The roar of James’s piss thundered in Dylan’s ears, the water in the toilet bowl churning violently around him. His tiny body bobbed and spun, battered by the relentless current. He clawed at the slick porcelain walls, his fingers slipping with every desperate grab. “Come on, come on,” he gasped, his voice lost in the chaos. His lungs burned, his eyes stung, and the sheer terror of being so small, so insignificant, threatened to overwhelm him.
Above, James remained oblivious, his massive form a towering silhouette against the bathroom light. The stream slowed, then stopped, and Dylan’s heart sank as James reached for the flush valve. “No, please, no!” Dylan sputtered, kicking frantically. The click of the valve echoed like a death knell, and a sudden rush of water surged into the bowl, a tidal wave from Dylan’s perspective. The vortex pulled at him, dragging him toward the dark drain at the center.
“Fight it, fight it!” Dylan growled to himself, his voice trembling but defiant. He angled his body, using the spiraling current to propel himself toward the edge. The water was cold, relentless, but he kicked with everything he had, his arms straining as he reached for the bowl’s rim. His fingers brushed the smooth curve, then caught—just barely. With a guttural cry, he hauled himself up, his tiny muscles screaming. The flush roared below, but Dylan clung to the edge, panting, dripping, alive.
The water settled, the bowl refilling with a soft gurgle. James, still unaware, pulled up his underwear and stepped away, his heavy footsteps fading as he left the bathroom. The door clicked shut behind him, leaving Dylan alone, shivering on the toilet’s rim. “Holy shit,” he whispered, his voice hoarse. “I’m not dead. I’m not dead.”
He glanced around, his mind racing. The bathroom was quiet now, but he couldn’t stay here—too exposed, too risky. The door was slightly ajar, a sliver of light spilling in from James’s bedroom. Dylan’s eyes darted to the floor, then to his trembling hands. “Gotta move. Gotta hide,” he muttered. He slid down the porcelain, landing on the cold tile with a soft thud, and sprinted toward the door, his bare feet slick against the floor.
Peeking through the gap, Dylan saw James across the room, sprawled on his bed, scrolling on his phone. The giant’s focus was elsewhere, his face lit by the screen’s glow. The bedroom was dim, the light fading as evening settled in. Dylan’s gaze landed on a pair of boxers crumpled near the edge of the bed, half-hanging off the mattress. “Warm. Dry. Safe,” he whispered, his teeth chattering. “Better than nothing.”
He crept across the hardwood floor, heart pounding with every step. James’s distracted hums and the occasional tap on his phone were the only sounds. Dylan stayed low, hugging the shadows, until he reached the bed. The boxers loomed above, a tangled mass of fabric. He gripped the edge of the mattress, hauling himself up with a grunt, and scrambled onto the boxers. The scent hit him immediately—musk, sweat, the raw smell of James. It was strong, almost overwhelming, but Dylan didn’t care. “It’s warm. It’ll do,” he muttered, crawling into the folds of the waistband.
The fabric enveloped him, soft and slightly damp with residual heat. He pushed deeper, the smell growing more intense as he navigated the creases. “Just a quick rest,” he told himself, his voice barely a whisper. He reached a curve in the fabric, a pocket where the boxers had cradled James’s body—balls to ass, the scent heaviest here. It was oddly comforting, like a cave shielding him from the world. Dylan curled up, his body still trembling from the ordeal, and let exhaustion pull him under. “Just a nap,” he murmured, eyes fluttering shut. “Figure out what’s next… later.”
Outside, James remained oblivious, the world moving on as Dylan hid, a tiny speck in the giant’s shadow.
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