#sensory challenge

[microficmay]

Week 1: Sensory Challenge

Include at least one of the five senses in your microfic: sight, sound, smell, taste, or touch.

Examples

Her lips were softer than she thought they’d be, considering how wild the woman attached to them is. She tasted of cinnamon and something decidedly smokey. Hermione was hooked after the first taste. Bellatrix couldn’t believe the girl would be so brave as to kiss her, although she probably should’ve. The girl was Gryffindor’s Golden Girl after all.

— Lips [Bellatrix/Hermione, 58 words] by @whoreofthecottage

draco was swaddled in silks immediately after birth, even before the vernix was removed. his sheets, night clothes (they were far too fancy to be just pajamas), and favorite ribbon were all of the finest silk. his skin never suffered that abomination of rayon and polyester blend that some of his peers thought silk. and yet nothing — nothing — felt as good on his skin as harry’s tattered def leopard tee, made from the most common cotton.

— silks [Draco/Harry, 76 words] by @justthingsfromsarah

🫶

Prompts

Info

FAQ

AO3

[my-autism-adhd-blog]

ADHD vs, Autism

The Autistic Teacher

[tiddygame]

Ghoap god type au part 3!

Ao3 /// part 1 /// part 2 /// part 3 /// part 4 /// part 5 /// part 6 /// part 7 /// part 8 /// part 9

Their first official meeting face to… well, almost face. Soap’s doing his best.

[Disclaimer: I have been fiddling with this for ages, and just like everything else i’ve written, i’m not quite happy with it but i’m done looking at it. sorry if it’s awful lmao. also it’s around 5 goddamn thousand words]

Another battle won, another victory to add to the general’s reputation, and another fight that left Ghost feeling empty.

Part of him hated that he had become a disciple for the god of death. It was hard not to notice the changes that started after he first left an offering for the god. The way he felt a little less alone, the way enemy arrows would occasionally miss their target, the way the aches of battle faded much sooner, the way the world seemed a bit brighter. The way it gave him hope.

Hope was a dangerous thing. It tricked him into thinking he was meant for more than just dying on the battlefield. Made him believe that he could have a happy ending.

In reality however, Ghost would live and die a prisoner, having forgotten the taste of freedom. The world was not bright. It was cruel. If there were any good in the world, the other side would have won. Would have slaughtered them like pigs.

Instead, they lived to fight another day. Once the wounded were stable, they moved on. Found a spot to camp on a riverbank. As always, Ghost ran off. Let himself indulge in the falsity of hope.

By now, everyone in the camp was used to his routine. The only one brave enough to confront him was the general and so long as he returned to be his rabid dog whenever he needed, he learned not to care.

So, he left. Continued his search for more temples that once housed devout believers of the god of death. He appreciated the distraction from the real world, a short respite found in half-mindless wandering through abandoned cities or overgrown forests.

Ghost still knew very little about the god. While he knew the story of why the god had been forgotten, he still knew next to nothing about who the god was. They didn’t seem too bad at least; Ghost was still alive and has yet to be punished to an eternity of suffering.

He knew if he tried asking the god, (if he received an answer at all) it would all be what he wanted to hear and not the truth. So, he searched.

Most temples were too dilapidated to glean any information, but the little he had gathered seemed to point in a mostly positive direction. But he still needed to know more. He didn’t even know the god’s name for fuck’s sake.

Wandering through the forest, he wasn’t too worried about getting lost. It wasn’t so dense that shadows swallowed it whole and he could always follow the river to find his way back out.

Over the months spent on this routine, he’d learned a lot about how to find the temples, especially in forests like this one. It was rather simple: find a trail of slightly younger trees and follow them.

The much bigger, much older trees would outline a path that had long been lost to time. While hundreds upon hundreds of years have passed since the god was praised, the evidence was still dug into the earth.

Sure enough, after an hour or two of following a line of newer trees, he found a temple. It was the most intact one he’d found yet, all four walls still up, even if they looked ready to cave in at any moment. The only structural integrity was likely from the amount of vines slithering in through the cracks, acting as rope to hold together a building that wanted nothing more than to collapse.

The inside was surprisingly well lit. The holes in the roof that had been filled with various plants let in a soft green light. In the middle, extending from the back wall was a pedestal atop which sat crumbled rocks. As he guessed, taking a closer look proved it to have once been a statue that had either fallen prey to the passage of time or the anger of the locals.

Turning his attention to the walls, on his right was another doorway that would have led to a balcony overlooking the surroundings. Now, however, it was a simple curtain of vines leading to a pile of rubble falling down the hill. On his left was a wall of vines that was so thick, he wasn’t even sure if the wall was still there. But just peeking out towards the bottom looked to be the bottom edge of something that had been carved into the rock.

Curiosity piqued, he walked over and tugged at the ivy. Most didn’t even budge, but he was able to move enough to see that it was likely a mural of some sort. He hoped it was, at least. He was desperate for any information on who or what he’s been helping.

Pulling at the vines only resulted in his hands becoming covered in ants that had been hiding and he had a vague thought about setting fire to it, but there’s no way it would catch and if by some miracle it did, it would likely cause a forest fire. No other option readily available, he sighed and drew his knife, beginning the long and arduous process of hacking through each individual branch.

There was no easy way to do it. They clung to the wall so tightly that to try and slash them would just scrape the edge of his knife on the stone and ruin the edge. The brambles on them made him very grateful for his gloves saving him from turning his fingers into mincemeat. He worked carefully, pulling far enough to get his knife under the stems and cutting through them one by one.

It took hours of meticulous removal and a smarter man would have stopped a long time ago. But Ghost was determined now, he started the process and he couldn’t leave until it was finished.

He didn’t pay too much attention to the actual mural as he worked his way through them, waiting until he could see the full thing. At some point, he had to stop to light a small torch. Darkness having begun to set in, he didn’t notice he had cleared most of it until he took a step back.

As he suspected, it was a mural of the god, depicting some of his godly deeds. The original carving was already rather simplistic and the aging didn't help in deciphering what story it was telling. He was worried that in brushing off the dirt, the carvings would come with it, so instead he brought his torch closer and tried to figure out what he was looking at.

It seemed to be a set of stories, all of which featured the god as kind, helping people who were suffering. The first carving was of an old man on his deathbed, the god putting his hand over his eyes. The next was of parents watching as the god kissed their newborn on the forehead. The third grabbed his attention.

It was a soldier with a knife in his chest, the god holding his hand.

Months ago, Ghost had been in that exact situation. Dying was certain, and yet instead of doing whatever it is the god of death does when someone is dying, the god saved him. Healed a fatal wound with a golden scar. (And put a flower behind his ear, but he often elected not to think about that when remembering the event.)

All of the carvings were different tellings of the same story. For months he had been asking the same question with no answer: Why was Ghost’s story different?

Ghost shook his head. As always when trying to think about the why of it all, he concluded to not think about it. To just push it aside and ignore it. Whatever snake was hiding in the grass waiting to strike was too hidden for Ghost to see. Until the day comes that he gets bit, he will forget about it.

Pulling himself away from the third image, he turned back to the statue. The mural didn’t tell him anything he didn’t already know and hoped the collapsed statue would hold some answers.

Sure enough, it was still just as collapsed as before. There were marks in the rocks that proved it wasn’t the passage of time that felled it, but the anger of a mob.

Now looking at the pedestal with the torch, he saw the shadow of inscriptions on a plaque near the bottom. Kneeling down to get a better visual, he saw that it was four words written in an ancient language.

ᓭ𝙹ᔑ!¡, ˧𝙹⟍̅ 𝙹⎓ ⟍̅ᒷᔑℸ ̣⍑.

He remembered little of the translation, recognizing the third word was “of,” and after scraping through his memory, he was pretty sure the second word was “god.” Either that or fish. His memory is not that great.

____, GOD OF _____.

Well, it didn’t take a genius to deduce what the rest of it said. While he was iffy on the translations, he knew the phonetics well. Excited to possibly have the god's name in front of him, Ghost made a mistake.

Which, he would like to clarify, he knows that he’s an idiot. Stupid, dumb, anything and everything between. Obviously, common sense dictates that when you find strange writing anywhere, but especially in an ancient temple, you DO NOT READ IT OUT LOUD.

However, as previously stated, stupid dumb idiot and all that. In his defense, he wasn’t fully aware he was doing it. It had been a while since reading the dead language and the old carving made it hard to decipher the glyphs.

So, not thinking, he sounded them out. Out loud. Reading a random sentence in an abandoned temple of the god of death, who was abandoned after claims of being a monster. It was not Ghost’s proudest moment.

But, he did manage to read it, saying to an empty temple, “Sau— No… Soap, God of… Death?”

He didn’t know if he read it properly. When he had learned the script, it had been taught with handwritten letters. How they looked on a pen and paper was very different to how they looked carved into stone. He decided to risk delicately brushing away some of the dirt, following the indentation of the letters.

He was still trying to read the plaque when he became aware of someone behind him.

The hairs on the back of his neck stood up as he carefully maintained his position, not giving away that he had noticed the person. Looking out of the corner of his eye, he could see their shadow behind him and to the right.

Forcefully maintaining his casualness, he dropped his hand from the plaque and rested it on the ground as if he were just balancing himself. The other went to nonchalantly rest on the buttcap of his sword, holding it like it was happenstance for that to be the more comfortable position. He waited.

They did nothing. They did not move, didn’t take advantage of his weakness, he couldn’t even hear them breathing.

He had a sinking feeling that he already knew what was behind him. And if he was right, his sword would not save him.

Steeling himself, he stood and turned, drawing his sword. At first glance, they were not a soldier, thief, or mercenary. They drew no weapon and barely even reacted to his sudden advance.

It wasn’t human either. It… It “smiled” at him. Every fiber of Ghost’s being was telling him to run, run far away from this thing before it mauled him.

He stood still. No one can outrun Death.

His vision blurred but only when trying to look directly at the god. He was almost… translucent. When he risked a glance to the door, his image began to vibrate, like he didn’t need to hold himself together anymore.

Later, trying to recall any specific features would draw a blank. Eyes, hair, height — anything. He would question if the god had any physical form at all or if he just imagined it.

He needed to get out of there.

It seemed the god was examining him just as closely. Ghost tried to slowly back away, to inch closer to the door, but was stopped by the god circling him. Not having a secure exit made his skin crawl and he was sure to keep the being in his sights the entire time.

In the same way his eyes were warring over whether the god was there or not, he didn’t know how nervous he needed to be. The months spent offering whatever he had in exchange for company and help on the battlefield made him want to relax, to talk to him like he was an old friend.

The lifetime he spent being betrayed and getting used made him want to attack first. The back of his neck prickled at the reminder that he still owed the thing his life. He was not an old friend. He was a deity, the god of death, and would be able to kill him with ease. Ghost kept his sword level with the god despite being all too familiar with its futility.

The god, Soap, stopped his circling and stood in front of him, far too close for comfort. When Ghost backed away, he watched like he was observing a bug he found interesting.

The comparison was far more apt than Ghost wanted to think about.

“Your fellow soldiers call you Ghost, yes?”

It was the first time actually hearing the god speak and it was just as unsettling as he thought it would be. The voice reflected his flickering form, oddly deep and reverberating like it wasn’t meant for this plane.

Subconsciously, his sword slowly drifted down, no longer threatening an attack.

“…Yeah. How do you know that?” He didn’t bother trying to keep the accusatory tone out of his voice.

“I’ve been watching.”

Ghost didn’t like this. Not at all. Everything in his bones was screaming at him to get the fuck out of there. He readjusted his grip on the sword but forgot to raise it. He needs to get out. Now.

The god laughed.

“Don’t give me that look. You’re the first follower I have had in an age. What else was I supposed to do?”

Part of what made his voice sound off finally hit Ghost.

“The god of death is Scottish?” The incredulous tone probably wasn’t doing his life expectancy any favors.

“Aye. And you’re British.”

The god turned and began inspecting the rest of the temple. Ghost didn’t feel the true weight of the god’s stare until it was gone, now taking in several deep breaths as the pressure went away.

“Thanks, I didn’t notice.”

“I thought we were pointing out the obvious.”

The god smiled at him like it was a simple joke. But the annoyance was there. Even if the god was laughing now, that doesn’t mean he would still find Ghost’s disrespect funny in a few minutes. He needs to watch himself and be careful.

“Why do you look all… weird and shit?” Good job, Ghost. Real good about being careful and making sure to overthink his wording. Fucking hell, his own idiocy is going to kill him.

The god pouted his lip. Looking at Ghost with deceptively sad eyes, he asked, “Aw, are you calling me ugly?”

The god returned to examining the ruined temple. Even though he wasn’t looking, Ghost shook his head and raised his hand in a pause gesture. Gods have wiped out entire villages over less. He forced his breathing to remain normal, having to manually count it so as to not panic. Before he could backtrack and likely dig himself in a deeper hole, the god spoke.

“I am still weak. This is the first time I’ve managed to hold onto a tangible form.” Tangible was certainly one way to put it. When he ran his fingers over the ledges on the wall, the dirt and debris didn’t move. Brushing his hands through the vines led to them swaying slightly as if there were a breeze.

Ghost reminded him, “I tried giving you food. You didn’t accept it.”

The god laughed, “I know. The starving man giving the god food.” Ghost wasn’t sure if his tone was meant to be insulting or annoyed.

“Yeah?”

Soap sent him a look he couldn’t decipher, explaining, “Gods don’t eat. Not the way you do. Keep your food.” He made pointed eye contact with Ghost and winked as he said, “I prefer flowers and trinkets anyways.” He turned his attention back to the ruined mural. His eyes were wrong.

Ghost fucking hates gods. What the fuck does that mean?

He pointed out, “If you’re weak, don’t you need everything?”

“I am not that weak. Saving you hurt.”

Ghost prickled further at the reminder, taking a step back. Gripping the handle of his sword tighter, he defensively stated, “I don’t need your help.”

The god scoffed and walked towards him. Ghost tried to back up but the god was faster. The divine being put his hand on his ribs, right where the golden scar sat. With a furrowed brow he angrily stated, “This says otherwise.”

Ghost instinctively jerked away from the touch. It was staticky and cold. Wrong. It was somehow worse than human touch. He was tense, looking to see the gods reaction.

This was worse than dealing with an impatient, angry god. Those were predictable. This one has yet to give him any indication of his limits. Ghost didn’t know what would be the tipping point and could only hope that when it hit, the god would be kind enough to kill him quickly.

To his surprise, the god looked sad. His flash of anger gone and now quieter, he continued, “I was barely in time to save you.” If Ghost didn’t know any better, he’d say the god actually gave a damn about him.

But Ghost did know better. He stared at the third image on the mural. He asked the question that had been plaguing him since waking up from a deadly sleep, “You’re the god of death. Why… Why would you have run out of time? Why save me?”

He sighed, “Healing an otherwise healthy person is easy. Resurrection? Not so much. I do not control death the way people seem to think I do,” the god paused and sadly looked to the broken statue, “…or did. I can help people on their path but not change their course.”

The god was slowly walking closer. Ghost didn’t have much more space to back up, almost cornering himself, he had to angle himself more towards the door, following the wall. It allowed the god to get closer, much closer than Ghost would’ve liked, but it also allowed him to have a realistic escape plan.

Not that he’d be able to run from any god for long. The hope of success was a fickle thing.

Unaware or uncaring of his internal plight, the god happily continued explaining, “You were still on the same path, just veering to the left. Bringing someone back is possible, but not always worth it.”

Not yet learning his lesson about letting sleeping dogs lie, he poked back, “What? ‘They come back different?’”

The god gave a slight nod, “Sometimes, if their soul has been rotted or corrupted. But I meant the cost. Saving you was easy to do with all that you had given. To bring someone back from the dead… Well, there are some fates crueler than death.”

Ghost's eyes hardened, “I’m aware.” The god looked all sad again but he continued before he could interrupt, “But why did you save me?”

The god paused for a moment before simply stating, “You’re kind.”

Ghost scoffed and incredulously repeated, “I’m kind.” He nodded. Ghost continued, “So, you betrayed your own kingdom, domain, whatever to make sure I didn’t die because ‘I’m kind.’”

Soap smiled and for the first time since trying to touch his scar, reached out to him. “Exactly. I like you. You are kinder than someone in your shoes should be. That’s why I saved you.”

His hand hovered next to Ghost’s left. He was waiting for something. The god was still smiling softly at him.

He wants me to close the distance.

He’d rather the god have just grabbed him. Why was he waiting? Why was a god waiting on a mortal? Gods do not ask. They take. Why was this one any different?

When he was a kid, he’d run around trying to pet any and every dog that would let him. He would approach them slowly, holding out his hand for them to sniff. Some would approach immediately, but most took some time. They were half feral and scared of people, hesitant to even approach him.

At that moment, Ghost felt like a scared feral dog. He felt doomed, like there was no way out alive. He didn’t know if the deity was offering safety and comfort, or a quicker and less painful end. Soap’s hand was still extended, still smiling softly.

When a god asks, if you do not give, they will take. And will take more than they would have if you had handed it over to begin with. It’s best to give in before the consequences become worse.

He moved his hand into the god’s hold. It grinned. He tried not to shake.

The god rubbed his thumb along his hand, fingers trailing after an older wound that was on its way to scarring. The touch became slightly more bearable as he grew more accustomed to the peculiarities of the sensation.

After a pause, Ghost shakily contested, “I am not kind. I have more blood on my hands than everyone in the military camp combined.”

Soap, unperturbed, continued messing with his hand, watching the way his fingers bent and twitched. Not looking up, “I said kind, not a pacifist.”

Ghost tried to speak up. The god interrupted. The touch graduated into practically feeling each individual muscle in his arm, like he was trying to remember how a human body is supposed to look.

“However, if you want a more tangible reason, I did, and somewhat still do, owe you.”

Ghost didn't buy it for a second. "What? A god owing a mortal?"

Soap made eye contact once more. Ghost didn’t realize how close he had gotten. The god looked more human, but more wispy as well. His eyes didn’t make Ghost want to turn away before he turned to flame, but he could also see more of the temple through him. Perhaps their meeting would not last much longer.

“I’m sure you are aware that gods can die. the only reason I was still alive was because people would pass the ruins of my temples and remember me.”

He shifted to Ghost’s right and reached for his other arm. Doing the same hovering hesitation, Ghost simply nodded in approval. The god turned his focus to his right hand now, letting go of the left. He did the same examination as before, feeling over his knuckles and trailing what veins he could see up his arm.

…When had Ghost sheathed his sword?

His left arm tingled. He had to tell himself that he did not miss the touch.

“But no one believed in me. I was waiting for another thousand years when I’d be forgotten and could finally die. You not only saved me, but you gave me hope as well.” He accentuated the word by squeezing his arm, or trying to at least. He seemed to be fading fast.

With something in his eyes more earnest than Ghost was used to seeing on even a mortal, the god said, “So yes, I still very much owe you.”

The earnestness was gone and in its place, a joking tone as he continued, “Though, if it’s you I am indebted to, I don’t think that’s too bad of a fate.”

Ghost asked, “So… I don’t owe you a debt?”

Soap looked genuinely confused, “Why would you owe me?” With the way he tilted his head, he almost looked like a confused puppy.

Ghost was at a loss, having no idea how to answer that. The idea that gods just wanted to fuck over everyone they could for their own amusement was so ingrained that to try and put it into words felt impossible.

When he didn’t answer, Soap spoke again, “I like you alive.” His hands moved, one going to feel the pulse point on his wrist and the other sitting over the left side of his chest, feeling his heart. Like he was making sure he was still alive.

The confused furrow did not leave Ghost’s brow at the explanation and he was sure Soap could feel the way his breathing and heart rate kicked up at the touch. He couldn’t tell if he wanted to lean into it and beg him to never let go or skin himself to be rid of the feeling.

“Besides,” Soap said, making eye contact once more. He grinned. It didn’t look human. “I’m not letting you go that easy.”

Ghost ripped himself away, finally in the doorway of the ruined temple. The orange light indicated that dawn was well on its way. He could not hear any birds chirping nor any leaves rustling. It was still smiling from the edge of the shadows.

The god spoke, “I hope we can meet like this again. I had fun.” With that, the divine being stepped forward into the light and fully faded at last.

Ghost took in several deep lungfuls of air. He stood frozen, watching as if waiting to make sure the god did not return. In truth, he was frozen. When it came to fight, flight, or freeze, he thought he had trained himself out of the latter two options.

But he stood there, terrified to move. He didn’t even shift his weight. It felt like to move was to acknowledge what had just happened, and to acknowledge it was to cement it as reality.

A childish part of him hoped he would wake up to find it was all a dream. Forcing himself to turn his back to the door, he ignored the way his back burned at being exposed and unprotected.

He absentmindedly made the long trek down the hill and to the river. He detached his scabbard and kneeled, splashing his face with water, the coolness of it shocking his system.

He turned to the left and vomited. He was shaking so much he almost collapsed. Locking his elbow, he was barely able to balance just to wipe his mouth.

He turned back to the water. Took in a deep breath and submerged his face. He stayed there, pushing the limit of how long he could stay under. His heart was racing, demanding air. He could feel it rattling against his lungs.

Just as the dizziness and weakness began to take hold, he ripped himself up. Taking long, heavy deep breaths, he looked up. Watched as the last of the stars faded into an orange and blue sky.

Stories and warnings from priests came crawling back to him. About what the presence of The Old Gods could do to a mortal. If he was shaking, vomiting, and scared stiff from seeing him while he was still weak…

Good gods, how powerful can this stupid motherfucker get?

He hasn’t felt so… so… so much in a long time. His brain was warring with itself over how he should feel about the interaction. Part of him felt hopeful, thinking that perhaps he might now have someone who actually cares about him and not what he can do for them. Part of him felt so hopeless that he didn’t see the point in getting up, in doing anything other than trying to die before he could cement his fate as a god’s new favorite human plaything.

He blinked and forced his mind to stop. The birds had returned, singing once more. He stood shakily, grabbing his sword and using it to help him up. It sank slightly in the mud.

Day officially broke. In the forest, shadows turned and ran to hide behind the trees. Animals were just starting to wake, some heading to the river to drink.

Ghost stepped into the water, following it downstream and letting the rush of water cover his tracks. The rapids threatened to sweep him away with every step, rocks underfoot falling prey to the force.

By mid morning, the river led him back to the camp.

The other soldiers stopped and stared upon noticing him but did not say a word. In fact, they fell completely silent seeing him wading through water that would drown a lesser man, muddy sheath in hand, soaked to the bone.

He stepped onto the shore, walking at the same slow speed he had in the water. The general, having noticed the sudden silence stepped out of his tent, demanding to know what the problem was. Seeing Ghost, he hesitated before demanding his attention.

Ghost was already on the path towards him. Face to face, the general hesitated, mouth moving but no words spilling forth. Ghost informed him that he was going to go to sleep. The general had yet to find his voice.

Ghost walked to his tent. Dropped his sword. Lied on his cot. He stared at the canvas above him, forgetting to remove his armor and gear.

When he got like this, feeling disconnected from not just his body but his soul as well, he tried to take stock of himself. Mentally document every ache and pain, how his clothes felt, even what the weather was like.

Instead he became aware of one sensation in particular, one clinging to both of his arms, his chest, and a small part of his lower ribs.

Everywhere the god had touched him felt electric.

How long has it been since someone touched me without hurting me?

He wondered why his skin still tingled. Why he missed the feeling.

[oh-stars]

Sun Rays

Love is bodies touching, whether it’s soft cuddles or sliding together towards orgasm.

a @steddielovemonth prompt | 672 words | CW: sensory issues | Rating: G

---

Eddie does not like to be touched. It’s weird considering how much he touches everyone in his circle (even though Steve and Robin assure him there’s nothing weird about a boundary – they’re his friends, they have to say that). He’ll hang on Jeff’s shoulders during band practice or lay his head on Wayne’s shoulder during long car drives, but he can’t stand when the same happens to him. He can touch, but cannot be touched. 

He kind of hates it, this visceral reaction he gets to someone showing affection. It’s not so bad when he has a heads up (as if his body doesn’t vibrate with excitement whenever Steve offers his arms for Eddie to jump in to, wiggling around like a dog who doesn’t know how to express their emotions), but when it isn’t on his terms, Eddie just wants to rip his skin off. 

They’re normally pretty good about falling asleep with plenty of space between them. Eddie will cuddle Steve for a bit when they first lay down, maybe they’ll fool around a little on a good day, but then they always wedge the body pillow between them. Eddie hates touching at all during the night, especially when Steve keeps his leg out of the covers and then decides to graze his leg in his sleep. Or worse, when the cat somehow sneaks into their room and tries to suffocate him. 

It’s unacceptable, really. 

This morning, Eddie finds himself trapped. The body pillows on the floor, Steve’s laying on his stomach and hugging Eddie, arms wrapped around his middle as his head rises and falls with Eddie’s chest. There are lines from Eddie’s t-shirt carved into Steve’s sleep-warm skin, the tiniest drop of drool puddling under his bottom lip, and his hair sticking up in eighty directions. He’s adorable. 

Eddie wants to die. 

He feels so constricted, trapped under Steve’s weight and twisted in the sheets of their bed. The panic takes a hold of him quickly. He pushes at Steve’s arms, breath picking up as he whines and tries to wake Steve up. He’s about ready to rip his skin off layer by layer if Steve doesn’t. 

Steve wakes with a jolt, nearly tumbling off the bed with how quickly he moves. “Shit, Eds,” he says, voice all grumbly and syllables thick. 

Eddie tries to catch his breath as he comes down from the panic. He hates this. His body betrays him all the time and he hates it. Eddie wants to cuddle with Steve whenever he wants to, wants to luxuriate with him in their bed and take in the early morning hours, but he can’t. It’s so stupid. 

“Eddie,” Steve asks from his side of the bed. “Are you okay?” 

“Yeah,” he squeaks out. “I’m okay. It just–”

“I know,” Steve says, “I’m sorry. It was an accident–” 

“Not your fault,” Eddie says.

“Not yours either.” 

Eddie doesn’t know about that. 

Steve lays back down, putting plenty of space between them so he’s laying in the small strip of sunlight that falls on their bed. His body looks cozy, like a lazy cat basking in the sun, but his face tells the story of his concern. He wants to reach out and comfort Eddie, but they both know that only makes things worse. 

Instead, they have to lay separately as the day comes into play. 

It’s the weekend, they have nothing to do today, so Eddie doesn’t fight Steve when he falls back asleep, this time his face smushed into a pillow. He leaves Eddie to reset, to start the day on his own terms, to figure out what his body needs. 

And after a while, when the sun rays across Steve’s back nearly covers from shoulder to hip, Eddie feels like his skin is his own enough to curl up against Steve. He drapes his body over Steve’s, much like Steve had done in his sleep, and soaks in his sunshine’s warmth to really start the day.

Touching isn’t so bad when it’s on his terms.

---

Thank you @lady-lostmind for betaing this story!

Ao3 Link

[desultory-novice]

Last Time on Noir's Field Trip:

Noir met buddha Periwinkle on the side of the road and received a set of one thousand wish granting paper cranes. Plagued with troubling thoughts, he sarcastically wished them all back into paper. He wants to do the right thing by refolding them, one by one, for a wish he can't think of yet, but he's run into a slight snag in folding...

After several days of solid concentration I was finally able to finish this! The meeting of Noir and his emotional support Dee Starstruck!

Thank you so much to @starflungwaddledee for the wonderful ask and lend of her adorable ever-intriguing OC for this little sub story!

[Noir's Field Trip Masterpost]

Original Ask Below!

@kirbyoctournament

[cocoabubbelle-newblog]

Ok fellow Scogue-ies, y’know how (in my previous blog before I got kicked out for who knows why 😞) I set up a prompt list to create an image for every month of September depicting Scott Summers/Cyclops x Rogue/Anna Marie and dubbed it SCOGUE-Tember?

And while I managed to eke out various images now and then, I wasn’t able to reach that number nor fulfill it in that same month of last year? to be absolutely fair i did predict i would fail 😆

Whelp,

I’m gonna try it again!🤡

Because if at first you don’t succeed,

figure out what was hindering you the first time,

readjust,

and try again until you start seeing positive results!

Or, you know, keep reminding yourself that you won’t ever see more of your fav otp’s content unless you feed your fellow shippers the food you want to be fed 😚

So!

*If you have been following my art, you know I sometimes go completely off script and submit something unrelated to the original list. I hope that is still okay!!!

**Yes you may!!! Btw my written headcanons/rants/etc are also included, but poll answer slots have limited space

Here’s the link to the original list!

[snugpunk]

Spidersona day 4: Permanent Changes

This is a 30 day challenge to celebrate the anniversary of ATSV created by @queenofthedisneyverse

Sensory overload suuuucks, and it only gets worse when you can hear literally everything.

[steakout-05]

did a little art style colour test with some neat Splatoon brushes i found on ibispaint :D

edit: here's a more saturated version because it looks different on my pc compared to my phone

[cocoabubbelle]

SCOGUE-“Tember”

Day 4: [🦇] Addams Family

Nobody asked for this:

But I did it anyway 😜

[sollilua]

* Seeing a hand-knit frisk cardigan fills you with determination.

I decided to knit a frisk inspired cardigan for this years' UTversary :D It took a lot of time to finish, but it was a pretty neat project to do.

[moonlight0934]

Hallucinations

Shinso slips his earbuds in as he walks to his work study. Mr. Aizawa wasn’t going in to work today, which means it’s one of the few times that Shinso gets to walk by himself.

The walk itself is nice, the music blocking out the sounds of people around him makes it even nicer. He tucks his hands in his pockets until someone taps his arm. He slips one of his earbuds out.

“Hello,” the woman standing next to him says. She looks to be early twenties. She’s wearing a hero costume, or a really good cosplay. She has red hair and green eyes.

“Hi, can I help you?”

“This isn’t a great part of town. Someone your age shouldn’t be walking alone.”

“I’m good, thanks.”

“I insist. Where are you heading?”

“I’m a UA student. My work study is down this way. I’ll be alright though. I’ve walked this way a lot of times. Do you work down here?”

“Yeah, I’ve seen you on my patrol route a few times. You’ve just never been by yourself, so I didn’t think anything of it.”

“Yeah, I was walking with my teacher. We’re almost there anyway.”

“Then you shouldn’t mind if I keep you company the rest of the way just to be safe.”

This is really weird. Why can’t she just leave me alone?

“What are you listening to?”

“Green Day. I have a playlist that’s a mix of their songs from different albums.”

“Oh, that’s cool. I don’t know who Green Day is, are they a band?”

“Yeah, they’re an American rock band.”

“That’s cool. Which song are you listening to right now?”

“It’s called When I Come Around.”

Shinso is starting to get antsy by then, looking anywhere but at her. He drums his fingers against his thigh from his pockets where no one can see what he’s doing. Eventually the agency comes into view, and Shinso lets out a small sigh of relief. She’s been talking the entire time, but he wasn’t even really listening by then.

“Hey, I didn’t catch your name,” she randomly interrupts her original line of conversation to say.

“Oh, it’s not important. Anyway, that’s my stop. Thanks for walking me.”

“No problem. Do you have a ride home?”

“Yeah, I do. My mom is gonna pick me up,” he lies.

She seems to believe it though, because she keeps walking. He slips inside the agency.

Phew, at least she believed me. She doesn’t know what time I get off, so I don’t have to worry about seeing her again.

He heads to the main office to get his first assignment of the day. He ends up staying at work later than normal, still trying to shake off that weird feeling from earlier. He doesn’t end up leaving until almost ten thirty that night. It’s pitch black outside by then, and the streets are empty.

He leaves his earbuds out this time, just to be safe. Walking in the dark can be dangerous, even for heroes and aspiring heroes. So, Shinso walks quickly while listening to make sure that he hears any threats before they reach him. That’s how he hears someone walking up behind him. He spins around, eyes slightly wide only to find the woman from earlier approaching him.

How the hell did she find me? She should have gotten off of work by now, so why is she still out here?

“Hey, funny seeing you again. I thought you had a ride home.”

“I did, but she bailed.”

“It’s really late, sweetheart. Why were you working this late?”

“There was stuff to do. I would have thought that you would have been let off by now.”

She laughs lightheartedly.

“My agency is really understaffed, so I had to take the late shift too.”

“Ok, well, I appreciate you walking me earlier, but there isn’t anyone around. Also, I have a pretty long walk ahead of me, so there’s no way that it follows your patrol route.”

“You are so right. Just make sure that you keep an eye on your surroundings, and your ears open,” she says, then boops his nose.

Shinso flinches back, but she skips away before he can say anything about it. He shakes his head, and keeps walking. He doesn’t get far though before his hearing starts to give out and his limbs start to feel heavy.

He looks around for anything that could have caused it, or something that could be attacking him, but there isn’t anything around. The street is still empty, but his vision fades before he can figure out what’s going on.

When he wakes up, he can’t see anything, hear anything, or smell anything. He feels something against his skin, it’s slick, but nothing gives away what it actually is. Empty black covers his vision, and he can feel something in his ears. It’s blocking out sounds, and while he can feel it there, he can’t seem to move to take it out. None of his limbs are responding to the commands that he gives them.

He’s not sure how long he stays like that before his chest starts to feel tight, but it feels like a long time.

Where the hell am I? What’s happening?

Shinso can feel his breaths start to come quicker though he can’t hear it. That only makes his chest start to feel even tighter. His head starts to feel light as he tries to regulate his breathing. He feels something brush his cheek, then he hears a voice in the silence.

It sounds loud without any other noise as it says, “Shinso, my dear. What are you doing here? You should never have left home.”

Shinso swallows heavily. The voice sounds just like his mother, but she died years ago, and she always told him to pursue his dreams of becoming a hero.

“You know that your quirk was only meant for hurting people.” The voice becomes more mechanical, louder, and it reverberates through his skull.

He feels like crying, but is desperate to keep any level of composure he has. That’s when a figure appears in the darkness along with a dripping noise. The figure has white clothes that flow around her wirey frame. She looks like nothing more than skin and bones. She is all he can see in the darkness, and he can’t seem to gauge how far away from him she actually is.

She doesn’t speak, she just walks ever closer, or maybe she’s not moving at all. By then Shinso’s body is on high alert, running off of an anxiety induced adrenaline high. The longer he’s there, the more he can feel the oily substance against his skin.

The tears finally fall. He can feel them fall down his face, and he can taste the salty tears as they hit his mouth. That only makes him cry harder with his mouth tightly clenched shut. His eyes immediately start to burn, and his face starts to get hot.

Then everything is so overwhelmingly hot, and the woman is still just staring at Shinso with a blank expression. She isn’t obstructed by tears, or any other blurriness that the irritation would cause. Her face starts to distort after a while, turning it into a swirling black void as she slowly creeps closer. When she reaches him, he passes out again, or at least he thinks he does, because she’s gone when he comes back into awareness.

At least as close to awareness as he can get since it’s quiet and dark again. His skin feels odd now, almost like it’s breaking out because of whatever he’s getting touched by. There’s some kind of noise, but it’s muffled, almost like something is breaking through whatever is plugging his ears.

Then suddenly he can see again, and everything is blindingly bright. He squeezes his eyes closed, but then the objects are taken out of his ears. This time Shinso is sure that he passed out, because the noises that were splitting his eardrums apart vanished. The lights still feel blinding when he opens his eyes again, but this time the red headed woman from earlier is standing in front of him.

“Hi, sugar. Did you have a nice nap?”

Shinso stares at her with a confused look on his face.

“You look confused, dear. Let me introduce myself, and let you know what’s going on. My name is Anya, and I’m a contractor. I was recently asked by a group to learn more about your teacher. Things like where he lives, how his quirk works, and who is close to him. So far all I’ve found is you. So, you’re going to answer those questions for me, or I’m going to put you back in the sensory deprivation tank. Do you know what that means?”

Shinso nods, though he doesn’t trust himself to open his mouth.

“Alright, I figured that it would be beneficial to show you what you have to go back to before I asked any questions. So, let’s start with something simple… where does Shouta Aizawa live?”

Shinso tries to shrug, but he’s shaking too hard.

“Does he live alone?”

Shinso squeezes his eyes closed, and he can hear Anya growl.

“Answer the question. Why can my people never figure out where he lives?”

“Probably because they’re stupid,” Shinso says, his voice coming out broken, but still understandable.

She slaps him across the face, forcing him to open his eyes again.

“Do you want to go back there?”

Shinso feels himself start to shake harder, but he can’t stop it.

“You are scared. Just tell me, and I won’t make you. You can even go home after I get what I need.”

Yeah, right. You think I’m stupid.

“Now, who is close to him, and how exactly does his quirk work?”

Shinso keeps his mouth shut, trying to look anywhere, but at Anya.

“Fine, I think we’ll try another few hours in the tank, and see if you feel more inclined to be honest afterwards.”

Shinso has to bite his lip to stop himself from crying at the prospect, desperately trying to keep it together.

[my-autism-adhd-blog]

Autism and Challenges with Food (part 2)

The Autistic Teacher

[mister13eyond]

talking to a friend about getting back into art and i think the #1 most important piece of art advice i could ever get or give is just "figure out what is FUN to you"

like i think there is sooooo much emphasis on how to build SKILL in art but a lot of it really treats art like a job or like video game grinding, like it's this thankless job that you have to work at in order to reach a Threshold and i know it's not EASY to make yourself have fun but like

imo a solid 70% of the reason i create art is because the Act of Drawing is fun to me. it's fun problem-solving and planning and putting down lines and playing with colors and tools. it's fun to depict little scenes in my head or to create outfits or to find ways to fill the canvas. never forget that creating can be fun. sometimes it's hard and sometimes you have to battle through your own blockades to get there but the ultimate goal should always be to ENJOY it, to find what you enjoy doing and then do it forever. improvement will follow enjoyment.

i think especially with all the debate about ML image generation it's more important than ever to embrace FUN. if you're only focused on the end result it's so easy to get in your own head- to think about what doesn't look good or what skills you don't have yet or to compare yourself to other artists. but photography didn't kill the art of drawing and AI won't either because, simply put, there will always be people who want to do the physical act of making art because it's fun to do! using paints and markers, splashing colors around, doing shitty pen doodles, using the symmetry tool in your art program to do abstract mandalas that are just squiggles formed into patterns. do art like you're 5 and you've been handed markers to pass the time. do art like you're bored in class and you're keeping your brain entertained by drawing stick figure comics in the margins. do art like an absent thing, do art because it satisfies your brain. the goal is not to make something beautiful and perfect, the goal is to make something because your hands need to make and your body needs to make.

[katherynefromphilly]

I need an outfit for a friend’s wedding, which seems like an easy shopping task, EXCEPT:

- it’s a midsummer wedding outside and it will be balls hot

- I HATE DRESSES

- I cannot tolerate LINEN or LACE or rows of ELASTIC which is apparently in EVERYFUCKINGTHING this year

Shopping suggestions, anyone?

[monachopsis-11]

The less I mask the more people get upset at my word usage, the amount of times I have to hear that I’m being intense or extreme- it’s not accusations of being rude either I’m literally just speaking in a way that comes naturally to me.

Just because everything you say has an escape clause incase someone misunderstands or disagrees doesn’t mean I’m not allowed to be sure of myself.

Honestly I wish people would just leave me alone. Like- it’s not only a disability when it’s convenient for you and it’s not just being awkward, I communicate differently and it’s ableist to attack me for that.

[gailyinthedark]

Historical dress challenge day 1: in which I learn the perils of buying fabric secondhand

(Household detritus for realism.)

The white tunic is made from a bamboo and linen blend I got secondhand. It had a slightly weird texture but bamboo and linen are both usually safe so I figured I'd be fine, but by 3 pm I was in A State and had to take the tunic off and go to bed for a bit. I suspect the fibre content may have been a lie.

Cons: I'll have to go to the fabric store and make a new tunic, which will take a few days. But that's okay! It's all part of the experiment!

Pros: I get to go to the fabric store. Also Husband thinks my new getup is sexy which is very adorable of him.