Dylan’s heart jackhammered in his tiny chest as he clung to the fraying threads of James’s boxers, wedged in the humid crevice near the giant’s groin. The coarse fabric scratched his skin, and the air was thick with a cloying mix of sweat and pizza grease that made his nose wrinkle. Above, James’s massive hand hovered, fingers twitching as they scratched at his hip, dangerously close to Dylan’s precarious perch. The giant’s grumbled “Weird itch” still echoed in Dylan’s ears, each word a seismic rumble that shook the couch and rattled his bones.
“Don’t move, don’t move, don’t even breathe,” Dylan whispered, his voice a barely audible squeak. “He’s right there. One wrong twitch, and I’m a goner.” His tiny hands tightened on the threads, his knuckles whitening as he pressed himself flatter against the fabric. The warmth of James’s skin radiated through the boxers, a living furnace that made sweat bead on Dylan’s brow. Every instinct screamed to bolt, but the looming hand kept him frozen. “If I stay still, maybe he’ll think it’s nothing. Just a lint speck. Not a tiny idiot stuck in his crotch.”
The couch creaked as James shifted, his massive thigh flexing and narrowing the crevice. Dylan bit back a yelp, his body jolting as the fabric tightened around him. “Oh, crap, he’s moving again!” he hissed, his eyes darting to the giant’s hand, which now rested on his thigh, fingers drumming idly. “Stop fidgeting, you big oaf! You’re gonna squash me!” The heat was suffocating, the air growing heavier with each passing second, and Dylan’s lungs strained against the musky haze.
He glanced toward the distant edge of the couch cushion, a faint sliver of hope in the dim light. “If I could just get there,” he muttered, “I’d be out of this death trap. But with Mr. Itchy Fingers up there? No way.” James’s breathing rumbled overhead, steady but ominous, like a storm waiting to break. Dylan’s mind raced, weighing his odds. “Stay put, Dylan. You’re invisible. He can’t see you. Just… wait him out. He’s gotta move eventually, right? Maybe he’ll get up for another slice or something.”
But as James scratched again, his fingers brushing closer to the crevice, Dylan’s resolve wavered. “Oh, God, he’s not giving up,” he whimpered, his tiny body trembling. “I’m not an itch, you giant moron! Don’t dig for me!” The fabric shifted under another twitch of James’s thigh, and Dylan slid an inch deeper, his grip barely holding. “This is the worst,” he groaned, his voice cracking. “Stuck in a giant’s boxers, smelling like a gym locker, and one wrong move from being a smear. Just stay still, Dylan. Don’t screw this up.”
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