kittlesandbugs

[kittlesandbugs]

FHR: Just a chat (AO3 link here) Pairing: Sidestep/Ricardo Ortega (hints of Chargentstep), Sidestep & Hollow Ground Warnings: None, they're just chatting lol Word Count: 1720 Summary: Ortega takes Sidestep to the park to get some fresh air after being cooped up with broken legs in his apartment for a couple weeks. When he steps away for a few minutes to take care of something, someone else swings by for a talk.

It's a peaceful day at Memorial Park. The sun is shining through the carefully maintained trees, dappling the green grass. The air is cool and calm, balmy even with your multiple layers. The birds are chirping around you and every so often, a squirrel darts by. The air is full of children's laughter as they play on the jungle gym. People are calm and content around you, enjoying the nice weather. 

You haven’t been this tense since the last time you were hauled into a lab and strapped down. 

"I can't believe I let you talk me into this," you hiss at Ortega, sitting on the bench next to your wheelchair. 

He's lounging, at ease, though still alert. You see it the way his eyes roam around through the back of his sunglasses, watching everyone and everything around you. "Relax, Riley. Nothing is going to happen here," he chuckles. His hand starts towards your knee to give what you assume is supposed to be a reassuring pat before stopping and redirecting to your arm. You don't like it when anyone touches your casts. "You need some fresh air and sunlight once in a while. You were going crazy in the apartment."

"You could have at least waited for Argent to come over," you growl quietly. "Four eyes are better than two."

"We got four eyes. Hell, four hundred probably, if we count your telepathy." 

"Fine, four working legs." You roll your eyes at the pedantry. 

"We're in broad daylight in the good side of town, no one knows we're here. Relax." 

There's a little note of a plea in there that makes you sigh and nod. He is right, but you aren't going to tell him that. The chances of anyone coming after you in broad daylight on this side of town are almost nonexistent. And if they knew where you were, they would have gone for the significantly easier hit on Ortega's apartment by now. 

So you try. Take in some sun from the sky. Some sun from the carefree kids running past in a game of tag. As good for your brain as dogs, and they're here too. You sink into the padded chair and close your eyes, trying to focus on them rather than the itch of your healing bones that reminds you just how helpless you actually are. 

"Hey, wait here a moment," Ortega says after a few minutes of peace and quiet. You open your eyes to find him perched at the edge of the bench, eyes honed in on something. Your gaze follows but you can't make out who or what he sees at this distance. Are his sunglasses enhancing his vision? Probably, knowing him. You try to follow his line of sight with your telepathy, but what you find that might be getting his attention is strange. Foggy. Nebulous. It's difficult to latch on to any thoughts. Not blocking you like numbers, no, that's closer to the static of Ortega's brain. But someone that is definitely strange. Who is it? 

"Ric, what do you see?" you whisper harshly, the anxiety you felt earlier returning in full force like a hammer strike to your skull as he starts to rise, gesturing with his hand for you to stay put. Like you have a choice

"Just an old friend," he says, the cant of his lips saying the opposite. "I'll be right back. You're safe here."

And then he's off at a swift jog before you can protest, leaving you fumbling for the locked brakes you can't easily reach on the wheelchair handles. 

"Wait! You stupid fucking jackass—" 

"He is, isn't he?" A laugh behind you, and it takes all you have not to scream as a familiar lanky figure folds into Ortega's vacated seat. She's dressed in a finely woven linen jumpsuit, warm sepia with matching leather loafers, her gold piercings sparkling in the dappled sunlight. Her too similar face looks at you with a too similar crooked smile. 

Hollow Ground. 

How the fuck could she sneak up on you like this? You didn't sense her at all. You still can't. Not even so much as a thought void, just nothing. You've never seen anything like it. How is she concealing herself? What the fuck does she want with you? Your chair is still half-locked, trapping you here. Should you scream? Should you—

" Relax," she says, and it's almost a command as she meets your gaze with your own gray eyes. Still, you try to rein in your heart attempting to race its way out of your ribs. "I just want to talk."

"About what?" Your voice betrays the tension tight in your spine, much as you wish otherwise. If one more person tells you to relax, you think you might actually snap. You need to regain control of yourself. You are Reckoning, for fuck's sake. You're not some helpless child. 

"You," she says simply and then pauses. Frowns. Like she's no longer quite sure of what to say. Like she had a plan, but now she doesn't know if it should be executed. 

You try to touch her thoughts again, and again you're met with less than nothing. Are you hallucinating? No. The man walking down the path sees you both. He isn't worried by what he sees, two sisters having a conversation that seems tense. You aren't going to dig into the implications of that one. So she's here. She wants something, wants it enough to approach you about it. You realize the benefit to her closely kept secret identity means she can approach you freely as long as Ortega is not around. The weird presence you felt before, you realize that was Jake, you felt the same nebulousness of his thoughts when you went to meet Hollow Ground at Parkside. Irresistible bait to lure Ortega away. But you have no idea what it is she wants. So you wait. Ortega is right. No one is going to try and do anything in public in broad daylight. She won't, not like this. 

"What about me…?" you prompt when the quiet of her gets to be too much, impatient to find out what this is about with her mind giving you no clues. 

"How… are you?" she asks, surprisingly tentative. 

That reserved inquiry catches you off-guard, but you recover swiftly, her odd nervousness making you feel more confident despite your obvious weakness. "Oh, you know. Peachy. Just out for a stroll," you drawl, gesturing at your propped up casts. 

She snorts and the corner of her lips twitches. Somehow, your snark steadies her. "I should have expected that."

"Why do you care?" you ask sharply. She's being weird, and you don't like it. What is this about? Why would she risk meeting you like this?

"You're a mystery, Riley Owens. I'd hate it if you died before I could solve it." She smirks as you feel your blood run cold. Something about the way she says your name makes you feel jittery. But even more importantly, how could she possibly know who you are? You never gave your name before, to anyone at Parkside, you were there as your villainous alias. Argent scrubbed all records of your surgery at the hospital, though you have no doubt Hollow Ground knew who had been involved in the wreck. How does she know your name? Do the Rangers have a leak? 

As your brain stumbles over what this could mean, she holds out a small white card with something scrawled on it. An address. You recognize the area. Rich and residential. Very rich and residential. Is this… She can't possibly be just handing you this… 

"Got it memorized?" At your nod, she pockets it with a smile that's a little sharp for your liking. 

"What is your g—" 

"Fuck." Her hand shoots up, silencing you as her head tilts slightly like she's listening to something. You can just make out the outline of a small clear low profile receiver in her over-pierced ear. "We lost your pet Ranger, and he's on his way back. I have to go." She rises from the bench with the grace of a crane, giving you a conspiratorial wink.

"Wait, what— Fuck!" You swear, fumbling for the other lock on your chair before she can get away. 

As she strides away, she calls back, "You should stop by sometime, when you're back on your feet. We have a lot to catch up on."  

For someone so tall, she disappears far too easily into crowds. By the time you can roll after her, she's gone, as traceless as she appeared. What the fuck did she mean, catch up on? You're left sitting there, stewing in your own bile, until Ortega finally returns. 

He's sweaty, looking a little tired and roughed up. You think you can see the outline of a bruise blooming under the edge of his bearded cheek. He's definitely been in a fight. You don't know if you should be pleased or pissed that he learned to leave civilians behind for these kinds of escapades after his stunt with Jolene went awry. "Hey," he says with a little wave as he catches his breath. "Everything okay?"

 "Just dandy," you snarl, playing into being pissed that he left you. If he knew who just stopped by to pay you a friendly chat, he'd shit his own generator. "Sitting like a duck while you go haring off to go fight some rando."

Luckily, you think he's getting the right message, because he holds his hands up, placating, as he talks to you in the same tone he uses with his unruly horse at the ranch. "Hey, c'mon. I was just gone a few minutes. Nothing happened, right?" 

"Yeah," you lie with a sigh, dragging a hand down your face. "Nothing happened."

He grabs onto the handlebars of your chair, and if he notices you've unlocked it, he doesn't comment on it as he starts walking you through the park. "Angie texted me about meeting us at the ice cream stand. You want to get some ice cream before we go home?" 

"Yeah." Sugar will help steady your nerves. Get your mind off what just happened. “Let’s get some ice cream and go home.”

You have a lot of thinking to do later.

[kittlesandbugs]

これは猫ハラでいいよね

I think it can be said the cat harassment...

[kittlesandbugs]

Funniest self-report in XIII is simply majoring as a Sentinel. Your fatal flaw is self-sacrifice and and it shows every time you cast Steelguard.

[kittlesandbugs]

You can't take loved away

[kittlesandbugs]

MONKEY MAN + trivia 2024, dir. Dev Patel

[kittlesandbugs]

FHR: Escapist inklings (Ao3 Link) Characters: Sidestep (Farm, 2nd visit) Warnings: Canon-typical suicidal ideation, implied abuses at the Farm, nothing explicitly shown. Word Count: 735 Summary: Sidestep sits in solitary confinement, pondering possibilities for escape and stumbles onto an idea.

Lying on the mat in your cell, you toss and turn with restless frustration. It's impossible to get comfortable between the fresh bruises of the day and the dampeners weighing down on your mind. They're immutable around you, making the four close closed walls even more claustrophobic. A choke hold on your mind that would be much more merciful if it was clenched tight around your throat. 

If only you could be so lucky. 

You still on your back, the thin mat doing little to cushion your scrawny atrophied body from the cold concrete floor. Your stomach gnaws at your spine, fed just enough to keep your brain alive and active, because that's all they care about. Not fed enough to be comfortable, to remind you that good dogs get good meals. You ignore these slights against yourself. You're still breathing. Focus on that. 

In. 

Out. 

Slow. 

Steady. 

Don't think about how you learned this, years ago, a passive puppy learning to self-soothe to serve. They want that good obedient dog back, not the feral stray cat you became once out of their bag. You'll die before becoming that sad browbeaten creature again. And they'll regret the tiger you'll be once you figure your way out of this cage. Once you have your claws on their throats. 

How to get out is the only thing stopping you. 

Telepathy won't get you out of this, not with the dampeners trapping your reaching prying fingers inside your own skull. You aren't a shape-shifter. You can't dematerialize and pass through walls. You can't pass unseen and unheard through spaces between reality, not like the Void.

Hm. The Void. 

You saw the paths she walked once. You made yourself forget them as the green faded from your sight and the burn faded from your veins. Could you make yourself remember them again? Could you walk them again? Pass through the walls of this place like the ghost you are. What's the worst that can happen if you try? You venture too deep into the space between? It crushes you like it crushed the Void? Ends your miserable existence here? You can't see a downside to trying. 

You breathe. In. Out. Remember. The acid of her Blood burning deep in your veins. The color of her Sky, deep underground. The paths they opened in the spaces between, seared deep inside of you. Push your fingers through the folds of your mind, peel and pry back the scars chaining the memories so very deep, gouge them out, let them flow fresh and green. 

(ignore the screams. yours. ortega's. they're all in the past.)

Your eyes open inside and you see. It's tiny, barely visible, like dust motes in a shaft of light. Small. Mutable. Immaterial. You can't walk this. Your flesh is weak but solid. It binds you to this plane. 

But your mind is strong. It doesn't need this flesh. It needs to go free, unfettered, unburdened, unreal. You have to escape the gravity well of mind to body. You have to unmake your self to become. 

You need to let it go. 

You reach and you drag your self, pulling taut, tauter, tight, tighter, and then finally the invisible cord binding you to you snaps. 

You think you scream. 

But no one comes in. 

Your body breathes on below, but you are weightless above. 

Immaterial. 

Free. 

On the moted path, you wander. Beyond the choke of the dampeners, you fly. Feather light and feather flow, you drift down towards another mind.

A guard. Yours. Seated in a padded chair, viewing screens that capture you and your cell, inside and out from every angle. 

You flow into the cracks of his mind, taking a tenuous hold amidst his stream of consciousness. He's bored watching you sleep, especially now that you've settled. He needs to go to the bathroom, but his shift mate has stepped out to smoke. He wonders what will be for dinner when he gets home after third shift is over. He half-hopes you'll start pounding the walls again, just to break up the monotony. 

You wonder… 

Can you do more than watch…? 

Tickle a little nerve. 

His hand jerks and he swears as the mug of coffee spills across the desk. In his panic, your tenuous hold snaps like a rubber band. 

You lurch upright, you again, you yourself, choking on bitter victorious bile as you laugh. 

[kittlesandbugs]

new game plan called shield yourself at all times and never let anyone in . this will have no repercussions

[kittlesandbugs]

2015-02-08

[kittlesandbugs]

BG3: Sights preferred unseen Characters: Astarion POV, Dark Urge (Nox), Alfira Warnings: Alfira is not having a great night at camp, all warnings related to that apply... and throw in some eroticism of gore for extra funsies Word Count: 805 Prompt: from @sidestepping to write about one character peeping on another character's sleep. Took a little liberty to use a tranced Durge as almost the same thing. I refuse believe there's no way Astarion didn't see or hear something while Alfira was getting gutted in the middle of camp, he doesn't fucking sleep lol. So... this happened.

The scent of fresh blood tickles your nose. Sweet thick sentient blood. Rousing. Almost arousing. Gods, you practically ache to feel it coating your tongue, slithering down your throat. You are so very, very hungry. The boar you'd hunted earlier in the eve sated, but it was far from satisfying. 

It takes you a moment to remember where you are, still unused to open air camping after two centuries kept. You startle from your meditative torpor, looking around for the source. The rest of the camp seems quiet. You don't seem to be under attack. But someone should have screamed, right? Or cried for assistance. The person bleeding, if no one else. Your sensitive heightened ears would have caught it. 

But then they catch a whimper. You look around, straining for more. 

“Shhh, shhhh, shhh, hush now…”  

You hear the quiet croon, soft and smoky voiced. Something about the tone sends a shiver crawling down your spine. You've heard something similar before, trapped in the dank and the dark of Cazador's mansion. You nervously swallow down saliva pooling under your tongue as you slowly, so slowly, look toward the flickering embers of the dying campfire. Nox is there, broad back and freckle-flecked shoulders hunched, kneeling over something. 

No… Someone… 

“Such a pretty girl…” she murmurs and you realize she's straddling the bard, Alfira. Her spindly arms are pinned under Nox's broadly muscular thighs. One meaty hand is clamped tight over the bard's mouth, muffling her desperate sounds. The other is caressing one of her long spiraling horns. The gesture is tender and loving, but the blood oozing down Alfira's face in the firelight says this is anything but. 

“It's been so long since Father had such a lovely little gift.” She leans down to lick the trail of blood on the bard's cheek, and your stomach curdles as similarly suffered tortures flit across the back of your mind. 

The bard struggles helplessly like a butterfly in a cruel child's hands, and you don't dare move lest those hands turn to you and rip off your metaphorical wings as well. But she can't even begin to dislodge Nox's inhumanly strong bulk pinning her down. You aren't certain anyone could. 

“Shhhhhhhh…” Nox croons again, and then the sudden sharp crack of bone makes you flinch, and the bard release a muffled scream. Her fist rises, a long black twisted horn clenched tightly inside it. 

You clamp a hand over your own mouth and swallow down the bile threatening to come up. You should help. Wake the others. Save the girl. But you can't. If that blackened half-gaze turns its way towards you, you're certain you'll die. 

You all will. 

The bard is a necessary lamb to sate whatever is demanding this slaughter. 

“Father embraces you…” she murmurs, leaning in close to Alfira's tear-stained bloody face.  “None will escape…”

The tip of the horn traces the bard's jugular with loving care not at all fitting the atrocity on the other side of the campfire. The sudden burst of iron fills your nostrils as her jugular splits. The bard's suffering will be over soon. 

With any luck, yours won't be beginning. You turn away and curl up, feigning sleep once more. 

A quiet manic giggle tickles your ears, along with the wet meaty sounds of the bard's body being stabbed over and over again. By her own horn, most likely. A soft moan verging on orgasmic almost makes you retch on your bedroll. You hear the sounds of something dragging across the dirt, but when you peek once more, the body is exactly where it was, surrounded by its own blood soaking the dirt. 

And then it's like the strings are cut on a puppet. Nox slumps, stills, and gasps awake. In the glimmering embers, her eyes dart around with confusion. To the body. Her hands, coated in the ill-fated bard's crimson blood. Back to the body. She drags a red hand down her face with a groan. 

“What… happened…?” she murmurs softly, her voice far too calm for the atrocity before her. “Did I do this?”

She scrubs her face again and lets out a frustrated sigh, no apparent answers forthcoming to her. You wonder if whatever possessed her is the cause of her amnesia. But you aren't getting up to ask, lest you trigger a new fit of murder to eliminate the witness to her brutality. 

Instead you watch as she trudges back to her bedroll and flops down on her back, making no effort at all to clean up or hide her atrocity. You wonder how the others will react to it come sun up, having blissfully slept through the slaughter in the center of their camp. 

You won't be getting any more rest tonight, that much is certain. 

And if anyone asks… you saw nothing. 

[kittlesandbugs]

Thinking about her again... Patch 8 when Larian...

[kittlesandbugs]

I would like to think that when garrus is confused about something he would go to joker, and ask him about the weird things shepard does as a human, and then joker would be like yeah nah that's just the commander she's fucking insane

[kittlesandbugs]

34. …to pretend. with Riley x Ricardo or Nox x Minthara or Nox x Gortash (whatever sparks joy) please 👀 (no pressure and right there with you in the writing drought) -wayhavenots

OKAY. I wrote this two weeks ago and immediately hated it, but I reread it and I like it better now aldskfjoasdufj anyway. Writer block hard lol.

BG3: Bold maneuvers Pairing: Nox/Minthara Warnings: Canon-typical psychic manipulation games Word Count: 588 Prompt: Kiss to pretend, for Nox/Minthara. Set uhhhhh some indeterminate time post Bhaalspawn Control ending

“To you,” she says, raising a glass of blood red wine in toast. 

Smiling and inclining your head in a humility you haven't really felt since you took control of the Crown, you raise your own glass. 

“To us,” you echo, the clink echoing in your almost unnaturally quiet chamber. “And those that remain.” A swiftly dwindling number. 

She's watching closely, though she tries not to appear that way. She tries to do many things in small attempts to thwart your Authority, to test the limitless boundaries of your perception. She's forgotten how impossible it is to hide from the Netherbrain, with its spawn in her skull, without the Emperor's meddling powers. You've allowed her to have her little games out of some malingering sentiment. 

But that's made her bolder. It's led to this. A soporific in your wine. A thin blade waiting quietly beneath the pillow next to yours. A plot to finally put an end to your madness, though you can't remember your mind having ever been clearer. 

It's a shame, what you have to do. You'll miss this. Her sharp mind, her cunning wit, her claws leaving fresh marks in your back as she takes you. But you've made the mistake of not taking a sentimental threat seriously once before, and it nearly cost you everything. 

Would it have come to this with Gortash, when your plan's finally reached their inevitable and irreconcilable divide?

You only mime taking the drink, letting it but stain your lips and tongue. It doesn't take more than a little nudge of her tadpole to secure the certainty in her mind that you drank deeply and suspect nothing. 

She smiles, sharp and beautiful and real, her baleful blood red eyes glittering like rubies in the torchlight as she approaches. You smile back much the same, teeth stained just as red. Her hand reaches up to knot in your hair, and you let her pull you down into a kiss. Her tongue pushes into your mouth, tasting the poisoned wine. Her mind practically purrs with satisfaction as she moans softly into the kiss. 

You sway a little as she draws back, letting her think what she wants. She smiles again and gives you a push back towards the bed. 

“I want you,” her lips say. Dead, her mind whispers, but there are no secrets to be had from her worm. 

You let your body stumble back, falling onto the duvet with a soft whumph of air. You slide back towards the headboard, the action so familiar it may as well be instinct. She follows on all fours like a cat stalking its prey until she comes to a rest straddling your hips. 

You feel that familiar warmth stirring in your groin. Settling into the pillow, you exhale a long slow wistful breath at what will no longer be. She mistakes it for exhaustion, and you close your eyes. 

“You seem tired,” she comments softly, cool nimble hands tracing up your scarred abdomen to unknot the lacings of your breast band. 

You hum a noncommittal and feel yourself relax, despite the danger looming over you. It's as fleetingly ephemeral as her desire to see you gored in these sheets will be. 

“I am," you admit just as quietly as she peels the fabric back from your breast, placing a kiss over your heart.

“Then you should rest, ustnor.” 

The dagger slides against the satin sheets as she settles above you. And as the cold blade also kisses your breast, you seize control. 

[kittlesandbugs]

FHR: First impressions Characters: Mortum POV, Puppet!Step Warnings: None Word Count: ~300 Prompt: Short and sweet Sidestep interacting with a canon character between escaping from the Farm the 2nd time, short and sweet. Originally written 4/2023, realized I never posted it outside of the FHR Discord...

"How lovely to finally meet you, face-to-face," she says quietly above the bar's din, rising from the booth to greet you. "You're quite difficult to pin down. My compliments."

She's much younger than you thought she'd be, from speaking with her on the phone. Soft and vibrant, ivory white skin smattered with freckles, long auburn curls flowing free, and a dazzling smile that almost can't reach emerald-hard eyes. It would fool almost anyone. But you aren't just anyone. She offers her hand and you take it, secure in the knowledge that your spectacles have detected nothing hidden on her person.

"Perils of the trade, as I'm sure you understand, mademoiselle. Consider it passing the first test. I don't work with amateurs." You slide into the booth to find a whiskey on the rocks already waiting for you. She's done her homework. You dip your nail in and give it a little stir. The orange varnish comes out clean, no contaminants. Good.

"I've piqued your interest then?" she asks as she settles back in across the booth, smoothing her skirt.

"You have." You take a sip, pleased to find she didn't cheap out. That bodes well for future arrangements. "But I need to know more about this project of yours before we can reach an accord. And a price."

"Of course." This sharper smile does reach her eyes. Anticipation. Excitement. New beginnings. You can relate. "We're thrilled you've agreed to hear us out, Dr. Mortum."

"We?"

"My boss and I, of course."

Ah. This young woman is the face of the outfit. A shadow lurks beneath. You prefer in-person with actual clients, but this isn't the first time you've worked with a liason. And it won't be the last.

"And you are…?"

"Jolene."

[kittlesandbugs]

Love the concept of Bad Thing that provides protection from Even Worse Thing. This villan has dibs on killing me someday, so they’re not going to let anyone else do it. Person has a permanent illness that’s super hostile to any other type of infection. Lawful evil tyrant absolutely PISSED at chaotic evil invader killing their subjects. Person has been cursed by the gods but the curse supersedes all other hexes and magical ills. This shit absolutely charges my batteries.

[kittlesandbugs]

FHR: First impressions Characters: Mortum POV, Puppet!Step Warnings: None Word Count: ~300 Prompt: Short and sweet Sidestep interacting with a canon character between escaping from the Farm the 2nd time, short and sweet. Originally written 4/2023, realized I never posted it outside of the FHR Discord...

"How lovely to finally meet you, face-to-face," she says quietly above the bar's din, rising from the booth to greet you. "You're quite difficult to pin down. My compliments."

She's much younger than you thought she'd be, from speaking with her on the phone. Soft and vibrant, ivory white skin smattered with freckles, long auburn curls flowing free, and a dazzling smile that almost can't reach emerald-hard eyes. It would fool almost anyone. But you aren't just anyone. She offers her hand and you take it, secure in the knowledge that your spectacles have detected nothing hidden on her person.

"Perils of the trade, as I'm sure you understand, mademoiselle. Consider it passing the first test. I don't work with amateurs." You slide into the booth to find a whiskey on the rocks already waiting for you. She's done her homework. You dip your nail in and give it a little stir. The orange varnish comes out clean, no contaminants. Good.

"I've piqued your interest then?" she asks as she settles back in across the booth, smoothing her skirt.

"You have." You take a sip, pleased to find she didn't cheap out. That bodes well for future arrangements. "But I need to know more about this project of yours before we can reach an accord. And a price."

"Of course." This sharper smile does reach her eyes. Anticipation. Excitement. New beginnings. You can relate. "We're thrilled you've agreed to hear us out, Dr. Mortum."

"We?"

"My boss and I, of course."

Ah. This young woman is the face of the outfit. A shadow lurks beneath. You prefer in-person with actual clients, but this isn't the first time you've worked with a liason. And it won't be the last.

"And you are…?"

"Jolene."

[kittlesandbugs]

Touching

Feeling another human’s touch.

touching foreheads

running fingers through hair

hiding face in neck

caressing the other’s hand

feeling their pulse

patting the other’s head

holding hands

shielding the other one with their body

listening to the other’s heartbeat

spooning at night

laying their hand on the other’s neck

pushing a strand of hair behind their ear

nudging the other one

putting an arm around the other’s waist

hugging each other

massaging them

holding the other’s chin up

squishing the other’s cheek

high fiving

bandaging/stitching up an injury

kissing the other’s brow

falling asleep on the other’s shoulder

carrying the other one in their arms

whispering in their ear, lips touching the skin

stroking the other’s arm soothingly

kissing the top of their head

pulling the other one towards them

feeling for each other in the dark

tickling the other one

grabbing onto their arm

doing a pinky swear

caressing the other’s back

tasting their smile

washing the other’s body

kissing their bruises and scars

lifting the other one up

putting their head on the other’s chest

stroking their leg

leaning into the other’s side

patting them on the back

sitting close and knees touching

braiding the other’s hair

giving them a piggy-back ride

sitting on the other’s lap

feeling their temperature

linking arms with each other

touching their elbow to get their attention

dancing with each other

holding onto the other’s shoulders for support

putting a hand over the other’s mouth to shut them up

caressing the other’s cheek

gripping thigh

holding the other’s jaw

touching cheek to cheek

tracing the lines on the other’s hand

Hand-holding|Hugs|Kisses

[kittlesandbugs]

daily sketch #3 - mogster & moggy