#rainbow lattice

[geologyin-blog]

Rainbow Lattice Sunstone top grade specimens from Australia

Photo: Coloradogemworks

Alexander Walker

[kiwiplur]

PONYTOBER TIME AWWWYEEAAAAAA. doing these in two shot burts because I've already started doing it too late to stop now x_x

Day 3: Surprise! I've had an itch to draw Lattice again, and I've been meaning to draw Home Run ever since I made her for one of the Cap's oneshots their hosting in their discord right now. I didn't get in but I love her so much I wanted to keep her around for future shinanigans hopefully :>

Day 4: The mom-cop Iron Magnum, and her problematic Ex-Nightrain bestie Monarch. Iron's a character i've had in my brain since I came up with Jazz's backstory and I finally found an excuse to draw her yesssss. Monarch is a huge bitch, but we love her. she's OUR bitch alright? She's another character I made for a oneshot, and I actually got to play her in it!! We rigged an election!!! :D I drew them together because the idea that these two somehow ended up being ride or dies for each other is hilarious to me.

[talos-stims]

rainbow lattice sunstone | source

[garblegarden]

Been studying the blade, and by the blade i mean wait i already made this joke last time i tried out a hnk artbook style

[briery]

Rainbow lattice sunstone from Australia.

[astramyr]

feldspar minerals are probably my favorite minerals. i don't know that much about minerals but from what i do know i think feldspar is the best mineral group

[etherealevangeline]

Midnight Morgue—The Flower Shop

summary: reader finds simon in a flower shop—cute moment ig? If simon wasn’t being dickish lol.

notes: this story deals with explicit themes such as smut, gore, horror, alcoholism, mental health, delusions, surgical themes/terms. minors do not interact! just love the look of 2009 simon riley in this morgue AU. morgue may or may not be haunted :) ritualistic themes/cult like behavior. random sketchy ass town. Price is the supervisor. Mactavish & Garrick are small town police officers. slow burn simon x reader, enemies to lovers, simon has a huge chip on his shoulder. reader is questioning her belief in the spirit realm. feminine pronouns are used

The next hours are filled with dread as you wait. This morning you had a doctor's appointment—bloody blood work. You despised hospitals and doctors offices. The smell of antiseptic was enough to put you to sleep, considering their slow pace of calling peoples names.

But eventually you made it out in one piece. Your shift started at around 7pm, so what did you find yourself doing before it all? As you walked down the clammy, and rainy streets of Jim Thorpe, the windows were stained with fog. It concealed shadowed figures moving inside. Neon signs blinked pathetically out in the distance, blurred by the fog which left it hazy.

Nevertheless, you caught wind of gossip that a new flower shop opened recently. This one happened to be closer to the cemetery you visited, saving you gas money. You found yourself gravitating towards it, your usual frown decorating your face like rainbows.

You walked in, hearing the ominous jingle that provided no joy—just a reminder of your position in life. A tall hunky figure stood behind the wooden lattice counter, as pots of eucalyptus, vine-like, caressed the edges. It smelled of rose water and musky cologne, as your eyes shifted to him. His hands grappled carefully at the stem bundles he held, inspecting them.

He hissed and muttered something—-or what sounded like a curse, “Bloody hell.” He wiped his finger with a rag quickly that he grabbed off the side. He then shoved it into his back pocket of his motel jeans. It was a wash out style, and dark.

You’d recognized that voice. The thick Manchester accent resonated deep in your core, like a sinking weight.

You strode forward hastily on your wet boots that squelched, announcing your presence once more. He turned around to reveal a sharp set of features, his usual balaclava mask hiding his face. The light from the fogged windows revealed his eyes, and his nose bridge, highlighting the curve of his lids.

“I need a set of flowers.” You muttered.

“What kind?” He asked, although sounding indifferent.

“Don’ matter.” You murmured. Your finger tapped at the chipped wood to which his languid eyes glanced at, then up at your avoidant gaze. You appeared far away in thought, like something beckoned your attention. The pinch in your brow didn’t help to hide it either.

He didn’t comment on it, but turned away and got to work. Your eyes then darted over to his back. Maybe it was the sense of privacy you had when he turned, finally able to look. You couldn’t shake it, something was unnerving about his stare. All these military men and their stares were like punches to the gut. You figured he was ex military, since Price briefly hung up a picture unframed, on his desk.

If you remembered, there stood Price in the middle. He was clad in his khaki military pants, a hat covering his features slightly. Simon was to the left, hunky and geared up, holding his assault rifle, with no obvious smile. Just ominous eyes bleeding behind the mask. Mactavish was off to the right, daringly smirking, arms crossed. And Garrick, he held a service dog, grinning and crouched down in front of the team.

As his gruff calloused hands gathered some babies' breath, lilies and a few red roses, the wind outside howled demandingly. A sharp contrast top the delicacy of the flowers. It ached, almost resembling the sound of a pained cry to be held, to be nurtured.

You clutched your leather jacket closer, hoping he’d finish soon enough. The jacket was dark and distressed from years of use, taking on less of a shine and more of a matte look. It hung heavily on your shoulders like the weight of grief.

Meanwhile his ratted hoodie was rolled up at the sleeves, unzipped and revealing a dark undershirt, which hid his tattoos. The hood was pulled up, giving him an overbearing look despite the flowery essence of the shop. All bright and ditzy and yet he was all hunk, poison, and death met you in his stare.

“Why are you even working here?” You found yourself asking, amidst the silence, a brow cocking. This was the last place you expected Simon to be.

“I’ll be done with you soon.” His gruff reply came. You scoffed—actually grinning at the jackasses reply. Was it that hard to answer such a simple question? Somehow, it amused you, his nonchalant attitude.

Also, add pissy to the list.

“Just askin'. This is the last place I’d expect you to be.” You continued, eyeing his back as the hoodie stretched and pulled this way and that. He gathered a crinkling white plastic to wrap the flowers—large hands folding it neatly.

For a war criminal, he sure had patience with this.

“And this is the last place I’d expect you, f'someone who dips her hands in body cavities.” He returned, his bitter gaze meeting yours. It was hypocritical, how he deemed you as odd for showing up, when he himself, stained with blood of those long gone wrapped flowers. Maybe we had more in common, you thought.

Your eye then twitched, maybe it was the way you couldn’t get much of a read on him. What was lurking underneath those eyes, in his mind. What those fingers itched to really do—instead of sitting here wrapping pretty flowers all day long.

“Can’t a woman buy her flowers in peace?” You said. Yet you knew, there was no peace to be had. It came off as a bitter reply.

Simon silently taped the bouquet carefully and then raised the bundle. His eyes traced over the curve of the petals, the flowers. The way it fell, the way it was organized carefully. You watched, as his pale scarred hand came up to tilt the flower. He seemed pleased with his work, and then turned fully to hand you the bouquet.

If he wasn’t so pissy the sight would’ve been welcomed. But you snatched the bouquet and looked down at it, before slapping down the cash on the cold wood.

“Got a lad?” The Brit had the nerve to ask. Why was he concerned? You picked up on a slight condescending tone to it, as if he didn’t expect someone as raggly as you to have one. His eye twitched, as if the muscle were celebrating your annoyance.

God, I mean—

Besides your hair falling out the clumsy braid it was in, strands brushing your cheeks—the way your eyes were baggy with fatigue—

He wasn’t wrong. You shut off all kinds of intimacy eons ago. But him, something about him irked you and lit a flame of irritation. It was small yet, having room to grow and fan out. You weren’t sure if you should shut the windows and let the flame starve. Deprive it of oxygen.

It wasn’t an affectionate flame either. It wasn’t the kind to wax and wane, leaning in for a lover's caress.

It was the kind that would grow gnarly and burn everything in its path, driven to consume. Combusting. Touching skin and traveling up like a stiff line. You recognized it.

“None of your business.” You then simply stated and turned around, leaving. Time to shut the windows.

Simon tipped his chin up slightly at your form, as you opened the door and disappeared into the thick fog. He could see just a little of your form walking down the pavement from the window, flowers gripped tightly in one hand.

You were heading to the cemetery, he figured it was up that way.

When he counted the cash you’d given to him, the bills moving with ease in his larger hands, he noticed you left two dollars extra. He shrugged and took them. He grappled for his worn out leather wallet, thick with cards and wads of unnecessary singles sticking out. He placed your bills in there, cashing the rest in the register.

He couldn’t bring himself to ask why you left for the cemetery. Instead, he found it appealing to spin stories. Lord knows, maybe that was your only getaway to eat lunch with the dead. He bit back a sleazy grin behind the mask.

His eyes then floated up from the chipped wood, gliding to the hooks. His apron, unworn and unused, hung uselessly at the hook by the door. His eyes bore holes into the fabric as if willing it to burn. The Brit was often confused for not working there since he never wore it—to which the store manager rang his ears a few times about it.

But he never listened. One cigarette and the manager found himself shutting up about the damned apron. Easy.

“You’d ave to let me kill you if you wanted to see that.” Simon muttered roughly before pushing off the counter and fixing his next order from the POS.

—-

As evening rolled in, you found yourself sipping a cinnamon latte. Both MacTavish and Garrick brought in batches of coffees and donuts, to which you took gladly. Your appetite was a mess which needed your attention. But for now, you focused on sipping the warmth, as you held it with both hands.

Price was sitting across on a stool, his form hunched and biting into a powdery donut.

Both of you were in the break room, downstairs in the morgue when you spoke, sighing as the liquid washed down.

“Morgue life.”

Price glanced up as if not expecting you to have talked. The furrow of his brow eased and he relaxed his eyes, before dusting off his hands. “Got anything better to say?”

You felt an itch at your lips but concealed it by lifting the rim to your lips, where you sipped. Your eyes darted away from his shifting form, a hand curling around his knee, shoulders angled to gaze at you.

“Was it bad?” Cringe.

“What?” Price muttered, a slight cock of his head conveying confusion. “You gonna speak up, or gonna keep hiding behind your cup?”

You shifted in your spot. There it was. The way he did this. All of the time. The old crank just loved pointing out the obvious. You weren’t as stealthy as you thought you were around him.

You lowered the cup before straightening your shoulders, squaring them.

“The military.” You clarified, your voice clearer and bolder.

Price rubbed at his scruffy jaw with the hand that was free, glancing away for a moment. He then looked at you, admittedly a little too casually, a brow raised, as if he’d been down this course many times. His forearms were decorated with long scarring, jagged and rising upon the flesh.

“It’s over now. What’s it to you?” Price asked, jerking a chin at you. Your fingers curled around the cup to seek more warmth under his cold, prodding stare. It felt like ice chafing against your skin, rubbing and melting. That's what he did to you.

And you realized he knew a heck of a ton more than he let on. It intrigued you. What kind of military tactics did he learn?

“Realized I don’t know much about you.” You conceded, and then stood up from your own stool. Your scarf suddenly hooked onto the drawer from behind, threatening to strangle you. You made a noise of shock and confusion, your free hand flying up to your neck.

Suddenly, a rush of tobacco consumed your nose and nicotine. The smell of aftershave was faint. When you processed it all—Price had gotten up, and in a swift move yanked the piece out from the drawer. He towered over you.

“Watch your six, you might be the cause of your own death.” Price said dryly. You rubbed at the tightened fabric around your throat, eyes glancing behind you to the ajar drawer, the red scarf flowing down.

You then met his darkened eyes.

“MacTavish wouldn’t stop teasing your dead body.” He breathed out, the sir hitting your cheeks.

Your heart was pounding at your own clumsiness. Was it the coffee? The lack of sleep? So many things.

“I can’t tell if you’re joking or not.” You whispered, to which he seemed to find amusement in. His eyes crinkled, his resolve weakening slightly. Even so, there was still something unnerving about the way his instincts moved like a feather. You didn’t even register the sound of his footsteps towards you. You couldn’t imagine how efficient he must’ve been in the military.

“Get goin’. You’re working with Simon tonight.” Price ordered gruffly, stepping back on his old boots.

This time, you almost threw your latte into his face. But your resolve held on, and you glanced away.

You then responded curtly, “Thanks for the warning.”

Price watched—-slightly amused and questioning your reply as you hurried off. No doubt probably needing to cool off. He scoffed, shaking his head and rubbed at his nose bridge as if stressed by trying to figure you out.

“One day it’s the bloody drink rumor, the other it’s this.” He sighed, knowing he also had questions himself for you, before putting both your stools aside. He didn't really understand your sudden interest in him. He was an old, retired military man who cracked beers on the weekend. Alone. Staring at the cresting sunset.

The break room lights flickered to which he then looked up. His small eyes narrowed at the yellow, dingy light boxes, stained by years of dirt and grime.

“Damned wiring.”

Down the hallway in the morgue, you were met face to face with Simon. The Brit leaned on the empty metal table, burly arms crossed. Tired pale eyes dragged from your distressed boots, to your jean clad thighs, and then your scarf that hung limply from when price yanked it free. You cleared your throat, setting the cup down on the nearby shelf to unravel it.

“You’re late.”

“You’re not the first to have said that.” You quipped, then hung your scarf inside the closet. You heard the fellow footsteps of Price, and then Simon went about scrubbing his hands in the sink.

You joined beside his taller form, begrudgingly. Price opened the doors and he sighed, drawing on the chalkboard.

Simon spared you no look or glance, just focused on each of the thick jagged scars marring his flesh. It no longer hurt to touch, but the man knew each and every story of them all. His tattoos now showed as he rode up the dark undershirt, his hoodie hung on the hook beside your scarf.

“Where’d you get those done?” You quipped, brow cocking as you scrubbed your palms red. You needed a hair tie, because your hair was in the way and distracted you from leaning down. Every brush of the strands irritated you.

He was quiet, until he spoke.

“Must be a reason why the drinking rumors started.” Simon spoke roughly, low enough so you could hear. Over the agonizing pound of your heart, the way your breath froze, Price worked the board. Most likely drawing the human body.

“Good. So don’t ask questions.” He said after your stunned silence. You didn’t dare raise your head, eyes casted low as a frown pulled at your lips.

If it was possible you scrubbed harder as he walked behind you to grab some gloves. You could hear him snapping them on, as if nothing ensued. The snap even had your blood boiling. Festering like welts.

That flame was beginning to breathe again.

You avoided him until it was time to bring in the body. Simon angled the overhead lighting, as MacTavish rolled in, his hands on his vest whilst Garrick swiftly rolled the gurney to you both.

Price and Garrick lifted the body onto the table, whilst you stood aside. Simon looked over MacTavish with a nod of approval. a sense of familiarity.

“Unknown female. Found by a church, locals say they called it in after praying in the night. Priest was almost certain this was a sign from the Lord.” Garrick muttered.

“Ain’t that a wake up call.” Price grumbled from beside Simon.

MacTavish grinned, although less from what Price said and more so to you. His eyes strayed to your form as you hassled to tie your hair up, fingers working fast, head tipped low. You managed to get it in a ponytail.

“Aye, don’ stress it. Looked pretty down.” MacTavish just had to comment.

Before you could respond, Price cut in gruffly, “That’ll be.”

MacTavish winked at you and waved a little “bye bye,” at a certain Simon. Simon stared void of any emotion whatsoever, like he had gotten long used to the Scotsman's behavior.

You wondered how he didn’t at least bother to crack at him, the way he did with you.

That was because maybe a part of him trusted MacTavish. Which he didn’t with you.

Your stomach shriveled and you turned your head away, as Price unzipped the body. You felt similar to being homesick. Like you didn’t fit in. Too new. Shiny enough to stick out. And yet broken, the cracks in you dried up and became more of a wound that didn’t fully heal. It didn’t bleed anymore, as it was a drought.

“Assisting John Price, are two coroners Simon Riley, and…” He added your name as he spoke in the voice recorder. Contrary to the feeling you just had, you felt a twinge of belonging as he said it. It happened before. And now it keeps repeating.

Almost like, it became a sort of sappy moment in the goddamn morgue. You shoved it away harshly, biting at any sort of feeling to belong. You were perplexed by your inner monologue.

If I don’t want to fit in, why does it bother me to see he trusted MacTavish more?

And why did the mention of my name make me feel present?

As if Price—the way he so firmly said your name had you realizing you were alive. That you existed behind the foggy chaos of your life. That when he said it, when he affirmed it, you felt a part of life itself. Risen from the dead itself.

You were torn out your thoughts as Simon moved to begin inspecting the body. He leaned over, blonde lashes brushing the curve of his cheek, barely concealed by the mask he wore. The light made his skin translucent and angelic almost. You found yourself staring a bit too long, this time.

“Unidentified female. Long black hair. Caucasian, looks to be mid twenties.” Simon described efficiently, his thick Manchester accent rolling out smoothly. Price wrote on the board, arm jostling.

You found yourself intrigued by the way the words slipped confidently off his tongue like he’d done this a million times. What perplexed you was how his hands worked so patiently and tenderly in the flower shop, and now he handled a dead corpse. It only made you even compelled to unveil him. This part of you to figure him out, to eye him like a hawk. But you knew you’d get nowhere considering how private he was.

You stepped forward and looked at her limbs. You reached a gloved hand out to check her ankle joints, finding them broken. The skin was bruised and mottled. The area was severely swollen, puffing up. “Both ankles are broken like the last, Price.”

Price writes it down, circling the ankles. He cocked his brow at the observation, two in one week? He tapped the chalk, pondering.

Simons’ eyes glanced up at you, before flashing to Price, “Certainly can’t be good.” He muttered. The Brit wasn’t here for the last exam, but surely MacTavish must’ve filled him in.

You flexed her ankle, seeing as the rotation was hyperextending from the break. You trailed your eyes up to her hands which you noticed dirt under her fingernails.

Before you realized it—Simon already handed you a scraper and a petri dish.

You glanced at his pale void eyes, and then scraped the substance off. He watched you like a hawk, your smaller hands moving efficiently. His hands would probably drop the scraper easily.

“Found something. Looks like dried blood.” You said.

“Use the microscope.” Price spoke gruffly. He continued his writings, and Simon watched as you turned away to sit on the stool. Your form hunched over as you eyed the substance, in the microscope.

Meanwhile, Simon then busied himself with checking her irises. He leaned in, his gloved thumb holding the eyelid to reveal cloudy eyes. His brows set lower, deeply, as if trying to figure out who she was. What her story was. How she ended up here. And then, he thought he saw her eyes shift. Like a lizard. Flickering to him. His gloved hand withdrew, hovering, barely stroking her skin.

He remained largely where he stood, faltering in the slightest. He made no sound, just stared at her corpse as if he’d imagined it. She was completely still and lifeless.

“It's blood.” Your voice then cuts through the air. He exhaled, his chest lowering and then flickered his eyes to you before rounding the table, closing the distance.

Awkwardly, and suddenly you’re shoved to the side as his torso looks close to your face. He leaned down, looking into the microscope to see what you saw, a hand gripping the base. You scowled up at him as the Brit knew no personal space.

“She must’ve fought it off her captor.” Price muttered, then glanced at you two. “Back it up.” He spoke as if you were a mutt that needed training. You didn’t like it.

“I was just doing my work.” You muttered and rolled your eyes at Simon. He moved away and crossed his arms, staring down at your sitting form like you were an insect to behold.

You didn’t like it one bit. You turned your cheek away over to Price, seeing what he’d written down. “That means there was a struggle involved.” You figured.

“Clearly.” Simon added, behind you like a sound board. Except he wasn’t exactly helping you. You bristled and kept your eyes trained on the chalkboard.

“Were her wrists broken as well?”

“Yes.” Simon spoke. He moved away to your thankfulness, and looked once again over the table. Surely enough, her wrists also had signs of bruising and swelling.

“Same M.O.” Price sighed, recalling the last male victim.

You got up from the stool and walked over to Price. “If it fits the M.O as last, this could be a serial killer.” Your voice was low, in a hushed tone. Simon watched on the interaction from behind, thumb stroking the edge of the table with a sense of distrust radiating off of him.

“Surely enough.” Price then responded, eyes darkening with something unbridled. It was an intense need to figure it out, like a missing puzzle piece. His hand stroked his scruffy jaw before sending his eyes over to Simon.

“Proceed with the internal examination.”

You joined along—more than happy to assist. But now you were beginning to feel like the lap puppy beside him rather than an efficient practitioner. You disliked it.

It only brought up feelings of being constricted. Cast away like a chore being ticked off the list for the evening.

Simon's hands worked deftly to make the Y-shaped cut. Soon enough the ribs were exposed, decaying organs laying underneath. Your eyes assessed the damage.

“No hole in the heart.” You said, brows furrowed.

“Odd.” Price sighed through his nose and then strode to assess the two of you. He was even more perplexed by the lack of the corkscrew hole missing.

Simon lowered his scalpel onto the metal tray on the cart beside his hip. His gloves flexed.

You watched the body cavity, eyes flitting around. You then leaned away to look at Price, “I’ll have that blood analyzed by the lab.”

“Do it now.” Price ordered firmly, eyes cutting into yours. He needed to figure this out. The look in his eyes told you enough.

You wasted no time in stripping your gloves, throwing them in the can, and then grabbing the sample. You were glad to be out the room filled with too much testosterone. Simon began working the rib cutters as you left out the two metal doors.

The lights flickered above as you approached the broken and small elevator shaft. The smell of cigarettes met your nostrils, and you tilted your head this way and that. The cold, white and depressing floors of the morgue disappeared as the doors shut.

Suddenly it was just you and your thoughts—holding the sample. No elevator music. Then your mind wandered. You wondered what kind of music both of them would listen to.

You could predict Price having an 80s Latin pop music playlist. Ana Gabriel thrown in there, along with some 90s throwbacks. The usual Whitney Houston, Creed, and some Pearl Jam. It fit his divorced dad persona. You had to stifle a scoff at the crude thought. You tilted your head up, hearing the cogs slowly work in the elevator going up. If he knew you had this thought he’d probably do more than just free your scarf—No, he’d find a way to choke you.

And Simon? You never really thought of that one. You wouldn’t know. If you had to take a stab at it, probably Metallica, Iron Maiden, and of course you threw in a sappy song, Take My Breath Away.

You could imagine his eyes peering around, wired headphones plugged in. In the flower shop he would work on cutting the stems carefully, back facing you. Lights from above were cold and gray as it flickered. His pocket was hefty from his phone, wires tangled carelessly by his masked jaw. The headphones fit snug underneath. And he’d listen to Berlin, her silky voice as his rugged features seemed captivated by the petals. How the red petals graced his scarred, pale form. Like blood cascading in rivulets, soft and inviting.

Maybe Top Gun would be his favorite movie, you sarcastically thought. He’d probably think Tom Cruise an idiot, or found him to be a die hard with a raging hard on, eager to prove something.

Just a thought. A handful of thoughts. You snapped out of it when the doors opened but this time, the doors opened to a warmly lit floor. Soft music of a record played, almost jazz like despite the crude, and surgical environment. The moment bursted like bokeh’s, fluttering and glittering. Some nurses walked about, humming. Some pushed carts. Some checked their lists off.

“Hello, where is the lab, please?” You asked quietly to the woman ahead. She appears soft, almost with a trusting look. Her brows are higher set, giving her a wide eyed appearance, and lips smeared with pink gloss. She smiled tightly, pointing her pen down the converging hallway of music.

“That’ll be it.” She said, and it went well with her looks. You felt odd, like a wolf in sheeps clothing here. Everyone appeared too nice. What an odd contrast to your dark, null and devoid personality.

Your ears caught on, head moving to the source of music. It came from the ends of the hallways which converged, but you barely saw the entrance.

You began to slowly walk, bristling past some nurses and to the yellow hallway. The music became louder and clearer, scratching momentarily.

The room had a cabin feel, from the dark oak wood, to the linoleum floors. A brown couch was ratted and old, sagging. There was a vinyl spinning untouched. The soft lamps glowed eerily, marking a presence unknown. You could see the lab wasn’t too far from the room, located just beyond it. It seemed like a wavering mirage, placed behind a mirror.

“Now I’m on my knees. Darlin’ please. It’s time to die—“

The music got cut off as if the vinyl got scratched. Your hand that was resting on the door, holding it open now moved to your side. The door shut and you felt oddly singled out. Like prey being trapped in the four corners of the room. The lights danced like Christmas lights, suddenly buzzing with a high frequency, before it got overwhelmingly loud.

The buzz even shook your core, vibrating your organs. You felt like you were shifting left and right, hands covering your ears as you let out a soft sound. Confused, you looked around.

You spied what appeared to be some whiskey and a nurse coming out, her giggling eerie voice appealing to yours, “Have some, would you?” She beckoned softly. They all sounded the same too.

Unless that was you being pious, and pessimistic. You scoffed and shook your head as she poured into a clear glass. Your eyes narrowed.

“No thanks. On the job, ma’am.” You said, although you itched to taste the burn and feel it satisfy the rotten parts of you momentarily. Your brow twitched as you held onto the sample, looking past her into the lab.

“Don’t be like that…here. My names Sarah. Sarah Lockman?” She introduced, and walked forward to you. Her green eyes peered out, like foliage shining in the sun. The glass was present in her hold, shining too. You eyed it and swallowed and grabbed the sample tightly.

“I don’t know you, really.” You said, voice stiff like steel.

“Of course you wouldn’t…you know. I’m not supposed to be drinking on the job. I mean. It’s a lab and all…what would they think?” She whispered as if only you two were meant to hear. She sighed and carelessly chucked the drink down her throat, her pale fingers grabbing the glass.

“But it feels good to let go.” She added and sighed, her eyes lighting up.

You knew exactly what she meant. And the feeling of it all. You eyed her and watched the glass become empty, the brown liquid gone. “They’ll find you, you know.”

Sarah smiled softly and shook her head, “It isn’t bad until I’m caught.”

“Keep telling yourself that.” You muttered and looked down at your shoes. Who were you to judge her? To diss her? When you did the same thing. You sighed and pinched your nose bridge with a free hand, and then peered past her, to the mirror.

“I gotta get in there.” You said and moved past her. She then grabbed your arm softly, gently. Her voice shook almost like a tremor.

“I know you do it too.” She said, almost hesitantly. As if she could be wrong, but yet astoundingly correct. You stiffened up and you slowly turned your head to her, glancing at her pale hand clutching your lab coat.

“Do you, now?” You whisper and eye her shorter form. She swallowed, feeling impeccably small under you.

“Then tell me I’m wrong. Judge me. But don’t think you’re right, because you’d do the same one day.” Her words wrap around you like a blanket, feeling oddly too comforting. It’s as if you understood her, and you did. You sigh and remove her hand, facing her fully. A soft glimmering light cast upon your faces, glowing and softening the edges.

Like an old film. Like a teardrop catching the suns rays.

“Drink.” She urges, keening her head just slightly to bat her lashes at you. Her lip lifts at the corner almost slightly. A wave of submission befalls you and you shudder.

She suddenly moves light a feather to the drink, pouring it. Half a glass. You spun and reeled at the sight and before you knew it, the liquid burned. It tasted like sin and guilt and yet, a wavering dream.

“There. That’s all. Something to take the edge off, right? Seeing all that death.” She explained, giggling unceremoniously to you.

You sighed and wiped your mouth, when the room felt fuzzy and dizzy. Like an echoing dream. A cadence drifted softly around you two, cocooning a strange, twisted, intimate moment. You then lowered the glass onto the stand where the record played, lips parted.

“You drink strong for a little nurse.” You concluded, tasting the whiskey.

“We all need liquid courage, don’t we?” She mentioned your name, and you sat on the sagging couch, slumping slightly. The sample could wait. The lab was right there, after all. Your head spun and you looked at her, lids hooded and lips parting to breathe out warm puffs of air.

“Damn right. How old are you?” You asked.

She shrugged, “Age means nothing, not when the trauma happens without a care.” She said lightly, sitting beside you.

The couch sagged and your head threatened to tip back slowly, as her voice echoed. The room constricted and you felt her gaze on your slack form. She seemed to be amused, more than anything, watching you spiral.

“You get me, I think.” You whisper, feeling the drink spread like hot fire in your belly.

“I do. Trust me, I get you much more than anything.” She said.

After a while, the room became distorted and her voice faded completely. It was you and your mindless thoughts, and the steady thump of your heart. The rush of your blood sent you in a heat, and this was the high you more focused on. Just a second, you thought. Your eyes shut.

When it opened, you had no idea how much time had really passed, but you knew this. You were spinning. Unsteady. You rose up, seeing Sarah move past you and into a smaller room.

“Let me get you some water, you have to get back to work don’t you?” She whispered uncannily. You eyed her and nodded, clutching the sample and waiting. You stood in the warm room, seeing how the sudoku papers we’re spread on the coffee table, the tall lamp buzzing.

She crossed the distance, disappearing into a closet. The mirror of the lab faded and became a wall of brick, and you blinked dizzily at it. Had you really thought the lab was there? You remember the nurse pointing to a different room. Shit, maybe it was the one across this one instead.

A foot emerged from the closet. Soft, gentle, and bare. Like a child taking its first step.

Your eyes unsteadily caught it, expecting Sarah to come out with the water. And there she were in her glory, glowing, shining with this sort of essence you couldn’t describe. Something out of a dream. You weren’t really sure if it whispered soothingly or if it screamed. It all blurred.

Her pallid, molten fingers caressed the knob as if beckoning you to come closer. Then, you trailed up to see a knee lean in view, shaky as if disgruntled. Mangled. Malnourished.

You saw her pale, soft, and rancid-like skin she had. For someone out of a dream you felt you were seeing her as clear as daylight, with her auburn hair and deepest eyes. She appeared vixen like, and yet disgruntled.

Your breath froze. Her hand rested on the knob, steadying itself before her head rose to you. Long auburn hair curled around her form.

She whispered uncannily, or rather produced a whisper from behind you. You slowly walked to her, not before your stomach hurled and you stopped.

Before you knew it, you ran out, forgetting the water as she shouted your name.

[exitwound]

favorite word?

i can’t pick favourites it’s not fair to everyone else. but lately i have been by captivated by the vocabulary invented for the (biblical in my opinion) task of objectively describing and categorizing rocks … there's slate, phyllite, schist, blueschist, gneiss….Mudrock protolith…Carbonaceous sediment...Slaty cleavage; crenulations.. phenocrysts… Luster, lustrousness, something hard, something secreted, something leaving behind a streak of surprising color. Garnets squeezed out of grey matrices, micas sweated out with the exertion of transformation… im soooo here . Im in here im looking at a rock and Im wanting so badly to know it that I take it to the geology textbook and select an abstraction for it like as suit tailored to it as well as I can and I realize how much more time I want to spend looking at rocks now that I am beginning to learn their names, even as I realize that it is only the names giving the objects their objectivity, and that it might be easier to experience the strangeness of the world if I could forget its names, but I won't forget its names, because then I wouldn't be able to talk about it and it gets boring not being able to talk about it, and if it gets boring, then you might stop paying attention..its a paradox. There is a rock called reticulite that looks like iridescent foam. Exactly like a lump of glittering rainbow foam scooped out of a bubble bath post-bath bomb, but it comes out of volcanoes, specifically, it is only formed from lava fountains whose basaltic spew pierces the clouds like high castles -- at least 1000 feet high is the number often given, the height necessary to reach the speeds necessary to suddenly exsolve gases in the basalt, as if the air in its lungs exploded outwards and rendered a solid thing nothing but a lattice of itself. It is the lightest rock in the world, much lighter than pumice but it doesn't float. It defies the idea of solidity, you can hold it in your hand (although it crumbles into a smaller version of itself whenever it is touched) but water pours right through it and it sinks like a fishing net would sink. Then it dissolves like cotton candy. Its a beautiful gold color, a gold latticework, a thought bubble ejected from the inside of the earth..But you can't let yourself believe any of this. Anything I say might not be true because this is about the words, although most of this is true, but I think its better to react with disbelief. That's my recommendation

Also I love, lately, words related to castles and bacterial colonies of luxury and the associated equally extravagant acts of self-protection or self-comfort: Crenellations and machicolations and spirals and balustrades and pediments and cruciforms and chandeliers and lacework and swagging and frosting

early paleozoic eras: cambrian, ordovician, silurian, devonian. But not the american state or dinoasaur themed ones except under special consideration

Sweeteners: sugar, gel, gels, jelly, creams, paste, solvents

And this is the set of all the other words that I love that I didn't name here represented by the heart symbol: <3

[daily-grian]

Behold! My half of a collab with the beloved @daily-geminitay (bestie!!! <3)!

We both designed two different gemcyt Gem and Grian fusions together, inspired by @chrisrin's au - theirs is based off of s1 esmp!Gem and Watcher Grian with their Emerald Gem and Chrisrin's Aquamarine Grian + My Watcher Grian design, and is Hawk's Eye. Mine is based on s2 esmp!Gem and HC!Grian with Aquamarine Grian again and my own take on Chrisrin's Heaven Beetle Gem, forming Rainbow Lattice Sunstone!

Some design notes and progress designs under the cut for funsies -

I was originally going to just make their fusion just Sunstone, but finding a rainbow lattice sunstone with a perfect triangle pattern was far too tempting for some blatant Studio Trigger inspo, so their weapon is a drill that's also a matchstick, because both their base forms are very smol <3

Most of their outfit is based off of Gem's empires s2 skin and a general combined sun theme. I thought it'd be fun if Aquamarine Grian's water would turn into steam for their fusion, ergo the hair, and what used to be a steam ribbon/boa of sorts in the original draft. Also, if you look closely, Rainbow Lattice actually has two sets of eyes - Grian's eyes form their eyebrows!

[geologyin-blog]

Rainbow Lattice Sunstone //from Harts Range, Australia

Photo: ShopAncientCrystals

[kiwiplur]

I make more Nighthaze Characters than i will ever be able to play so now i'm going to start making it everyone else's problem.

The who's who of it all is under the break

Black Trenchcoat: Zony (Zebra/Unicorn) Hacker. one of 4 characters I made based on the different campaign tones as stated in the operator's manual. He's based off the "black trenchcoat" tone which is all about gritty realism of cyberpunk reality, your Blade Runners and such. so I made him a paranoid wreck who will stop at nothing to wipe any system from knowing he ever existed.

Cranberry: Reindeer (Deer/Kirin) Support Gunner. Originally Sprite Cranberry™, made as a joke for a one-shot. She suddenly spun off into her own full on character with depth and an arc like said one off spun off into a campaign about figuring out who's doing all the shady shit in town. I made a second sheet for her so I can use her in vanilla campaigns just in case other Operators don't wanna use someone else's homebrew. Personality-wise, both Sprite Cranberry™ and Cranberry are virtually identical, however Cranberry I write to be a lot more relaxed since she's a baretender who only sometimes has to use the shotgun when things get hairy on the club. Her homebrew counterpart is instead a federal agent who frequently has to confront the fact that she was unemployed until a month ago. More often than not, she has to do so violently and with a shotgun.

Jazz Magnum: Abyssian Gunner. The streetrat with a badge, and originally the character I was going to go with for the oneshot I now play Cranberry in. However, the dedication to the bit overpowered me. He's very mechanically similar to cranberry, but instead of having two guns and a handful of utility spells, he uses just a pistol and is augmented with implants that compliment a run and gun playstyle. I'm playing him soon in another campaign i recently got to join so here's hoping!

Lucky Break: Dwarf Lagulus Pilot (homebrew). She exists because of a comic I was drafting before ultimately going forward with Sundown Trotten' instead. She was going to be one of two protagonists who are both gold hearted idiots who both lift each other up to be their best while simultaneously enabling the other's worst most chaotic behaviors. she and her friend are now in debt to the mob and compete in the Thunderdrome to pay it off. Her heritage is a homebrew one I made specifically because I wanted a herengon adjacent heritage in the game. blame D&D i wanna play as a character with bunny ears in your TTRPG is that so much to ask ;0;

Pink Mowhawk: Diamond Dog Augmented Brawler. The Second of 4 characters I based/named after the Operator manual's campaign tones. Pink Mowhawk is defined as your action oriented rule-of-cool type cyberpunk world, like the Cyberpunk TTRPGs, Cyberpunk 2077 or like Hi-fi Rush if it was a little grittier. Pink Mowhawk's a loud abrasive lad who's got a punch first ask questions later mentality. he's also a huge suntech dork because imo that's the rule-of-coolest part of most Cyberpunk settings for me so I wanted to lean into suntech enthusiasm for his personality. He's also asexual because nobody fucks with Pink Mowhawk. Nobody. I'm very funny please laugh.

Quartz Tick: Zony (Zebra/Pegasus) Augmented Brawler. Like Cranberry, he started out as a joke, but now he's his own character with lore because I really like Kamen Rider and I wanted to see how well I could adapt your standard rider-tropes into the Sundown Equestria setting most campaigns/oneshots use. He's got a bike that I hope I one day get to jump off of and dive kick some poor sap in a game one day because that would be sick as fuck

Rainbow Lattice: Crystal Pony. Somebody in the Nighthaze server said Rainbow Lattice would be a good pony name, and then I drew them. Because of their sporadic in the moment conception, they don't have a sheet lol. but they are a sunstone miner so if they did have one they'd prolly also an aug'd brawler? they're like the one dude in the sunstone mines who's there willingly because while prison labor's cheaper they're just that big on rocks. info-dumping about the other minerals they finds to whoever will listen

Shroud Whisper: Breezie Healer/utility spellcaster. Once again, another Joke turned full ass character that my brain made in response to finding out about DJ smokey's iconic producer tags. The main inspiration being Shadow Wizard Money Gang and We Love Casting Spells. She's a medicart medic who's ultra dedicated to her shadow wizard larp when not on the clock, who studies all magic she can hoping to find cool spells to cast. That's it. That's the character. She loves casting spells. Shadow Nuclear Breezies pledge your souls to the Shadow Princess.

Turn Tables: Changeling Infiltrator/Negotiator. My Cringebug Failhorse daughter who was my very first Nighthaze character sheet, and protagonist of a sunjackers fancomic I make called Sundown Trotten'. She's based off Leno, a pokemon OC i first used in PK-Rocker's Poke-Survivor. First as a contestant in season 4, and then as an assistant host in season 6. She's pretty much Leno except she struggles more with self worth and addiction rather than social interaction and gender identity. However, she's still grappling with the original concept of being a shapeshifter who's mask has become closer to the real her than her base look ever was.

0u0 Thank you for coming to my mcfucking odyssean ted talk on my cyberpunk children's show OCs. See you next week for even fucking more of them

[transmutationdice]

I was inspired to try and make a d20 with similar patterning to one of my favourite rocks - a rainbow lattice sunstone.

How did I do?

[briery]

Rainbow lattice sunstone, two pieces from a split stone. (Via Reddit, Hi-Res)

[uesp]

"Boethra forgot her role as the guardian of the Lattice. She saw Dagon break through. She even saw the Rainbow Angel slip in behind him. But Molagh was there, taunting and laughing, and telling her that Lorkhaj died for her."

--Excerpt from The Bladesongs of Boethra

[thesightstoshowyou]

Confession

Demon x GN Reader

(Continuation of this for funsies)

Warnings: Blasphemy, Catholicism, masochism, blood

Sunlight meets stained glass and fractures. Rainbows cut through thick silence to dapple gleaming marble. The church at sunset is a sight to behold; grand arches, polished wood, pristine white all aglow. Yet, not even the brilliant display of light and color can lift the heaviness that has taken up residence deep in your chest.

Prisms blur as you allow your eyes to go out of focus. Your knees ache where they’re jammed into worn padding. An hour you’ve been kneeling, praying for your thoughts to make some semblance of sense, praying for strength, for the words to describe what is happening to you.

The silence stretches. You feel nothing but despair. You hear nothing but whispers.

Your forlorn gaze raises to the confessional booth. Surely…? Surely, Father Bennett of all people will know how to help? Surely a priest will believe you, or at least entertain the strange notion long enough to be persuaded?

Movement from the front pew draws your attention. The older couple there begins to gather their belongings. They shuffle like sloths down the aisle. After what seems like an eternity, the heavy front door thuds closed, the sound resonating through the chapel.

Finally, you’re alone.

You grimace as you stand, joints popping, legs stiff. Tentative steps echo softly as you approach the confessional booth. Anxiety grips your heart and sends it galloping. Shakily, you inhale.

Within, the air is musty and dust dances in the thin rays of sunlight that fall across the curtain. Suppressing a groan, you kneel once more. You’ll have bruises tomorrow.

The opposite cabinet’s door opens and closes almost immediately. The latticed window covering slides open with a quiet snap. You make the sign of the cross and begin to whisper, “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned; it is one—

Scent hits you all at once and your words become retching. Sulfur. Rot. Decay. Death.

A rasping, gurgling chuckle greets your breathless, “N-No!” Legs trembling, you stagger to your feet and tumble out of the booth to rip open the priest’s cabinet.

Inside sits Father Bennett—or rather, the thing wearing Father Bennett. It relaxes on the bench with all the nonchalance in the world, one leg crossed over the other, chin resting on a fist, and brazenly adorned in the clerical suit and collar. Its lips curve into a smirk when you shake your head in dismay. “H-How…how are you…how could you…?”

“Hello to you too.” A hacking cough makes you jump, then comes the demon’s gravelly answer: “Your priest was a bit less pious than you were led to believe.” The voice that leaves the man’s mouth is so jarring, so wrong, so unlike the gentle timbre that led mass.

Again, you shake your head as though you’re trying wake yourself from a nightmare. “He wouldn’t—

“Oh, he would. And he did. You should have seen him! Downright blasphemous—

“Stop!” you hiss, the sound ricocheting off the high ceiling. You grip the doorway with white knuckles when your quivering legs threaten to collapse.

Another croaking chuckle, a tilt of the head. “Though, he’s certainly made a better vessel than my last five, hasn’t he? Who knew a holy man would be such a good fit?”

You blink away tears and look closer. Certainly, Father Bennett’s form appears almost unchanged. The slender frame, the narrow jaw, the dark hair flecked with gray, the crows feet from years of easy smiles are all untouched by the creature’s influence, not at all like the last unfortunate soul. Indeed, the only giveaways are the heinous voice and the bloodshot eyes, like he’d just walked into the church from a dust storm.

“H-How are you here?” you ask, voice hushed. Nervously, you glance around the church.

The demon hums as though in thought. “Not easily, admittedly. It feels similar to, maybe…” Father Bennett’s chest rises as the thing inhales deeply, eyes rolling back in ecstasy, “…red hot nails being driven through bone.” It sighs in satisfaction and continues, “But I couldn’t miss your first confession as your new priest.”

You grimace and wrap your arms around yourself, repugnance skittering across your skin like a thousand insects. Is Father Bennett suffering too? Can he feel what’s happening to his body? Or is he well and truly gone?

“Ah, my perfect little lamb,” the beast croons. An unnaturally hot hand snakes around your wrist and pulls you into the booth. Helplessly, you’re towed like a boat through the tide before you’re settled into its lap. You stiffen as it cradles you like a child and presses your head to its chest with the same hands that baptized you and prayed for you and gave you your first communion.

There’s no heartbeat. Not anymore. Only feverish body heat and foul odor remain.

“I can see your tiny, innocent world crumbling down around you. It hurts, yes?” You swallow, hesitate. Fabric rustles in your ear when you nod. It’s going to know what you’re thinking anyway.

It always does.

“You know how to make it stop.” It’s not a question.

“No. Never,” you spit, pushing upright and as far away as the hands now gripping your waist will allow. The thing emits a rumbling sound in the back of its throat, like a mix between a purr and a mocking coo. Your arm raises to wipe away the tears gathering in your lashes, but a hand darts out—unnaturally fast, inhumanly strong—to snatch your wrist away from your face.

“You’ll stray, lamb. You’ll stray from the herd. From G-“ it makes a gaging sound, like it’s choking on the word. The fact that it can’t utter God’s name is a comfort, however minuscule it might be.

It swallows and grits its teeth. “From Him.” Next, it places a near-scalding palm on your cheek and drags its thumb just under your eye to catch the tears. Before you can even think to protest, it brings the digit to its own forehead and draws a mark on its skin with your anguish. Blistering red follows the path of the liquid until there’s an angry, red cross painted on its flesh.

You watch in horror as a manic smile stretches across its face, too far, too wide. The corners of its mouth crack open and bleed. Scarlet stains white teeth and thick droplets fall from its chin to disappear into black fabric.

You recoil in disgust and terror, but the hand on your wrist keeps you from going too far. You’re gripped by the jaw and pulled back, forced to inhale the rancid heat of its breath as it murmurs its next words.

“And when you do, I’ll be there to pick you clean.”

[iamsherlocked-1998]

𝓢𝓞𝓜𝓔 𝓒𝓞𝓛𝓞𝓡𝓢

SUMMARY: Just a moment between a father and a kid.

WORDS: 800

WARNING: Nope, just something soft.

The walk had turned out to be longer than expected, the sun was beating down, his feet were sore with every step, and Ellie had long since stopped complaining of sheer exhaustion, so when they found a more or less safe area it felt like people in the desert saw an oasis.

Luckily, someone had lived there recently but seemed to have left, they saw a generator that had a few days left to work and a water container to wash yourself with.

The girl was the first to enjoy the new comforts, when she was done Joel locked himself in the small bathroom and accessed his sharp jaw while looking at reflection in the mirror. It was true that he didn't have the opportunity to shave during the last stretch of the country they traveled and it was starting to itch. He then looked for something to proceed with the task, but unfortunately he found nothing. It was strange that he could have bathed with scented soap and yet still had to rely on his half-broken razor or scissors, but he bit his lower lip and resigned himself to searching through his worn, dirty pants.

The process was easy, he was almost done when…had a small accident, a piece of clothing fell to the floor distracting him, the fact is that the surface of the knife instead of fixing the hair there removed it, producing a huge bald spot. Horror took over him, maybe they didn't meet many people but he couldn't go out like that, he hadn't gone completely beardless since he was twenty, but there was no other choice, so he sighed and finished the job.

════ ∘◦❁◦∘ ════════ ∘◦❁◦∘ ════

He went down the stairs with determination, feeling refreshed due to the clean clothes they also found a couple of stops ago, he sat down in what looked like a living room and began to put away things they might need, the girl was absorbed in a book that appeared in the house, the subject matter didn't seem very interesting but Ellie liked it. Then she raised head looking at her protector in astonishment, then she let out a laugh.

The former smuggler looked at her with annoyance and a frown. "What's so funny?"

"Nothing…it's just that I've never seen you without…hair there, it's weird (the girl was still recovering from her laughter)."

Joel lowered his head doubtfully. "I just wanted to try something new…this way it's more comfortable, a practical matter."

Ellie showed a big, sarcastic smile. "Could it be that you had an accident?"

"NO (the man mumbled between his teeth, turning his attention back to his task)."

"Okay…okay (the girl raised her hands in surrender). Since you've changed your look…would you let me do something I've been thinking of?"

Joel's first impulse was to refuse, but when he looked at the girl she had a pleading expression, the trip was getting longer, after all even he was bored, at least he could give her this.

He regretted giving in as soon as he saw her with a set of markers and a mischievous grin.

════ ∘◦❁◦∘ ════════ ∘◦❁◦∘ ════

"Dude, why is your chest so hairy? It's ruining my markers!"

It turned out that what Ellie was thinking about was decorating Joel's old tattoos, he hadn't even thought about them in a long time but she is fascinated by them. Currently she was taking on a bullseye drawing he got as a rebellious teenager on his chest, it looked rainbow colored at the moment and she intended to continue the lattice pattern on his back. He had already clear that wasn't going to show her the little elephant on his thigh or the leafless flower behind the ear. At least the giggles stopped.

"And you're starting to ruin my knee by sitting on me like that, come on. Playtime's over, kid."

"What? No! Don't get up, I'm not done yet."

"I just hope you color them, not draw something embarrassing like… boobs"

"I'm not drawing boobs… I'm drawing dicks"

"Ellie…"

"What? Suits you."

The man rolled his eyes and looked down, to find a deer-like print near his stomach. He had to admit that it was pretty detailed for the short time they had been there.

"That's … Where did you learn to paint like that?"

The girl shrugged.

"When we were in Fedra it was a way to entertain myself, and that animal we saw the other day was pretty cool."

Ellie got up to do other things losing interest. The man caressed the colored print on his skin and gave a subtle smile, maybe it wouldn't be so bad to keep it for a while.

NOTE: The fic is based in this post of @elliespuns

Hope you like It, and the lovely Anon too 💕🤗 I used to do this myself with my uncle when I was little. Furthermore, the tattoos that I mention about Joel are based on those that Pedro has.