Mini Giants are my favourite.
The first thing you wake to is the feeling of weight. A mountain of quilt and warm muscle flattening you into the mattress. At barely two feet tall, you’re a little taller than a housecat, and right now you’re about as helpless as one that has been pinned beneath a sofa cushion.
It’s a pocket of stale warmth, your own little airless cave, stinking (comfortingly) of body wash and last night’s tea. You push against the wall of frabic, but your arms aren’t even long enough to dent the blanket fort sealing you in.
Above, something rumbles, a sleepy thunderclap tucked inside an ordinary human chest. You know that sound. Even when it is muffled through the mountain of blankets atop of you. You could pinpoint who that was even if it were storming outside
“Baaaabe…?” The sound vibrates the mattress coils. Your ribs buzz like tuning forks.
You kick until one bare foot pokes free. Instantly a hand, each finger thicker than your wrist, sweeps across the bed. It drags over your calf, your hip, then presses flat to your sternum. The entire heel of their palm spans shoulder to shoulder on your tiny frame.
“There you are.” Their morning voice is a gravel pit, half words, half purr. You squawk as they roll you, blanket and all~into the curve of their arms like a burrito.
“I can’t breathe,” you squeak, voice muffled in cotton.
“Didn’t ask you to.” They peel the duvet back from your face, and dawn light spills in. Your giant~ six-foot-something of bed-headed menace, squints at you. Eyes puffy, lips parted, hair everywhere. You get precisely one second to inhale.
Their lips pucker. Then they kiss.
Their mouth eclipses half your mouth and chin, some cheek too, hot and damp. You feel the plush weight of their upper lip slide from forehead, then chin, smearing drool. They hastily unravel you from the blankets so that they may continue their morning barrage of kisses. You’re easily flung from the sheets, now held in both of their hands like a prized figurine.
Your left breathless as their large mouth attacks your small face. Chin, forehead, cheek, other cheek. Neck, cheek, nose. Oh my god. A single finger tugs down your shirt collar, a kiss lands on your collarbones; another kiss turns into a large tongue slurping across your entire abdomen, ribs tickling from their stubble.
Like some kind of animal.
“Yuck! Stop!” You thrash. They just laugh, a rumble so low it tickles your bare soles. Then they fold you tighter against their chest. Your whole front molds to their left pec, the muscle as firm as a springy mattress topper, skin heated like a radiator. Every breath lifts you an inch; every exhale drops you like an elevator.
“Too much,” you gasp, scrambling, planting both palms on their sternum. Your arms barely reach nipple to nipple, which you’ve noticed have hardened in the cool morning air beneath their shirt.
You push~ nothing. Trying to budge 98 kilos of “morning monster” is like shoving a fridge.
They only growl, deep in their throat, a low, lazy diesel engine of possessiveness. When you try to slip down their torso, the arm beneath you hooks up, forearm thicker than your thigh, rolling you higher until your cheek smears into the soft hollow of their throat. Their pulse trundles under your lips, big and slow.
“Stay,” they instruct, voice reverberating through bone. “Please~ just cuddle me for a bit,” they groan “I need attention” they whine.
You squirm harder. You grumble about your back, your pride, your bruised dignity, but the truth is, you crave this too. The chaos. The closeness. Them.
They answer with nuzzles, broad nose dragging across your ear; lips suctioning at your cheek; a playful nip that makes your whole leg jolt. Schlurp. A hot stripe of tongue up the side of your neck leaves you slick.
“You’re disgusting,” you hiss, wiping drool.
“I’m awake now,” they correct, grinning so wide their dimples look like twin sinkholes. “And you’re breakfast.” Another cavernous kiss mwaaaas your belly, the impact folding you like a taco. Your spine cracks pleasantly.
You swing a flat hand at their chin. Trying to shove them off. They barely budge, just huff a pleased noise and tuck you even tighter, palms overlapping across your back so that your ribs creak. Buried under their crossed forearms, you can’t even wriggle; the thick weave of their sleep shirt rasps your cheek with every futile breath.
“Need…you,” they echo, mock-serious, breath ghosting hot across your scalp.
Finally you go limp. Not because they’ve won.. well, partly~ but because the steady drum of their heart under your hands is hypnotic. Boom…boom…each beat a gentle quake rocking your entire torso. Your own heart, hummingbird-fast, gradually syncs down.
“Fine.. five more minutes. But then I need air. And a coffee” you mumble into their clavicle, voice half smothered, breathing heavily.
“Okay~” They grin against your hair, rubbing a cheek against the top of your head.
You smile in return. But, in petty protest, you chomp the tip of their chin, just a nip, enough to leave faint teeth dents. They gasp theatrically, jerking, and the blanket avalanche re-buries you both.
They then roll, pinning you beneath their chest until you’re basically begging for freedom. And oxygen.
They’re never hurting you~ overwhelming, yes. Smothering, absolutely. Utterly humiliating at times… unfortunately~ but when they lean a large cheek into your small palm, pressing their mouth to every inch of skin, needing your touch, your warmth. No matter your size, your more then enough to them. Your heart warms when they look at you like the most precious thing in the world. Even if they carry you around like an accessory.
Five minutes turns into ten, turns into you losing count entirely~ because once the giant has you, time goes soft-focus. Their thumb keeps brushing your spine in lazy semicircles, and you forget you ever wanted coffee, or air, or dignity.
But eventually their stomach grumbles, an earthquake under your ribs~ and the spell breaks. “Food,” they mumble, as if the single word requires Herculean effort.
Before you can brace, fingers hook into the back of your shirt, lift, and suddenly your cargo. Your knees and arms dangle; the hem of your shorts flutters around your thighs. You sway against their thigh like a novelty purse while they stumble toward the kitchen.
“This is my last good shirt! You’re going to stretch it!”You protest, naturally, kick, hiss, call them a barbarian.
They reply with a fond “Mm-hmm,” and a pat to your backside so oversized it bumps your whole torso against their thigh. Each step jogs your organs; each jostle reminds you whose armspan rules this house. Yet you catch yourself grinning anyway, because being swung along, dangling from their hand offers the most ridiculous views: the fridge handle is a skyscraper; the kettle’s whistle could qualify as weather.
They set you on the counter for a heartbeat, looking incredibly sleepy still, hair sticking to one side of their face. Eyes partially closed as they butter toast, then scoop you again, this time belly-down across their forearm. Your chest molds to the warm slope of muscle; your feet dangle over the crook of their elbow.
Your arms and legs instinctively wrap around the width of their forearm, ankles linking like some kind of monkey gripping to a branch. Your cheek rests in the curve of their palm like a fleshy pillow, their fingers smell of bread.
A thumb as broad as a paperback drifts up and down your back, tracing your vertebrae like braille. You melt, traitorous, into a loose-limbed sigh.
“Thought so,” they murmur, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. They lean into the counter as they eat. Toast crumbs rain onto your hair. You grumble half-heartedly, but they finish their breakfast, then their thumb returns to continue stroking, and the complaint fizzles.
Later, on the couch, you’re promoted, if that’s the word~ to pillow. They recline, haul you onto their chest, and then, with a heavy exhale they seem to change their mind. They then lift you to the couch cushion so that they may lower their entire head onto your torso. One cheek alone covers from sternum to hip. It is absurd. It is beautiful. Their lashes tickle your collarbone; their exhale warms the thin fabric of your shirt in waves.
You slip a hand, small as it is, along the line of their jaw. They nuzzle, eyes slipping shut, like a lion claiming sunshine. The pressure should be uncomfortable, but the trust in that weight is its own comfort. They could crush; they simply…don’t.
“Comfy?” you ask, voice wobbly beneath the load.
“Perfect,” they whisper, the word vibrating directly through your ribs. Then a softer confession, almost shy: “You feel like home.”
That one sentence overrides every earlier indignity, the hoodie commute, the drool slick kisses, the threatened oxygen. Because no matter the scale, no matter the awkward angles or your reddening cheeks, you’re enough. Enough surface to kiss, enough warmth to chase the chill from their bones. Enough heart, small but stubborn, to steady theirs.
Sometimes that means being carried like a handbag; sometimes used like a teddy; sometimes a heartbeat under a mountain of muscle and messy, earnest affection.
Eventually your phone alarm chirps. Responsibilities beckon. But before you can wriggle free, a sleepy palm splays across your spine, pinning you with gentle finality.
“Five more minutes,” they plead around a yawn.
You huff, trace a tiny circle over their dimple, and grant those minutes, knowing full well they’ll turn into ten, then twenty, and that you’ll pretend to complain the whole way through.
After all, being overwhelmed has never felt so safe.
dededos
ellievsbear
jacobvanloon
annaxmalina
izzy806
baratheonpilled
