Vek

I'm afraid there is no hotter size scenario than a supple rear, descending with lethal force atop a speck far too small to escape the ever-darkening shadow—and too small for their final, desperate squeaks to be heard above the rushing winds of displaced air…

*Crunch*

A princess's last sight being the cotton trousers of the very same knight chosen to protect her—now stretching to encompass her entire vision and casting the landscape of her dining chair in shadow…

The *crunch* is completely unnoticed as the freckle-faced warrior sneaks a taste of her meal.

“So after you shrank him, right? What did you...”

Your roommate, currently counting the cash of his newly “found” wallet, rolls his eyes.

“Ate ‘em.”

“….what?”

“Yep. Like swallowin’ some salt. Ain't taste like much though.”

Moon-sized teeth blur from atmospheric haze, descending with an almost languid slowness down upon everything you know and love.

For you, it is the end of everything.

For him—the so-called “cosmic devourer”—it was barely a snack. One soon forgotten as his eternal blue gaze locks with our sun…

Your last sight being the almost blinding lights of a busy club dance floor, framed by a series of off-white teeth and partially obscured by the mound of half-chewed fries that would soon serve as your burial…

*Gulp*

The slight belly pudge of a cute goblin minion serving as the only existing evidence a so-called “legendary” party of Inchling heroes ever existed—their final screams overshadowed, and soon silenced, by the much louder *gurgles* and *growls* of his body, reducing skin and makeshift armor into chyme…

Two characters that should be much, much, *much* larger than I am.

Either towering over a cityscape, their face bordered by clouds far, far above—or simply looming over something so small it could scarcely be described as a speck.

To say nothing of the looming gardener, so titanic you can scarcely make out their appearance—a blur of flesh clad in thick fibers, boots vaster than cruise ships flattening what seems like miles of grasses…

Your last sight will likely be the underside of their tread…or the nozzle of a spray bottle

Food for a sparrow as it swoops down in the early morning. Plucked away and consumed with a single *snap* of its colossal beak.

Smashed into the ground by a tongue the size of a truck, dragged with a quick *TWIP* into the maw of an unassuming frog. No different than a fly…

Shrunken small enough that being dropped in your neighbor's backyard becomes a death sentence. Woefully ill-adapted to traverse the thick jungle of towering grasses—curling to form an almost foreboding shade over the landscape.

Defenseless, against any of the kaiju-esque creatures that inhabit it.

*SNIFF*

The giant idly rubs their nose, making a mental note to restock on their allergy medicine.

They can practically *feel* themselves getting congested. Gross.

You crash—rather, you *splash* against one of the cavern walls, slamming into a puddle of warm, viscous slime. It ensnares you like a fly on tape, sticking to your limbs and pressing tightly against your flesh. You twitch feebly…yet can do little as you sink into its embrace...

You're flung through a jungle. Stalks, concealed in the darkness, curl off-kilter, their trunks thicker than trees, and marred with uneven clumps of dust and pollen—boulders of microparticulate carried by the same wind that ensnared you…

The inky blackness looms in the sky above, an artificial night that seems to stretch to the far corner of your world. A sharp, deep *whistle*. A sudden suction. The air seems to rip from your throat as you're thrown skyward, gasping screams lost in the din.

“They should be here...somewhere.”

The psychic rubbed her temples as she scanned the living room carpet, attempting to parse the series of incomprehensible sobs and wails echoing like a foghorn from their shrunken roommate’s mind.

“If I can just…” She steps forward. The scream cuts off.

“…shit.”

Killed off by a germ that would later be *effortlessly* obliterated, as the homeowner finally gets around to cleaning their dirty sink—a single wipe of a slightly soapy sponge rendering your contribution as meaningless as your life…

You can feel it cling to you. Feel as its slime-like body wraps itself around your own. Feel as your flesh wilts and cracks, disintegrates and softens until it's little more than an organic slurry of proteins and fat—one promptly incorporated into its mass.

Yet you are no closer to escaping its impact…

The ceiling of skin hung in the sky above—a landmass of sole-flesh, blemished by a pattern of deep, trench-like wrinkles, lowering with cruel languidity onto the earth.

You've finally collapsed, lungs burning for the merciful relief of air as you end a sprint that seemed to last for hours on end...

Been on a writing lull lately so this trend might be good!

Reply with a kink and i’ll give my throughts on it. Will try to write a brief scenario if I jive with it.

I think what prompts a lot of my writing is the preference that a giant feels more akin to a “horror movie monster” or an “eldritch entity” than an actual human.

I like tinies being scared—horrified, even—By someone so comparatively vast they surpass understanding.

You don't even receive the “honor” of being eaten by the pretty-yet-woefully-unhygienic witch who shrank you to next to nothing on her body. Instead, you find yourself food for the countless microbes dotting her pale, unwashed flesh.

Consumed by an errant germ, or broken down by a fungal colony…

God I want to be sent tumbling into the sky by an inescapable suction, surrounded by thick, misshapen motes of pollen. Just one of the many microscopic bits of matter sucked into the sharp nose of a goblin by an idle inhale, splattering somewhere in the abyss of their nostril…

God I wanna be tossed into the seemingly endless cavern of a boot, falling for hundreds upon hundreds of feet before crashing with a soft *thud* against the rough dunes of their insole, landing in a dried mound of grit and microscopic gunk.

A soon-to-be stain in some adventurer’s starter shoes.

God I really want to drown within the seemingly endless depths of a sweat droplet, thrashing wildly in a translucent prison of liquid, gasping for air only to receive a mouthful of brine and oily skin detritus in return.

Flicked away as just another bit of perspiration decorating a farmboy’s brow.

God I really want to be a nanoscopic smear of crimson atop a veritable landscape of fabric—the seemingly endless uneven hills of thread and fiber, frayed and broken from microscopic wear, amounting to only a fraction of the material hugging a handsome elf's supple rear.

A quick *wipe* cleans the tables surface. Spotless.

Timid maid who is nonetheless heralded as an apocalyptic entity by countless nanos.

Blurred, distorted visage pressing down upon a vast platform, unleashing a biblical flood on a worldscape of uneven woodgrain. Those not crushed beneath the mass of liquid burn in its caustic, chemical embrace…

Size difference that turns the soft-spoken, freckled-faced mage from the local tavern into an alien behemoth. His blurred visage contorts with panic, twin mountains of whorled flesh lowering to *pinch* you up off the table—a minute squeeze still exerting far more pressure than you can endure…

[Twitter Repost]

Let Vek be a bit indulgent for a minute.

If I was like...*really* small around you/your OCs. Microscopic.

What is the most likely way I'd be bad-ended👉👈.