#flag color: light gray

[ghosts-and-idols]

◞ ・cloudforestic﹕✦ ⋯ a gender related to the feeling of walking through a forest under cloudy skies

╰╮ ✦ coined by Perona

[googler49]

and they fell in love

juvia ❤ gray, finally together

mangacaps from @14h03m, cleaned by me

gifs also by me

ui kit used in edits

[infizero]

literally forgot it was the first day of pride month and got kinda sad when i saw some ppl wearing pride colors at school 😭 maybe today i’ll paint my nails aro colors again 

[renai-fr]

Perler Flight Banners!

Made the first of these when I made the flight flags a bit back (my flight, Light), and figured it was a good time to make the rest of the flight banners and share the designs! To the best of my ability, they're also to scale with each other, so I think they'd look pretty good if you wanted to make the whole set and put 'em on your wall or something.

Sort of also for Dergtober's first prompt ("Flight"), but uh, ran into that thing with trad media where sometimes you run out of materials, ha! This is also why they're mostly not fused (Ice and Water share most of their mid/light blue beads, for example).

(Crafting info after the break!)

First off, all of these are either 17x34 or 19x34 (these squares are 17x17 on their own). They fit fine on the larger squares, but my big squares happen to all be either bright red or bright yellow, and don't show off the colors very well. They almost all use transparent beads for structural reasons- if you want to cross-stitch these, the transparent beads are fine to ignore! I was just making them so they could theoretically hang on a wall.

Colors used (my best guess, not gospel! I get most of my beads from kits/mixed bags, and they don't always list the color names :/ )

Light: Cream/Créme, Yellow, Cheddar, Transparent

Lightning: Copper (metallic), Robin's Egg, Parrot Green, Glitter Blue, Turquoise, Transparent

Fire: Black, Cherry, Orange, Cheddar, Neon Orange, Transparent

Arcane: Pearl Pink, Cheddar, Raspberry, Pink, Light Pink

Plague: Red, Cherry, Raspberry*, Pewter, Brown, Kiwi Lime

Earth: Brown, Light Brown, Pewter, Dark Gray

Ice: Robin's Egg, Pastel Blue, Gray, Dark Gray, Toothpaste, Light Blue

Shadow: Pastel Lavender, Purple, Dark Gray, Pewter, Toothpaste, Transparent

Wind: Kiwi Lime, Dark Green, Bright Green, Yellow, Rust, Red, Transparent

Water: Denim, Turquoise, Pastel Blue, Parrot Green, Teal, White, Marshmallow, Pastel Yellow, Transparent

Nature: Olive, Bright Green, Kiwi Lime, Dark Green, Marshmallow, Cream/Créme, Transparent

(* I used Raspberry on Plague's flag because I ran out of Cranberry. Cranberry looks WAY better, but like... mismatched didn't work at all. I highly suggest using Cranberry in place of Raspberry in all places it occurs on the design!)

Another color note- when you fuse metallic beads, the shiny stuff makes a lil halo around the bead's center hole. For Lightning, since they have wires/chains on their banner/support, I figured it would work fine, but you could swap the Copper beads out for Rust and it would look good enough, I think. You do lose the shiny factor doing that, though.

A couple of these extend off of the side of the boards; better to use a bigger board for them if you have one (or like, if you have a third 17x17, sticking it to the side of the others and scooting the entire design over a peg would also work!)

As is very visible on the Light banner, it's really easy to get a faulty fuse where the boards meet. The trick where you put masking tape/painter's tape on the back of the beads before ironing (the OTHER side, and then take the tape off to iron its side, to be clear) helps a lot on multi-board fuses. You don't have to poke holes in the tape, but I find that doing so with a ballpoint pen or what have you can help a lot with keeping the beads from moving around, etc.

Happy crafting- if you end up making any of these, please ping me (or um, whatever I'm supposed to call it... still don't quite know how this site works) so I can see!

[entguarde]

Happy aro week

[Image Description: A colored fullbody sketch of op's fursona (a lanky anthropomorphic osprey) in the aromantic flag colors (black, gray, green and white).

She's wearing a light gray t-shirt, gray pants and cool guy sunglasses. The shirt has a green arowana on it, and text surrounding it says "I don't wanna" in all caps.

With a relaxed and confident smile, the osprey gives a thumbs up to the audience. End description.]

[beansprean]

guillermoguillermoguillermoguillermoguillermoguillermoguillermoguillermoguillermoguillermoguillermoguillermo

(ID in alt and under cut)

ID: Colored doodle dump of Guillermo. 1. Guillermo sitting on his bed in his slayer fit sans trenchcoat, reacting to some threat offscreen and automatically reaching down toward the stakes inside his open mini fridge. Red splatter background. 2. Hips up of Guillermo posing with his arms crossed, looking embarrassed and shy while trying to hold a steady expression. He is wearing a cream and gold turtleneck with a faint diamond pattern and dark blue chinos held up by brown suspenders. Mottled dove-gray background. 3. Full body of Guillermo in boots, chinos, and a cardigan, perched on the edge of a seat. He is smirking mischievously at the viewer, one hand braced on his thigh and the other hanging down near his crotch, thumb and forefinger curled into an OK symbol. Gotcha! Green background with draping tree branches full of leaves. 4. Shoulders up of Guillermo from the Pride episode, wearing a dark sweater and a rainbow scarf. He is winking and grinning, tongue caught playfully between his teeth, and flashing a peace sign at the viewer. He has a sparkly pink heart sticker on his forehead, an infinity sticker in the trans colors that says 'trans is beautiful' on his right cheek, and a splatter style pride flag temporary tattoo under his left eye. Background is dark purple with bokeh lighting. 5. Full body of Guillermo wearing nothing but ratty jean short shorts, knee length black socks, and sneakers as he leans casually against a wooden pole. There is a light blue bandanna draped around his neck and his head is turned in profile, sucking on the lollypop in his other hand. He is sweaty and reddened from heat. Background is pale green grass and blue sky. 6. Waist up of Guillermo wearing a pink tank top that says 'boys' in bold purple and teal font. He looks embarrassed and defensive, hands half up to try to both cover himself and wave the viewer away. Background is mottled pinkish purple. /end ID

[lorelovinglunatic]

Each member of the Batfam has a signature color except for Tim and I’m tweaking out about it.

In age order:

Alfred (Agent A) Pennyworth is white. (Ha ha yes literally) but also he’s clean and somehow manages to be classy even when splattered in blood. Also his hair.

Bruce (Batman) Wayne is gray. Bro is the night but he’s also not born to it. He’s as close of an imitation to darkness as someone who is still undeniably hopeful can be.

Kate (Batwoman) Kane is red. But in a lesbian way. Bordering on the magenta in the flag.

Barbara (Oracle) Gordon is orange. Yeah it’s probably because of her hair. Also it’s a brassy orange. She’s strict and intelligent but also funny. Idk man

Dick (Nightwing) Grayson is blue. Royal blue. Predictable ik, but he’s predictable. He’s a (not-so) reformed crash out and I think he deserves his peaceful blue that’s also just a little too bright to really be peaceful.

Cassandra (Black Bat) Cane? Black. Actually silent. All the training of Bruce without the white, quiet joy and domesticity of being raised by Alfred. Is the night. The opposite of Bruce, who chose to emulate the night when suited up, she is cursed to be it even out of costume because of her upbringing.

Jason (Red Hood) Todd is red. Not the bright red of his Robin days, but not too much darker. The blood he’s spilled mostly absolved by his later actions and his realization of his manipulation by Talia, but still staining his conscience.

Steph (Spoiler) Brown is purple. I mean the costume is literally purple, but she’s also just chill like that. She’s funny and pretty much does anything for the plot. She’s so purple to me.

Tim (Red Robin) Drake is ???. He’s not really red despite it being in his name. I can’t figure out what color aligns to him, especially because imo he hasn’t really had his own identity. Jokes about him being the Replacement hit hard when you realize that just like the rest of the Robins, barring Dick, he didn’t have a strong emotional connection to the suit. Tim arguably had more of one than other robins, from his stalker days and idolization of Batman and Robin, probably in third behind Jason “Robin makes me magic/literally haunted by his own younger Robin self” Todd. Then, just as he’s getting his footing being Bruce’s kid after his parents die, Bruce disappears and the mantle is passed on to Damian. So he becomes Red Robin because he still doesn’t know who he is without being Robin. And then writers mostly forget about him, sticking him with being Red Robin indefinitely and also eternally 17 because they can’t b bothered to give him any decent character development. So I don’t know what color fits him and it’s really very upsetting because he’s a very interesting complex character and should get one. Anyways

Duke (Signal) Thomas is yellow. Yeah it’s his suit color and also he can literally manipulate light, but he’s also the literal embodiment of the color. He’s arguably the most normal of any of them, and a practical ray of sunshine compared to most of the family. He’s also the only one working the day shift.

Damian (Robin) Wayne is green. No, I don’t know why. In some comics he wears more green than other robins, but in others he’s exclusively in red, gray, and black. Every time I think of him in his league wear I think of it as green, but it’s not, it’s gray or black. I don’t know why he’s green, he just is. He’s feral and loves animals which gives me forest green energy but he’s also terrifyingly trained and in control which gives me army green energy. He’s a green somewhere between the two.

Anyways they all have a color except for Tim and I’m really sad about it thank you

[teriri-sayes]

Reactions to The Light's Chapter 429

Brief summary: CJG has been purified. Clopeh's words and actions make the villagers mistake Cale for... a god. Cale figures out what the last power of GoC is.

==========

First off, Happy 7th Anniversary! Such a long time, huh? Author-nim, when is this going to end? I've been stuck reading this series for 6 years now. 😂 Unfortunately, there is no author's note regarding the anniversary, but the Korean fans congratulated the author in the comments section.

On to the chapter... CJG's purification was over, and his appearance had gone back to normal. However, he was still asleep, and had to be carried back with a stretcher, so no talk with CJG for now.

What was so funny was Clopeh's actions in the chapter. 🤣🤣🤣

The granddaughter poked her head out of her grandfather's arms and nudged Clopeh. “Is he a priest, too?” “Oh, child, of course he is a priest-” Old Tedrick started to answer, but stopped. “No, no. He is not a priest.” The old man's gaze turned to Clopeh. Clopeh smiled a gentle smile and said. “Not a priest, not a pope, not a saint. He is none of these.” His thoughts were firm. 'You will be using this purifying power a lot in the future, Cale-nim.' And so it was. The God of Chaos cult should not be the beneficiary. It belongs to Cale alone. It is His doing. Clopeh spoke the truth without exaggeration. “He simply moves according to his own will. He doesn't believe in or follow any gods.” Cale Henituse is such a man. Such a hero. He is a legend. Because. “And I am following him.” I am his follower. Clopeh's words were full of sincerity. “Ah.” Former village chief Tedrick gasped. A man of the people. He doesn't believe in any gods, he's no priest or anything. He simply lives by his own will. And yet the man in front of him, dressed in priest robes and looking more like a priest than anyone else, believes in that man and follows him. 'The one he believes in is-' …God. Yes, God.

Clopeh really spreading Caleism to the villagers! 🤣🤣🤣 God Cale misunderstanding strikes again! 🤣🤣🤣

The warmth that enveloped us, the power that reminded us of happiness. That gray color. “…Demon God…….” The old man blurted out, then paused. “What?” Clopeh tilted his head and looked at him as if he did not understand. “Oh, no!” The old man hurriedly tried to contain his words. But everyone had heard. And Clopeh just smiled and said. “I see. Whatever you have to say, please feel free.” Aurora, who was watching all of this, thought to herself. 'Is it okay to pass like this?' Clopeh Sekka. I don't know what that guy just did. But it was too vague to do anything about it now. It wasn't that he was lying, or that his behavior was bad. On the contrary, he was sincere and kind. “Hmm.” Aurora decided to wait and see. 'Demon God.' Now that the word was mentioned, she had to be careful. I don't want to cause any unnecessary misunderstandings in the village. 'At least it happened within the village, so we can stop any misunderstandings quickly.' Aurora was relieved that it was within the village. And Clopeh- “Fufu.” A shallow chuckle escaped his lips as he looked at the crimson sky.

Last time, it was the God of Harmony, and now it was Demon God?! 🤣🤣🤣 Cale, your god titles keep increasing! 🤣🤣🤣

And Aurora... I think you just planted a 🚩flag. This is definitely going to spread outside the village. 😂😂😂 I mean, just look at Clopeh's laughter. 🤣🤣🤣

The chant/prayer for the Purification of Chaos was interesting.

What was created would soon be gone. As it was inherent from the beginning. Just as you were born. Return to your inborn appearance.

Cale noticed the emphasis on the word "beginning." Even the holy land of GoC was called the Primordial Night/Night of Beginning. And when he uttered the word "beginning", a certain parchment of GoC would vibrate. Thus, Cale figured out that the 5th unknown power of GoC was the "Beginning of Chaos."

Ending Remarks So he would be Demon God Cale in the Demon Realm? Good luck with your slacker life dream, Cale. 😂 Next chapter would probably be the beginning of the search for both CJS and Sui Khan. That talk with CJG? Delayed like Cale's talk with the Molans too. 🙄

[pupiipawzz]

White Cat: A queer person who defines themself as shy, reserved, quiet, and/or introverted and dresses to reflect this fact.

Tuxedo Cat: A queer person who defines themself as refined, polite, gracious, and/or fancy and dresses to reflect this fact.

Mittens/Socks Cat: A queer person who defines themself as crazy, wacky, energetic, and/or wild but dresses fancy and refined, like a Tuxedo Cat.

Any queer person can use!

Coined by @toshiroshusband/bpdlaois on discord!

[1st ID: A seven stripe flag with light colors. The colors from top to bottom are a gradient from greyish icy blue to a white 4th stripe, pale cream, beige, and darker beige. In the top left corner is a white paw print.]

[2nd ID: A seven stripe flag. The colors from top to bottom are a gradient from purplish black to a white 5th stripe, off white, and a darker off white. In the top left corner is a black paw print with a white triangular piece in the middle.]

[3rd ID: A seven stripe flag. The colors from top to bottom are a gradient from cream gray to a white 5th stripe, dark purplish grey, and purplish black. In the top left corner is a paw print with a white pad and black toes.]

Check out pt.1 here!

[itsgivingmami]

Sea Salted Honey

Rhea Ripley x reader

The Woman by the Water

The town is small enough that you can hear the waves from your bedroom at night.

Not just in the distance—in you.

Like the ocean has pressed its mouth against the windowsill and breathes in rhythm with your sleep. Seagulls start before sunrise, calling across the sky like they’re waking the sea itself. By afternoon, you hear bike tires over gravel, sandals slapping pavement, wind pushing through tall grasses near the dunes.

And after sunset—

The sound of bonfire crackle, low guitars, laughter muffled under the hush of tide.

Even the quiet here is textured.

Alive.

Like something always waiting. Windows are always cracked open. Salt clings to the wooden frame like it’s trying to get in. The air smells like sunscreen and seafoam, like damp wood and lemon rinds, like you stepped into a postcard and decided not to leave.

The cottage is old.

Painted in someone’s idea of style from fifty years ago. The bathroom tile is sage green and cracked. The kitchen backsplash is a honeycomb of amber and brown. The walls are a warm, burnt orange that somehow feels deliberate in candlelight, like they know how to glow on cue.

You swore you’d change everything when you moved in.

You haven’t touched a thing.

It’s a little dated. A little unkempt.

But it’s yours.

The floors are streaked with scratches from generations of furniture dragging across them. The ceiling fan wobbles. The back screen door creaks like it’s telling a ghost story every time you pass through.

There are glass jars along your windowsill—some filled with brushes, some with seashells, some with nothing but light. Your desk is a mess: smudged sketchbooks, crumpled paper towels, open tubes of paint leaking blues and ochres like bruises blooming too wide.

A mug of tea sits beside a brush still soaking in it.

You don’t remember making the tea.

You never remember until the brush turns the water gray and bitter.

There’s a dish towel, stained beyond saving, half-draped over the edge of the desk like a flag surrendered to chaos. Charcoal flecks the windowsill, the floor, your skin. The scent of linseed oil lingers even when nothing’s drying.

You live with the quiet like it’s a roommate.

One who takes up no space, but leaves you full of feeling.

You came here to disappear. To vanish into the hush of a place that doesn’t ask. Doesn’t demand. Doesn’t care where you came from or why you stay inside so long.

No one asks questions here.

Not really.

Everyone’s either hiding or healing.

Or both.

So you paint. You paint the way some people pray. Like there’s no right language, only rhythm. Only color and surrender. Canvases stack up in the hallway, leaning against one another like tired bodies on a train. The sink in your studio is permanently stained violet and green.

Your fingertips are never clean.

You don’t talk much.

There’s the barista at the café near the dunes—Jay, who always asks if you want your coffee “like last time” and knows when not to ask anything else. Pearl, a woman in her sixties who wears wide sunhats and calls everyone “darlin’” with a voice like smooth stones.

You see her every morning. She smiles like she’s lived here forever.

And then there’s her.

Rhea.

You don’t know how to explain her without using your hands. Without tracing her name into your thigh like a sketch you keep coming back to.

She owns the surf shop two doors down.

You know because you’ve watched her unload boards from the back of her truck—sunlight striking the wet curve of her shoulders, black tank top cut to show the ink that wraps her arms like armor.

There’s a tattoo on her thigh. A long black line of something—maybe a snake, maybe a flower, maybe a secret. She wears cutoff shorts, sandals, and sunglasses she pushes to the top of her head when she’s focused.

She’s tall.

The kind of tall that shifts a room’s center of gravity.

She walks like the beach built itself around her.

Like the tide came first, and then Rhea.

—

You met her two weeks after moving in.

You were coming back from the café—paper bag of pastries under one arm, your hair twisted up with half-dry waves falling loose, paint smudged at your temple like a thumbprint someone forgot to wipe off.

She was outside, sanding down a longboard. Your flip-flops made that too-sharp clack on the pavement, and she looked up.

Eyes already squinting from the sun.

Skin golden.

Knuckles rough with salt.

“You’re the new one,” she said.

Her voice was low.

Even.

Like she already knew you’d be worth remembering.

You nodded. Unsure if that was a greeting or a warning.

She just smirked.

Like she’d just won something you didn’t know was up for grabs.

—

Since then, you’ve caught her watching.

Not in a creepy way. Not even in a flirtatious one.

Just… steady. Curious. Like she’s tracking you. She stands outside her shop sometimes, leaning back against the railing, one ankle crossed over the other, coffee in one hand, sunglasses low on her nose.

When you pass, she lifts two fingers. When you wave, she sometimes tilts her head—just a little. Like she’s measuring something invisible. Like she’s studying the line of your mouth or the way your breath hitches when her gaze lingers.

Once—just once, after what must have been a long day—she looked you over, slow and soft and without apology, and said:

“You always smell like turpentine and honey.”

—

You haven’t stopped thinking about it. Not just what she said, but how she said it. Low, like she wasn’t trying to impress you. Like she meant it. Like she’d been paying attention.

You think about the way her eyes flicked down your neck, then back up. The rasp in her voice. The taste those words left in your mouth. You think about her a lot more than you should. When your hands are busy. When your mind is quiet. When the breeze pulls at the edge of your robe and makes you feel like something’s about to begin.

You tell yourself it’s harmless.

But you’ve painted someone with her shoulders twice now. And yesterday, you bought sandalwood candles without realizing why.

You don’t know what she wants from you.

Maybe nothing.

Maybe just to be seen, like you do—like all the strange and lovely women who come here to breathe again. But every time you catch her looking, your stomach does this slow, traitorous pull. Like your body’s already agreed to something you haven’t said out loud.

And maybe, just maybe, you’re tired of silence.

Maybe you’re ready for someone to ruin the quiet.

Not with noise.

But with presence.

—

You See Her Again on a Thursday

You’re barefoot again.

Always barefoot lately.

The sand’s still clinging to your ankles, salt drying on your calves, hem of your linen pants soaked from walking too close to the tide. You like the way the fabric clings when it’s wet—cool against your thighs, a little revealing. You’d never admit it, but you wonder if she notices.

The air smells like sun-warmed cedar and sea brine, like distant woodsmoke and something sweet blooming along the dunes. You hold your sketchbook tight against your chest, one arm wrapped around it like a shield, though the real danger is the way your skin still remembers how her eyes felt the last time they touched you.

The sun’s low and heavy now, coating the world in honey. Your skin’s pink from it. Your shoulders kissed red, your cheeks flushed in a way you hope looks deliberate. You’re loose from the heat. Open.

You round the corner and there she is.

Rhea.

Sitting on the hood of an old, dusty truck, black tank top clinging to her ribs, legs spread like she owns the damn planet. One foot planted, the other swinging lazily. A glass bottle in one hand—something fizzy with a slice of lime floating at the top. She lifts it to her mouth. Her throat moves as she drinks. You have to remind yourself to breathe.

She sees you. Of course she does.

And when she does, her whole face changes.

That easy smirk. That almost-laugh behind her eyes.

“You always look like you’re coming from a dream,” she says, voice low and warm like the air.

You blink, squinting slightly from the sun and from her.

“Mine or yours, charmer?”

She chuckles—slow, deep, like the ocean breaking against the sand. “Wasn’t trying to flirt.”

You stop a few feet from her, one eyebrow lifting.

“You’re not doing a very good job of not flirting, then.”

That makes her pause. Her grin tips, just slightly, like you’ve surprised her—and she likes that. She slides off the hood, all long lines and loose limbs, moving like she’s half-lioness, half-riptide. The bottle dangles from one hand as she steps toward you.

She’s close enough now that you can smell her: sunscreen and salt, maybe a hint of sandalwood and citrus. Her skin is warm. Her presence is warmer. Her eyes drop to your sketchbook, then rise again—slow. Measured.

“What are you drawing?”

You hesitate. Just for a beat.

“Nothing I’d show anyone,” you murmur.

Rhea’s smile softens, but her gaze sharpens. “You afraid of being seen?”

You open your mouth to answer—but there’s no clean response to that.

So you say nothing. Which says everything. She steps in, just one more inch. Close enough that the edge of her voice slips right past your collarbone. Close enough that you have to work not to look at her mouth.

“I’ve seen a lot of people run to this town,” she says.

“Most of them keep hiding even after they get here.”

You feel the words in your ribs. Like they weren’t meant as judgment. Just truth.

You try to swallow around the knot in your throat. “And you?”

“I don’t run.”

A pause.

“Not away, only towards.”

The way she says it makes you feel like you’ve already been chosen. Like the part of her that runs has already started moving toward you. You want to say something clever. Something light. But your tongue is thick in your mouth and your fingers have gone slack around the sketchbook.

Then she breaks the spell.

“Tomorrow,” she says, leaning back slightly, letting her fingers tap once against the bottle.

“Bonfire on the beach. Music. Drinks. You should come.”

You nod before you even mean to.

Of course you do. And then—just as you’re about to say something back—she leans in again. Just enough to tilt the balance.

“Wear something you don’t mind getting sandy.”

Her voice is velvet-wrapped, teasing but controlled. She doesn’t reach for you. She doesn’t touch. But the idea of her touching is enough to send your heart stumbling into your throat.

You tilt your head, pulse quickening.

“Should I be worried about how sandy I’ll get?” you ask, tone low, eyes locked. She smiles like sin and summer and everything in between.

“That depends.”

A beat.

Then:

“On whether you want me to be the one to shake it out of your clothes after.”

You don’t answer.

You can’t.

Your skin’s too hot. Your mouth too dry.

Rhea just lifts the bottle back to her lips, takes another sip, and then—like she hasn’t just left your insides burning—she turns and walks back toward the truck, hips loose, hair catching the last stretch of light. You stand there until she’s seated again, legs swinging.

You don’t turn your back to her when you leave.

You walk away slow. Let her watch. And she does. You feel her eyes like fingerprints.

Like permission you haven’t asked for yet, but already know will be granted.

—

The Woman in the Paint

The studio smells like linseed oil and overripe fruit.

That specific sweetness—the kind that’s about to turn, soft to the point of collapse, splitting open in your palm.

It clings to the walls, to your hair, to the inside of your lungs.

The windows are wide open to invite the breeze, but the heat doesn’t leave.

It just lingers more gracefully.

Somewhere outside, the waves are breaking.

You paint to their rhythm. Slow. Repetitive.

Steady like breath.

Etta James hums low from the stereo, bleeding into Frankie Valli, one melting into the other like watercolors left too long in the sun. The herbs on your windowsill lean toward the light—basil, lavender, mint. The mint you cut this morning floats in your glass with lime, condensation soaking the coaster beneath it.

You’d meant to paint the coastline. Simple. Soft. A quiet thing. Safe.

But the sea turned to skin.

The cliff edge to muscle.

The shadows to shape.

And the brush followed where your hands already knew to go—even if your mind hadn’t given permission.

You don’t realize it’s her until you do.

Not a perfect likeness. Not a portrait. But the outline. The weight. The memory of her. Strong shoulders. Tattooed arms. The curve of her jaw.

The hollows just beneath her collarbone where you pressed too much blue and then pressed again and again like a bruise you wanted to make permanent.

She’s laughing in your mind. Eyes half-lidded, mouth parted. Teeth dragging across her lip. You flush. Step back.

Breathe.

The canvas looks like want. Too much of it.

Your brush falls from your fingers, lands with a soft splat in the palette. You wipe your hands on a rag that was already too stained to save. Still, your fingertips twitch—like they aren’t finished with her. Like they might keep drawing her even if you close your eyes.

You try to distract yourself.

You pace.

You open a can of seltzer. You press the cold to your chest for a moment and try not to think about the heat crawling lower.

But it’s no use.

She’s there.

You told yourself it was nothing.

A casual flirtation. A stranger with good shoulders and a mouth made for trouble.

But you’ve sketched her three times since she said your name.

Now she’s taken over a canvas like she owns the space. Like she owns you.

—

You give in.

You sink to the floor, back against the wall beneath the window. The light falls golden across your knees. You open your sketchbook and draw her again—softer this time. Not the flirt. Not the force.

Just Rhea.

A single strand of hair stuck to her temple. The quiet weight under her eyes. Her fingers curled loosely around a bottle, ringed and rough, perfect in profile. You draw her mouth last. You don’t mean to linger. But you do.

The page is warm under your hand.

The lines grow darker the longer you trace them.

There’s charcoal on your wrist now.

Between your fingers.

Under your nails.

You don’t remember how long it’s been since you started.

But your pulse still hasn’t slowed.

—

You think about tomorrow. About the bonfire.

About the way she said wear something you don’t mind getting sandy like she was already planning to get her hands on you. About the way your name sounded in her mouth.

Like a secret she liked keeping.

Like a dare.

You think about her stepping off that truck—long legs, lazy hips, lip quirking like she already knew how this would end.

You close your eyes.

Let your head fall back against the wall.

The breeze flutters the curtain beside you. Carries the scent of brine and crushed mint and something floral you can’t quite place. Your skin still feels sun-warmed.

Still feels watched.

Still feels wanted.

You look back at the painting, at the shape you conjured from memory.You stare into it like you’re asking it to move. And without meaning to, your voice slips out—quiet and reverent.

“God, you’re beautiful.”

—

The Woman Who’s Distracted

She sees you before you see her. That’s how it always is.You move like you don’t know what you’re doing.Like your limbs belong to someone soft. Someone untouched. Someone who doesn’t realize they’re a storm wearing the skin of a quiet girl.

And Rhea—

Rhea can’t stop watching.

It’s not just the way you walk. It’s the mess of it. The undone quality. Like you woke up inside someone else’s dream and never bothered to fix your hair. You’re curled in the corner of your porch—knees drawn to your chest, hoodie swallowing your frame, sketchpad tilted across one thigh. Headphones in. You don’t see her.

But she sees you.

From the windows of her workshop, arms folded tight across her chest, hip cocked against the frame.You’ve been sitting there for over an hour. She’s known that because she hasn’t gotten anything done since you came outside.

You haven’t noticed the way her eyes keep coming back. The way she leans closer every time you shift. The way she wants to bite her own tongue just to stop from saying your name out loud.

You don’t know.

And it’s killing her.

—

She should be working. There are boards in the back that need sanding. Emails she’s ignored. Orders to fill.

But every time she turns from the window, her chest tightens.

Like you’re a magnet.

Like you pull.

You’re sketching again—charcoal smudged along your palm.

A streak across your cheek. Your knee keeps bouncing and your lip is caught between your teeth.

It takes everything in her not to walk over and pull it free with her thumb.

You’ve got no idea, do you?

No idea what you look like from here. What kind of picture you make. What you’re doing to her.

And that—that is the part that undoes her.

—

You stretched ten minutes ago.

Arched your back like a cat. Arms overhead, shirt rising just enough to show a sliver of warm skin where your ribs meet the waist of your shorts. And Rhea nearly fucking growled.

She backed up from the window.

Ran a hand over her face.

Told herself to get a grip.

But the truth?

She’s not built for this kind of want.

Not when it creeps in slowly.

Not when it sits with her.

She likes control. Structure. She likes knowing who she is in a room. But you make her forget. You make her think in verses. Make her feel.

She doesn’t want to just watch you.

She wants to press her mouth to your forehead and say let me keep you.

She wants to watch you paint. Press her thumb into the stain on your palm.

Wants to wipe your tears on hard days. Wants to make you cry on soft ones.

She wants to see you barefoot in the middle of tourist season, wearing her chain and letting every dumb man in this town wonder how they missed their chance.

She wants to see you arch your back when she says your name.

She wants to be worthy of you.

And that—

That’s what scares her most.

—

She hasn’t moved in ten minutes. Just standing there. Watching.

Clenching and unclenching her fists like it might shake you out of her head. You’re just being. And it’s ruining her. Rhea closes her eyes. Exhales through her nose. Tries to shake it off. But you’ve already got your hands around her pulse.

She should stay away.

She should let this fade.

But when you said her name the other day—quiet, kind, like it meant something—it tattooed itself into her chest. And now?

Now she’s rewriting every version of the future she thought she wanted.

All of them have you in them.

Even if you never find out.

Even if she never touches you.

Even if all she gets is this—watching from a window, pretending not to ache.

She turns before she does something reckless.

Before she lets the hunger in her chest climb all the way to her mouth.

She walks away.

Boots heavy on the floor.

But not before she says it, quiet and low and only for herself:

“You don’t even know you’ve already got me.”

—

The Woman Across the Fire

The night smells like smoke and sugar. The kind that sticks to your hair, clings to the inside of your hoodie, and lingers on your skin long after you’ve left the shore. The kind of smell that always reminds you something real happened.

The beach is alive with music—half-folk, half-dream—blending with the hiss of the fire and the hush of the tide. There are strings of lights hung from driftwood, jars full of tea candles half-buried in the sand, and laughter floating in and out like a tide of its own. It smells like vanilla, clove, and sea spray. Like cheap beer and warm skin and summer never ending.

You arrive just after dusk. Barefoot, again.

Oversized button-up fluttering open over a cropped tank. Loose cotton shorts hit high on your thighs. Your legs still smell like sunscreen and ocean. Your lips taste faintly like salt.

You’re radiant in the firelight and you don’t know it.

Or maybe you do.

But either way, you’re not looking for attention.

You hold your sketchbook like a habit. Like protection. Like truth. Rhea sees you before you see her.

Of course she does.

She’s been leaning against a driftwood log at the edge of the circle for almost an hour now, bottle in hand, one boot heel dug into the sand. Distant, half-in shadow. She’s not talking. Not smiling. Just watching the flames, letting them reflect off the dark ink on her forearms like smoke has started living inside her.

Then she sees you—bare legs, hair tousled, sketchbook clutched tight—and it all stops.

You’re talking to someone. Laughing.

Some guy from the bike shop. Harmless, sure. But standing too close. Smiling too wide. His gaze dips when you turn your head. It lingers.

Rhea’s jaw tightens.

This isn’t hers. You aren’t hers. Not yet. Not ever, maybe. But the want lives hot and hungry under her skin. She can’t help it. She watches you tilt your head, brush your hair off your shoulder, say something that makes the guy grin. She takes a slow sip of her beer. It’s warm. She doesn’t taste it.

And then—your eyes find hers.

You freeze. Just for a second. Smile falters. Then tilts, softer. Realer.

And Rhea—

Rhea lifts her bottle in a slow greeting, subtle but sure. The shadows shift across her face. Her smirk curves into something quieter. Something waiting. You excuse yourself from the conversation without hesitating.

And she nearly forgets how to breathe.

You cross the sand barefoot, stepping through firelight like a secret.You smell like heat and salt and something slightly citrus. She wants to lean in and breathe you down.

“Hey,” you say, smiling like it’s just for her. “You’re here. I thought I was going to have to sneak off without seeing you.”

She tips her head toward the fire.

“You seemed like you were having fun.”

“I was,” you admit. “But I kept wondering if you were here. And Mr. Grease Hands wouldn’t stop chatting long enough for me to ask.”

That makes her huff out a breath—close to a laugh, but softer.

You sit beside her on the log. Not touching, but close. Closer than before.

Your knees brush once, then again when you shift.

She feels the heat of you against her thigh, and every nerve in her body lights up.

The fire crackles. Music drifts. Someone passes around a bottle of something strong. You both wave it off.

“You looked like you were in your element earlier,” she murmurs.

You glance at her, tilting your head. “I was trying to look like I belonged.”

“You do.” Her voice is low. Honest.

You blink. The compliment hits something tender.

“You think so?”

“I know so.”

The firelight flickers across your cheeks. Your mouth parts just slightly. You look away.

She watches the line of your jaw, the soft rise of your chest as you breathe in.

You turn back to her.

“You always look like you’re waiting for something,” you say, voice soft.

“I am.”

“What for?”

She looks at you for a long moment. Then—

“Do I look that way when you leave?”

It knocks the air out of you. The words land low, like a bruise you didn’t know was forming.

You turn to her.

“You notice when I leave?”

Rhea doesn’t answer.

She just takes a sip from her bottle.

Watches your mouth part.

Watches your breath catch.

You shift closer. Your shoulder brushes hers. You don’t move away.

“I thought maybe I was imagining this,” you say, voice a whisper now. “The way you look at me. I thought maybe I was just lonely.”

Her voice stays steady. But her hand tightens around the bottle.

“You’re not imagining it.”

You exhale, slow and shaky. “Good.”

And for a long time, neither of you speak.

There’s no rush.

No demand.

But there’s a question hanging between you. Unspoken, burning.

Rhea turns slightly, her thigh pressing into yours.

“I don’t want to rush you,” she murmurs. “And I don’t want to fuck this up by moving too fast.”

You don’t look away.

“Then just stay close.”

So she does.

—

All night, Rhea stays beside you.

She doesn’t crowd. Doesn’t touch too much. But she stays. And it feels like an answer.

When the fire burns low and the others drift toward the tide or back to their cottages, she walks you home. Shoulder to shoulder. Hands in her pockets. Her jacket tucked around your frame.

You don’t say much.

You don’t have to.

Because you already turned toward her.

And she’s never been more afraid of wanting something

or more willing to wait for it.

—

[avenpt]

Happy Aromantic Spectrum Awareness Week!! All aro-specs are valid and belong in the queer community! If anyone tells you otherwise, then they're WRONG and they can answer to us. We've got your back!

[image description: the aromantic flag colors (dark green, light green, white, gray, black) in the background with green text on top that reads "Happy Arospec Week! 2024", and the AVEN logo in the lower right corner]

[ghosts-and-idols]

◞ ・pinkghostic﹕✦ ⋯ a gender related to being a pink ghost or a ghost wearing pink

╰╮ ✦ coined by Perona

[emceevoices]

Dave's Revenge

A fanfic based on the works of @e-vay.

(This takes place roughly a decade after the events of My Gal.)

---

A large figure stood at a small computer monitor. Flooding the screen was a giant cliffside manor, the residence of the retired mad scientist, Dr Eggman. Once known as his evil lair, the location of his schemes and plans for world domination, the building was now simply the resting place of an aging man. Merely a shell and museum of days long gone by. Of hundreds of plans gone awry.

The figure glared at the screen, eyes piercing from his helmet with malice. “Today,” he growled, “It all happens today!”

—-

It was another beautiful day on Bygone Island. Sonic the Hedgehog was relaxing outside on a lawn chair. His wife, Amy Rose, was inside making lunch, and their six-year-old daughter Aurora was playing nearby with her best friend Sage the AI, and her nanny bots, Orbot and Cubot. Things had gotten quiet in the years since Dr Eggman had retired from villainy, and the village had been incident-free for quite some time.

Sonic enjoyed this quiet life. While he enjoyed kicking Eggman’s butt in his younger years, he now found satisfaction and fulfillment in his new life as a husband and father. Still, he had a sinking feeling something wasn’t right. It was like the calm before the storm.

Suddenly, Sage looked concerned. “Please excuse me, Rory,” she stated, “Father requests my assistance urgently.”

“Okay, bye, Sage!” shouted Aurora as Sage disappeared into thin air.

“What does the boss want so suddenly?” Orbot wondered out loud.

“Probably ran out of prune juice again,” Cubot mused. “But he usually has me be his juicer! Did he replace me?!”

“Given that you served him plum juice last time, more than likely,” Orbot observed.

“But they’re the same thing!” Cubot groaned.

It was at that time that Sonic’s wrist communicator buzzed. It was Sage, who had sent him a message. The message read,

“Father is in peril! Send help STAT!”

Sonic’s eyes narrowed. He called inside the house, “Amy dear? Put lunch on hold! We’ve got a poached egg to deal with!”

—-

Within a few minutes, after entrusting Orbot and Cubot with Aurora, Sonic and Amy arrived at Eggman’s manor, to be met by a swarm of attacking robots!

“Eggman hasn’t had robots protecting his lair in years!” Amy shouted as she slammed her hammer into an attacking badnik.

“Yeah, but something’s off!” Sonic observed, smashing several with his spindash moves. “Egghead’s badniks are normally shaped like crabs, wasps, and other creatures! These look like… pickles and ketchup bottles! Has the doc gotten hungrier as he’s gotten older?”

“Whatever it is, we’ll figure it out,” Amy declared, “Now help me get this door down!”

“Gladly!” cried Sonic, as he knocked the door to Eggman’s lair down with a particularly powerful homing attack.

Inside, they found the lair dark and rather sinister. It was another red flag, as the lair was often well-lit and full of mechanical life. And there, tied up in a chair, was Eggman, his gray mustache practically glowing in the spotlight shining down on him.

“About time you got here, you miserable rodent!” Eggman grumbled from the chair.

“Father,” scolded Sage, who appeared close by, “That is hardly the way to speak to my bestie’s father.”

“Eh, sorry,” Eggman sighed.

“So, why are ya tied up like that, Eggman?” Sonic inquired, “Wild party at the old folks home last night?”

“Oh, QUITE the party,” said Eggman, “Woke up with a nasty headache, but that’s not why I’m like this!”

“Then what is?” asked Amy.

“I am.”

The deep voice came from the shadows, right behind Eggman. It was followed by cold, shallow breathing that sent chills down the spines of all in the room. Suddenly a large figure hovered into the light, arms crossed and steely eyed! It was a barrel-chested, teal-colored beaver, wearing a Trojan-like helmet, a leather jacket, and a flowing cape.

Sonic and Amy couldn’t believe their eyes. “DAVE THE INTERN?!?!” they cried in unison.

“I’m an intern no more,” Dave growled between heavy breaths. His voice was deeper and richer than it was during his fast food worker days. “Now, I’m in charge, and I say, break time’s over!!! Ha ha ha ha!! AH HA HA HA - HACK!!! ACK!!! URK!!!”

“Here, hun,” said a young adult female bandicoot, carrying a small object in her hands, which she proceeded to give to Dave. “You forgot your inhaler again.”

“Give me that!” grumbled Dave, as he swiped the inhaler out of the bandicoot’s hands and began breathing with it. He then muttered, “Thank you.”

“Perci?!” Amy gasped at the newcomer, “You’re with him?!”

“What can I say? I like a guy who’s handy,” Perci drawled, stroking Dave’s arm flirtatiously. “And this handsome hunk of a man has proven himself VERY handy indeed!”

“I think I just threw up in my mouth,” Eggman said grimacing.

“Alright Dave, enough small talk,” Sonic demanded, “What’s this all about?”

“What’s it about?!” Dave barked, “Revenge! Ever since Meh Burger was shut down by the health inspector, it has given me nothing but time to focus on finally enacting revenge against you, against the village, against everyone who underestimated and mocked me…” he glared at Amy, “…and against the love of my life, who rejected me for an arrogant blue porcupine!”

“What?!” Amy exclaimed, clearly disgusted, “Dave, you’re a nice guy and all, sort of, but there is no way we could work.”

“I nearly threw out my back moving heavy boxes for you!”

“That doesn’t mean squat! By the way, you dropped the box with my porcelain unicorn. You owe me fifty bucks!”

Dave rolled his eyes and placed a fifty dollar bill in Amy’s hand.

“Thank you. Now, if you’re done with the hemming and hawing, I gotta get back to preparing lunch. Come on, Sonic, we’re leaving!”

“No need to tell me twice!” said Sonic.

“Hey! Don’t leave me here!” Eggman yelled from his bonds.

“Nobody’s going anywhere!” Dave demanded. He fired a laser from his glove, causing rubble to block the entrance!

“Alright, enough is enough!” Sonic shouted, and he launched a homing attack towards Dave. Much to the hedgehog’s surprise, his attack was blocked by a reflector shield, sending him flying back down to the ground!

Landing on his feet, Sonic cried out, “Where the heck did that come from?!”

“I invented it to protect myself from French fry grease,” Dave explained, proudly. “Cool, huh?”

“We’re all set, hun,” said another bandicoot girl who looked almost identical to Perci. “The army’s ready for invasion.”

“Staci, you too?!” Amy cried, flabbergasted. “Both of you are… with him?!”

Sonic looked at Dave with disdain. “Dude, that’s kinda messed up.”

“Your best friend dated a plant!” Dave snapped, “I don’t wanna hear it!” Turning to Staci, he ordered, “Send them in!”

“Sure thing, Mr D,” sighed Staci, pressing a nearby button.

“What did you do?!” Sonic demanded.

Dave just smirked. “You better hurry to the village, heroes!” And with that, he grabbed onto Perci’s and Staci’s wrists, and the three of them floated up through a hatch in the ceiling, disappearing out of view.

Suddenly, the voice of Sonic’s best friend, Tails the Fox, called over Sonic’s wrist communicator. “Sonic! We’ve got trouble! Multiple badniks are invading the village! And they’re unlike anything I’ve ever seen.”

“Grab Knuckles, Sticks, and Rouge!” Sonic commanded. “Tell everyone to take cover, and hurry! Amy and I will join you shortly!” Turning to Amy, he asked, “You ready?”

Amy grinned while grabbing his hand, “You bet!” And the two hedgehogs boosted out of the lair at full speed.

“Seriously?!” Eggman growled, still tied up, “You’re really going to leave without me?! You can’t leave an old man in this condition! The social workers will certainly hear of this!!! Ugh, of all the times for Stone to be on jury duty!” Then, calming down, he asked, “Er, Sage dearie, would you kindly untie your father from these ropes?”

“In a minute, Father,” Sage replied. “First, I must take advantage of the opportunity.”

“Opportunity? For what?!”

“While you are currently immobilized, this is a prime opportunity to enact what Rory calls a ‘makeover’.” Then pulling out a makeup kit, she instructed, “Now please hold still. I do not wish for the mascara to ruin your spectacles.”

Eggman gulped.

—-

Sonic and Amy arrived at the village, where a fierce battle was raging! Tails, Knuckles, Sticks, and Rouge were in the middle of it all, making scrap metal out of the attacking robots.

“Sonic! It’s about time you showed up!” Tails shouted, ramming his wrench into a pickle bot, “These machines are unlike anything I’ve ever seen! It’s like the technology of Eggman mixed with the minimum wage labor of a fast food worker!”

“Yeah, and they look delicious!” shouted Knuckles, who eagerly took a huge bite out of a hamburger-shaped bot… then promptly spit it out. “Blech! But they don’t taste delicious.”

“Careful, Knuckie!” Rouge called, semi-flirtatiously, “You need to watch your cholesterol!”

“I knew it!” Sticks screamed, “The FDA has gone too far! I always knew they would use our food to kill us! It’s every man for himself!!!”

“Either I forgot to pay my restaurant bill again,” Tails observed, “Or this could be the work of-“

“It’s Dave the Intern,” Sonic explained quickly.

“Okay that makes all the sense in the world and simultaneously makes no sense at all,” Tails said.

“Don’t worry, buddy!” Sonic said, “Let’s trash these bots like it’s finally Season 3!”

And so, after a fierce, glorious battle that I SO wish you could’ve seen, our heroes stood in the midst of a pile of busted robot parts.

“Nowhere near as difficult as one of Egghead’s attacks,” Amy observed, “but nothing to sneeze at, either. I’ll give Dave props for that.”

“Phew! I needed the workout!” Sonic said while stretching and punching the air. “Is that the best that fry cook can serve?!”

Suddenly, Sonic’s wrist communicator sounded again, and Orbot’s panicked voice came blaring from it! “New boss? There’s been a situation!”

“Yeah!” cried Cubot from the communicator, “The season finale to ‘La Ultima Pasion’ has been postponed for two whole weeks!”

“But not just that!” cried Orbot, “Miss Rory! Something happened and she—“ But before he could finish, he was cut off by sharp static!

“She what?!” Sonic shouted into the communicator, “What happened to my daughter? Orbot? Orbot?!”

“MAMA! PAPA! HELP!!!!” Aurora’s voice came tearing through the atmosphere, and Team Sonic looked up in horror to see the young girl trapped in the strong arms of a levitating Dave!

“MY BABY!!!!!” Amy screamed in a way only a distraught mother can.

“I told you to stop calling me that!” a grade-school aged Chumley Walrus yelled from far off.

“Everything I ever loved was taken from me,” Dave said coldly as Aurora wriggled desperately, “Now, I’ll take what you love.”

“When I get my hands on you—-!!!” Sonic roared, enraged.

“Hon, forget the child!” Perci called from Dave’s communicator, “We’ve got what we need.”

“No! They need a statement!” Dave said. Then to the heroes, he hissed, “Here’s your one-star review!” And then he took off to the heavens, carrying Sonic and Amy’s terrified daughter in tow!

“Sonic!” Amy cried, “We need to do the croquet maneuver!”

“No we can’t!” Sonic shouted, “I’ll hit Aurora!”

“But we’ve got to do something!”

Meanwhile, up in the sky, Aurora wriggled with all her might to try to free herself.

“Struggle all you want!” Dave grinned maliciously, “I hope you enjoy the title of Unpaid Intern!”

Suddenly, Aurora’s small body began to glow, faintly at first, but quickly growing brighter, and with a sharp cry of “Let! Me! GO!!!!!” She glowed as bright as a lighthouse!

Not anticipating the sudden brightness, Dave let out a shrill cry and loosened his grip on the girl, sending her plummeting down towards earth!

“AAAAAAAAAHH!!!!” Aurora screamed.

Watching the events unfold from below, the villagers gasped in horror!

“Now?!” Amy cried.

“NOW!!!” Sonic yelled, throwing himself into a spin ball!

Amy swung her hammer as hard as she could, sending her husband rocketing towards their daughter! Sonic uncurled just in time to catch Aurora, and the two landed roughly, yet safely into the ground!

“Are you alright, Tiny?” Sonic groaned in pain.

“Mm-hmm,” Aurora whimpered, shaken. “I’m sorry, Papa! That bad man was typin’ on Uncle Tails’ ‘pooter! I tried to stop him, but…” she then started to cry.

Sonic held Aurora close to him. “Shhh, it’s okay, Tiny,” he said softly, “You’re okay. That was not right to try to take that bad man on yourself, but you were very brave. I’m proud of you. Just next time, let the adults, or your nanny-bots, take care of it. Okay.”

Aurora looked up and nodded, “‘Kay.” Holding on tighter, she said, “Love you, Papa.”

“I love you too, Tiny.”

—-

Later, the group of heroes stood around Tails’ computer as he examined it.

“Well, someone has definitely been snooping around,” Tails observed, “But everything seems to be intact. I wonder what Dave wanted?”

“Who knows?” Sticks guessed, “Maybe he wanted embarrassing vacation photos? Maybe he wanted your music files? Maybe he was looking for important information regarding all of us, showing all of our strengths and weaknesses, THE LIKES OF WHICH WOULD CERTAINLY LEAD TO OUR DOOM IN THE WRONG HANDS!!!!”

Silence engulfed the room, followed by a collective, “Naaaah!”

“Well, whatever he was looking for,” Sonic declared, “If he should ever show his face again, we’ll be waiting for him!”

“At least little Rory was able to scare him off!” Knuckles stated.

“Indeed!” Rouge agreed, booping Aurora on the nose, “She’s going to be quite the charming little hero! She’ll be kicking butt in no time—!”

“When she’s an adult!” Sonic and Amy interrupted in unison.

“—when she’s an adult,” Rouge finished, corrected.

“When I’m an adult!” Aurora cried triumphantly, prompting everyone in the room to laugh in awe.

“Heheh, we still have plenty of time before that happens!” Sonic said. “In the meantime… I’m getting kinda hungry. Who wants a burger?” Prompting everyone to laugh harder in agreement.

—-

Alone in his room, Dave stared wearily at a picture frame. The picture was of himself, back in his teenage intern days. Standing next to him was a middle-aged female figure, her head torn out of the picture. Dave sighed. He remembered the day his mother tore her own face out of the picture, being embarrassed to be seen with such an embarrassing excuse of a villain.

He then remembered another awful day. The day when Meh Burger was shut down. He had decided to take matters into his own hands by hacking into the health inspector’s bank account and ruining his credit rating. But as that proved too difficult to do, he did the next best thing and burned the inspector’s house to the ground.

He didn’t expect that the fire would get out of control. Nor that his mother happened to be in the health inspector’s house for tea.

She didn’t make it out.

Dave had fled the scene of the crime, so the blame was pinned on faulty wiring while he got out scot-free, but the consequences of his actions sunk deeper than any jail sentence ever could.

After the fire was put out by Sonic and his friends, nobody cared that the only person Dave ever cared about and desperately tried to please was gone forever. Nobody came to console and check in on him. Hardly anyone even attended the funeral. The only thing that mattered was that those do-gooders had saved the day once again.

It wasn’t fair! Why should the heroes get all the attention? Just because they can spin around and punch their way to glory, does that mean they’re providence’s gift to the world? Of course, why would anyone care about a puny, insignificant fry cook? Does it really matter that he never got to prove himself a worthy super villain to the one person who was his entire world?!

No, of course not.

Nobody cares.

Dave seethed as the memories went roaring through his head. It has taken years to come to this moment, but they would care. They all would. He would make them all care! Soon all eyes would be on him, and those goody-goody attention seekers would be cast to the wayside!

“Here’s the data you requested,” said Perci, holding a flash drive in her hand. “You’re welcome, by the way. Those geniuses made hacking quite the hassle.”

Dave inhaled sharply, then, swiping the flash drive from her hand, he murmured, “Fine, thanks.”

He then inserted the drive into a nearby computer, and before long, files began filling the screen. Files containing important information regarding both Eggman and the heroes, showing all of their strengths and weaknesses, the likes of which would certainly lead to their doom in the wrong hands!

“Vengeance is mine, Sonic the Hedgehog!” Dave declared, “And no one, not you, not your friends, nor even your glowstick of a daughter, will be able to stop me! Soon all the world will know the name of… CHEZ DAVID!!!! GAHAHAHAHA - Hack! Cough! Ugh! (Inhale) HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAAA!!!!!!”

THE END...?

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Writing Reference: Symbolism of Colors

Colors are proven to have a profound effect on the human psyche and moods.

Territories use colors to represent themselves on their flags.

The significance of colors is proven by the high value that our ancestors placed on certain plants or substances that could be made into dyes, such as the Imperial Purple of Rome that was produced from a mollusk that was valued more highly than gold, or the saffron crocus that produced the sacred color of the same name.

Prior to the development of chemical dyes, the creation of colors that did not fade in the Sun or wash away was a combination of art, science, and magic, akin to an alchemical process.

The impact of the Sun shining through stained glass, painting the interiors of churches with living colors that shimmered and danced, in a medieval world where color was often a privilege of the wealthy few, can only be imagined.

The 7 colors of the rainbow—which break down into 700 shades that are visible to the naked eye—are associated with the seven planets, the days of the week, the Seven Heavens, and the seven notes of the musical scale.

Symbolic Meanings of Some Colors

BLACK

Night, the absence of light; mourning, sobriety, denial; authority; perfection and purity; maturity and wisdom.

Although it’s the opposite of white, both shades are, in fact, due to an absence of color, and technically speaking black is not a “color” at all. This doesn’t stop it having a wealth of symbolic meaning.

BLUE

Truth and the intellect; wisdom, loyalty, chastity; peace, piety, and contemplation; spirituality; eternity.

There’s something cool and detached about blue that gives rise to its reputation for spirituality and chastity. Above all, blue is the color of the sky. Like the sky, blue is infinitely spacious. It contains everything, and yet contains nothing. The color is therefore associated with ideas of eternity.

BROWN

Poverty, humility, practicality.

Primarily associated with the Earth, soil, the raw element before it is covered with greenery. The word for earth, in Latin, is humus, which carries the same root as humility. Religious ascetics wear brown as a reminder of this quality and also of their voluntary material poverty.

GRAY

Sobriety, steadiness, modesty.

Gray is the midway point between black and white, and tellingly the “gray area” is an area of indetermination, indecision, or ambiguity. To be described as gray is rather less than flattering, since gray is such a subdued and neutral color, and implies that the person blends into the background.

However, gray is also a color of balance and reasonableness and is the color used, in photography, to balance all others.

Because people’s hair turns gray with age, the word is often used to describe elderly people and is also a color of wisdom.

GREEN

New life, resurrection, hope; the sea; fertility and regeneration; recycling, environmental awareness; a lucky color; an unlucky color.

Green is an amalgam of blue and yellow, and is the color of the fourth chakra. Green is the universal symbol for “Go!” to red’s “Stop!”

MOTLEY

Wealth; a chameleon personality.

Not strictly a color as such, but a combination of many other colors. The word is generally used to describe cloth or clothing. The rainbow nature of motley means that whoever wears it has as many aspects as there are colors, a chameleon personality, and it can indicate the trickster or fool (as worn by the jester, or the Fool in the Tarot) as well as kings, emperors, and deities.

In the Bible, Joseph’s coat of many colors is the object of much envy.

ORANGE

Balance between spirit and sexuality; fertility and yet virginity; energy; the Sun; like yellow, orange is believed to be an appetite stimulant.

Orange has two aspects that we see time and time again, pivoting between the material and spiritual worlds, which is not surprising given that the color itself is a balance between red and yellow. As such, it represents the second chakra, the first being red, and the third, yellow.

PINK

Femininity, innocence, good health, love, patience.

Pink is the ultimate feminine color, being flirty, girlish, and innocent at the same time. Pale pink is used as the symbol for a baby girl, just as pale blue is used for baby boys. This feminine angle is why the color pink has been adopted as a symbol of gay pride. Pink is the color of universal, unconditional love.

PURPLE

Royalty and pomp; power, wealth, majesty.

Purple, or indigo, is the color associated with the sixth chakra. Since it was first discovered, purple has been the color of choice to denote wealth and power. Emperors, kings, and the more powerful members of the clergy—such as bishops—choose the colour as a way of defining their status. This is because the dye itself was originally available from one source and one source only; the secretions of a certain gland of an unfortunate sea snail called the Murex brandaris. Therefore, purple was extremely costly to produce and strictly the color of those who could afford it, since the dye itself was more expensive even than gold. The most popular shade of the color is called Tyrian Purple (named for the city of Tyre, where it was manufactured).

RED

Vitality and life-force; fire, the Sun, the South; blood; good luck and prosperity; power and authority; masculine energy; war and anger; passion, energy, sexuality.

One of the three primary colors, bright red pops out of whatever environment it happens to be in and grabs our attention more than any other color. Moreover, it is the first actual color that is seen by babies.

SAFFRON

Spirituality, holiness, good fortune.

Named after the saffron crocuses whose stigmas create the color, the harvesting of these delicate plant parts is a labor-intensive and time-critical matter and so the actual dye is costly to produce.

VIOLET

Knowledge and intelligence; piety, sobriety, humility, temperance; peace and spirituality.

Violet is the color associated with the seventh chakra. There are many shades of violet ranging from ethereal pale shades through to the darker mauve, considered the only color acceptable as a relief from the relentless strict mourning convention of black and gray in Victorian times. Violet is a combination of red and blue, and its association with temperance is indicated in some Tarot suits.

The humble qualities of violet as a color come from the flower. The tiny violet grows close to the ground, hidden modestly in among the grass, yet noticeable because of its striking color.

WHITE

Purity, virginity; death and rebirth, a beginning and an end; in the Far East, mourning.

White is both the absence of any color and the sum of all colors together, so in a sense it can mean everything or nothing. This combination of all colors has given white the name of the “many-colored lotus” in Buddhist teachings.

YELLOW

The Sun; power, authority; the intellect and intuition; goodness; light, life, truth, immortality; endurance; the Empire and fertility [China]; cowardice, treachery.

Yellow is one of the three primary colors and is related to the third chakra which lives in the region of the solar plexus. This is apt, since yellow, like red and orange, is one of the Sun colors. It could be argued that yellow is the most dazzling of the three, so the association makes good sense.

Because leaves turn yellow and then to black with the onset of fall, in several places, including Ancient Egypt, yellow is a color of mourning. A yellow cross was painted on doors as a sign of the plague, possibly for the same reasons, and even today yellow marks off a quarantined area.

Source ⚜ Writing Notes & References More: On Colours

[cpucoiner]

ᰍ ₊ youareanidiotvirusic

Image description: A flag with 7 stripes, in order of: lightest gray, light gray, gray, dark gray, gray, light gray, lightest gray. The flag on the left has three smiley faces in the middle in the same lightest gray color, the first one being filled in, the second one being just an outline, and the third one being filled in as well, while the flag on the right does not.

a gender relating to the YOUAREANIDIOT virus. can relate to your gender feeling like how one gets the virus, how it looks, the effect it has on devices, or something else.

Note: if this xenogender already exists, consider this an alternative flag!

[sulumuns-dootah]

What WHB characters would wear in the human world: Gehenna

⟡ Masterlist ⟡ 

A/N: Very much inspired by the fact that demons in Obey Me have their own lil outfits while going to visit their favorite human ^^

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This short king is very much hot biker guy coded.

You know those tiktoks of guys who are showing off on the road and then do stupid shit at gas stations? That's this guy right here

He's not really a brand specific guy, but if you press him, he'll rave to you about MXDVS (honestly, same here ^^)

Darkwear/Techwear/Warcore

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Soft boi™

Light colors, nature, tea

Despite having his uniform altered to have black slutty shirt, he's very much cottagecore

He bakes, makes tea and cares for his fellow demons, need I say more?

Soft boy/Cottagecore

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V europian gay prince coded indeed

Dorian Gray kinnie

Open shirts all year around, only when it's cold/raining, he'll wear a coat over his shoulders

Vampirecore/Light academia

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Lose Paimon in the crowd any% speedrun IMPOSSIBLE challenge

The more colorful, the better

Gotta wear bright colors to match their bright personality

Indie/Kidcore/Harajuku

also pics credit to @/butterfliesworkforsatan on tiktok ^^

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Another dramatic ass fashionista

This time make it goth

You can't see it, but he's got eyliner on

What you see, however, is Jiyu wearing the same eyeliner

Vampirecore/Romantic Goth

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Ooh he seducin' with more than his words allright

'Hey, my eyes are up here'

Sadly his snake has to be replaced by snake skin boots, but don'T worry, he snake is unharmed and chilling at home in Hell

Big Daddy vibes

Suits and trutlenecks

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Anything sporty, really

Likes wearing gray sweatpants bc he gets a lot of compliments

Thinks that grey is just his color

Don't ever tell him the real reason for the sake of u all

Also, maaaaaybee you could accdientally shrink his clothes in the wash so it's tighter on him?

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Oh boy, good luck explaining to Juno, that he can't exactly be mostly naked outside or he'll draw too much unwanted attention

'But I've got this insanely hot body! Why should I hide it? Other's should be lucky to see me like that! I'm literally the hottest red lump in Hell!'

Cue in Juno trying to find things that are technically clothes that still show off his muscles

Damiano David ultimatelly becomes his fashion icon

Also Hatari

When this man discovers fishnets? Ooh boy

Good luck talking him out of just wearing full fishnet bodysuit

(and yes, it's hard to find pics that wouldn't get my post flagged by tumblr)