Part 1 Of A Short Little Comic (:

HERE WE GO MOTHERFUCKERS

Tbh drawing hands is an excellent way to give into my love of all thing g/t

have you hugged your first mate yet??? (it is mr. “can i take my top off” con’s bday)

Wip of the boiz, I fuckin hate coloring so I wanted to post it before I ruin it

OP you are right and perfect,

But HAVE you considered:

Choose Your Fighter

The Masses Have Spoken

Have my rough drafts you hungry (or process/aesthetic appreciating) feinds

Finished version is done now!

Based on this reference;

Bdbdbbdbdbdb :P

Picture this: Fidgeting

You’re not even sure how it started.

Maybe it was boredom. Maybe it was habit. Maybe they just needed something to ground them. But now, you’ve found yourself nestled in the crook of their hand, no more than a fidget to them—a living, squirming, whisper-soft thing to be idly toyed with.

Their thumb strokes over your back in slow, absent arcs. Over and over. Not unkind—never cruel—but aimless. Comforting for them. Your body shifts slightly with each motion, pressed into the warm plane of their palm, legs sprawled across the bridge of their fingers. You’re pliable, yielding. Small enough that they can wrap their entire hand around you and still feel like they’re being gentle.

They squeeze.

Not enough to hurt. Just enough to feel you. To remind themselves that something small and real and warm is there, with them. Their fingers curl slowly, pressing your body between pads of skin the size of sofa cushions. You let out a quiet breath, barely a noise, but they hear it.

And they smile, lazy and fond, their thumb dragging lightly over your chest.

“Cute—,” they murmur, their voice a rich vibration that thrums through your spine. Their thumb taps your head. You flinch, half-playful, half-defeated, and they chuckle low in their throat like you’ve done exactly what they needed you to do.

You’re rolled gently between two fingers next—a shift of pressure here, a twist there. Stretched, squished, repositioned. Like putty. Like something soft and satisfying to keep their mind from spiraling. They don’t even need to look at you. It’s all instinct now.

And weirdly? You don’t mind.

There’s something comforting in being used like this—absently, affectionately. A warm, fidget-sized tether keeping their anxiety at bay. Their hand is a fortress. A place where pressure is control, and touch is intimacy.

Eventually, they let out a deep sigh. Their fingers uncurl slightly, opening like a flower to reveal you, tousled and breathless.

“Still alive?” they ask, teasing, brushing your hair back with a fingertip the size of your face.

You just nod, flushed and blinking up at them.

They press you into their palm again and exhale—steady now.

Eat the rich. 💫💫💫