denial sharp as shattered glass. Outside, dusk painted the wreckage in bruised purples. Cicadas screamed louder.
He drove into me harder, deeper, hips lifting off the seat with each thrust. His golden hand slid from my hip to fist in my hair, wrenching my head back. "Look," he growled, forcing my gaze to the windshield’s crimson streaks. "They thought they could take what’s mine." His next thrust slammed upward, hitting that tender, oversensitive spot. A ragged sob tore loose. Beneath me, I felt him swell, pulse, the rhythm fracturing into short, desperate jerks. Heat pooled low in his belly, vibrating against my core.
He tore me off him suddenly, violently, leaving me empty, gasping. Gold glistened wetly on his cock, veins throbbing against flushed skin. My thighs trembled as he gripped himself, rough strokes wrenching deep, guttural groans from his chest. Three sharp pulls, and he came, thick ropes splattering hot and white across my back, stripes stark against sweat-slicked skin. His breath came in ragged bursts, forehead pressed to mine. "Cleaner this way," he rasped, thumb smearing a stripe upward toward my ribs.
The jungle's humidity choked the cab, cicadas screaming as he slumped back against the blood-stained leather seat. Slowly, meticulously, he wiped his golden hand across the sticky mess coating my spine, gathering it like spilled paint. Then he brought it to my lips, knuckles cool against my trembling mouth. "Taste," he commanded, his voice low as gunpowder settling. I obeyed, tongue darting out, salty, bitter, utterly his, as he watched, eyes dark and utterly satisfied.
His metallic thumb traced the arch of my spine, dragging through sweat and his own spend. "Still buzzing?" he murmured, shifting my limp form back onto his lap. One golden hand slid beneath my skirt, fingers slick with jungle heat and my own wetness, pressing flat against my belly. The other reached for the gearshift, slamming it into drive. The engine roared, tires spitting mud as we lurched forward. He drove one-handed, fingers dipping low again, just two, slipping deep, making me jerk against his thigh. "Good," he growled, feeling me clench around him. "Stay ready."
What kind of woman is Julia that she bagged a man like this? Is he a green flag?
Julia is an amazing and strong woman. She's not afraid to speak up on certain matters that need to be addressed. You may think that she hold the leash because Michael listens, right? Wrong! Michael takes the lead and likes to listen to Julia.
As for what flag he is? I'd say yellow flag. Not red, but not green so in the middle.
What were Julia and Michael like before she shrank?
How were they like? Hmmm... Let me think...
Basically the same as they are in the story, but way more loving! Michael can't keep his hands off of Julia. He's obsessed with her! And Julia indulges in Michael's behavior. And he will never cross a boundary line if her know she won't be okay with it. And if by chance he does cross any, oh boy this man in BEGGING for forgiveness!
Guys, I love to answer your questions about my story! (And the more to come!)
TRIGGER WARNINGS!: Vore, foot crush, gore, a bit of a read, my first ever story
Word count: 12318
AU: This is the first story I have ever published and written. If it makes no sense, ask me questions! I'm happy to answer! And if I should recycle the characters LET ME KNOW! I want feedback! 0w0
Michael smoothed the wrinkles from his favorite gray T-shirt, the fabric stretching tight across his shoulders. He glanced at the half-drunk coffee mug abandoned near the sink, cold now. Outside the bedroom window, a single crow landed sharply on the fire escape railing, tilting its head. The silence in the apartment felt thick, unusual for a Wednesday morning.
Across the vast expanse of rumpled sheets, Julia stirred. Pebbles. Her bedroom looked like pebbles. Everything felt strangely distant and enormous. Where was Michael? She pushed herself upright, the soft cotton beneath her palms feeling coarse as burlap. "Michael?" Her voice sounded impossibly small in the huge room. Only the low hum of the refrigerator answered.
The bedroom door creaked open. Michael strode in, barefoot and rubbing sleep from his eyes. Julia watched him move towards the dresser, a familiar giant. He pulled open a drawer, rummaging. Then he paused, pulling out a crumpled scrap of pale pink lace, her bra, tossed aside yesterday. He lifted it slowly to his face. Julia froze. His eyes drifted shut as he breathed deeply against the delicate fabric, a low groan escaping his lips. "Miss you already," he whispered thickly, voice rough. His free hand slid downward.
Julia scrambled sideways, dislodging the sheet. The sudden movement caught Michael's eye. He whipped his head around, gaze locking onto her tiny form perched precariously on the bed’s edge near his discarded jeans. He blinked, once, twice, then leaned in close, his face suddenly filling her entire world. "Whoa," he breathed, his warm breath washing over her like a breeze. "Freaky little insect." He fumbled for his phone, tapping the screen. "Let's see what kind you are..." He held the phone steady, aiming the camera.
The AI scan results flashed onto the screen. Not insects. Images of miniature humans. Michael’s jaw slackened. He stared at the phone, then slowly, disbelievingly, back at her. "...Julia?" he choked out. She nodded frantically, jumping up and down. Michael sank onto the edge of the bed with a soft thump, staring. "Thought you'd left," he murmured, his voice thick with sudden understanding. Reaching out, he gently prodded her shoulder with a fingertip. Julia squeaked as she tumbled backwards onto the soft bedding. "Careful!" she shouted. Michael jerked his finger back, startled. "Holy crap, I heard that." A slow, delighted smile spread across his face. "You are WAY too cute like this." He scooped her up carefully, lifting her effortlessly towards his face.
His breath was warm and smelled faintly of toothpaste as he brought her close. Julia froze, mesmerized by the smooth curve of his lower lip, once familiar, now looking vast and slightly terrifying. "Don't wiggle," he murmured softly, his gaze intense, almost hungry. "Wouldn't want any... accidents." Trusting him completely, Julia went limp in his palm. His delighted chuckle vibrated through her whole body. His tongue, warm and slick, flicked against her legs. Julia gasped at the unexpected sensation. "Hmm," Michael hummed thoughtfully, swirling her gently in his mouth for a moment. The taste of salt and sleep flooded her senses; she heard the muffled groan of pleasure deep in his chest. "Please," she whispered against the wet heat. "Promise?" He pulled her out, grinning, a strand of spit connecting her to his lip. "Promise," he breathed, planting a tiny kiss on her damp head.
Later, Michael placed her gently inside a clean sock drawer on his nightstand, folding a scrap of soft t-shirt fabric into a makeshift bed. Julia watched his silhouette move around the darkened room as he settled in, his familiar scent surrounding her. As sleep pulled at her, she heard him whisper towards the drawer, "Night, Peanut. Try not to invade my dreams again... unless you wanna stay." His low laugh echoed softly before the room plunged into silence.
Julia awoke to the scent of laundry detergent and warm skin, blinking against the morning light filtering into the sock drawer-turned-nest. Pushing aside the folded cotton, she saw Michael leaning over the nightstand, his expression soft as he watched her stir. "Mornin', sleepyhead," he rumbled, the vibrations humming through the wooden surface beneath her. His finger, thick and warm, gently traced the edge of the drawer near her feet. "Coffee's brewing. Ready for your first tiny breakfast?"
He plucked her carefully from the drawer, his thumb brushing against her legs. The sudden shift in scale still sent a flutter through her, the colossal expanse of his bedroom stretching out like a foreign landscape. He carried her towards the kitchen island, setting her down amidst scattered crumbs from his toast. A bead of condensation rolled down his water glass nearby, catching the light like a miniature planet. "Figured we'd improvise," Michael grinned, tearing a microscopic corner off a granola bar. He placed it near her, the fragment bigger than her head. "Dig in."
Julia wrinkled her nose, pushing the oat-laden chunk away with both hands. "You know I hate oats," she protested, her tiny voice barely audible over the coffeemaker’s gurgle. His rich laughter filled the room, echoing deep in his chest. He leaned down, his face suddenly blotted out by his smile inches above her. "Aw, Peanut," he murmured, the playful nickname laced with something darker, deeper. That familiar heat flickered in his eyes, the same look that had preceded the terrifyingly wonderful swirl in his maw yesterday.
Before she could protest further, his thumb and forefinger plucked her from the countertop. "Just a little tease, love," he promised, his breath washing over her like a warm tide. The world tilted dizzyingly as he lifted her towards his lips. His tongue flashed vivid pink and wet against his teeth as he whispered, "Trust me," and suddenly she was engulfed. The intense warmth, the slickness, the resonant vibrations of his humming groan enveloped her utterly. Saliva slicked her limbs as he gently rolled her around, the faint echoes of ‘So fucking adorable…’ rumbling through the cavern. Panic flared, briefly, before dissolving into a strange intimacy, trapped inside this vast, familiar, possessive warmth.
After a moment that stretched like taffy, he parted his lips and spat her gently onto his waiting palm. She lay trembling, slick and breathless, blinking up at his amused expression. "See?" Michael chuckled, stroking a damp strand of hair from her forehead with the very tip of his pinky. "No harm done. Just wanted a little taste." He dabbed her gently with the edge of his napkin. The scent of coffee and his skin clung to her damp skin. Below them, the oat crumb lay abandoned, massive and unappetizing on the vast marble plane of the countertop.
He rummaged in the breadbox, pulling out a crusty sourdough loaf. With meticulous care, Michael pinched off a crumb barely larger than Julia’s fingernail, a perfect golden-brown morsel. "Here," he murmured, placing it beside her like an offering. "Proper breakfast." Julia hesitated, the memory of wet heat still clinging, but hunger won out. She crawled towards the breadcrumb, her movements hesitant and insect-like on the cool surface. She pressed her tiny face against its yielding warmth, taking a tentative bite. The earthy tang of yeast filled her senses, a comforting echo of normal mornings.
From his towering vantage point, Michael watched, utterly rapt. Every minuscule movement captivated him: the way her shoulders hunched as she nibbled, the tiny flutter of her lashes, the focused scrunch of her nose. The rhythmic pulsing at the base of his throat became impossible to ignore. His gaze traced the imagined path, that slow, inexorable slide down the warm, muscular tube, the gentle squeeze swallowing her whole. A soft, involuntary groan escaped him, deep and resonant. He clenched his jaw, knuckles white where his fingers gripped the counter edge. ‘She'd fit perfectly,’ the thought whispered, unbidden and terrifyingly sweet.
The desire was a physical ache, low in his belly. He pictured her tiny form slicked by saliva, sliding smoothly against his uvula, surrendering completely to the soft, dark heat within him. His throat worked convulsively, mimicking the swallow he craved. Below, oblivious, Julia meticulously peeled away a flake of crust, her concentration absolute. Her vulnerability, her utter dependence magnified the possessive fervor burning inside him. He longed to cradle her not just in his hand, but deeper, held safely inside where no one else could ever reach her.
Breaking the unnerving silence, Michael cleared his throat, the sound startlingly loud. "Good?" he asked, his voice hoarse. Julia jumped, a crumb tumbling from her grasp. "Scared me," she squeaked, placing a minute hand over her chest. A deep blush crept up Michael's neck. He quickly poured steaming coffee into his oversized mug, the rich aroma filling the kitchen. "Sorry, Peanut," he murmured, unable to meet her gaze. His knuckles whitened around the warm ceramic, anchoring himself against the dizzying fantasy. He watched her reflection in the toaster's gleaming surface, a tiny speck meticulously rebuilding her crumb fortress on the vast marble battlefield.
Later, hauling groceries into the apartment, Michael kicked the door shut, letting bags thud to the floor. "Got blueberries!" he announced cheerfully, rummaging. Midway through unpacking kale onto the counter, he froze. His breath caught. Nestled against the cold stainless steel sink drain, trembling violently, was another shrunken figure. A stranger. Male. Terrified eyes darted frantically, catching Michael's stunned gaze. A primal thrill, immediate and illicit, surged through Michael, quicker than thought. Before Julia could even register what was happening from her vantage point on the breadboard, Michael's giant hand swept down, swift and silent. The fingers curled possessively around the trembling stranger.
Julia watched, frozen, as Michael straightened abruptly, his broad back to her. She heard the distinct, wet pop of lips parting, followed by a muffled gulp that echoed deep in his chest cavity. His shoulders tensed visibly, knuckles white as he gripped the counter edge. He stood utterly still for a pregnant pause. Then, a low, satisfied groan rumbled from him, vibrating through the counter Julia stood on, a sound thick with forbidden pleasure and relief. He slowly turned back around, wiping the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand, a faint flush high on his cheekbones. His eyes, bright and unnervingly intense, locked onto Julia's tiny form across the expanse. "Just... checking something," he murmured, the ghost of a satisfied smile touching his lips as he swallowed audibly once more. The air thickened, charged with unspoken acts.
From her perch near the abandoned blueberries, Julia felt a chill prickle her skin despite the kitchen's warmth. The intimacy of Michael's strange hunger turned suddenly sinister. Where before his teasing felt playful, tinged with cautious affection, the swift, silent disappearance of the stranger screamed of predation. She saw the subtle shift in Michael’s posture, relaxed now, almost languid, like a cat after a successful hunt, and the lingering wet sheen on his lower lip. The scent of fear clung faintly to the air, mixing uneasily with the tart sweetness of the berries. Her tiny hands clenched at her sides.
Michael hummed a low, satisfied tune as he resumed unpacking groceries, carefully arranging apples near the sink. His gaze drifted back to Julia, bright with a possessive warmth that now felt unnerving. "Plump little blueberries," he murmured, his deep voice vibrating the countertop beneath Julia’s feet as he nudged the container near her. "Bet you’d taste amazing..." The playful tease landed like a stone. Julia recoiled involuntarily, stumbling backward over a scattered blueberry seed. Michael chuckled softly. "Easy, Peanut. You know I’d never hurt YOU." He extended a massive finger towards her, slow and deliberate. Julia hesitated, frozen between instinctive terror and the conditioned trust built on years of love. His fingertip gently brushed her shoulder, immense warmth radiating through her. His touch lingered, possessive and unnervingly tender. "Just... checking you're safe," he breathed.
Julia’s tiny frame trembled as his finger curled around her, lifting her effortlessly from the countertop. The sheer scale difference amplified every sensation, the deep pulse in his thumb pad against her back, the thick scent of fresh fruit and something primal clinging faintly to his skin. He carried her to the kitchen table, setting her down beside the forgotten breadcrumb fortress. Below them, the linoleum stretched like an alien plain. Michael leaned close, his colossal face inches away, blotting out the ceiling light. "We need supplies," he declared abruptly, his breath puffing her damp hair. "Proper furniture... safety nets..." The planner from last night lay nearby. Julia watched his giant fingers flip the pages, sketches of miniature chairs and tiny ladders suddenly seeming like precious relics from a vanished reality. His knuckles were white against the paper.
The journey outside was dizzying, Julia perched precariously inside Michael’s breast pocket. Fabric walls soared around her, muffling the chaotic symphony of the city into a distorted roar. Peeking out, she saw legs like towering trees and pavement textured like craters. Then came the impact, a sudden jolt shaking her entire world. CRUNCH. Resonant through his chest. Michael paused mid-stride. He glanced down, lifting his foot slightly. Julia glimpsed something small and broken pressed flat onto the gritty sidewalk. Michael tilted his head, listening. A low sound escaped him, barely audible above the ambient noise: a satisfied sigh, deep and rumbling. The corners of his lips twitched upward as he scraped his sole casually against the curb, flicking away the debris. He resumed walking, his gait unnaturally smooth, humming that low, satisfied tune again.
Inside the cavernous craft store, Michael lingered by a display of intricate architectural models. His fingertip hovered over a dollhouse-scale chaise lounge. "Imagine you here," he murmured to Julia, tapping the velvet cushion, his voice vibrating the cotton walls of her pocket-prison. The scent of wood glue and acrylic paint hung heavy. He selected miniature lumber, tiny brass hinges, doll-sized paintbrushes. "We'll build something perfect," he whispered, a possessive warmth in his tone. But when the cashier smiled, commenting on the cute dollhouse supplies, Michael’s knuckles tightened around the bag handles. His jaw clenched, a primal stiffness settling in his shoulders. "Not dolls," he muttered darkly, the words thick with an unspoken warning that made the cashier blink. He strode out without another glance.
Back on the bustling sidewalk, the roar of traffic became a distorted thunderstorm beneath the muffled safety of denim. Julia dared to peek again. Sunlight glared off polished shoes like moving skyscrapers, pigeons flapping overhead like monstrous leathery birds. Then she saw them: clustered near a steaming subway grate, four shrunken figures. One waved frantic arms towards Michael’s approaching shadow. Panic seized Julia. Was this rescue? Escape? Before she could process the thought, Michael’s gait shifted. His foot swung forward, deliberately, fluidly, casually, crushing the cluster beneath his worn sneaker sole. CRUNCH-SQUELCH. The sound resonated sickeningly through his leg bones, directly into Julia’s pocket. He didn't pause, didn't flinch. He simply continued humming that low, satisfied tune, the rhythm perfectly matching his stride. The sole scraped the pavement again, leaving a wet smear on the concrete.
The apartment door clicked shut, sealing them back into their distorted world. Michael gently deposited Julia onto the kitchen counter beside the forgotten blueberries. "Safer already, Peanut?" he murmured, stroking her damp hair with the very tip of his fingernail. His smile was soft, tender, possessive. He carefully unboxed the craft supplies: balsa wood like giant logs, brass hinges gleaming like shields, tubes of glue smelling pungently chemical. He laid a miniature velvet cushion scavenged from the dollhouse section beside her. It felt luxuriously soft beneath her feet. Yet Julia remained frozen, staring at the intricate wood grain patterns magnified on a plank beside her, patterns that suddenly resembled distorted faces frozen in terror.
Night draped velvet shadows over the room. Exhausted by the overwhelming day, Julia burrowed deep into the soft sock drawer nest Michael had remade for her. Faintly, as sleep pulled her under, she heard rhythmic sighs drifting from the giant bed. Deep, shuddering breaths punctuated by wet, muffled clicking sounds, like tiny hands scrabbling desperately against slick, yielding flesh. A resonant groan vibrated through the nightstand wood. "Yesss..." Michael exhaled into the darkness, a satisfied rumble Julia felt deep in her tiny bones. She curled tighter, burying her face in cotton folds. The sounds faded slowly, replaced by soft, wet swallows echoing in the profound silence before his rhythmic breathing deepened into sleep.
Morning light filtered weakly through the dusty blinds. Julia stirred, her eyes blinking open to the familiar scent of detergent and wool. Peeking over the sock drawer's edge, she saw Michael already awake, reclining against the headboard. Below the rumpled sheets, across the vast slope of his hip, she spotted them: six blurry specks clinging desperately to the skin of his erect shaft. Their movements were frantic, insect-like, scrambling upward only to slide helplessly back down the glistening curve. Michael watched their futile struggle with darkly amused intensity, his thumb idly stroking the base of the immense column, occasionally causing a tremor that sent tiny figures tumbling into the dense forest of wiry pubic hair below. A low chuckle escaped him as one vanished entirely beneath the thick curls. "Persistent little pests," he murmured softly, his gaze heavy-lidded and possessive.
He shifted his legs slightly, a deliberate movement. The sudden tilt sent another shrunken figure sliding downwards with a shrill, muffled squeak Julia barely caught. Michael sighed, a sound thick with a strange mixture of annoyance and pleasure. His fingers gently brushed away the frantic climbers clinging near the tip, pushing them down toward the slick skin near the crown. "Too… close," he breathed, his voice gravelly. His other hand drifted beneath the sheets, fingers curling loosely around the hot shaft, subtly applying pressure, trapping the figures against the pulsing warmth. Julia saw tiny arms flail against the imprisoning cage of flesh. Michael’s thumb circled the swollen head slowly, indulgently, trapping limbs under its thick pad. He tilted his head back, eyes fluttering closed for a moment, savoring the frantic struggles trapped against his skin, sensations Julia knew echoed the terrifying intimacy she’d experienced within his mouth. A soft groan escaped him, vibrating through the nightstand beneath her.
From her cotton fortress, Julia watched, transfixed and horrified. The playful tease he reserved for her had twisted into something predatory, primal. Where her vulnerability evoked protective tenderness mixed with playful vore fantasies, theirs only seemed to ignite a cold, fascinated appetite. His gaze drifted lazily from the trapped strugglers towards the sock drawer. A slow, possessive smile spread across his lips as he met Julia’s wide-eyed stare. "Morning, Peanut," he murmured, his voice startlingly normal despite the tableau unfolding on his groin. He lifted his hand slightly, freeing the trapped figures. They scrambled anew, desperate for purchase on the slick slope. "Just… cleaning up some pests," he added casually, his eyes never leaving Julia’s tiny form. The contrast was jarring, the gentle nickname uttered while tiny lives clung desperately below.
One climber slipped entirely, vanishing into the thick curls with a choked cry. Michael sighed, a sound strangely close to pleasure. He dipped his pinky finger into the dark tangle, fishing the figure out as easily as plucking lint. It trembled feebly in the cavern of his palm. Michael brought the tiny man close to his face, examining him critically. "Hmm," he hummed, the vibration shaking Julia’s drawer. "Not quite…" Before Julia could comprehend his intent, his lips parted slightly. The tip of his tongue darted out, swift, wet, possessive, flicking the struggling figure into the dark recesses of his mouth. His jaw closed decisively. A muffled cry echoed briefly, followed by the distinct click of his tongue against his palate and a powerful swallow that traveled visibly down his throat. His Adam's apple bobbed heavily. Michael visibly relaxed, exhaling a low groan of satisfaction that rumbled through the nightstand wood. "Better," he murmured, licking his lips with a fleeting glance at Julia. "Now… where were we?"
The remaining five resumed their frantic scrambling, energized by terror. Michael watched their futile efforts with detached fascination, his thumb lazily tracing the thick vein bulging beneath the skin of his shaft. One managed to claw its way halfway up. Michael’s brow furrowed momentarily. He exhaled sharply, a purposeful puff of hot air from his nostrils, blowing the tiny figure off balance. It tumbled downward with a shrill squeak, landing amidst the others near the base. A low chuckle escaped him. His gaze shifted back to Julia, perched frozen in her sock drawer fortress. "Don't worry, Peanut," he reassured, his voice disturbingly calm. "These aren't like you. They're… intrusive." He emphasized the word with a subtle flex of the underlying muscle beneath the strugglers, making them slip further. "Just dealing with the infestation." His knuckles tightened lightly on the shaft, trapping limbs briefly against the hot flesh before releasing.
Carefully, Michael peeled back the bedsheet, exposing the chaotic scene fully. Sunlight caught the sheen of sweat and exertion on the gleaming skin. With deliberate, almost surgical precision, he extended his index finger and thumb. They descended like hydraulic presses, pinching one tiny figure around its waist. It writhed silently, fists pounding uselessly against the impossible grip. Michael lifted it effortlessly to eye level, studying its panicked flailing with a clinical curiosity that chilled Julia to her core. "Persistent," he murmured, a ghost of a smile touching his lips. He brought it closer to his face, parted his lips slightly… then paused, glancing meaningfully back at Julia. "See? Not tempted," he declared softly, the tiny form trembling inches from his teeth. Instead, he flicked his wrist sharply. The figure sailed through the air in a high arc, landing with a barely audible *plink* somewhere deep in the tangled bedsheets near his hip. "Lost one," he sighed mockingly, a predatory gleam in his eyes as he watched the remaining four freeze momentarily in horror.
He shifted his focus back to Julia, his expression softening unnervingly. "Hungry, Peanut?" he asked, his voice a low purr that vibrated the drawer wood. "I'll make your breakfast." Slowly, deliberately, Michael swung his colossal legs over the side of the bed, the motion sending tremors through the nightstand. The abrupt movement dislodged the remaining shrunken figures clinging to him. A few slid down his thigh like ants on oiled glass, landing in the thick carpet pile. One unfortunate soul tumbled directly onto the sheet folds near his knee. Michael casually brushed it off with the back of his hand as he stood, a flick sending it skittering across the floorboards. He stretched languidly, the powerful muscles of his back rippling, before padding barefoot towards the kitchen. Each step cracked softly against the wood floor.
The journey across the bedroom felt vast and perilous. Michael walked with deliberate, ground-shaking strides, his bare feet leaving damp prints on the cool floorboards. Julia watched, frozen, as a shrunken man scrambled desperately from the path of the descending sole mere inches away. THUD. Michael paused mid-step, his foot hovering briefly. He glanced down at his toes, then shrugged, continuing towards the kitchen doorway. A faint crunching sound drifted back, barely audible over the city's morning murmur filtering through the windows. Michael hummed that same low, satisfied tune, the rhythm syncing perfectly with his unhurried steps.
In the kitchen, sunlight streamed through the window above the sink, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air. Michael deposited Julia gently onto the familiar countertop beside the fruit bowl. "Safe place, Peanut?" he murmured, brushing a crumb-sized speck from her sleeve with immense care. His eyes scanned the kitchen, intense and possessive. He strode to the pantry, returning with a single oat flake larger than Julia’s torso. Placing it carefully before her, he carved a shallow curve into its surface using his fingernail, a makeshift bowl. He then uncapped the honey bear, tilting it precariously. A single amber droplet, thick and glistening, fell like a golden meteor. It splattered heavily near the oat bowl, the impact making Julia stagger. Michael chuckled softly. "Breakfast fit for my queen," he rumbled, the scent of warm sweetness filling Julia’s tiny lungs. He dipped the very tip of his pinky finger into the honey pool, then offered her the sticky bead clinging to his nail, a gleaming amber jewel vast as her head.
Across the expanse of countertop near the sink faucet, unnoticed by Michael’s distracted gaze, a desperate movement caught Julia’s eye. One of the surviving shrunken men clung miserably to a damp dishrag, shivering violently. His wide eyes met Julia’s, filled with silent, pleading terror. A single tear tracked down his dirty cheek. Julia froze, the honey forgotten. Guilt and horror warred within her. Before she could react or even blink, Michael shifted his stance. His massive hip bumped the counter’s edge lightly. The tiny vibration traveled through the laminate surface, dislodging a stray grain of salt near the faucet. It rolled, gathering momentum, and struck the clinging figure squarely. The tiny man lost his grip, flailing silently as he tumbled backward into the dark, wet abyss of the metal sink drain. Julia heard only the faintest plink echo upwards before silence swallowed it whole. Michael hummed, oblivious, tearing open a granola bar wrapper nearby.
Julia’s throat tightened. The honey bead trembled on her hands, impossibly heavy and suddenly cloying. She forced herself to nibble mechanically, her gaze darting around Michael’s overlook-like kitchen. Below the spice rack, near a crumb-laden toaster crevice, another shrunken figure, this one a woman in tattered pajamas, huddled against the shadowed wall. Her eyes, stark white against grime, locked onto Julia’s with desperate accusation, then flicked towards Michael’s looming back as he rummaged noisily in a cupboard. Julia swallowed hard, tasting bile beneath the honey’s sweetness. She watched the tiny woman press herself impossibly flatter against the painted woodwork, her tiny chest heaving with stifled sobs. The air thrummed with the crushing awareness of being hunted, yet Julia was perched beside the hunter, sharing his spoils.
Michael turned, a jar of almond butter dwarfed in his grasp. His eyes softened as they landed on Julia and her miniature feast. "Good?" he murmured, lowering his voice to a tender rumble that vibrated the countertop beneath her feet. He dipped a butter knife into the jar, extracting a smear the size of Julia’s torso. "Protein," he declared, placing the glistening brown mound perilously close to her oat bowl. Julia flinched. Across the counter, near the knife block’s shadowed base, a tiny hand emerged, grasping desperately at the laminate edge, the woman was trying to flee. Michael shifted his weight, his bare foot settling solidly onto the tiles nearby. The vibration traveled instantly. The scrambling hand vanished. When Michael lifted his foot moments later, casually scratching his calf, Julia glimpsed a single, muddy smear staining the tile where the figure had been. Michael hummed his low tune, his gaze drifting idly across the countertop, oblivious.
Julia choked down another honey-coated oat flake, her stomach churning. The cloying sweetness tasted like ash. Her eyes darted towards the toaster's crumb-laden slots. Peeking from a crevice, two pinpricks of terrified white met hers, the eyes of the huddled woman. Then, Michael stirred. He yawned, stretching his arms high overhead, muscles bulging against his thin tee. His hip bumped the counter edge again, harder this time. The silver toaster wobbled violently. Julia saw the tiny woman’s arms flail wildly within her dark crevice refuge before a cascade of stale crumbs slid down, burying her completely. A muffled squeak, thinner than a mouse’s breath, died instantly. Michael chuckled softly, mistaking the rustling crumbs for something else. "Pesky crumbs," he murmured, brushing them dismissively onto the floor with a sweep of his palm. The silence in the kitchen thickened, broken only by the dripping faucet. Michael sighed, a contented sound. His gaze finally settled fully on Julia, possessive warmth flooding his expression. He leaned down, his face filling her entire sky.
"You're being extra quiet today, Peanut," he cooed, his breath hot and smelling faintly of coffee and almonds. "Worried?" His thumb, colossal and gently calloused, approached her slowly, brushing her cheek with impossible tenderness. Julia trembled, unable to pull away. "Silly," he whispered, his voice suddenly dropping to a low, conspiratorial rumble. His gaze momentarily flickered to the shadow beneath the cupboard, where the legs of a forgotten cockroach trap lay. Julia glimpsed frantic movement, a shrunken man scrambling from the shadows towards the relative safety near the sink pipes. Michael saw him too. A dark flicker, cold and amused, passed through his eyes. He straightened abruptly, turning away, his massive foot casually shifting sideways. Julia gasped. Too late. The sole connected with a wet, crunching sound barely audible to her. Michael paused, wiggling his toes slightly against the tile. A faint reddish-brown smear appeared beneath his big toe. He hummed his tune, utterly unconcerned. "Just tidying," he announced casually, moving to rinse his oat bowl under the faucet, the water washing the stain away instantly. He turned back to Julia, his smile broad and sunny. "Now, about your little house!" He gestured towards the miniature supplies piled near the sink. "I've got plans!"
Still buzzing from the visceral thrill of witnessing his effortless domination, Julia watched his gigantic fingers assemble intricate miniature beams. He worked with surprising dexterity, tongue sticking out slightly in concentration. Below the table, near his chair leg, Julia spotted her: the pajama-clad woman from earlier, miraculously alive. She was crawling desperately towards a forgotten pencil eraser cap that rolled like a barrel across the tile. Michael paused in his carpentry. He stretched languidly, dropping the tiny hammer with a clatter that vibrated Julia's countertop perch. His hand drifted downwards, fingers splayed lazily near the floor. Julia tracked the movement, her heart pounding. His index finger descended, not forcefully, but like a deliberate, playful tap on the rolling plastic cap. It stopped dead. The tiny woman froze behind it, trapped against the cap and the looming wall of his fingertip. Michael chuckled softly, a low rumble. Almost imperceptibly, his finger nudged the cap. It rolled backwards, pinning the tiny figure against the tile edge. Julia saw minuscule limbs jerk once, spasmodically. Michael straightened, picking up his hammer again, his expression serene and focused solely on the tiny house taking shape. "See, Peanut?" he murmured, eyes gleaming as he fitted a tiny shingle. "I'm making sure NOTHING disturbs us."
Near the miniature house site, a misplaced glue bottle leaked a thick pool of white adhesive onto the tablecloth. A tiny man, perhaps the salt-grain victim's companion, stumbled blindly into its edge, feet instantly ensnared. His frantic tugging only sank him deeper. Michael noticed the stalled struggle near his masterpiece. He frowned slightly, annoyance tightening his jaw. Then, a slow, predatory smile spread. He dipped a thin toothpick into the glue pool near the trapped figure, swirling it thoughtfully. "Messy," he murmured, bringing the stick glistening with thick liquid close to the tiny house entrance. He leaned in, blowing softly, a controlled puff of warm air smelling faintly of coffee. The trapped man flailed wildly as the air hit the glue's edge, shifting it slightly. Wisps of the tacky substance stretched towards him like slow tentacles. Michael watched, fascinated, as the miniature struggle intensified, the glue creeping inexorably closer. Julia felt heat bloom low in her belly, her tiny breaths coming shallow and fast. The raw helplessness against Michael’s casually cruel whims was terrifying… and utterly intoxicating. He turned back to the house, humming his tune as the glue silently engulfed its struggling victim.
Michael lifted Julia gently onto his palm, his skin radiating warmth like sun-baked stone. He strode towards the newly built miniature cottage nestled perfectly beside the fruit bowl. Inside, every detail screamed devotion, a velvet sofa, a porcelain doll-sized teacup, even a tiny painting resembling their favorite date spot hanging on a wall. "Home sweet home, Peanut," he whispered, placing her carefully onto the microscopic porch woven from toothpicks. Below them, near the base of the fruit bowl's ceramic pedestal, a final shrunken woman huddled behind a fallen grape stem. Her ragged breathing echoed faintly in Julia’s heightened senses. Michael’s gaze drifted downwards. A flicker of dark amusement touched his lips. He raised his bare foot slowly, deliberately positioning the arch directly above the tiny shadow. The woman froze, staring upwards into the immensity of creased skin and muscle poised to blot out her world. Julia’s heartbeat thrummed against her ribs like a trapped bird. Michael held the pose, savoring the palpable terror radiating upwards. Then… he simply lowered his foot beside the pedestal instead. The boom vibrated the fruit bowl. He chuckled softly, the sound rich with satisfied cruelty. "Just testing the floorboards," he lied, his thumb stroking Julia’s back possessively. "Wanted to be sure your foundations were solid."
Later, curled on her velvet sofa watching Michael lounge nearby, Julia heard it: a desperate scratching against the cottage’s bamboo doorframe. Peeking through her minuscule window, she saw him, the salt-grain victim, somehow alive. Filthy and trembling, he clawed at the wood, silently mouthing pleas for sanctuary. Before Julia could react, Michael shifted on the couch. One colossal hand dropped casually towards the floor, fingers splayed. They didn’t land ON the crawling figure. Instead, they landed AROUND him, forming an instant prison of flesh. The man beat his fists uselessly against the towering walls of skin. Michael didn’t even look down. He yawned, stretching languidly, his fingers curling slightly inward. Julia watched, breathless, as the captive was effortlessly scooped upwards in the loose cage of Michael’s fist. He brought his closed hand close to his face, peering amusedly between his fingers at the frantic speck trapped within sweaty darkness. "Found a little stowaway near your castle, Peanut," Michael murmured, his voice a low rumble thick with menace. With deliberate slowness, he parted his lips slightly. Hot breath gusted towards Julia’s cottage window, smelling faintly metallic. He tilted his fist. The tiny man tumbled down the steep slope of Michael’s palm, landing hard against the fleshy pad of his thumb, mere inches from those waiting teeth. Julia leaned forward, pressing her tiny hands against the windowpane, a flush spreading across her cheeks.
Michael studied the trembling figure pinioned against the vastness of his thumbprint. A smile touched his lips, cruel and indulgent. "Not worthy of my Peanut’s kingdom," he declared softly. Suddenly, his thumb tightened. Julia saw minuscule limbs splay outwards, pressed flat against the skin by the overwhelming pressure. The man’s body buckled unnaturally. Then, just as abruptly, Michael released him. The figure crumpled, unmoving. Michael chuckled, a sound like distant thunder. He brushed the still form off his thumb with a flick, sending it spiraling into the abyss beneath the coffee table. Julia shivered, not from fear, but from the raw, effortless power radiating from her seemingly gentle boyfriend. The casual brutality lit a spark deep within her, warming her core despite the horror. She watched, rapt, as Michael turned his attention back to her cottage, his expression softening instantly.
Later, Michael placed Julia onto his bare shoulder as he settled onto the couch to watch TV. The warm, slightly salty scent of his skin enveloped her. Below, near the base of the couch leg, a new tiny survivor, perhaps the grape stem woman, cautiously emerged. Michael shifted slightly, his shoulder muscles rippling under Julia’s tiny feet. He sighed, a contented rumble vibrating through her. His hand drifted lazily downwards to scratch his inner thigh. As it descended, his massive pinky finger grazed the floor near the couch leg. The shrunken woman froze, pressed against the wood grain. Michael didn’t look down. His finger, thick as a tree trunk, slid sideways ever so slightly, its immense surface slowly crowding the tiny space. Julia leaned over the precipice of his shoulder, holding her breath. The woman scrambled backwards, but there was nowhere to go. The soft skin pushed her relentlessly into the sharp corner of the wooden leg. A stifled whimper echoed faintly. Michael hummed, his focus seemingly on the flickering screen, yet his finger pressed harder, pinning the minute figure into the unyielding angle with deliberate, grinding pressure. After a moment, he relaxed his hand, retracting it. Julia strained to see. Only a dark smudge remained against the varnished wood.
Julia watched, a strange heat coiling within her, as Michael reached for a bowl of popcorn. His fingers plucked a fluffy kernel, bringing it towards his lips. But as he did, Julia spied frantic movement within the bowl itself. Two shrunken men, camouflaged by the buttery pieces, were desperately trying to climb the sheer plastic side. They hadn’t seen the descending hand. Michael’s thumb and forefinger closed around a large, irregular kernel, not the one he intended. It happened too fast. He plucked it, the two tiny figures suddenly trapped within the canyon of his curled fingers, pressed against the rough popcorn surface. He paused, sensing the unusual texture. A slow, cruel smile spread across his face. He brought the kernel closer to his lips, tilting his head playfully. "Mmm," he murmured, his hot breath washing over Julia on his shoulder and the tiny prisoners crushed against the popcorn. Then, deliberately, he squeezed. The fragile kernel crumbled instantly into buttery dust beneath his fingertip pressure. The tiny men vanished, pulped amidst the debris. He licked his thumb and finger clean with a soft, satisfied smack. "Salty," he commented casually, finally selecting the popcorn he'd wanted and popping it into his mouth.
Later, as dusk painted the room orange, Michael carried Julia towards the bedroom window, his steps thundering the floorboards. He placed her gently on the windowsill. "Look, Peanut," he whispered, his voice a deep rumble beside her ear. "Sunset." Below the window, clinging to a spiderweb strung across the outside glass pane, a lone shrunken form clung for dear life, perhaps the last survivor. The wind buffeted the fragile web. Michael noticed the minuscule silhouette against the fading light. His expression remained soft, gazing at Julia, but the hand not supporting her drifted towards the window latch. With a subtle flick of his enormous index finger, he tapped the glass pane near the web. The vibration was immediate and catastrophic. The web snapped. The tiny figure plummeted silently into the deep shadows of the flowerbed below. Michael sighed contentedly, pulling Julia away from the glass. "Beautiful," he murmured, his thumb stroking her back, his eyes holding hers. The casual erasure sent a shiver of pure, forbidden excitement through her core, intensifying the possessive warmth in his gaze.
That night, Michael settled into his recliner, placing Julia’s velvet cottage securely on the armrest beside him. He flicked on the TV, the sudden flash illuminating the room. As the screen blared a car chase, Julia spotted frantic movement near the baseboard, two shrunken figures, a man and a woman, were attempting to scale the sheer plastic edge of a discarded soda bottle cap. Michael shifted, his elbow bumping the recliner lever. The chair emitted a low groan. His foot, clad only in a sock, nudged the bottle cap. It rolled lazily, pinning the climbers against the wall with a soft THUMP. They squirmed, trapped. Michael’s eyes stayed fixed on the screen, his expression relaxed, but Julia saw the slight, deliberate pressure he applied through his sock as he pressed the cap harder. Their struggles ceased instantly, crushed into the carpet fibers. He sighed again, a sound of pure relaxation, his focus solely on the action movie. "Comfy, Peanut?" he murmured without looking, his free hand reaching over to trace the tiny roof of her cottage, his touch impossibly gentle.
The next morning, sunlight streamed through the blinds as Michael stretched. He yawned, a cavernous expanse opening before Julia, perched on his collarbone. He padded to the kitchen, his bare feet thudding softly. Placing her on the counter, he began brewing coffee. Near the toaster, a lone shrunken survivor, the pajama-clad woman, peeked out from behind a crumb. Julia froze. The woman locked eyes with her, desperation etched onto her minuscule features. Michael hummed, scooping grounds. His hand, moving towards the sink for water, grazed the countertop. The heel of his palm descended like a fleshy avalanche, sweeping crumbs, and the woman, towards the edge. She vanished over the lip without a sound. Michael didn’t flinch. He filled the coffee maker, the gurgling water drowning any possible tiny cry. Turning back, he beamed at Julia. "Pancakes, my tiny treat?" he asked, his voice thick with morning warmth, utterly oblivious to the genocide he’d just committed with a casual brush of his hand.
Later, arranging Julia’s miniature velvet chaise lounge near the fruit bowl, Michael paused. He tilted his head, hearing a faint skittering near the baseboard vent. Julia saw her too: a small, dark-haired woman, perhaps newly shrunken, frantically trying to pry the vent cover open. Michael’s eyes narrowed, not in anger, but predatory curiosity. He knelt, the floor shaking, bringing his face level with the vent. His massive fingers tapped the metal grid gently. Tap. Tap. Tap. The woman inside shrieked silently, scrambling backwards into the duct’s darkness. Michael chuckled, a low, resonant sound that vibrated the air. "Little rodent," he murmured, more to himself. Then, he deliberately blew a soft, warm puff of air through the vent slats. Dust billowed outwards. A faint, desperate cough echoed from within. Michael smiled, satisfied, and stood up. "Must get pest control," he said casually to Julia, his gaze softening as he returned to arranging her tiny cushion perfectly.
Madrigel, the dark-haired woman, reappeared later that afternoon, clinging to a stray thread near Julia’s cottage. Julia watched her trembling hands sign: ‘Help. Friend?’ Michael was engrossed in adjusting a miniature bookshelf carved from a matchbox. Julia waved discreetly, catching Madrigel’s terrified eye. She mimicked ‘Stay hidden.’ Michael shifted, his shadow engulfing Madrigel’s thread. He paused, sniffing the air theatrically. "Hmm," he rumbled, eyes scanning the thread. Madrigel froze, a statue of dread. But Michael only winked at Julia. "Smells like... bravery? Or stupidity?" He chuckled, then deliberately turned his back, offering Madrigel precious seconds to vanish into the fringe of the rug. Julia’s tiny heart hammered, not just from fear for Madrigel, but from the raw dominance in Michael’s choice to spare her, because SHE willed it.
That evening, Michael set Julia beside a shallow dish of warm milk on the coffee table, her bathtub now. Humming, he soaked a cotton ball to wash her back. From the gloom beneath the couch, Madrigel cautiously emerged, drawn by the scent. She watched, transfixed, as Michael’s colossal index finger traced patterns in the milk, creating waves that lapped over Julia. He pretended not to see Madrigel. But when Madrigel took one hesitant step too close to the dish’s edge, Michael’s pinky descended like a fleshy guillotine blade, halting millimeters from her. Madrigel recoiled. Michael’s gaze stayed fixed on Julia. "Just making sure no little ants spoil your soak, sweet pea." The milk warmed Julia’s skin, while the threat, so precise and possessive, warmed something deeper.
Later, Michael scooped Julia onto the palm of his left hand, carrying her towards the kitchen for her dinner. His right hand swung casually at his side. They passed the open pantry door. Inside, amidst spilled grains of rice, a tiny man was desperately constructing a raft from a cornflake piece. Michael’s swinging hand clipped the edge of the pantry door. It swung shut with a heavy THUD, followed by a faint, wet crunching sound as the door’s bottom edge met the tile floor. Michael didn’t break stride, didn’t glance back. "What’ll it be tonight, my little doll?" he murmured to Julia, his thumb stroking her cheek. "A crumb of brie? A speck of honey?" Beneath the pantry door, a rivulet of crimson syrup, indistinguishable from spilled jam, began to spread across the tile.
Madrigel watched from the shadow of the fruit bowl as Michael meticulously arranged minuscule breadcrumb slices and a droplet of olive oil on a bottle cap plate for Julia. Michael placed Julia down beside the feast with reverence. As Julia nibbled, Madrigel darted forward, seizing a moment when Michael turned to fetch water. She pressed a fragment of pencil lead into Julia’s hand, a crude map scratched onto a fleck of paint, showing a potential escape route through the heating duct near the back door. Michael turned back, his gaze sweeping the counter. His eyes lingered for a fraction of a second on Madrigel’s retreating form vanishing behind the sugar bowl. A low growl, almost imperceptible, vibrated in his chest. His fist clenched briefly, knuckles whitening, before he forced a tender smile back towards Julia. "Is the oil to your liking, my treasure?" he asked, his voice tight with barely contained possessiveness. Julia felt the surge of heat bloom within her at his visible struggle NOT to obliterate her friend.
Later, Michael carried Julia into the humid bathroom as he prepared for a shower. Steam curled in the air, thick and cloying. He placed her carefully on the closed lid of the toilet tank, a makeshift viewing platform. Below, on the slick tile floor near the drain, Madrigel was struggling to scale the porcelain cliff face, desperate to avoid the impending flood. Michael stepped into the tub, the water drumming thunderously against the fiberglass. He reached for the soap, his dripping hand descending towards the bar. As he lathered, a thick gob of pearly suds slid from his fingers. It didn’t fall randomly. It plummeted directly onto Madrigel’s precarious perch. The slippery mass engulfed her instantly, gluing her to the tile. She thrashed silently within the viscous prison. Michael began to hum, his back turned, seemingly oblivious as the soap spread. Julia watched, her breath catching not in horror for Madrigel, but in fascination at Michael’s casual, precise cruelty. He knew EXACTLY where she was. The water surged down the drain inches away, threatening to pull Madrigel into oblivion.
He turned around, water cascading down his body, his gaze lingering on Julia. Then, deliberately, he flicked his gaze down to the soapy spot. A slow, possessive smirk touched his lips as he watched Madrigel’s frantic, futile struggles against the suds. "Careful down there, little trespasser," he rumbled, his voice echoing off the tiles with dark amusement. He raised one colossal, dripping foot, placing it firmly BESIDE the struggling figure, sending a wave of water washing over her. It didn’t sweep her away, but pinned her harder against the tile in the deluge. Julia felt a surge of heat coil deep within her belly at the display. He was playing with Madrigel, tormenting her precisely because she was JULIA’S friend, a constant reminder of his absolute control.
Hours later, in the soft glow of the bedside lamp, Michael cradled Julia against his chest, his heartbeat a steady drum beneath her. Madrigel had somehow escaped the suds, but now clung precariously to the electrical cord snaking towards the outlet near the bed. Michael’s free hand idly traced patterns on Julia’s back with his fingertip, but his eyes, sharp as obsidian, tracked Madrigel’s shaky progress. Julia saw the raw need in Madrigel’s eyes, a plea for sanctuary. She looked up at Michael’s jawline, the familiar curve she adored. "Honey," she whispered, her voice barely a breath against his skin. "Don’t hurt her. Please. Keep her safe... for me?" His thumb froze mid-stroke on her back. The air crackled with tension as his gaze snapped fully to Madrigel, pinned by the intensity. He growled low, a primal vibration Julia felt in her bones, his knuckles whitening on the bedsheet. The predator wrestled visibly with the lover.
The growl subsided into a sigh that ruffled Julia’s hair like a warm gust. A flicker of something dangerous still smoldered in Michael’s eyes, but his voice emerged gentle, strained with the effort. "Anything for my Peanut." He shifted, the mattress groaning under his weight. Slowly, deliberately, he extended his free hand towards Madrigel. The tiny woman flinched, scrambling backwards on the cord. Michael’s fingers stopped inches away, palm open, an impossible landscape of calluses and lifelines. "Come," he commanded, his tone softening only slightly, leaving no room for refusal. Madrigel trembled, glancing at Julia, who nodded urgently. Hesitantly, Madrigel stepped onto the massive palm, her tiny form dwarfed by the sheer scale. Michael’s fingers curled slightly, a protective cage rather than a crushing fist.
He brought his cupped hand close to his chest, near Julia, his expression softening further as he gazed between the two tiny women. "Safe," he murmured, the possessive edge returning as his thumb brushed Julia’s side. "But she stays close. MY eyes on her. Understand, treasure?" His gaze lingered on Julia, the unspoken threat clear: any sign of allegiance shifting, and Madrigel’s reprieve vanished. He lowered them both onto the cool glass surface of the nightstand, a miniature sanctuary beside the humming lamp. He tore a fragment of tissue paper, nudging it towards Madrigel with his fingertip, a crude blanket. "For the... guest," he muttered, the word tasting foreign.
Later, in the quiet darkness, Michael slept deeply, his breaths a rhythmic tide filling the room. Julia watched Madrigel huddled under the tissue scrap, shivering despite the warmth radiating from Michael’s nearby body. Madrigel’s eyes were wide with residual terror, fixed on the colossal form dominating the bed. She gestured frantically towards the heating vent near the floor, her movements sharp and desperate against the dim nightlight glow: ‘Go now! While he sleeps!’ Julia looked from her terrified friend to Michael’s relaxed face, the slight smile playing on his lips even in slumber. A wave of possessive warmth, fierce and undeniable, washed over Julia. She shook her head slowly, her tiny form silhouetted against the lamp’s base. ‘No’. This vast, dangerous world he commanded, and the intoxicating power she held over him, was exactly where she belonged.
The next morning brought sunlight and Michael’s low hum as he stretched awake. He found Julia perched on his pillow near his face, Madrigel pressed deep into the folds of the tissue blanket on the nightstand. "Morning, my precious speck," he murmured, his voice thick with sleep as he scooped Julia gently onto his fingertip. His thumb brushed her side, sending familiar sparks through her. He didn’t spare Madrigel a glance, striding towards the kitchen. Midway, he paused abruptly. On the hardwood floor near the breakfast nook, a shrunken man, missing a leg and smeared with grime, was dragging himself towards a crumb. Michael’s bare foot hovered directly above him. Julia saw the man freeze, looking up at the fleshy ceiling descending. "Messy," Michael tutted softly, his tone mild. His foot descended with deliberate slowness. Not a stomp, but a relentless, crushing pressure. A muffled crack echoed faintly as the frail body flattened beneath his instep. Michael rubbed his foot slightly on the floor, smearing the remains into the grain. He continued humming, placing Julia on the counter beside her tiny china cup of warmed cream. "Sleep well, sweet pea?" he asked, his gaze adoring, wiping his hands on a towel as if removing invisible dust.
Later, while Michael assembled a miniature swing for Julia from paperclips and string beside the bay window, Madrigel crept from her tissue refuge. She climbed onto the windowsill, gesturing frantically at Julia behind Michael’s broad back: ‘The vent! Before he looks!’ The duct cover near the baseboard was slightly ajar, a sliver of dark escape. Julia’s heart raced, torn between Madrigel’s terror and the possessive pull she felt watching Michael’s concentration as he threaded the string. Michael’s head tilted slightly. He didn’t turn, but his voice, soft and dangerous, cut through the air. "Something distracting my tiny treasures?" Madrigel froze mid-gesture. Slowly, Michael turned his head, his eyes locking onto her trembling form. A dark flicker crossed his face. His hand moved towards her. Julia acted instantly. "Michael! Stop!" Her tiny voice cracked out. He paused, fingers inches from Madrigel. His gaze snapped to Julia, sharp and questioning. "She’s not trying to bother us," Julia pleaded, forcing her voice steady. "She’s... she’s just a child, Michael. Lost and scared. Like I was." She saw Madrigel’s wide eyes, the genuine fear making her look impossibly young and vulnerable. "Please. Be gentle. For ME."
Michael’s expression shifted, the possessive darkness warring with the tenderness Julia commanded. He lowered his hand, but didn’t withdraw. His fingertip hovered near Madrigel, blotting out the sun. "A child?" he rumbled, skepticism heavy in his voice as he scrutinized her minuscule, terrified face. Madrigel nodded frantically, shrinking back. Michael let out a low hum, thoughtful rather than menacing. He shifted his focus back to Julia, his thumb gently stroking the curve of her tiny form. "You vouch for this... KID?" The word sounded strange, almost mocking, yet softened by Julia’s plea. Julia nodded firmly. "Yes. Keep her safe. Like you keep me safe." The raw devotion in her voice was her most potent weapon. Michael sighed, a deep, resonant sound that vibrated the air. He withdrew his hand completely. "Alright, Peanut," he conceded, the possessive edge still present but tempered. "The stray KID stays... for now. But she stays close." He deliberately nudged a fallen sunflower seed near Madrigel with his pinky. "Here. Build a fort or something." His tone was dismissive, but the action was concession enough. Madrigel scrambled towards the seed, pressing herself against its shell, trembling.
Later, Michael settled Julia onto a miniature chaise longue he’d crafted from a wine cork, placing it on the coffee table near his laptop as he worked. Madrigel perched hesitantly on the edge of a coaster nearby, gnawing on a grain of rice Michael had flicked towards her. Julia watched, a strange possessiveness blooming alongside her arousal. "She needs things, Michael," Julia piped up, emboldened by his earlier compliance. "Clothes. Toys. Her own little space, near mine." Michael glanced up from his screen, a flicker of annoyance quickly masked by indulgence. "Toys?" he echoed, a dark amusement twitching at his lips. "Fine, my demanding speck." He tore a corner from a tissue, then carefully ripped a smaller piece, handing them to Madrigel. "There. Blanket. Dress. Don't lose 'em." He turned back to his work, then paused, a possessive glint sharpening his gaze. "But remember, kid," he murmured, his voice a low, dangerous purr directed at Madrigel that sent shivers even through Julia. "Everything you have is because SHE asked for it. Every. Single. Thing." He tapped the laptop keyboard with deliberate force, the loud CLACK making Madrigel flinch violently. Julia felt heat surge within her, basking in the terrifying power she wielded over both of them.
The afternoon sun slanted through the blinds as Michael prepared a "tea party" for Julia and Madrigel on the kitchen counter, droplets of honey in thimble cups, crumbled biscuit crumbs on bottle cap plates. He placed Julia’s setting carefully, his movements gentle and precise. Madrigel, however, received only a rough nudge towards her assigned spot. As Michael turned away to fetch a kettle, Madrigel leaned close to Julia, her tiny voice a frantic buzz. "WHY stay? He’s a monster! He killed them all! We MUST escape!" Julia looked up at Michael’s broad back, the way his muscles shifted under his t-shirt as he filled the kettle. She remembered the wet crunch under his foot, the casual swipe that erased a life. Instead of fear, a thrilling warmth coiled low in her tiny belly. "He’s MY monster," Julia whispered back, her voice thick with possessive hunger. "He does it FOR me. To keep US safe." She gestured subtly towards Madrigel. "YOU’RE safe because I want you here. Because I want to raise you." Madrigel stared, horror and disbelief warring in her eyes just as Michael turned back, sensing the hushed conversation.
Michael’s gaze, sharp and calculating, swept over them. He placed the miniature kettle near Julia with exaggerated tenderness, then turned his full attention to Madrigel. The air crackled. "Problem, kid?" he rumbled, his voice dangerously soft. He leaned in, his immense face inches away, blotting out the light. Madrigel flinched, shrinking back into her tissue scrap. "N-no," she stammered. Michael’s finger tapped the counter beside her, a small, deliberate earthquake. "Good. Remember your place." He straightened, but the predatory intensity lingered as he watched Julia sip her honey, a possessive smile touching his lips. "Enjoying your tea, my little Queen?" Julia nodded, preening under his gaze. She deliberately flicked a crumb towards Madrigel. "Eat, Madrigel," she ordered softly, mirroring Michael’s control. "You need your strength." Michael’s approving hum vibrated the countertop.
Later, Michael carried both into the cool dimness of the living room, placing Julia’s cork chaise on the coffee table and Madrigel’s tissue bundle nearby on a coaster. He sank into his armchair with a sigh, flipping on the TV. The flickering light illuminated the dust motes dancing in the air. Julia watched as Madrigel, emboldened by the darkness and the drone of the television, began meticulously unfolding her larger tissue scrap. She tore tiny strips with concentrated effort, weaving them together with clumsy fingers, attempting to make a small sleeping mat. Julia felt a surge of warmth, Madrigel’s resilience, her INNOCENCE in trying to create order amidst chaos. "Michael," Julia called out, her voice cutting through the sitcom’s laugh track. She pointed at Madrigel’s work. "See? She’s making herself a bed. Isn’t she clever?" Michael glanced down, a flicker of genuine surprise softening his features for a microsecond before the familiar possessiveness returned. "Resourceful little pest," he conceded gruffly, though his thumb gently stroked the curve of Julia’s cork lounge. "Guess she learned SOMETHING."
The quiet stretched, punctuated only by the television and Madrigel’s focused rustling. Then, Michael’s gaze shifted past Julia, focusing intently on a tiny movement near the leg of the coffee table. Another shrunken figure, ragged and limping, was trying to scurry past, likely aiming for the perceived safety of the bookshelf. Michael’s expression remained neutral, almost bored. Slowly, deliberately, he shifted his bare foot resting on the floor. He didn’t lift it; instead, he slid it sideways with deceptive laziness, the sole covering the distance like a slow-moving glacier. The tiny figure froze, staring up at the looming expanse of skin and bone. Michael paused, his foot hovering less than an inch above the cowering form. He glanced at Julia, a dark question in his eyes, permission sought through silence. Julia held his gaze, a possessive thrill tightening her minuscule chest. "Not now, Honey," she murmured, her voice barely audible yet commanding. "We’re watching our show." A slow, pleased smirk spread across Michael’s face as he deliberately nudged the figure aside with the edge of his big toe, a dismissal so casual it was terrifying, before returning his attention to the screen. The survivor scrambled away, trembling.
As evening deepened, Michael carefully placed Julia and Madrigel into a shallow, ornate seashell, her designated bath basin, filled with warm, milky water. He knelt beside the counter, his immense presence casting long shadows, humming softly as he gently swirled the water with his pinky tip near Julia, creating a gentle current she floated in. Madrigel pressed herself against the shell’s smooth inner wall, trying to shrink further into herself, eyes darting nervously. Julia stretched luxuriously, letting the milk soothe her, her gaze fixed on Michael’s attentive face. "She needs a bath too, Michael," Julia stated softly, nodding towards Madrigel. Michael’s humming faltered. He frowned, the possessive line tightening around his eyes. "Why should I bathe the stray?" he rumbled, the possessive 'my' heavily implied. "Because she’s MINE now," Julia asserted, meeting his gaze unflinchingly, her tiny form radiating an authority belying her size. "I want her clean. Like me." Michael stared at her, a conflict warring between his desire to indulge Julia and his innate disdain for the intruder. Finally, with a huff that stirred the milk’s surface, he dipped his index finger, scooping a minuscule drop of milk onto its tip. He held it near Madrigel, not touching her. "Fine," he muttered, his voice tight. "Wash yourself, kid. Don’t make a mess." Madrigel scurried forward, trembling, using her hands to splash the droplet over her grimy clothes.
Later, tucked into a folded silk handkerchief atop the nightstand, Julia’s 'bed', Julia watched Madrigel struggle to fold her tissue blanket into a semblance of a pillow nearby on the polished wood. Michael, sprawled on the bed, was a landscape of muscle under the thin sheet, his breathing deep and slow. "Michael," Julia whispered, her voice barely a breath. He stirred instantly, his head turning towards her. "Mm? Need somethin’, Peanut?" His voice was gravelly with sleep. "Madrigel needs a proper bed," Julia murmured. "Something soft. Like mine." Michael blinked slowly, his gaze shifting to where Madrigel froze mid-fold. The darkness in his expression was palpable. "She’s got paper," he grunted. "Good enough." "No," Julia insisted, her voice firm despite its tiny volume. "She’s MY child. I want her comfortable. You made ME comfortable." The silence stretched, thick with tension. Michael sighed, the sound a low growl in the quiet room. He pushed himself up, the mattress groaning. Without a word, he reached for his discarded sock, tore off a small piece of the soft inner lining, and dropped it unceremoniously beside Madrigel’s tissue scrap. "There," he muttered, flopping back down. "Soft enough for the Princess’s pet?" His tone was laced with sarcasm, but the silk scrap landed like a gift. Madrigel cautiously touched it, disbelief in her eyes.
Julia, satisfied, nestled deeper into her silk folds, her gaze fixed on Madrigel. "Come here," she ordered softly. Madrigel hesitated, glancing fearfully at Michael’s immense form. "He’s sleeping," Julia soothed. "Come share the warmth." Slowly, trembling, Madrigel approached the handkerchief mound. Julia lifted the edge. "Get in," she commanded gently. Madrigel scrambled under the silk fold beside Julia, pressing close. Julia could feel her shivering, could smell the faint scent of dust and fear mingling with the silk’s perfume. She wrapped a tiny arm around Madrigel. "Safe," Julia breathed, echoing Michael’s earlier word, but imbued with her own fierce protectiveness. She felt Madrigel relax minutely, a tiny sigh escaping her.
Michael’s breathing hadn’t changed, but Julia knew his senses were sharp. She could almost feel the weight of his awareness in the darkness. "Michael," she whispered again, firm. His head turned instantly. Moonlight caught the hard glint in his eyes as he saw the two small shapes nestled together under the silk. "She sleeps with me now," Julia stated. "Every night." The possessive darkness rolled off Michael in palpable waves, a low growl forming in his chest. "She doesn't belong." "She DOES," Julia interrupted, her voice cutting through his rumble. "She belongs to ME. Where I sleep, she sleeps. That’s my rule." The silence stretched, thick and dangerous. Michael stared at the tiny bundle, his jaw clenched. Julia stared back, unyielding. Finally, he exhaled sharply, turning his head away with a muttered, "Fine. But she stays on the edge." It was another reluctant victory, the silk boundary between Julia and the rest of the world thinning.
Morning brought the familiar rumble of Michael shifting on the bed. Julia stirred as Madrigel pressed closer in her sleep. Sunlight streamed in, illuminating the dust motes dancing above Michael’s towering form as he sat up. His gaze immediately found them. Without a word, he reached out, his immense finger descending towards the silk mound. Madrigel whimpered, curling tighter. But the finger bypassed her entirely, gently scooping only Julia onto his fingertip. He lifted her to his face, his warm breath washing over her like a summer breeze. "Morning, my Queen," he murmured, his eyes soft only for her. He brought her close, his lips brushing her tiny form with feather-light affection before setting her carefully on his broad shoulder. Madrigel, abandoned on the nightstand, watched with wide, frightened eyes as Michael rose, his shadow engulfing her, his attention solely on Julia perched like a jewel.
In the kitchen, Michael prepared Julia's breakfast, a single, perfect blueberry balanced on a bottle cap plate. He set it before her on the counter, a dollop of cream gleaming beside it. Then, his gaze flicked towards Madrigel, who sat huddled near the salt shaker. A predatory stillness settled over him. Slowly, deliberately, he pinched a single granule of salt between his thumb and forefinger. He held it aloft, a glistening white prism catching the light. "Hungry, *KID?" he rumbled, his voice devoid of warmth as he dropped the salt grain like a boulder onto the counter inches from Madrigel. It landed with a sharp TICK, making her flinch. Julia watched, a familiar heat coiling low. "Michael," she called sharply from his shoulder. "She needs food. Real food." Michael turned his head, his cheek pressing against Julia. "She got salt," he stated flatly. "Peanut," Julia commanded, her tiny voice firm. "Give her a crumb. From MY biscuit." Michael’s jaw tightened, his eyes narrowing at the demand for his care to extend to the "stray". But the sight of Julia, so small yet commanding, perched on him, quelled the immediate refusal. With a barely audible growl, he flicked a minuscule piece of biscuit crumb towards Madrigel. It skidded to a stop near the salt grain. "Eat," he ordered, the word cold and final, before turning back to gently nuzzle Julia.
Later that day, Michael meticulously arranged a miniature landscape for Julia on the living room carpet: a mossy hillock, a pebble throne, a shallow lid-pool filled with rainwater. "For my Queen's court," he murmured, placing her carefully on the throne. Madrigel lingered near the edge of the "realm," hesitant. "Go on," Julia encouraged, gesturing towards the moss. "Play." As Madrigel cautiously explored the soft green carpet, a tiny beetle emerged from the moss, antennae waving curiously. Before Madrigel could react, Michael’s shadow fell. His immense finger descended, not to crush, but to gently nudge the beetle away. "Not for you, little crawler," he muttered, watching the insect scuttle off. His gaze then slid to Madrigel, who had frozen. He studied her wide, fearful eyes, the way she clutched a shred of moss for security. A low, thoughtful hum vibrated in his chest. "Huh. Scared of a beetle?" he observed, the mockery softer than usual, tinged with a flicker of something almost like amusement. He nudged a smooth pebble closer to her with his fingertip. "Here. Better toy." It was the barest hint of concession, almost accidental.
That evening, during Julia’s bath in her milk-filled shell, Madrigel was given her own thimble of warm water nearby. Michael watched, arms crossed, as Julia instructed Madrigel on washing. "See? Like this," Julia demonstrated, splashing tiny hands in the milk. Madrigel mimicked her, giggling nervously as water droplets flew. The sound was small, musical. Michael’s intense stare flickered. He leaned closer, his breath stirring the surface of both baths. "Careful," he warned Madrigel, his voice surprisingly lacking its usual edge. "Don't splash my Julia." The possessiveness was still there, deep and primal, but it lacked the chilling violence of before. He dipped a fingertip into Madrigel’s thimble, testing the temperature. "Water’s fine," he stated matter-of-factly, withdrawing his finger. He watched Madrigel resume her careful washing, her movements less frantic, more childlike. "Tiny hands," he murmured, almost to himself, a trace of that earlier, unguarded surprise returning to his gaze. "Guess they need tiny baths."
Later, while Julia lounged on Michael’s palm as he sketched plans for a new dollhouse-style bedroom, Madrigel cautiously approached Michael’s discarded sneaker. She began gathering lint balls, her small hands shaping them into a clumsy, fluffy ball. Michael paused his sketching, his pencil hovering. Julia held her breath, fearing his annoyance. Instead, he lowered his free hand, palm open, beside Madrigel. "What’s that?" he rumbled, his voice softer than the pencil’s scratch. Madrigel jumped, clutching her lint creation protectively. "A...a ball, sir," she stammered. Michael tilted his head, curiosity outweighing disdain. "Huh. Looks like a dust bunny." He extended one massive fingertip. "Gimme." Madrigel hesitated, then timidly placed the fuzzy ball on his calloused skin. He rolled it gently between thumb and forefinger, studying it. A faint, almost imperceptible huff escaped him, not a growl, but something close to amusement. "Soft," he conceded. He placed the lint ball back near her feet. "Keep it." Madrigel beamed, a quick flash of relief and joy before she scurried back to her corner, clutching her treasure.
The next morning, Michael prepared their breakfast ritual. He placed Julia’s dew-drop "tea" on a petal saucer, then paused, his gaze lingering on Madrigel, who watched from the counter edge. Without prompting, he pinched a single, plump oat flake from his cereal box. He set it down deliberately beside Madrigel, a golden nugget compared to her salt grain. "Breakfast," he stated simply, avoiding Julia’s surprised gaze. When Madrigel took a tiny, hesitant bite, Michael watched her chew, his expression unreadable. "Small bites," he muttered, almost to himself. "Don’t choke." Later, as Madrigel struggled to drag a thread for a makeshift blanket, Michael sighed dramatically. He plucked a cotton bud from a nearby Q-tip, its fluffy head larger than Madrigel herself. "Here," he grunted, dropping it beside her. "Quicker." He watched her wrestle the fluffy mass, his brow furrowed not in anger, but in concentration. "Tuck it under," he instructed gruffly, using his pinky nail to nudge a tuft beneath her. "Like that." Madrigel burrowed in, enveloped by sudden warmth, her muffled "Thank you, sir" barely audible.
That afternoon, Julia perched on Michael’s knee as he sketched designs for a miniature library using matchsticks and postage stamps. Madrigel cautiously approached his discarded sock, drawn to a loose thread. Her tiny fingers tugged, unraveling a strand longer than her body. Michael glanced over. Julia braced for a sharp reprimand. Instead, he hummed thoughtfully. "Need scissors, kid?" he rumbled, a strange gentleness beneath the gravel. Before Madrigel could answer, he plucked her up carefully between thumb and forefinger. Julia tensed. Michael carried Madrigel, wide-eyed, not to a punishing height, but to the low coffee table beside Julia. He set her down near the yarn basket. "Pick a color," he ordered, pointing at the tangled skeins. "That one’s softer." Madrigel chose a thread of sky-blue wool. Michael carefully snipped a manageable length with nail clippers, placing the tiny coil in her trembling hands. "Build something," he mumbled, turning back to Julia’s library. "Don’t trip."
Later, rain drummed softly against the windowpane. Michael sat cross-legged on the rug, Julia tucked into the hollow of his collarbone, warm and secure. Madrigel presented her collection: a sequin shield, a lentil drum, a bead necklace, and the prized blue yarn ball. She arranged them nervously on a coaster before Michael’s vast legs. Julia nudged Michael’s jaw. "Look," she whispered. Michael lowered his sketchpad, his gaze drifting over the tiny treasures. His finger, thick as Madrigel’s torso, hovered near the yarn ball. "Rolled tight," he murmured. He tapped the lentil drum lightly. It emitted a faint THUMP. "Good sound." Madrigel’s eyes shone. Then Michael pointed to a tiny, jagged piece of glitter stuck to a feather. "That’s sharp," he stated, a frown creasing his brow. "Could cut you." To Julia’s astonishment, he plucked the dangerous glitter away with surprising delicacy. "Stick to soft things, kid," he advised, tossing the glitter aside. It landed silently, a speck lost forever.
That night, after Julia’s bath, Michael settled her onto her silk handkerchief nest. Instead of retreating, Madrigel hesitated, clutching her yarn ball. Julia waved her closer. "Come on." Michael watched, arms folded, as Madrigel scrambled onto Julia’s ‘bed’. Before Julia could say anything, Michael reached down, not towards Madrigel, but towards the ragged tissue scrap she’d used earlier. He bunched it into a messy lump. "Here," he grunted, dropping the tissue bundle beside Julia’s silk. "Use that for your… toy." He gestured vaguely at the yarn ball. "Make a pillow." He didn’t wait for a response, turning away to dim the lamp. Madrigel beamed, quickly nestling the yarn ball into the soft tissue lump. Julia caught Michael’s reflection in the dark window glass; his stare lingered on Madrigel’s quick, happy movements before he snapped off the light entirely. The darkness hummed with his unspoken acceptance.
The next morning dawned, unexpectedly cold. Julia stirred, tucked against Madrigel’s warmth under a fold of silk. Across the room, Michael knelt, building a small fire in the hearth, minute tongues of flame reflected in his serious eyes. He gathered Julia first, placing her near the gentle heat on a coaster shield. Then, after a deliberate pause, he extended his palm towards Madrigel. "Cold?" His voice was low, devoid of its usual bite. When Madrigel nodded mutely, he scooped her up as carefully as if she were spun glass and deposited her next to Julia. He tore a tiny piece of biscuit, dividing it evenly between them before retreating to watch. Julia nudged Madrigel towards her share. "Eat," she whispered gently. Michael watched Madrigel nibble, his brow furrowed thoughtfully. "Smaller bites," he reminded softly, almost tenderly, the firelight softening the harsh lines of his face. "The cold makes everything colder. Chew slow."
Later, Madrigel tugged Julia towards a forgotten corner by the baseboard. "Look!" she whispered excitedly, pointing to a tiny, intricate structure woven from stray threads and glued dust bunnies, a miniature fortress with sequin windows and a lint drawbridge. Julia gasped. Before she could speak, a shadow engulfed them. Michael crouched low, his gaze sweeping the tiny architecture. "Huh," he breathed, genuine surprise coloring his tone. He leaned closer, his breath stirring the dust motes clinging to the walls. "You built this?" His finger traced the drawbridge without touching it, a curious reverence in the gesture. Madrigel clung to Julia, nodding silently. Michael pulled back slightly, his eyes meeting Julia's. "Smart kid," he conceded slowly. "Good pattern." It wasn't praise, exactly, but the acknowledgement settled warmly between them.
pixelskylines
areudirty
blakekathryn
andulkaphoto
2087