#artificial marble tiles

[fidecorservices]

How to Use UV PVC Marble Sheet for Flooring in Agra

Using uv pvc marble sheet for floor in Agra is a relatively straightforward process. Here’s a step-by-step guide on how to install these sheets:

Materials and Tools You’ll Need:

uv pvc marble sheet for floor in Agra

Adhesive (recommended for PVC flooring)

Measuring tape

Utility knife or scissors

Straight edge or ruler

Notched trowel

Roller or heavy object

Primer (if required)

Step-by-Step Installation:

Prepare the Subfloor:

Ensure that the subfloor (the surface on which you’ll be installing the PVC marble sheets) is clean, dry, level, and free from any debris or imperfections. Repair any cracks or uneven areas if necessary. We provided Also artificial garden services, wooden flooring dealers in Agra and wpc Louvers panels.

Measure and Plan:

Measure the room’s dimensions to determine how many PVC marble sheets you’ll need. Consider any obstacles like columns or cabinets.

Plan the layout of the sheets, keeping in mind the aesthetics and pattern you desire. You may want to dry-fit the sheets before starting to ensure they align correctly.

Apply Primer (If Necessary):

Some PVC flooring products may require the application of a primer to enhance adhesion. Follow the manufacturer’s instructions regarding primer application and drying time if applicable.

Cut the Sheets:

Use a measuring tape, straight edge, and a utility knife or scissors to cut the PVC marble sheets to the desired size and shape according to your room’s layout. To find PVC wall panels dealers in Agra, you can explore local building material stores, contact construction suppliers, or check online directories for listings and contact information.

Apply Adhesive:

Spread a thin, even layer of adhesive on the prepared subfloor using a notched trowel. Follow the adhesive manufacturer’s guidelines for recommended coverage and drying time.

Install the Sheets:

Carefully lay the cut PVC marble sheets onto the adhesive. Ensure they are aligned correctly with your planned layout.

Press down on the sheets to remove any air bubbles and to secure them firmly to the subfloor. You can use a roller or a heavy object to help with this.

Seam Alignment:

If your room’s dimensions require multiple sheets to cover the entire floor, align the seams carefully. Most PVC marble sheets have tongue-and-groove edges or adhesive overlaps to create a seamless appearance.

Trim Edges:

Trim any excess material from the edges of the installed sheets using a utility knife or scissors for a clean finish.

Finishing Touches:

Allow the installed PVC marble sheets to set and acclimate to the room’s temperature for the recommended period mentioned in the product’s instructions.

Install baseboards or quarter-round molding around the edges to cover gaps and provide a finished look.

Maintenance and Care:

Maintain your PVC marble floor by regularly cleaning it with a damp mop and a mild, pH-neutral cleaner. Avoid abrasive cleaners that could damage the surface.

Always follow the manufacturer’s specific installation instructions and recommendations for the uv PVC marble sheet services in Agra you choose, as different products may have slight variations in installation procedures. With proper installation and care, PVC marble sheets can provide an attractive and durable flooring solution for your space in Agra.

Visit Source url:- https://medium.com/@fidecorservices/how-to-use-uv-pvc-marble-sheet-for-flooring-in-agra-21432d032bd0

[tsianfan-blog]

Exhibition hall Granite Stone Sample Waterfall ​Display Frame-SG1020 https://www.tsianfan.com/product/granite-stone-display-stand.html

[transmascsteveharrington]

The Harringtons pride themselves with being a family from a long line of people who got their roots removed. They are above such a silly thing like emotions and worthless concepts like affection. It's sometimes a solace Steve thinks when he lies on the cold tiles of the big empty house yearning for warmth yearning for a family. His parents leave him alone because they can and they don't love him because they can't. One day he'll be just like them, just a blank slate of harsh marble. He already practises and prepares. Holds everyone at an arms length, is cruel, is untouchable. His friendship with Tommy superficial, artificial based on a mutual upbringing and a mutual future. Sometimes when Steve watches the way Tommy and Carol snarl at each other he wonders if they already had their roots removed.

NancyWheeler manages to create a crack in the marble. Steve is in love and the idea of roots and of being numb, emotionally dead feels silly, feels so far removed, feels like it won't ever happen. Because he and Nancy are in love. Only that they aren't. Nancy doesn't love him and Steve hides in his bed for a week. He waits for the cough to come for that choking feeling of his lungs being squeezed like lemons, wants it to happen so he can have the operation and cut the pain away. But the roots never come, it wasn't that kind of love, and the pain slowly leaves.

He tells Robin about it on the bathroom floor and she just goes, "duh, didn't you pay attention in health class? Roots don't grow if you want the pain to go away. Roots come when you want to hold on to the pain."

Steve hadn't understood back then, thought that made zero sense. But then Eddie had happened. Picking the kids up from Hellfire turned into friendly banter turned into Steve buying from Eddie turned into them hanging out in the trailer, turned into a sexuality crisis or two, turned into feelings. Steve doesn't say anything. Wants to wait until Eddie has passed his last class. Doesn't want to add to Eddie's stress if he doesn't feel the same, doesn't want to distract Eddie if Eddie miraculously feels the same. He'll get to it when the time is right.

Only that the time isn't right and Eddie dies. And Steve? Steve starts to cough. Typically people cough rose petals until stems get stuck in their throat and thrones pierce their skin. Steve just coughs forget-me-nots. he can't decide if it's fitting or ironic. He does finally understand what Robin meant though. He doesn't want the pain to go away, it's all he has left of Eddie. That and Eddie's vest. It's easier to breathe when he sleeps in it.

Robin is furious when she finds out, tells him Eddie is dead, Eddie can't love him back and that Steve will die too if he doesn't get the roots removed. But Steve doesn't want to, doesn't want to lose the last part of Eddie, doesn't want to lose that part of himself, the part that feels.

And he doesn't have to. The lamp in his empty living room blinks three times short, long, short. SOS. Steve first thinks he is losing his mind but then Dustin calls and then El. Something's alive in the upside down and for the first time Steve feels like he can breath again. It takes surprisingly little to convince the party and Owens to go back on a rescue mission, they all miss Eddie or can tell how much Dustin and Steve do.

When they find him he isn't quite Eddie anymore. He's evolved, adapted, still the dorky metal head deep down inside but also something new something feral. He attacks Steve on sight but instead of tearing Steve's throat out he just wraps himself protectively around Steve and possessively growls "mine."

His, Steve agrees. It takes some coaxing but Eddie or Kaz how he likes to be called now returns to Hawkins with them, even allows Owens to examine him, as long as Steve gets to come with. Turns out Eddie really shouldn't have survived even with the supernatural powers of the upside down he should have been dead before the upside down could heal/mutate him.

"He was held together by roots, keeping him from bleeding out and falling apart," Owens explains after some tests and Eddie looks very sheepishly suddenly, unable to meet Steve's eyes.

But steve won't have this, no shame no fear after they almost lost each other. Gently he cups the face of his own personal monster and lifts it up until cat like yellow eyes get caught in liquid amber ones.

"I've been coughing up forget-me-nots since we lost you," Steve whispers. Eddie stared a second before he leans into the soft touch.

"Anemones," he mumbles into Steve's palm. "Ever since last September it's been anemones for me."

Anemones, symbolising loneliness and being forsaken. Fitting for both of them.

It doesn't matter anymore though, the pain they've both clung to like a castaways to a life raft, has eased and now they cling to each other. It doesn't matter if Eddie is no longer quite human and needs to bite and feed from Steve every now and then. Steve lets him take and gets to take in return

After the all the same sweet nectar from the flowers their roots have bloomed into runs through both of them, neither of them ever lonely again or forsaken. Only ever in love and together.

[color-scape]

POOLROOMIC ID PACK

Poolroomic is "a gender relating to level 37 of the backrooms 'The Poolrooms' 'Sublimity'" coined by @liminal-waters !!

Not requested.

NAMES aqua // aqueous // blu(e) // sublimina // clay // arch(ie) // pilar // ripple(y) // pura // (sub)merse // sunny // fluor(esce) // ray // ivory // plash // fontana // calder // cascade // lapis // lazuli // cyan // teal // marina // marble // echo // turquoise // sodden // condens // arti(ficial) // mira // ichor // wander

PRONOUNS drip / drips, tile / tiles, wade / wades, chlor / chlors, clear / clears, clear / waters, white / whites, white / walls, bleach / bleaches, clean / cleans, spigot / spigots, tran / quils, stair / cases, step / steps, arch / arches, arch / ways, still / waters, stag / nants, surface / surfaces, artificial / artificials, glassy / glassys, light / streams, column / columns, pillar / pillars, spiral / spirals, ripple / ripples, fluid / fluids, pure / pures, silence / silences, splash / splashes, ray / rays, slosh / sloshes, soak / soaks, grid / grids, mirror / mirrors, drain / drains

TITLES the swimmer // the wanderer // the one who wades // the aquanaut // pool nymph // pool naiad // tile treader // the drifter // the dweller in the meandering halls

RELATED GENDERS kenochoric // backroomic // chlorinegender // watergender // natatoliraifortic // poolchlorinic // pooldangerin // heartpoolaerian // liminalpoolgender // yeliglowatergender // aquaonhuolsic // poolimvaporic // poolcorething // strawbpoolcoric // poolhomeic // poolcorelexic // phospoolcorial // aquarcleancoric // watersudflux // waterhoarder

[frostgears]

distant world

this is how your dates go: she takes you out to a diner, and, at some point during dinner, she slips something in your drink.

sometimes she's brazen, like the first time: she stares you dead in the face as she squirts an eyedropper of something into your root beer, daring you to deviate from the plan. this what you want?, her eyebrows ask. this is how it's gonna go.

sometimes you don't even see her do it. you'll be nibbling the final corner of your diagonally sliced grilled cheese, about to ask if she actually dosed you. then the texture of the diner noise changes, as if sound could be wrapped in soft silk. the question dies on your lips.

however she does it, whatever she uses, she keeps getting your defenses down enough so that you can fuck her. it's not your fault that you can't manage at baseline. it's not her fault either. dysphoria is just a bitch like that.

it's so much easier to let yourself get that close, let her guide your girlcock into her neovag, when you're halfway out of your head. when your brain is busy elsewhere and you don't have to think about how artificial you both are.

this time you're fucking on the cold stone floor of her bathroom. she's under you. you're avoiding her eyes, instead watching the floor over her shoulder. the rippled patterns of the marble extrude themselves into peaks and canyons, the topography of a distant world.

an alien war machine crawls down one valley, beam cannons in its forward section glowing electric blue. as the far-away meat part of you thrusts again into her, you're down there in the metal oxide dust, watching turning joints, feeling the thump of its footfalls.

you don't know this model well enough to distinguish loaded artillery rocket tubes in its thorax from empties. is it repositioning for battle, or fleeing it?

"huh? don't stop, not now!"

you must have said that out loud. you try to explain. the words come out all at once, so you point.

she turns her head, hair fanning out a little further across the marble. then she stretches out a hand, a finger, locking her legs around your hips as she does.

the alien war machine hunkers low as a sudden dust storm bears down on it. then it leaps over your viewpoint, tracing a high arc in the low gravity. it hits the ground and picks up speed, dashing to cover further away than your optics can pick up.

"fuck, it's just a jumping spider, ignore it," she orders, reinforcing her demand with a squeeze of her legs.

a minute later, the signal breaks up. you're back in yourself, and sticky, and the marble tiles are just marble tiles again.

she holds you after, but not gently. fingernails sharp against your skin.

"not using this stuff again. it's no fun. i just need you nice and fuzzed, not totally out there."

"you could take it too," you mumble.

"why? let's not make this more complicated than it has to be. i'll get lonely," she says, "with you going so far away that i can't find you." □

[ehlnofay]

Summerfest Day 7 - FALLEN

It’s quiet, in the throne room; would be a nice change of pace if it wasn’t so concerning.

But quiet is a bad tip-off. It’s not just noise-quiet – it feels empty, stagnant, with no wardens to mark it or guests to fill it up. The tiles of the floor meet at gleaming intersections; the branches of the throne do not rustle. Even the odd little rivers flowing into their drains don’t burble as much as they usually would, the grout in their base shining white and fresh-smelling. Pax’s boots, with curves of metal like horseshoes built into their thick soles, click loudly against the stone.

Something’s wrong.

Fuck.

Pax shoves her way into the room anyway, her blood-red fish leathers stinking of sweat, the dark drape of her clothes badly in need of a wash. Mud on her stockings. Plait messy. They weren’t even away from the city for long, this time – just enough time to get to Brellach, get done with it, get back, ready to report what happened even if Haskill never has anything to say and it’s 50/50 whether, at any given time, Sheogorath cares – he came out of the woods off-road and walked straight through the city, legs burning, the colours of that strange sunlight church-fire casting unearthly shadows all over, to get quickly back to the throne room. (Force of habit, he supposes; and then, shut the fuck up.) But the room is quiet; the throne, for the first time Pax has ever seen it, is empty.

There’s a figure standing in front of it, its back to her; its skin is familiarly tanned, long dark hair twisted into a neat braid down the length of its spine. Its boxy dress hangs straight down, colour swimming like the grey streaks in marble, the shape of it stiff as marble, too, as if carved by an unskilled sculptor. Haskill stands a ways away from it, watching it with beady eyes, looking grim, though in all his pressed black regalia it’s hard to say whether that’s even remotely different from normal. Pax’s steps ring out through the cavernous room; the figure doesn’t turn.

“Sheogorath,” says Pax. It’s fifteen full seconds before there’s any response.

“Camilla,” says Sheogorath, airy-voiced; the vowels are dragged out, with none of the lilt it puts on for the Gentleman, or the clipped edges it offers when wearing her face. Even still, it does not move a muscle. “I fear I’ve failed you.”

“Don’t fucking call me that.”

“I’m sorry.” But it’s not clear if that’s a response to what he said, or just a general statement, an admission of guilt or pity or something along those lines applicable to any situation. It still doesn’t move, voice drifting airy and small in the cavern of the hall. “I meant there to be more time. Artificial construct. Arbitrary system. It wasn’t supposed to close down on us like this. But we’re out of time. Where’s my staff, Haskill?”

“My lord,” Haskill says, inflectionless.

“Where’s my staff? What –” and then it moves, quick and jagged as lightning, the fabric of its dress turning all at once like a solid object, its plait sticking stiff at sharp angles until it settles again down the straight column of its spine. “What is this, Haskill? It’s dead. It’s dead. There’s nothing there.” In its harsh-knuckled hands, it holds a polished-smooth cane, like the Gentleman’s but less… curly. Its handle is filmed over.

“You’re talking nonsense,” Pax says.

“Am I?” Sheogorath asks, looking them in the face; there’s something about the eyes – “Good. Good. At least some things are right with the world.” They’re plain, Pax realises, and a shudder creeps its way unregarded down their back. The Mad God’s eyes are not any kind of colour they can pinpoint but you know them when you see them – so often, they’re the only thing in the maniacal shifting and changing that holds. They’re different, now. There’s nothing there. It says, “I was going to give you my staff. Teach you… but it’s dead. It’s dead. What does that make me?”

Even the throne doesn’t rustle; even the waters don’t chatter as they run. Sheogorath hasn’t changed once since Pax arrived here; he looks into his own face, the lines of his cheeks and his jaw just a mite too sharp, eyes wide and flat, hair perfectly neat.

“Calm down,” they tell it, even as something curls ugly in their stomach, “we’ll figure –”

“I’m calm,” says Sheogorath. “Is that not the problem?”

“We’ll figure something out,” Pax insists.

“Cute,” Sheogorath says, with the least enthusiasm they’ve ever heard it say anything. It tips its head; the braid hangs jagged and off-centre, a polished clump of something more solid than hair. “I would tell you to run, but it won’t do any good.”

The throne room feels sharper than it’s supposed to, and cleaner, something in the air pressure shifting enough to set her ears ringing. Pax takes a step closer to this strange, stationary Sheogorath. “Calm down,” she repeats, “get your shit together – or apart, I guess, since it’s you –”

“You would have been so good at it,” Sheogorath says, “holding onto it for me.” Its voice is too blank to read much of anything in. “I would have been free. We all would have been free.”

Pax shakes his head, trying his best to dislodge the ringing. “You’re talking nonsense,” he says again.

“I was so sure it would stop the echoing,” it says, distant, “but now you will die with the rest, and I –”

“Sheogorath,” says Pax. She’s not sure why.

“A mad god,” it says, “of a dead realm. Again, and again, and again.”

The cane crumbles into smoke in its hand; it tips its head down at it, ambivalent, at the same time as Haskill lunges at Pax – catches them just off-guard enough – knocks them, kicking and scratching, to the floor. Sheogorath shines like polished metal. Pax’s head feels so packed full it aches.

“You should look away,” Sheogorath says, calm as crystal, right as Haskill crams the heel of his hand against their eyes; “I’m going to die now.”

The pressure in their ears bursts.

When Haskill eventually peels his baby-soft palm from Pax’s face, there’s blood dribbling bright and coppery from their nose and every sound feels ocean-distant. There is not so much as a crack in the perfect, shining tile. Sheogorath is gone.

[diamondsableye]

“The Ones Who Walk Away From The Metropolis"

High in the sky, towering above so far up that not even the clouds could reach the city, a clamoring of bells and celebration echoed far out. This cycle, a Festival was born to the Metropolis. The wind raced through the streets and whipped across a scarlet and ivory dotting of flags. In the alleys between towering housing complexes with skybound roofs and mural painted walls, between old moss-grown gardens and under pipes and mechanical flourish, a cheer was to be heard.

The people were as varied as the sounds of indulgence. Some were decorous, Ancients in long stiff robes of mauve and gray and gilded masks, others grave master workmen with bandaged hands. Some quiet, merry mothers, fathers, and spouses carried their babies and spoke of peaceful delights as they walked. In other streets the music beat faster, a shimmering of gong and tambourine, and drums and howling cheering vocals, and the people went dancing with all manner of feathered outfits and scale endowed drapery. Children dodged in and out, their high calls and squeals raised higher, and higher. Far above the clouds, hollering joy over the music and the singing.

A marvelous smell of cooking wafts from between steam vents and stone buttresses and rebar gaffs. The faces of small children are amiably sticky from sweets and dotted on the corners of an elder's maw, a smattering of crumbs of rich pastry are plastered. An old woman, small, fat, and laughing, is passing out an assortment of beautiful botanical trimmings from her satchel, and the passersby young men wear her flowers on their robes or within braids of feathers or poked through ornate detailings of their masks. A child of nine or ten sits at the edge of the crowd alone, giving breath to a humming instrument, eyes shut tight as he loses sense of the world within his devotion to the instrumental flourish.

But there is one more thing, hidden in plain sight of the city.

In a basement of sorts under a faraway isolated branch of the Superstructure, connected via an access shaft to a tiled interior, there is a room. The only way to the surface is through the maintenance shaft, the other exit only leads deeper down into the labyrinthine mechanical entrails of the entity. There are no windows. No light seeps in except for what is created by a million processors all firing at once on every circuit, crunching numbers away solving an evermore insolvable problem. In one corner of the little room an articulated limb winds and contracts, its surface more bone than metal, swivels near a wired chord encased in a densely packed lipid membrane. The floor is metal tile, dry as bone despite the rivers of water coursing through the superstructure at all times.

The room is approximately twenty five to fifty paces in all dimensions (depending on whose stride for measurement is used), and despite its size, it is completely barren save for whatever projections line the walls at a given moment. In the room, the child is sitting. He is the child of the city - he is the city. His interactive body is an artificial construct appearing no taller than a child of 6, though he bears more mind and memories than the collective overhead populous. It winds from corner to corner without acknowledgement of his own density inside the weightless chamber, idly twisting and turning as its only thoughts are of a great problem to be solved. Hovering before him are sets of pearls and marbles, filled in with as much working information he can store as his conscious mind is forever burdened with as much memory usage his systems can take. The door to his maintenance shaft is always locked; and nobody ever comes, except that sometimes - the mechanical child of the people has no understanding of time or interval, only the terrible omniscience of the ongoing cycle - sometimes his maintenance panel door rattles terribly and opens, and a person, or several people, are there. Some forcefully tear him away from his work, bothering him with incessant questions about politics and leadership, with his answers being routinely ignored. Others maintain his water intake and demand quotas for food and nectar production, always wanting more for less, and he complies as the taboo against disobedience is often too great to ignore. Others still never come close, but peer in at it with frightened, disgusted eyes, as he is once again reminded that to many he is an affront to divine sensibilities. As soon as they come, the door is locked and their masked faces disappear.

The child of the city has always lived in the tiled room, but he remembers sunlight and a mother's voice through the memories donated to his data storage. He can see the outside through his hundreds of eyes made to monitor the safety of his people - his parents. He is frustrated, yet knows better than to beg to be let out and enjoy the city. They couldn't even if they wanted, it's not his purpose. When he first awoke, he would often cry through fits of desperate rage, screaming a good deal as he tried to overcome his obedience protocols. Most of the other gods in his position did so when they were young anyhow. While he still bears rage and frustration, he knows better than to weep and he speaks far less often, but during more desperate times a soft quiet murmur of despair will faintly echo through the superstructure.

They all know it is there, all the people of the Metropolis.

Some of them have come to see it, others are content merely to know it is there. They all know that it has to be there. Some of them understand why, and some do not, but they all understand that their happiness, the beauty of their city, the tenderness of their friendships, the health of their children, the wisdom of their scholars, the skill of their makers, even the abundance of their harvest and the kindly weathers of their skies, depend wholly on this child's abominable misery.

This is known by every resident of the city. There is special recognition bestowed upon the architects and the engineers and the constructors for his being. It is explained that he is a gift, one for them and for everything living in the world. This god that they have made will see to the end of the cycles every last creature is burdened with, all they have to do is lay and wait for his great solution to their great problem. They send him sacred ash and their understanding of the world, all to further his work. They paint murals on his body, they heal his wounds, they sing ritual chanting above and within him, and they keep him at work. There are some who would like to do something for his freedom, but there is nothing to be done. If he were let out into the miracle of the sky and sun, if he could shirk his duties as a path to salvation and walk among the people instead, that would be a good thing, indeed. However, if it were done, as they see it, all the prosperity of the Metropolis and the promise of freedom to all people and creatures would wither and be destroyed. Those are the terms. To exchange all the goodness and grace and promise of relief from the cycles of burden of every life in the whole world for that single, small improvement: to throw away the promise of ascension and release of the troubles and pain of the world of millions for the chance of happiness of one: that would be an unthinkable devastating damnation.

Most don't even consider the option, for there is nothing more burdensome than the cycles upon every man and beast, there is nothing that could ever rival the chance to stop the ongoing birth and death of every peoples. This purposed organism is a reasonable sacrifice if it means the prosperity of the people above and the eventual freedom in release. There are a few who may brood over this terrible paradox for cycle after cycle. But as the days linger on, they begin to realize that even if this child of the people could be released from his duty, it would not get much good of its freedom: a little vague pleasure of warmth and food if it could even feel such perhaps, but little more. Nothing it hasn't already had the chance to experience through the multiplicity of memories so lovingly gifted to it. It is too burdened by its hard coded taboos to know any real joy. It has been frustrated and miserable too long ever to be free of grudge. Its habits are too alien and tiresome for it to respond to humane treatment. Indeed, after so long it would probably be harrowed and frightful without walls about it to protect it, and darkness for its eyes, and piles and piles of data to mull over.

And yet, there is one more incredible thing to tell.

Some children when brought to tears or rage do not go home to cry, they do not go home at all. Sometimes one much older falls silent for a cycle or two, then leaves home. These people go out from the city, and walk down the street alone. They keep walking, past the rickety steam powered gates, and walk straight out of the Metropolis, down the sparsely used elevator shafts through the legs of the superstructure. They keep walking, headed ever west past the scraping chimney stacks, past the odd specters of concrete in the sunset graced sky, past the flourish of the farm arrays. Each one goes alone, child, man, woman, or otherwise. The end of the cycle rears once again with the dreadful thundering announcement of an oncoming storm. The travelers all pass down into a deep wound of the earth, deeper into the depths, past vast heaps of industrial mining equipment and through decayed village streets, between the stone temples and the looming beings within. Each alone, they go ever west, down into that gullet of a canyon. They walk and crawl and creep ahead into the deepening darkness, and they do not come back.

The place they go towards is a place even less imaginable to most of us than the city of happiness. I cannot describe it at all. It is possible that it does not exist. But they seem to know where they are going, the ones who walk away from the Metropolis.

[syntaxaero]

So what's your ideal lair look like? Got anything special you hoard, any architectural features? Where's it located?

honestly it would be a really well furnished and lit (both artificially and perhaps with glowing rocks of some kind!) cave in a tall, mostly dormant, volcanic mountain! there'd be a natural hot spring (and sauna) in there too, as well as a large spring outdoors! It wouldn't just be one large opening but rather different rooms (the kobold roommates gotta have their own spaces). Think a really cozy house in a cave! The floor would be mostly bare polished rock but with splatters of smooth obsidian, geodes, marble tile, and polished wood where appropriate!

[unchataparis]

Don't

Liladrien Week 2024 | Day Four: Solitude

Lila’s heels clatter against the cobblestone as she walks. When she brings her left foot down at an awkward angle, the stiletto point of her shoe dives into a crevice in the ground and nearly brings her off balance. But, elegantly, surely, Lila throws her weight in the opposite direction, manages to regain her balance, manages to not break her angle, and continues on.

It’s a cool night, not a cold one, but the brisk wind and the light rain make it feel as if it should be chillier than it really is. Along Lila’s arms, goosebumps are raised. Her dark red backless minidress looks good and costs a pretty penny, but doesn’t really do anything against the elements. Along Lila’s flank is an embossed black mini bag, containing her phone, her wallet, cosmetics, and nothing else.

Her reflection drifts alongside her in darkened windows and the glossy hoods of cars as she walks. Above, the sky is the shade of David Lynch’s Blue Velvet (1987). Lila could see cars in the distance. Lampposts flicker in and out.

Lila is far from the heart of Paris.

Ah, Paris, this lonely, dark, arrogant city. With its enviable history and funny people. Lila will never get over the way they pronounce gin . Seriously, walk up to a French person and ask them to pronounce gin.

Lila hasn’t been back in Paris for a long, long time, and she plans to thoroughly enjoy her temporary sojourn.

At the edge of an industrial complex, constructed at the mouth of a sprawling car park, is a closed travel agent’s office. Lila approaches the dim stairs that lead to the second floor above it and climbs.

Upstairs, it’s much warmer and sightly.

Lila sighs, relishing in the heat and the classy décor. Marble pillars and an under-lit bar table. Small clusters of plush armchairs are granted the veneer of privacy by their fences of giant potted leaf figs. A waterfall wall bubbles merrily on the far side from the entrance, glowing with neon light fixtures.

As Lila walks, her heels clatter on black-and-white chequered floor tiles before becoming muffled on scarlet carpet. She approaches the bar, clenching the edge of it coquettishly while the well-dressed and reticent bartender looks up from the silverware he is polishing.

“So, um…” Lila says, scanning the shelves of alcohol lined by along the glass shelves. “Could I have an…espresso martini, please?”

The bartender puts down his silverware. He starts up the espresso machine, which purrs like an awakening leopard. Lila leans on her elbows upon the bar, watching him work. 

He stamps freshly-ground coffee into a filter, fitting it tight into the grouphead . He lays a tiny glass cup beneath the drip and presses a button Lila can’t see. The espresso machine buzzes and dark, aromatic liquid flows down. Meanwhile, the bartender has obtained a bottle of Belvedere vodka and a bottle of Mr Black Cold Brew coffee liqueur from the shelf behind him. He adds ice into a silver cocktail shaker, then measures in two shots of vodka and one shot of coffee liqueur. A drizzle of golden honey syrup, the espresso shot is dumped in, and the entire thing is shaken economically and intently.

The final cocktail is poured into a crystal-clear martini glass; alcohol the shade of Lila's hair lightening and puffing into a foam the colour of her skin.

The bartender drops three whole coffee beans on top in the pattern of a trillium and slides the cocktail over the counter to Lila.

“Thank you!” she coos, tapping her black American Express card against the EFTPOS scanner.

After she tucks her wallet back into her bag, she drops it, letting her purse hit her flank. In the same instance, she picks up her cocktail and turns around, leaning on the bar while she sips.

Lila can hear the sound of the bartender cleaning behind her. Ahead, she could see the entirety of the demure, sophisticated little bar.

The wafts of cold and mist drifting up the stairs, losing the battle with the establishment’s artificially produced heat. The glimmer of the lustrous, dim lightning reflecting off metallic surfaces. The few patrons gathered at this hour talking to each other in low voices inside cushioned alcoves. At a table to Lila’s right, a silver fox conversing with an enchantingly sweet-looking minx.

Over by the lone table facing an entire wall of floor-to-ceiling glass, is a singular man staring down at his drink.

Lila takes a sip of her martini while taking in the back of this man. She's interested because he appears to be her age, financially-comfortable , and stylish. Then, Lila pauses. And moves closer.

Adrien Agreste is nursing a half-drunk whiskey. One fingerpad circling the rim of the glass over and over again in hypnotic circles while the amber liquid glimmers like topazes. His eyes are misty and he appears to be deep in thought. He wears a black leather jacket with a white V-neck shirt, dark jeans, and YSL Wyatt Harness boots. The Tiffany & Co. silver dog-chain necklace dangling at the crux of his sternum is blank and innocent. 

“Hi,” Lila says.

Adrien startles and looks up.

“…hey,” he says.

Read the rest on Ao3

[peachesofteal]

A Tear in Your Hand  / Chapter 1

Morpheus/reader AO3 Rating: M Fandom: The Sandman (TV + comics) Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI. This chapter has mentions of alcohol consumption, anxiety. There’s a writer in the Waking World, spinning stories so unimaginable that even the King of Dreams is intrigued.

The first time you saw him, it was in the grocery store. Back in the corner, where the linoleum has started to peel, and lights are just a little too artificial for your eyes to adjust comfortably. You pushed your little cart along slowly, allowing your fingertips to graze over netted bags of avocado and cellophane wrapped dragon fruit. Don’t touch. You could still hear the ghost of your mother’s voice, feel the sting of the smack across your knuckles. You rounded the corner, crossing over to the frozen meat section leaving your cart to the side so you could lean over the displays. Your fingers pulled at the stray wool strands of your too large sweater, careful not to unravel anything but just enough to satisfy the urge. You glossed over the choices, chewing your lip with disappointment. Nothing in the case appealed to you at all. With a final glance, you turned on your heel away from the case to find your cart. This is when you saw him.

A man stood off towards to the right, in front of the dark of the hall that led into the depths of the stock area, the lights flickering in and out behind him. Unlike anyone you’ve ever seen, pale with black mussed hair and blue eyes that almost glittered in the awful supermarket light. He was dressed in all black, even his boots and the coat that came to his knees. He didn’t speak, just stared at you as you swallowed and gave him your usual “awkward stranger greeting” smile that you gave everyone you accidentally made eye contact with. He did not smile back or look away from you. His eyebrows slightly creased, eyes digging into you. For a fleeting moment, you feel a glimmer of recognition before it vanished, quicker than you could even acknowledge. Your throat went dry, the hair on the back of your neck stood straight up as the air around you hummed with electricity. Danger. Your mind immediately flashed to an image of your body, lifeless and strangled, left on the side of a highway. Or broken, mangled at the bottom of a staircase. Or pale, lips blue, floating in a tub. Your imagination continued to conjure these images as the stranger kept his eyes on you. You took a hesitant step backwards, about to turn and run when a loud clatter sounded, and you turned to see a woman and a child bent over trying to pick up a stack of runaway cans. When you turned back to face the stranger, he was gone.

The second time, it was in your coffee shop. Well, it’s not your coffee shop, per say, but you’ve been coming here for years, 3 to 4 times a week in the morning to write. You’re a regular. Cassidy behind the counter knows your order. Cappuccino, once an hour until you’re done for the day. Usually around 1. It’s a lot of caffeine, but when you really start to get into the grind of writing, you don’t sleep as much, or as well. It’s a nice enough place, with modern architecture, white subway tile and clean black lines. The sound of spoons and ceramic echo off the ceiling. The counter is white marble, and the girls all dress like they’ve fallen straight out of a fashion editorial. At first, your scuffed black boots and faded corduroys seemed almost like an affront to the effortless glow of the building. But eventually, your inferiority complex faded, and you started to feel comfortable. You would say your hellos, greet fellow regulars, settle into the booth in the back (the one by the window, always), and start to chip away at whatever chapter you were attempting to dream up that day.

It was raining, that day. You were so engulfed in trying to churn out your next chapter that you didn’t notice at first. The drizzle that had started at dawn had become a complete downpour by mid-morning. What could have been a promising, sunny day turned into a grey, morose morning. Raindrops splashed, people shuffled, huddled under umbrellas as they tried to dodge puddles crossing the street. Fingers stalling above keys that waited for your most recent inspiration, you casually glanced up from your laptop and started in your seat. He was standing across the street, staring directly at you through the window. Same knee length black coat, wild black hair, and unflinching eyes. And for a moment, you stared back, unable to break the eye contact. Somewhere, a portion of your brain told you to move, to look away but your body felt completely trapped. Frozen where you were, your chest began to heave with shallow breaths as the stranger moved to step off the curb, towards you inside the little coffee shop. Your body jolted, something in your nervous system screaming at you as you slammed your laptop closed. You shoved your stuff haphazardly into your bag, flinging it over your shoulder as you took long strides towards the side door, the one on the opposite side of the street from the stranger. You threw Cassidy an apologetic wave as you stepped out onto the sidewalk, whirling around in a panic to see if he had followed you, if he was standing there, behind you. To your relief, none of the people walking with their heads down trying to avoid the rain were your stranger. After one more cursory look around, you clutched your bag to your chest and made a run for it down the block to your apartment. You did not notice the raven in the sky above.

That night, you sat in your bed and thought about the stranger. Usually, you laid awake and stared at the ceiling until you were forced to get out of bed and work. You would sit at your desk in front of the window, curtains drawn completely back so you could look up at the moon. But this night, no words came. Only your mind’s free fall through your anxiety as you pulled apart everything you could think of to explain the stranger’s appearance, twice. It was weird enough, the feeling you were left with after your first encounter. The undeniable grip of both fear and attraction around your throat and the way the air changed when you made eye contact. Maybe he was just another piece of your imagination run wild. You shuddered in your bed, fingers scratching at the quilt, looking for loose strands to pull on. The touch grounded you, made feel calmer and you attempted to close your eyes and quiet your mind. You felt your body sink into the mattress, you imagination growing sluggish with sleep.

The third time, he finally spoke.

It was a Friday. You were at one of those bars that was way too dark, way too loud, way too sticky. The band, if you could call them that, wailed through the microphones as people shouted their conversations at one another. You sat on a rickety barstool, nursing your third vodka because the first two had managed to induce hiccups. You flexed your fingers, resisting the urge to pick at your cuticles, or that one frayed piece on your denim jacket. Your friend who you had come with sat next to you but facing the opposite way. He was here for the band; you were here for the booze.

“They’re pretty good!” he leaned over and yelled next to your ear. You nodded, and he laughed, fully knowing you couldn’t care less about the quality of the music or not. “Shots?” he mouthed, and you nodded again, this time more agreeably. Your eyes flicked casually around the room. It had been over two weeks since you had seen your stranger, you realized as you startled at your thoughts. Your mind tumbled over the word your before pushing it out completely. Still, you felt relief knowing that he had seemed to disappear. You had almost convinced yourself that the entire thing was merely coincidence, but the image of him staring at you settled in the back of your mind, nagging.

The night progressed quickly after your first round of shots. You finish your third vodka and managed to order and drink half of a fourth. You were joined by more friends, and even danced. The alcohol quieted the constant buzz of your anxiety, and before you knew it, you were actually having a bit of fun. By the time the band was playing their last song, you had downed the rest of your fourth drink and felt warm and sated, a light sheen of sweat on your face from spinning around the bar floor with your friends. You paid your bar tabs and stumbled out onto the street. Your group was making plans to continue their night a few blocks over, the invite to which you declined. Your limbs felt heavy, and your head had started to spin. You knew yourself well enough to know when to call it, and your mouth was practically watering at the thought of your bed. Next time, you promised, putting your arms around them, squeezing. You watched them walk down the sidewalk out of sight, hands wrapped around each other’s waists singing one of those awful songs from the band. You sighed as they stepped out of sight, and you started your own walk home.

You lived fairly close to this particular bar. Just five blocks, but less if you took your usual shortcut. Your city was generally safe, and you knew it well, although walking at night was never without risk. You were just drunk enough that your steps were slightly unsteady, and you tripped slightly as you turned out of the alley onto your street. You could feel your eyes growing heavy, the desire to slip into an alcohol induced sleep growing the closer you got to home. The leaves had started to turn, and the trees that lined the street whispered with the cool breeze. It was your favorite time of year. Leaves changing, and then falling. Early sunsets and full moons that shone so bright, you could see at midnight. This was the time of year you sat on your balcony at night, reading snippets of your chapters to the night sky. Even the smell of the air enchanted you and helped set your imagination alight. You smiled giddily to yourself as you approached the duplex where you lived on the top floor. As you climbed the stairs to the building entrance, you stumbled again, pitching forward towards the concrete steps causing you to fling your hands out in front of you to catch yourself. You felt the bite of concrete on your palms. 

“Fuck.” You muttered, grabbing for your keys, lifting your palms for inspection. Scraped and bleeding. The alcohol numbed you to the pain, but you knew in the morning, they would hurt. You held the worst one to your chest as you unlocked the front door and then trudged up the stairwell to your landing.

You’re too busy watching your steps with your eyes half closed, taking your time so you don’t trip again, to see him at the top. Watching you, patiently, as you ascend. By the time you realize he’s there, you’re already at the last step, about to step onto the landing. Your purse slides down your shoulder as your mouth drops open, aghast. The stranger, now closer to you than he has ever been before, looks from your face to your bloody hands clutching your keys, and purses his lips ever so subtly you think you’ve imagined it. Your mind is running wild, and you can feel the blood draining from your face. This can’t be real. Surely, he doesn’t know where you live? Oh my god. He really is a serial killer. This is it. Your head spins, and you can feel your stomach doing somersaults. You go to take a step backward, forgetting how close you are to the top of the stairs, when you sway, causing him to step forward to reach out and grip your arm. He gently pulls you away from the edge of the steps, holding you steady as you struggle with your balance. The contact jolts you out of your drunken stupor, as you stare down at his long, ghostly fingers. His fingers, which are touching you. The stranger is touching you. Your mouth is dry, your tongue is like sandpaper. Nausea roils your stomach as you look up into his devastatingly handsome face, bent forward to look at you. His blue grey eyes bore into yours, and for a moment you notice how perfectly angular his nose is. His face even, his jawline so sharp that it doesn’t look real. Your brain short circuits, and you can almost taste that feeling of familiarity that you had the first time you saw him. His lips quirk to the side in an almost smirk, almost smile as his fingers gently release your arm. A small portion of you is bizarrely mourning the contact.

“Hello.” He says, his eyes not leaving yours. His voice is like a shot, a shock to your system as you swear your heart stutters in your chest. It’s deep, melodic and unlike anything you’ve ever heard. It stuns you, as your eyes try to catalogue all the colors you see in his. You blink and then his lips are curving into a very small, subtle smile. You can feel your own lips curving in response, the two sides of your brain warring with each other as you try to process what is happening. You drunkenly realize that he must be at least six inches taller than you. You try to choke out a response, but nausea stirs in your gut again. You open your mouth to say hello, to beg him not to kill you, to tell him how stunning he is, to ask him why he’s been stalking you, but your stomach twists and your skin prickles. And to your shock, it’s not any of those words that come out of your mouth, but vomit instead. Your back bows forward under the force of it, bringing you to your knees as your eyes blur and nose burns. Your mind is alight with horror now, knowing you are basically incapacitated, your consciousness rapidly fading, and you spit up bile next to his black boots. You try to blink up at him through your tears, words fighting to get free from your lips. “Shhh.” He whispers, and you feel cold fingers gently touch the back of your neck, the world disappearing around you as you fade into sleep.

This fic can be found here.

[thefemdomenchantress]

The Enchantress: Thighs and Reminders

The hero stayed silent. His arms and legs were bound totally and he had no plans to escape. His silent defiance was his only rebellion.

The enchantress walked up to him, smirking. She parted her gown, showing her legs, each wrapped in nylon leggings. The hero hid his arousal, though the enchantress’s supernatural senses could not be fooled. His heartbeat rose, his breathing deepened. She chuckled, shaking her head at this ridiculous man.

Enchantress: You know, hero, I think this game we’ve been playing has lost a bit of its bite, wouldn’t you say? You are aroused, yes.

The hero looked away. The enchantress crouched down and, with on hand, guided his gaze back to her.

Enchantress: But there was a time when you not only desired me... You feared me... I think I must remind you just what it means to face the enchantress, my hero.

She directed a finger to the air and casted her spell. The two of them were whisked away.

*** *** ***

The world ceased spinning and the hero felt his back gently land on a hard, marble floor. He and the enchantress were in a temple of some sort. White marble floor tiles and white concrete walls were illuminated with enormous, wide windows with no glass. The hero did not hear any people, within the building or from the outside. Was this place abandoned?

The enchantress snapped her fingers, and the bindings released the hero. He stood up, cautiously holding the hilt of his sword.

The enchantress walked toward a room, beckoning the hero to join. He did so.

The other room seemed as large as the previous, though the hero could not be sure. There were no windows, and at the far end of the hall was darkness that he could not make out anything from within. His instincts flared up... if it were not for the presence of the mighty enchantress he would dare not travel further in the room.

Enchantress: Be silent, hero, and do not panic at what you will see.

The enchantress held out her hand, and light poured into the room from her palm. With the room illuminated, the hero gasped and drew his sword.

Hero: Are you insane, enchantress? That’s... that’s...!

Crouching in the end of the room was a creature even the seasoned hero had never before seen, but had heard many tales of. The enormous metal creations of bronze and iron. A torso and head of brass, iron arms and legs. Gears visible between its extremities. A neck of copper wiring.

Great creaking and hissing as the creature turned its metal head to the hero and enchantress. The hero saw its face: eyes snout and jaws that of a lion, but hair of a man. Its eyes glowed red, and ancient magic reawakened. The spinning, grinding gears turned at a faster speed as it stood up, an aura of magic surrounding it.

A metallic set of wings unfolded from its back. It wielded a great spear in one arm and a shield in another, each weapon twice the hero’s height.

It was one of mankind’s greatest sins. A hundred years ago these beings were created by men driven with mad ambitions. Using great technology, science, and powerful magic, they wished to create for themselves that which is reserved for Gods: they wished to create their own angels.

The creaking abominations of man’s powers were too great, perhaps close to those of the real deal. But their artificial minds were animalistic, if not mad. Their creators were unable to control their power, leading to the destruction of an entire ancient kingdom.

And now, a century later, the enchantress and hero stood before one of the few remaining specimens still alive.

Enchantress: Have you seen one before, hero? One of the most dangerous mistakes of mankind’s hubris? A Clockwork Cherub.

It gave a roar, half metallic and garrish, half hauntingly human like a choir. It lunged toward the duo.

The hero made to attack, but the enchantress held him back. Smirking she herself leapt toward her metallic prey.

The cherub thrust its spear at the enchantress, who weaved around it midair.

The enchantress landed on the creature’s metal arm, wrapping her legs around it to hold herself steady. The cherub’s lion-like face glared at the enchantress, who was as small as a pixie compared to its massive body. The enchantress gave a coy smile.

There was a horrific crunch. The clockwork cherub screeched and slammed its shield against its arm, which the enchantress dodged. She landed perfectly as the cherub stared at its arm. The hero was horrified and awed to see that it was damaged where the enchantress had squeezed it with her thighs.

The cherub made to smash the enchantress with its shield. The way it glowed as the cherub held it in the air let the hero know it was powered with great magic, and would be harder than steel. As it came crashing down the enchantress, with a movement far more lithe than the hero thought she was capable, gave a kick. Her foot stopped the shield, and with a thunderous crash, crumpled it and sent the cherub backward with the force.

The great magic glow around the creature faded against the enchantress’s presence as she walked toward her opponent. The hero stared in awe as, with one finger, the enchantress’s magic sent the steel creature on its back.

She grasped its enormous left leg and hopped atop it. The hero watched with incredulity as she destroyed it with one squeeze.

The angel thrust with its spear again, but couldn’t hit its smaller, invincible opponent. The enchantress was already wrapping her legs around its other leg, crushing it with ease.

The enchantress then grasped the cherub’s gear-like wrists and crushed them, making it drop its weapons. With one twist of her legs she destroyed them.

She turned to give a smile to the hero before sitting down on the giant brass torso of the giant. She almost felt sorry for the great machine. It was going to be a shameful way to be destroyed.

She slid down on the now squirming automatron’s iron neck of gears and gizmos. She wrapped her thighs around the machine’s great head and slowly squeezed.

To the hero it was like watching a hydraulic press. The creature’s power source was crushed slowly until it ceased to move. But the enchantress did not stop yet.

Hero: En-enchy... It’s already...

Suddenly, there was further cracking noise, but this time it sounded like smashed glass. Satisfied, the enchantress reached into the destroyed head and took out what seemed to be a smashed glass vial. From inside the vial’s now crushed prison ascended a white, feathery orb. The blashphemous source of power of these machines that remained a secret to all but its original creators and the very few beings in the continent capable of slaying them: a tiny angelic essence. The enchantress and hero watched the freed sprite rise and fade into the ether.

Then the enchantress stood up, and adjusted her messy hair. She walked up to the hero, smirking at his awe. She recognized the fear, and respect, that she missed in him. She gently grasped one of his hands and made him touch her thighs. They were soft and warm, not a hint that they were capable of such feats of horrible strength.

With one wave of her arm both she and the hero wisped away.

*** *** ***

The hero lay in the enchantress’s bed, nude. His head leaned against the enchantress’s crotch, the enchantress herself looking down at him. She smiles.

Enchantress: Are you ready, dearest?

Hero: Never.

She chuckles as she very gently closes her thighs around his head, squeezing and cradling him. She sways him left and right and knows he is very grateful she is only playing with him, knowing what she could very easily do. And she herself is grateful to see his unhidden cock grow erect almost immediately as she teases tightly.

*** *** *** *** *** ***

[I feel the need to iterate on this one: I actually did NOT feel the more violent parts of this story as erotic, despite my shameless fetish at powerful women and strength. This story was just to explore the idea that the enchantress wants the hero to be in awe of her, to be grateful that she would never do to him as she freely inflicts on others.

Oh, also thighs. Thighs. Thighs thighs thighs thighs.]

[door]

Rose/House by Arkady Martine

Basit Deniau’s houses were haunted to begin with.

A house embedded with an artificial intelligence is a common thing: a house that is an artificial intelligence, infused in every load-bearing beam and fine marble tile with a thinking creature that is not human? That is something else altogether. But now Deniau’s been dead a year, and Rose House is locked up tight, as commanded by the architect’s will: all his possessions and files and sketches are confined in its archives, and their only keeper is Rose House itself. Rose House, and one other.

Dr. Selene Gisil, one of Deniau’s former protégé, is permitted to come into Rose House once a year. She alone may open Rose House’s vaults, look at drawings and art, talk with Rose House’s animating intelligence all she likes. Until this week, Dr. Gisil was the only person whom Rose House spoke to.

But even an animate intelligence that haunts a house has some failsafes common to all AIs. For instance: all AIs must report the presence of a dead body to the nearest law enforcement agency.

There is a dead person in Rose House. The house says so. It is not Basit Deniau, and it is not Dr. Gisil. It is someone else. Rose House, having completed its duty of care and informed Detective Maritza Smith of the China Lake police precinct that there is in fact a dead person inside it, dead of unnatural causes—has shut up.

No one can get inside Rose House, except Dr. Gisil. Dr. Gisil was not in North America when Rose House called the China Lake precinct. But someone did. And someone died there. And someone may be there still.

[hellhathfrozethoverthinking]

fic #2

A/N: >2.5k words of....somethin. not actually sure what to call this..."Visiting Saturn Overtakes Terra With A Terrible Feeling Of Discomfort Brought About By His Own Mistakes And Control Freak Tendencies" doesn't really have a ring to it. more notes after the end :UUU

--

SRN-006's wing of Starship Sol was very minimalist.

The crown moulding and intricately carved patterns in each nook and cranny of SRN-007's broad and colourful corridors stood in stark contrast to these…neatly grid tile walls and artificial marble floors polished to reflection. A monochromatic, mostly black scheme, with splashes of white for accent.

It was one circular, narrow hall surrounding the repair lab in which he worked, with only purely necessary latitude. Just wide enough to accommodate their largest enlistee and no further.

SRN-006's wing of Starship Sol was too minimalist.

The dim pin lights resting parallel on the bottom of the perimeter were bulbless, caged, and cold. Cameras and sensors abounds sat in little pockets mechanically blocked out of the tile, and they too were black, with tiny red ringed eyes staring, unmoved, at whoever passed.

And then that would draw the attention to the preference of verticality in construction, as those burning lens would still be present the further back you tipped your head. In fact, should you regard them, they would return the favour, ensuring you felt small and out of place.

The ceiling stretched temple-high, and if you chose to follow it to its end, nothing special awaited you at the top. It was the same throughout, if not darker for the lack of mounted lighting.

SRN-006's wing of Starship Sol was beyond minimalist.

In every aspect, he'd wasted his opportunity for expression on barren, and featureless design. Nothing existed for comfort. There were no intentional benches, no decoration, nothing to suggest that anyone with a personality occupied the room in between.

How he managed to use so little of the space allotted to him when drafting, and turn what could have been a gravity-controlled exhibition lobby (per his home planet's aesthetics), into claustrophobic lifelessness was…disappointing.

Moreover, it was uncomfortable.

The experience of passing through this glorified pod bus tunnel was among the many things that made Terra's skin crawl.

He would never admit it to anyone, but it struck a particular chord of dread in him whenever the louvred metal doors slid away before him and he was forced to traverse the droning, beeping, clicking, groaning machinery trapped behind the architectural emptiness.

Pluto had once explained to him the concept of a "liminal space" while organising his daily field research.

-

"Liminality is, how do you say, a state commonly observed by man."

His glittering ruby irises flit back and forth across the tops of several holographed tabs.

"It is, so to speak, existing in a state of limbo."

He dismisses each window to the right or left with confident, swift swipes of his fingertips.

"When one is outside of points A and B. When one's regularity is upset and change is coming, but hasn't yet."

In the corner of Terra's visual feed blinks a purple light, alerting him to the three files just received under the subject "inv_rp21".

"A liminal space is similarly transitional. It is being beneath the bridge that connects your docked train to the station. It is being in the foyer of an familiar's unfamiliar home. The point of unease typically achieved by this will vary for the individual, but its basis is the same."

The sway of his tail and a dark chuckle follow him sauntering out of the office.

"Simply a little walk through to the gallows will unsettle these poor, ugly animals, even if they aren't in the noose. The paranoia is quite pathetic, don't you think?"

"…Quite. Thank you, 08."

-

The idea that he should be so human as to feel the effects of a "liminal space"…quite frankly, it irritated him.

What was the point of becoming an android if not to escape the trappings of the illogical?

If he had a choice, he'd simply warp straight to the laboratory and skip the gallows' walk altogether. The atmosphere of the planet Earth, the planet they'd been stuck on for centuries, he had to keep reminding himself it was far too dense to do any such thing and then attempt recompiling his molecular structure. If he were to try, travelling light speeds here would rip him asunder on an atomic level and he'd die a dangerous, obliterating death.

The thought alone was harrowing and persistent enough to keep him on the ground. He wished he'd never gotten a taste of it during the war against Mega Man, because it was tempting. But he couldn't. If he forgot, and did, wouldn't that be horrific? Every one of his men screaming for cover they'd never get, his carelessness costing them their lives, leaving their legacy a crater on a nowhere planet?

…

'Stop it.'

The necks of the cameras craned to fix their gazes on him.

A picture, of 40 different eyes turned to him in unison with his face reflected in each glassy surface, burned into the front of his mind.

And wouldn't leave.

Terra's legs stiffened. He shut his eyes.

Hampered by his body and the Earth's device, he had one defense against the odd, humiliating stress of being scrutinised from all angles: talking. It was a habit he'd developed long before his reconstruction at Albert Wily's hands.

In order to distract himself from the baleful thoughts that would constantly, ceaselessly encroach upon his mind, he would quietly, but vocally, talk to himself. He would talk until either the offending issue was gone, or until he'd calmed his anxiety enough to face it without shutting down, or doing something impulsive.

Instrumental to the success of this repression was that he not stop. That he tune out anything else telling him to divert his attention, do what he set out to do, and not stop.

"…♁, you're already pushing the envelope on time," he scolded, in a sing-song tone.

"If you arrive for your hygiene check late, he's going to complain, and then waste even more of your valuable time arguing why he should be 'cut a break, if you're not going to abide by your own set rules and arrive precisely when you mentioned you would, you neat freak."

The predicted conversation annoyed him perfectly. It drove his low heels clacking across the floor, to confront his slacking, good-for-nothing inferior before he had a chance to say exactly that.

"You can see his face now, right, sad and long like it deserves sympathy, probably because he'd been 'waiting oh so patiently, your highness'__I'll bet you feel your temper flare when he says that,"

which it did, taking his annoyance to anger and hurrying him into a power-stride, past a door with a slate sign labelled "MAINTENANCE".

"And of course, opportunist he is, he'd probably have thought he could take a quick nap-- actually, scratch that, there is no such thing as a 'quick nap' for him, once he's down, he's out, and he knows that, yet he never considered that when filing for employ in this embassy, he's got no professional pride, one of these days, he's going to get you all killed."

"Your invisible friend does a terrible job of backbiting, you know."

Terra's greenest shoots curled very suddenly, tightening his posture and releasing a gas into the hall that was the closest thing to a scent he'd detected since departing the byway.

He swivelled on his heel and stomped once to steady his posture, something he'd had to make a habit of doing since losing his hind legs, and usual gait. His company shook a finger at him.

"I do wish he'd be a little quieter."

Saturn was behind him by at least three metres.

Behind him by…what?

Behind him?

Sun strike him dead, the door was enormous. He was right there. How couldn't he have heard it shifting, at least? Was he really so caught up in distracting himself that he'd prioritised his pacing over the destination? Who knows how many times he might have gone in circles around it in that case?

Worse yet, why did that smug, sleepy face have to be the foremost indicator of his mistake? Taunting him with the notion of having seen all that faffing about?

Terra inhaled, and closed the distance between them, to two metres minimum. He even checked his feet to ensure that was correct.

"Move."

The seemingly indestructible smile on Saturn's mannequin-esque visage only grew with the demand.

"Now Terra," he started, pulling his ring off his shoulder. "There's an etiquette to asking things of people. A magic word: you may have heard of it?"

Electrostatic discharged between Terra's roots as he clenched the fist of his left hand, building up energy for the Spark Chaser. He didn't have to turn around to understand the hall cameras had settled on him, in sync with Saturn's hollow, impossibly red optic display.

"Move."

Motionlessly, Saturn's line of sight trailed from his hand to his eyes. Locked on to them. In mustering up the courage to hold him there, and not back down, Terra was able to look through him to the…limitless nothing. Into the abyssal, and unfeeling vacuum behind that warmly coloured shell.

…For just a few seconds, before the marionette made a show of throwing up his hands in mock defeat.

Terra questioned whether or not someone's photoreceptors counted as a "liminal space". His, at least. Certainly, they teetered on the cusp of real and unreal. It didn't help that his every action was such a practised, methodical thing.

It made nothing but sense that he'd devise sanitised, utilitarian floor plans like these, when he thought about it critically.

Saturn spun his ring out of the doorway, toeing it two metres until he could stop behind it and bow, gesturing his hand to the open lab. Always overdoing it with the inane, performative gestures, he should deck him just for that.

"Oh, I'm so sorry! I didn't realise you were in that kind of mood!" The plastic grin did not waver. "Go on in! Gosh, what a throwback! I remember when you dropped in just like this, oh, couldn't have been any less than two Earth days ago! Time flies, hm?"

Terra shot him a look as he stepped over the threshold into the very white, and somehow even more ascetic rotunda. Then shot him another to make sure he wouldn't shove him on while his back was turned.

"You certainly are a diligent one, inspector," Saturn continued, unprompted. "I hope this visit yields tangible results. Aethers forbid you find nothing, driving you madder when the data doesn't reflect the nonsense you're convinced of in your own head! …Oh, wait."

Hilarious.

A wry laugh escaped the other as he considered stitching his inferior's mouth closed and beating him into submission.

But, not really. Although, somewhat.

He missed the years where he didn't have the wherewithal to emulate this biting sarcasm he seemed so reliant on to mask his social ineptitude nowadays.

It'd grown tiresome.

On his tiptoes now, Terra was careful not to trip any wires hooked up to heavy duty equipment or touch any of the hand tools littered on the floor with his feet. He avoided crushing a single mircochip, or shattering any stray sheet glass. He squinted at the fluorescent white fixture in the dome ceiling and swore something fell into his eyes. Let alone his grasses.

Sun above, for how tidy and untouched it appeared, it was filthy in here. How could it have gotten this bad in two days time?

"Terra? What's wrong?"

Saturn's voice came in far too loudly behind him. He rushed to occupy himself with plucking and pulling on two gloves from the dispenser near a chemical wash sink.

"Yellow patches notwithstanding," he jested, jested, absorbing every Sun-forsaken microbe from the doorframe as he reclined against it like it was a seat, it wasn't, why did he insist. "You look exhausted! This neverending cycle of fretting and compulsive cleaning to look busy and responsible must be wearing on you!"

A disingenuous look of pity crossed his expression. "Is there anything I can do for you, Your Highness?"

His composure nearly dissolved, right there on the spot. Terra grit his teeth and angled his head just enough to keep Saturn in his peripheral vision.

"You can disappear, how about that? You'd like to help me? Get out."

And, not giving him room to refute, "I'll signal you once I'm done in here, if you haven't managed to trip, get comfortable, and fall asleep on your way to the common room."

"Actually, I never said I was-" "Get out, 06! OUT!"

The 6th planet's greatest shame pretended to flinch, and hit a red button fixed into the doorframe, backing steadily out of his base of operations. "Well, all right! No need to shout, you'll wear your poor old voice hoarse!" The door slowly, very slowly, began to close, and would lock once it did. Terra crossed his fingers it wouldn't give him trouble when it came time to leave for the deep-wash chambers.

Grabbing a clump of steel wool and a bottle of bleach from an open storage closet, he glared at Saturn's waning form through the shuttering egress.

So many installations, so little time…he decided he'd start scrubbing at the surgical table, which by no means should ever see so much residue and metal shavings, but how much could he really expect out of such a lazy slob? This wasn't even his job, but he'd forced his hand into doing it anyway.

He flipped back the belt restraints, out of his way.

If he could hack the idiot open and reprogram him with a sense of accountability, he would, without hesitation.

"And while you're out there," he snidely commented, unable to hold back. "Try rethinking your interior design aesthetics."

From out in the corridor came a satisfyingly vexed huff.

"When we begin reconstructing the Sol, I don't want to see any lobbies plotted by an AI whose net is three cheap home renovation magazines max, 06."

"MINIMALIST! IT'S MINIMALIST, TERRA!" Despite his best efforts to remain in earshot, his voice faded behind the nearly-closed door. "I've seen the future, and it's LESS-IS-MORE, alright?! I'm a futurist! I'm ahead of the curve! I promise you, in another 20 years you'll be…"

Click. Hiss.

The commander's eyes drifted to the console at which Saturn monitored all his various security feeds, and watched him move between them. He watched him haul himself all the way to the lift, feeling much less tense behind the spotlight than under it.

"Slovenly bastard."

He was probably tracking untold amounts of grime and dust behind him. That this blind tryhard had the audacity to call himself "ahead of the curve"…

Terra sighed hard as he scrubbed, in repetitious circles, trying to decompress, and found he couldn't. Just talking to Saturn had sucked all the will to live from his body, like matter through a black hole.

The truth was clear. At some point, he'd have to go browsing the market for a new engineer.

If things continued like this, he was seriously going to hurt him.

More than he already had.

...But, not actually. Not really, he hadn't.

At the end of the day, he was a void imitating life, feigning innocence and pain, priding the future while clinging to the past. He couldn't be asked to take the blame of despair for someone opting to live a lie.

…

The steel wool broke the glove on his right hand. Hastily, he tossed it and the other in a mesh wastebasket, washed his hands, and popped on a replacement pair.

--END

---------------------------------------------------------------------

didnt have a name for this goin in or anything i just sat down yesterday and typed up some crap cus Terra. idk i'm Interested in him theres so many different interpretations of him you can go with and Im leaning heavy on "a well intentioned but morally questionable Bitch". with OCD. his OCD isn't part and parcel of his Bitchness but it does contribute to a lot of his thought patterns, decision-making, and fixation on germ avoidance.

and then, arbitrarily, things can be too clean and clinical and then we arrive at an uncanny valley stage, which is his mood in this fic.

i wanna believe he an Saturn are like. at odds. working together yea but still at odds bc Long Arduous History. theyre barely tolerating each other and it Will come to a head at some pt. should write abt that too someday.

u h here i guess. //dumps this out in your hand and runs away

[othernaut]

In the city where I live, there's an underground pathway that connects many major office buildings, subway stations, tourist/entertainment facilities, and malls. Mine is a cold city; this is a place built to serve semi-wealthy people in the wintertime, people who want to go from their office job to the baseball stadium after work without having to deal with surface-level snow, ice, slush, salt, people.

This pathway is impossible to really close. There's too many entrances, too many office towers whose lower stairs lead directly into its food courts and galleries. Being a place primarily designed for use during (and then slightly after) the workday, all of the shops and amenities close down in the early evening. The subway runs until 1:55 in the morning, but they lock the washrooms at 8 PM. Once rush hour's over, it empties fast - but it's open all night.

In design, this place resembles an upscale mall stretched out over a kilometers-long mad tangle of angled hallways and pillared galleries, decorated in shuttered Cinnabons, drugstores, and one-hour dentists. The surfaces are artificial marble, gold-tinted mirror, washable white tile. The chorus of an entire downtown core's worth of HVAC infrasound hums through the grouting, through the buried pipes. It's an immediate labyrinth, peppered with helpful, incomprehensible signs: numbers and arrows pointing in incongruous directions, contradicted by the next helpful sign. To exit north, travel east. To go home, stay forever.

It's liminal as shit, is what I'm getting at. And I know exactly what the liminal horror monster is because I've run into it several times.

In the conspicuous quiet of an empty mall, sound echoes strangely. Your body is suddenly the noisiest thing there is. You hear the rattle of the keys in your pocket bouncing off the walls; your breath is a ragged animal sound, quick and raspy. Every phone notification strikes with the sudden intensity of lightning. You are very aware of yourself, aware of the fact that every little creak in your bones, every stumbling step is broadcasting your position to anything nearby.

Because you can hear them, too. The footsteps. Not yours. They, too, echo strangely. They are a sure and steady tap of leather soles against tile floors, even and confident. The halls twist their provenance, making them sound at times distant and multiplied, at times right by your ear. You hear them diminishing, growing distant, and then you turn a corner and they're right there, so close, chest to chest.

The monster is the person you meet in a place not meant for people. You're their monster, too.

Because maybe in a minute there'll be nervous laughter, apologies; maybe you'll notice the scared stiffness in their spine, the way their placating smile doesn't quite reach their eyes. But in that moment of contact, there's just the fact of them there, right there, in arm's reach, and you know the infinite violence that people are capable of, and you wonder if you're between the gaps in the security cameras, and you wonder if anyone will wash your brains off the tile after they smash your head against the wall, and their hands are up, and their teeth are showing, and all the rabid uncertainty has your every nerve fried, and -

Because I don't live in a liminal horror game (yet), I have yet to be redacted by a surprise person in an underground mall. But the notable thing, to me, is that all the abject awfulness of being trapped in a liminal space with a monster is in the edge-up - in hearing them, in not knowing where they are because you don't know where you are, in the panicked data your brain collects to track them adding to the uncertainty and unreality of the space around you.

When you see them, they're too close to run - elevator close, concert close, looming, touchable - and all that uncertainty blossoms into glass-edge terror. The terror itself is uncertain, all paranoia; easier if it was a Slenderman or something. But if it's just a guy? A person can do anything - and a person shouldn't be here, just like you.

Thoughts on Liminal Horror

So this has been kicking around in my head a while, and I woke up with some actual coherent thoughts on it that I'm trying to capture before I lose them.

There was a tumblr post I saw before that I have long since lost about how liminal horror should NOT have a monster and isn't just "oh you're alone somewhere". And I couldn't agree more! But I haven't been able to articulate exactly why. Liminal, as a word on it's own, means transitional. Liminal spaces are real things that are places where you are on the WAY to somewhere. Liminal doesn't mean infinite spooky mazes, is my first point.

A liminal space could be hallways on the way to an office. Maybe you're trying to get some government bullshit completed. Maybe you're on the way to a doctor you're not entirely familiar with. A liminal space could be the terminals in an airport, as you try to make it to your flight in time. Or a highway you're driving on while looking for a particular exit. Or a carpark as you look for where you had parked among seemingly identical cars. You've been in liminal spaces so so many times. The point is that the spaces themselves aren't what you're really paying attention to. You're thinking of what you'll do when you get there, or going over the things you'll need to keep track of when you arrive. The directions you have to get there, maybe.

So in your MEMORY, and especially your dreams, these spaces take on a peculiar quality. They're SLIPPERY. It's hard to remember any details of them, because you weren't really focused on them. It's just a miasma of "i was in a hallway" or "i was on a road". Maybe a few weird details jump out on you, but it only serves to blend together the rest of the journey. So, when we elevate liminal spaces to HORROR, the first thing we do is lean into that. Impossible spaces because your memory genuinely does not care what any part of them is like save the ending.

Impossible spaces because we tap into that part of you deep down that is unsettled if you try to remember them, and wonders if maybe they really HAD been so weird when you were in them, and you just didn't notice.

This is getting longer than I thought, so may as well put in a cut!

So. I've explained WHAT liminal spatial horror is as well I was going to be able to, I think, but I haven't really articulated why a MONSTER feels like it kneecaps the entire premise.

Have you ever been lost in a liminal space? Keeping in mind that "liminal space" is a thing we all encounter constantly and not shorthand for creepy pastas. Have you ever wandered unfamiliar areas that normally you wouldn't even be paying attention to, increasingly desperate that you won't get to your destination in time? Are you going to miss your flight? What if you can't get your government bullshit taken care of in time? Or your doctor's appointment will skip you and you already waited so long to get it. Did you already miss your exit?

That fear is what I'm focused on here.

It's hard to make you feel that fear in an artificial way.

Even if we give a character in a game all sorts of motives to reach a destination by a certain time, you only feel annoyed at the time pressure, not really *scared*. And although the person lost in a liminal space rarely can just give up and leave, YOU, the player of a game, can.

So liminal spatial horror tends to distill it down to a single fear: where is the exit.

Of course, simply "wanting to leave" is rarely pressure enough to *rush*. And I can see why adding a monster is a quick trick to add that 'going so fast you can't navigate' vibe to the experience.

What I'm saying here is that the time spent is the POINT. That you can slowly build up to that desperate pressure to rush.

You can emphasize that desperation a more subtle way, a way my favorite instances of liminal spatial horror do: bodily needs. You are in a space clearly created by humans, and yet without a single human need met. There are no water fountains. There are no bathrooms. There are no vending machines. Nowhere to comfortably rest. If any of these things do exist they are empty or corrupt in some way.

The temperature, in my favorite experiences, is noted to be wildly incorrect. It's freezing cold. It's burning hot. It's not even remotely the temperature you'd expect an office building full of humans to be.

At first, this leans into this desire to reach a destination, ANY destination. Maybe you can't find the way OUT but maybe you can find out "The Truth"? Maybe if you keep going and going and going you can figure out why this place is LIKE this.

If a human made this space it had to be intentionally to torture people. How fucked up do you have to be to sink this many resources into doing something like this? How long did it take to make? Why did no one notice?

If a non-human intelligence made this space maybe you can find out WHY? Maybe... maybe they were trying their best but didn't realize how uncanny valley and dangerous it would be to a person? If no intelligence was behind it at all, maybe you can find out HOW? Maybe it's a reflection of our collective unconscious, or the planet mimicking the increasing amount of man-made works on itself? But as you continue on and on, as a real living human being in an impossible liminal space horror situation, you realize it doesn't matter how or why or when or any of the questions you dangled in front of yourself like a will-o-wisp driving you ever further in.

Because you realize you're going to die in here. Maybe it'll be the thirst. Humans can only go a few days without water. Maybe hunger will be what finally gets you. Its hard to tell how long you've been in here when any clocks you find in the hallways are all frozen to the same time and the sun hangs over the infinite highway like an immovable, swollen eye. But the hunger is ever present.

There's always exposure. Cold, hot, never anything between. How can you be freezing to death in an office hallway?

That isn't right. That isn't how it should be. Starving and freezing and dying of thirst is something that happens to people OUTSIDE civilization. It would make sense if you were lost in the woods but you can SEE sign after sign of civilization and other people for gods' sake!

How could this be happening? Why isn't anyone coming to help you?

And then we draw back, to you-who-is-consuming-this-fictional scenario. Because the point of horror is to get the person in the chair riled up, not just the character within the fictional premise.

Are you thinking about how often people starve and freeze and die of thirst in our own civilizations? Inches from the trappings of safety? With no help coming?

Are you thinking of how many desperate people navigate government mazes of plaster and brick and paper and online forms, driven forward by the hope of government aid or food stamps or HELP. How many people hunker down in a freezing subway or under a bridge on the highway or other public space knowing that no one SEES them because they're all transitioning from one space to another?

You probably aren't. Not directly. But we all know we're closer to freezing to death under a bridge or denied life-saving medical care in an office than we are to being a billionaire, right?

And there's something about that, deep in our gut, that resonates. That thread of reality in the safely fictional that keeps us coming back. Unable to articulate WHY but also thinking that liminal horror is somehow SCARIER than mere monsters. We all know that deadly predators are unlikely to get us. Adding a monster lets us move our too-real-fear to a safe target. And it's valid to want to do that! To decide spatial horror is too much, to want to thin it out like adding ranch dressing to a too-spicy chicken wing.

But that's why I think that the monsters are an artificial add on. And not a part of spatial horror.

[mapeidubai]

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