#cheap solid wood flooring

[touchwoodfloorings]

Artificial Grass Flooring in Delhi: The Smart Benefits You Need to Know

Artificial grass flooring is becoming a popular choice for homes and businesses in Delhi. It offers a range of benefits that make it a smart investment for anyone looking to enhance their space. In this blog, we’ll explore why artificial grass flooring is gaining popularity in Delhi and which is the Best wood flooring company in Delhi, and the advantages it offers, and how it links to other flooring options.

Why Choose Artificial Grass Flooring in Delhi?

Artificial grass flooring is an excellent choice for those seeking a low-maintenance, aesthetically pleasing solution. Whether you’re looking to transform your garden, patio, or commercial space, artificial grass can provide a lush, green look year-round.

Best Artificial Grass Flooring in Delhi is designed to withstand the city’s varying weather conditions. From scorching summers to heavy monsoons, it maintains its vibrant appearance without the hassle of regular upkeep.

Benefits of Artificial Grass Flooring

1. Low Maintenance: — One of the biggest advantages of artificial grass flooring is its minimal maintenance requirements. This is particularly useful in a bustling city like Delhi, where busy schedules leave little time for lawn care.

2. Durability and Longevity: — Artificial grass is highly durable and can withstand heavy foot traffic, making it ideal for both residential and commercial spaces. It is designed to endure various weather conditions without fading or deteriorating. This durability ensures that your investment lasts for years, providing excellent value for money.

3. Cost-Effective: — While the initial cost of installing artificial grass might be higher than traditional options, the long-term savings are significant. With minimal maintenance and no need for watering or fertilizing, you’ll save on water bills and gardening expenses. For those looking for cheapest artificial grass flooring in Delhi, the long-term savings often outweigh the initial cost.

Cost Comparison: Artificial Grass vs. Wooden Flooring

When evaluating flooring options, cost is a crucial factor. Artificial Grass price in Delhi can vary based on quality and installation requirements, but it often proves to be a cost-effective choice over time. The key advantage of artificial grass is its minimal maintenance needs. Unlike natural grass, which requires regular watering, mowing, and fertilizing, artificial grass simply needs occasional brushing and rinsing. This translates into lower long-term expenses for water and upkeep, making it a budget-friendly option in the long run.

On the other hand, wooden flooring service Delhi are known for their aesthetic appeal and elegance, but they often come with higher ongoing costs. Wooden floors may require frequent polishing, cleaning, and maintenance to keep them in good condition. These additional expenses can add up over time, making wooden flooring a costlier option compared to artificial grass.

How to Choose the Best Artificial Grass Flooring?

Selecting the ideal artificial grass flooring requires careful consideration of your needs and budget. Start by exploring different options from reputable Artificial Grass manufacturers in Delhi. Quality varies, so it’s essential to look for products that offer durability, a realistic appearance, and low maintenance. Compare features like pile height, density, and material to ensure you choose the best artificial grass flooring in Delhi for your specific requirements.

Consider factors such as the area where the grass will be installed, whether it’s for a high-traffic area or a decorative feature. Additionally, check customer reviews and ratings to gauge the reliability of different brands and suppliers. Budget is also crucial; while higher-quality options may cost more initially, they often offer better performance and longer lifespan, providing greater value over time. By taking these steps, you can find artificial grass that meets both your aesthetic and practical needs.

The Role of Touchwood Floorings

At Touchwood Floorings, we excel in delivering top-tier flooring solutions, featuring both wooden flooring and artificial grass. Recognized as one of the best wooden flooring contractors in Delhi, we pride ourselves on offering exceptional service and premium products. Our wooden flooring services in Delhi are designed to meet a variety of needs, from elegant wooden laminate flooring to robust solid wood flooring solutions.

For those interested in wooden laminated flooring services in Delhi, we provide detailed and stylish options that enhance any space with both aesthetics and durability. Our experienced team of wooden flooring contractors in Delhi ensures each project is executed with meticulous care and precision.

If affordability is a priority, we offer cheap wood flooring service in Delhi without sacrificing quality. We also cater to local needs with best wood flooring service in Delhi near me, ensuring prompt and effective solutions. Whether you’re upgrading your home or commercial space, choose our company for expert advice, superior products, and outstanding service.

Explore Our Premier Flooring Services

At Touchwood Floorings, we offer a range of specialized flooring solutions to suit your needs.

Herringbone Flooring in Delhi: This classic pattern adds a touch of elegance to any room. Our herringbone flooring in Delhi features meticulously arranged wooden planks that create a distinctive, stylish look. It’s perfect for both traditional and modern interiors, providing a sophisticated appearance that enhances the beauty of your space.

Laminate Wood Flooring in Delhi: For a versatile and cost-effective option, consider our laminate wood flooring in Delhi. It combines the look of real wood with the durability and ease of maintenance of laminate. Ideal for high-traffic areas, this flooring provides a sleek, stylish finish while being budget-friendly.

Solid Wood Flooring in Delhi: If you seek timeless elegance and durability, our solid wood flooring in Delhi is the perfect choice. Made from high-quality hardwood, it offers unmatched sturdiness and a natural beauty that can transform any room. This flooring option not only adds value to your property but also provides a lasting, classic appeal.

FAQ

What is the cost of artificial turf in Delhi? The cost of artificial turf in Delhi varies but is generally affordable, with prices depending on quality and installation.

Is artificial grass permanent? Artificial grass is durable and long-lasting, but it’s not completely permanent. It can last 8–15 years with proper care.

What is the cheapest way to lay artificial grass? The cheapest way to lay artificial grass is by preparing the base yourself and opting for DIY installation to save on labor costs.

Conclusion

Touchwood Floorings offers an array of high-quality artificial grass flooring options to complement and enhance your space. We are committed to helping you create beautiful, functional spaces with our comprehensive range of flooring solutions. Our team of experts ensures that every project, whether involving artificial grass or wooden flooring, is executed with precision and care. We focus on providing exceptional Cheap wooden flooring price Delhi and high-quality products to meet your unique needs and preferences.

For more information about our flooring services or to explore our full range of options, visit Touchwood Floorings. Whether you’re interested in artificial grass or high-quality wooden flooring, we are here to assist you in making the best choice for your space.

Other Links:

Engineered wood flooring in Delhi

Hardwood flooring in Delhi

[acapelladitty]

Captain Boomerang/Female Reader - Breathless

Summary - During a fuck session, Digger wraps his arm around your throat.

His stiff forearm snakes its way around your neck and you moan while tilting your head back to give him easier access as your cunt clenches around his cock. He's like a force of nature, intense strength pinning you to the floor in such a way that you can feel him encasing your body like a beer-soaked cocoon - the scent of sweat cheap cologne strong as hell.

"Digger-" You wheeze out, his skin slapping against your own rhythmically as he hollows you out - his thick cock battering against your cervix with such a delicious discomfort that you can't help but shudder under the insatiable heat of his body.

Forearm now pressing roughly against your throat, he flexes the muscles there - hard and as unyielding as wood - and immediately you find your air supply being cut off by the pressure. It's euphoric and your body struggles against the loss of air as your cunt squeezes desperately around his cock as you strain to take in a solid breath.

"So fucking tight, doll." Digger growls, the words slurred and panting due to his exertion. "Fuck, if ya squeeze any tighter I think you'll chop it off. Fucking hell." He draws the final word out into a growl.

He lets up just enough to allow fresh air to flood your lungs as you cough and splutter, throat burning from the sudden onslaught of abuse even as you push back frantically against his punishing cock.

"More." You groan out weakly, hand scrambling behind your back to grip at his hand as it presses harshly against your lower back - keeping you mercilessly pinned.

"Fuck." He slurs out, dipping down until his blunted teeth press against the curve of your shoulder and you feel him bite down, a delicious ache spreading from the mark as the muscles there twitched. "I'm gonna tear you apart - can feel it," Digger speaks almost brokenly as his forearm grows stiff against your throat once more, "the stretch."

Unable to speak as the lack of oxygen rushes in your ears with the churning violence of an uneasy ocean, it's enough to push you over the edge and you come around his cock. Cunt spasming, your blurred vision dances dangerously for a second as a choked scream of pleasure is strangled by his arm - his own bestial grunts replacing the weakly squeaking sound.

Buried fully within you, he loosens his grip as you start to come down from your release; the mess of your cunt mixing with his pre-cum to leak down your thighs as you shudder and twitch in place.

"Don't get too relaxed, baby." You can hear the smirk in his words as Digger's hands instead grip themselves onto the flesh of your hips as he anchors you to his body, giving no possible room for escape. "I'm still cracking a fat and I'm gonna ruin ya for any other poor bastard."

Already feeling the beginnings of overstimulation making your cunt feel heated, you groan out a pathetic noise which pitches into a whine as his hips start up their punishing pace once more.

[yikesharringrove]

Steve and Billy furniture shopping for their first apartment and Billy keeps measuring the kitchen tables heights and like pushing on them to test their strength and Steves like what are you doing? and billy, as he finds the right table, just licks his teeth and says i guess youll have to find out

Billy hadn't been picky about any of the other furniture in their new place.

He barely voiced on opinion on the bedframe, and only picked one second-hand couch over another because he said it had better ass feel. He didn't care which chairs they got for the dining room (mismatched ones) or that the dresser for their bedroom was the ugliest shade of babyshit yellow ever seen by human eyes.

But for some fucking reason, he cared way too much about the goddamn dining room table.

"Billy, this one's fine." Sure, it was a little flimsy. Definitely not real solid wood, but that was good. That was within their budget. It sat eight people and would be perfect for DnD campaigns, what more could they ask for?

"We just need to keep looking. It's not right."

Steve rolled his eyes.

"We've been to every single thrift store within a twenty-mile radius, this one is fine."

Billy pressed on the table again, shoving it around. It scraped against the floor, causing several people to whip their heads around to see who made the horrible screeching.

Steve was fucking mortified.

"God, if you don't like this one, then let's just go."

"Hang on, shithead." Billy rounded the table, pressing against the next one in the same way. He was standing at the head of it, feeling how high it came up against his thigh, pushing and knocking on it. "I like this one."

Yeah. The expensive one. The one that says it's solid oak and costs four times as much as the other one.

"Billy, no."

"No, Stevie. This is it. This is the one." And he looked Steve dead in the eye, and thrust his hips ever so slightly against the table. "This'll do nicely."

"What do you even mean by that? What are you doing?"

He looked Steve up and down, checking him out in that insatiable way that always makes Steve a little bit hard and a little bit sweaty.

"You'll have to find out."

He grinned at Steve, licking over his teeth, and moving past him to flag down an employee, shoulder-checking Steve on his way past because he knows Steve likes being knocked around a little bit.

-

Billy was nearly attacking him the second they heaved the table up the two flights of stairs, and wrestled it through the doorway into their apartment.

It was two bedroom, with cheap laminate floors throughout. It didn't have AC, the shower was a joke, and the kitchen was minuscule, but it was all theirs.

The had decided the smaller bedroom would be a good dining space. It was right off the main living area, with large double doors. Steve had been hoping for a space to bring their friends over. To cook for them and have game nights.

And apparently, Billy had been hoping for this.

"Bend over the table."

Steve grabbed a fistful of blond hair, tugging Billy back to glare at him.

"You absolute psycho! Did you seriously make us buy a giant table we can't afford, just so you can fuck me on it?"

Billy narrowed his eyes.

"Oh, please. Like you don't have some little housewife fantasy. Making me dinner and setting the table all nice. Letting me fuck you while our food gets cold."

"That was one roleplay."

Steve rolled his eyes as hard as he could.

And bent over the table.

[theyjusthowl]

WIP Monday

I'm trying out a new thing to be more consistent with my writing, so maybe my beta won't have to wait a month for the next installment of this WIP from hell.

I'm currently working on a Sterek longfic that somehow got away from me and is now 50k of pure hurt/comfort, and this is one of my favorite scenes, so cue the angst.

---

Lydia says, “We could use a place of our own.”

Her gaze hungrily prowls around Derek’s loft like it’s Versailles, as sterile and empty as it looks. The cheap pieces of sparse furniture he bought to appease Stiles back when they were together remain the only clue that this space has been lived in.

She knows his bedroom is still presided by a bare mattress and a busted alarm system.

Peter hears, “Derek could use a place for himself.”

His mind helpfully supplies, one that’s not littered with phantoms.

Isaac broaches the subject with Derek, one morning, in the small office space of the warehouse, as Derek works on an invoice.

“All I’m saying, Derek, is that the pack could benefit from a bigger place,” he says, towering over the desk. “I could move back in if we had enough room for everyone. You don’t have to sell the loft, you’re still running your business from here so maybe turn it into a decent office space?” He moves his arm in a sweeping motion. “This is still a great headquarters. Keep a guest bedroom in case you end up working late.”

Derek nods. He thinks of the key he gave Stiles, two years ago, the last time he asked him to not to leave them behind.

“Okay,” he says. “I’ll talk to Peter, see if he can find a plot of land that’s to his liking.” He stacks a thin ream of papers on top of a folder, closes it and stands. He files it away in a cabinet behind him and looks at Isaac. “Are we done?”

Isaac leaves the warehouse triumphant.

Peter donates the Hale property to Beacon County to do as they please, on the condition that no private businesses are to be raised on the extensive terrains. They set up a few cabins for lost campers and a small wildlife shelter. Scott is more than happy to volunteer as often as college will allow; Isaac fixes a coyote’s paw after the animal stepped on a pine needle and tells the whole pack approximately twenty times before Derek snarls half-heartedly to stop, for fuck’s sake.

The Sheriff finds a parcel, just fifteen minutes from the western border of the preserve, and it’s not exactly Beacon Hills but it isn’t anywhere else either and still within the county limits, which is apparently relevant for werewolf politics. He makes sure to push forward the copious amounts of red tape and Jackson hooks them up with a magnificently expensive and completely booked contractor, probably under duress. He’s still hell bent on crawling back into Lydia’s good graces. They raise the pale, solid bones of the house in two weeks.

It’s still three more months of plaster and tiles and wood boards and hanging wires before the smooth walls wrap around the house. They’re bare, but the light shines through the windows and bathes the stark white rooms and the sandy floorboards in a warm glow. Cora stands in the middle of the foyer, right under the big skylight, and imagines the first full moon run starting and ending right there.

Lydia commandeers Derek’s soccer mom SUV a little too gleefully and Peter side eyes her, unsettled for the first time in many years. She chooses all the furniture, the decorations, the full works, and Derek pays, only mildly infuriated. Scott sends Lydia a few pictures he took during the house works. Isaac is in all of them, front and center. She chooses one of Derek and Isaac going over the blueprints on a makeshift table, with a few workers lifting the first panel off the floor; she wraps it and gives it to him as a housewarming gift and Derek smiles and runs his fingers over the silver carvings and the edge of the frame.

The last screws are tightened into place the first week of June, and Peter brings in a landscaper to finish up the backyard. There’s one room though, and Derek won’t allow anyone in. Isaac thinks it’s a sanctuary, some sort of hideaway. It’s probably full of the stuff that survived the fire and what little he salvaged from Laura’s apartment in New York, and no one gives it further thought. If Derek wants to be left alone, they can only oblige.

The construction crew wraps up just in time for the summer of their third year. Isaac is unrelenting about a housewarming party. Derek acquiesces, on the condition that Cora and Peter tend to the barbeque.

Just about everyone Derek knows drops by: Lydia tells Allison, and she comes with Chris Argent and Melissa McCall, who somehow make it work, despite having the odds stacked against them. She’s been doing diplomatic work, restoring the Argents’ reputation as fair hunters, writing treaties for warring packs. Lydia fawns over the engagement ring on her finger and Scott hugs her warmly, the same old puppy eyes he used to put on for her, but it’s friendly and Derek knows that he’s sincere in his congratulations, genuinely happy that she’s happy. Isaac tackles her the moment he sees her, picks her up in the air and twirls her in a bone crushing hug. They catch up over a beer, Isaac casually leaning on Scott, with that unaffected demeanor of his. Scott’s hand wanders, subtly scenting Isaac. Isaac’s eyes go soft. Allison smiles and nods and hugs them both.

They’re all out back, milling around the yard. Derek watches on as he grabs two beers from the fridge. One for him, one for the Sheriff. Over the years, they’ve come to a quiet understanding, one reserved for family. Derek calls him Noah now. Noah is still convinced that they’re just one tiny hiccup away from being family. Derek’s not so sure. He entertains him, though, and more importantly, doesn’t pester him about his eating habits.

He leaves through the kitchen and finds Noah talking to Melissa, hands him his beer. They talk about the Mets’ performance, Derek nods along enthusiastically. Then they switch to cars; Melissa’s old sedan has finally given up and she’s looking to buy. Noah tells her he knows just the guy and claps Derek’s back, laughing.

When the initial bustle winds down a bit, Derek offers to do a house tour for Noah.

“They’ve all seen it, helped build and decorate,” he explains offhandedly. “Isaac’s moving in next week.”

He walks Noah through the kitchen, the living room, the study on the ground floor. He points to the basement door offhandedly. “It’s empty now, but we’ll find a use for it. Let’s show you upstairs.”

The upper floor consists of an open space that overlooks the foyer, and a corridor littered with doors. Derek points towards them. “Plenty of room for everyone up here. Peter insisted. Extended packs live together,” he explains.

Derek stays behind while the Sheriff ventures into the room to the far right end of the corridor. The room that’s off-limits to everyone else.

The walls are painted a soft shade of slate gray, with a white upper trim. To the left, a double door awaits, wide open, leading to the master bath. There is no back wall, just a continuum of floor to ceiling glass panels overlooking a deck that wraps around the corner of the building and continues behind the right-hand wall. In the distance, the woods get denser. The view is breath-taking and the sun shines high in the sky. It’s the perfect spot to watch the sunset over the forest.

There is just no furniture. Not a single piece in sight.

“It’s the master bedroom” Noah notes, words carefully measured. “It’s empty.”

Derek chuckles lowly and stares him back bemusedly. “I have no use for it. The architect insisted. He had a vision.”

“He might have been on to something,” Noah says.

He walks further into the room and waits for Derek to join him.

“It’s proofed, I assume.”

Derek nods. “Sound and scent.”

“Ah,” Noah sighs. “That explains that.”

Right there, on the right hand corner, the only clue that this room has a purpose lays in plain sight. There’s a wooden clothes rack. Neatly zipped on a hanger, Stiles’ lacrosse hoodie presides the room. It reads Stilinski, 23, and it looks well worn. The sun coming in through the back wall casts a long shadow on the floor.

(Just as Isaac had suspected, it is, in some ways, a sacred space.)

[sigridstumb]

Tell me something I don't know --

So, yeah, tell me something you know that is not common knowledge!

I'll start with two things.

First, commercial airliners frequently take off too heavy to land safely. The plane is full of fuel for the flight, obviously, and fuel weighs a lot. Jet fuel weighs about 7 pounds per gallon. A Boeing 800 class has a fuel capacity of around 6800 gallons, which will weigh roughly 45,000 pounds. A fully loaded airliner often has so much fuel on board that, if an emergency were to occur that requires the plane to land within the first 30-120 minutes, the weight of the aircraft will crush the landing gear and underside of the plane. Also, the fuel tanks are located inside the wings, and the weight of the fuel will tear the wings off. Jet fuel will violently eject and might engulf the aircraft in flames. HOWEVER. Airliners in this emergency situation engage in "fuel dumping," which is exactly what you think it is. They open the tanks and pour liquid jet fuel out of the plane and onto ... whatever is underneath. Jet fuel rains from the sky. This is obviously a problem, yes, but if it makes the aircraft light enough to land without an inferno? It's considered a win.

Second, wood products today really do suck compared to wood from 50 or more years ago, it's not your imagination, they just suck. SORT OF. Here's the thing -- old growth wood is denser than younger trees. Older furniture, crown moldings, floors, built-ins, kitchen spoons, anything that was made from older trees, the wood is denser. It resists water more easily, it is better able to resist mold, it doesn't crack and split as much. It is heavier, it has that solid feel we associate with quality. Newer wood products are made from trees that are more easily farmed, so you have your pines, aspens, and other trees that grow fast and relatively straight up. These trees are softer, lighter, and the wood is less able to resist water. They feel cheaper and they degrade faster. HOWEVER. there are a number of wood-products made from these trees that are great. Pressed- and particle- based wood products have vastly improved in the last ten years. This ain't your father's plywood anymore. These take advantage of the fast, cheap, wood farms and manufacture real wood products that are imbued with glues and adherents that recreate the density of old growth trees. Now, you don't get the gorgeous grain that older wood has, obviously. These products need to be painted, or they need a veneer. But keep an eye out for them when you are considering re-flooring a room or replacing a window treatment.

[olet-lucernam]

A Hollow Promise [3] chapter i, part iii

{_[on AO3]_}

main tags : loki x original character, post-avengers 2012, canon divergence - post-thor: the dark world, canon-typical violence, mentions of torture

-

summary: In the aftermath of the Battle of New York, the Avengers need a few days to build a transport device for the Tesseract. With the Helicarrier damaged and surveillance offline, SHIELD sends an asset to guard Loki in the interim: a young woman who sees the truth in all things, and cannot lie.

Even long presumed dead, her memories lost to her, Loki would know her anywhere.

And this changes things.

Some things last beyond infinity. And the universe is in love with chaos.

(Loki was never looking for redemption. It came as an unexpected side-effect.)

-

chapter summary : awaiting his return to asgard after the battle of new york, loki unexpectedly encounters a familiar face.

recommended listening : vedro con mio diletto, vivaldi

-

[PREVIOUS] | [MASTERLIST] | [NEXT]

-

Half an hour lapsed, before a sigh of hydraulics heralded her return.

Seated at the bench installed into the back wall of the cell, Loki opened his eyes.

"Hello again, darling," he directed at the ceiling, the seamless LED lights shattering curving threads of cold white through his lashes. The tips of his fingers were laced loosely, draped between his parted knees, head tilted back against the glass.

"Hello again, Prince Loki." The tap of her boots circled up towards the control panel, echoing slightly in the hollow space. "Did I keep you waiting?"

The corner of Loki's mouth lifted. "I am a man of my word," he replied smoothly, "and you, a woman worth the wait."

A short, unguarded giggle bubbled out of her, chased by the clink of zips of a bag dropping to the walkway.

"Silvertongue," she murmured, like an old joke. "I ought to have expected that."

Loki exhaled into a soundless laugh.

"Indeed." He lowered his head to look at her.

She had returned with her luggage, unloading them by the terminal; the canvas rucksack listed under its own weight, packed to rounded seams, with a tightly furled bedroll propped against the wall next to it. Hooking her thumb under a thick strap cutting into her shoulder, she swung a black duffel bag off her shoulder and to the floor with an alarmingly solid clang.

Loki stared at the bag, faintly disconcerted.

Straightening, she sighed in relief, fingers slipping under her collar to massage the indent out of her flesh. Catching his eye, it took her a moment to interpret his expression.

She smiled ruefully.

"Paper is heavy."

Loki watched as she knelt, briskly unzipping the duffel bag- and began decanting dozens of books.

He stifled the immediate pang of longing. It had been almost two years since he had last held a book, any book, in his hands, and while the quality of craftsmanship paled in comparison to the texts in the heart of Asgard's citadel- whether in the vast halls and endless rows of the royal archives, or his mother's private, meticulously curated reading room in her apartments, or his own jealously guarded, voraciously maintained library- any bibliophile knew that a book's value was in its content first, and its bindings second.

Every volume in her collection was creased and cracked, softened and furled with repeated handlings and rereads; a select few leatherbound and embossed compendia supplemented bricks of paperbacks, mass-produced from cheap wood pulp and printing presses, covers splitting into fractures of white. It was a glut of eclectic taste, unabashedly unfrugal.

Loki canted his head to skim the titles printed along the spines.

"Classical literature, philosophy, history- both ancient and more recent," he noted aloud, "mythology, medicine, politics- and poetry." Loki arched an eyebrow. "An acquired taste, some would say."

"An easily acquired taste," she said, sitting back on her heel, a tome on the Byzantine Empire in one hand, and three slim treatises- Sun Tzu, Niccolò Machiavelli, Friedrich Nietzsche- in the other. "Anyone who hates poetry just hasn't found a style they like yet."

"And your taste?"

Demonstratively, she dropped a thick poetry anthology atop a tower of nineteenth century novels.

"Broad. But leaning into English classics. Cliché as that may be."

"Clichés are often genius overused," Loki argued.

"Or overhyped mediocrity," she replied, "or a weak imitation that mimics genius without understanding why the original worked."

"And of those, which are your clichéd classics?"

Loki could tell that she had sensed a trap, even if she couldn't yet identify how it would close around her.

"Are you going to take me as an authority?"

"Why should I not?" Loki spread his hands. "You cannot speak an untruth."

"Literary opinions are subjective."

"Then I will accept a subjective truth."

"And why the sudden interest in Earth- Midgardian literature?"

"Perhaps I find the example of an eloquent, well-spoken individual persuasive."

She shot him a narrow look at his phrasing.

Loki pressed down on a smile. Crafting his words around a negative space without making the omission obvious, at least to the untrained or unwary, was a trick that he had practiced into perfection.

The young woman in front of him was neither untrained or unwary. And, as someone who couldn't lie, he suspected that she had used the trick herself more than once, to get away with speaking without saying much, while convincing the entire room otherwise.

"Or- maybe that was a complete non-answer, devoid of substance and beautifully costumed in flattery," she said.

Loki smirked. "You are hardly proving it to be false flattery with that answer, darling."

"I never said it was false."

A laugh startled out of Loki at the unapologetic response. "Well. No self-effacement? No blushing modesty? How refreshing."

"Why should I pretend? Even if I could." Rising to her feet, she flicked a stray curl out of her face with a toss of her head, folding her arms. The gesture would be almost preening, were her tone not so utterly matter of fact. "You're right. I'm intelligent, and articulate enough to express it, and I don't rest on my laurels. I work hard to be excellent. You complimented me. Why shouldn't I agree?"

"Why, indeed?" Loki's voice thrummed low and warm, leaning in. "And why should I not presume that your literary taste is one that you can defend with alacrity and wit, and therefore worthy of hearing?"

She was quiet for a long moment.

"I think I should be asking for your recommendations."

Her nail hooked into her sleeve, twisting the fabric around her fingertip.

Loki knew he had won before she even had to speak.

"What would you like to hear?"

"Anything," he answered softly. "Anything I may not have heard before. Anything beautiful."

"Hm."

She pressed the pad of her thumb to the seam of her lips, gaze slipping aside in thought.

She began to recite.

"To see a World in a Grain of Sand And Heaven in a Wild Flower Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand –"

"– And Eternity in an hour," Loki finished, startling her.

He almost regretted interrupting. She had an easy cadence, smooth as molten gold, like the world crystallised at golden hour. But the white-hot thrill of triumph at the way she was stunned into speechlessness was worth it.

"William Blake, Auguries of Innocence, circa 1803," he cited. "An English classic indeed."

The trap was sprung.

Her expression tensed from surprise into something caustic, eyes flashing.

Loki watched her with poorly concealed amusement.

A part of him wanted her indignant and angry and flustered after she had pulled him apart so easily, like splitting open a pomegranate with her thumbs- and the rest of him just wanted to see what she would do, how she would retaliate, how she would ignite.

She didn't disappoint. Straightening, she made her counterstrike.

"Some say the world will end in fire, Some say in ice. From what I've tasted of desire –"

"– I hold with those who favour fire," Loki interrupted, cutting across her, eyes darkening, each vowel a rush of air like the heat from a plume of flame.

"But if it had to perish twice, I think I know enough of hate To say that for destruction ice Is also great And would suffice."

He tilted his head at her, assessing.

"Robert Frost. Ice and Fire."

"Fire and Ice," she corrected him coolly. "Published 1920."

Loki's eyebrow tensed, ego pricked.

Before she could select a new verse, Loki rose from the bench swiftly, and launched into a turbulent, passionate speech, equal parts imploring and accusing.

"Why didst thou promise such a beauteous day, And make me travel forth without my cloak, To let base clouds o'ertake me in my way, Hiding thy bravery in their rotten smoke? 'Tis not enough that through the cloud thou break To dry the rain on my storm-beaten face, For no man well of such a salve can speak That heals the wound but cures not the disgrace: Nor can thy shame give physic to my grief; Though thou repent, yet I have still the loss: The offender's sorrow lends but weak relief To him that bears the strong offence's loss –"

"– Ah, but those tears are pearl which thy love sheds," she uttered the final couplet powerfully, a sweet, surrendering absolution. "And they are rich, and ransom all ill deeds."

Loki could taste his heartbeat on his tongue, blood singing in his ears, thumbing at the creases of his opposite palm. As he had spoken each line, he had pulled closer to the edge of the cell, drawn in with each quartet of iambic pentameter- and she had followed, magnetic, suddenly standing before him in aching definition.

"Shakespeare, Sonnet 34," she said, lifting a hand to skim against the glass. Loki's fingers twitched with the reflex to mirror her. "You chose one of the more obscure ones."

"Ah, I forgot- you called your taste cliché. Bright star, would I were as stedfast as thou art –"

"Keats," she interposed, rolling her eyes slightly, "Bright Star, I'm familiar."

Loki canted his head at her. "Not your taste?"

"In small doses. Like all the Romantics, Keats can get a little- cloying. Like a cake with too much buttercream. And for your information," she added, eyes sweeping up and sharpening on his, "I like obscure."

"I would believe it, were I given evidence." Loki replied, blithely aloof.

She pressed her tongue to the back of her teeth.

"Your lies are things of beauty, my love."

It was spoken in the inflection of a taunt.

"They flit from the tongue, wingéd alight Enchant the mind, and cheat and bluff.

Your lies, sweet one, settle as sugar dust Upon festered wound and sphacelus To draw the bitter from the slough.

Your lies are a keen knife, my love. Chased with silver Limned with blood.

The loveliest lies are thine, dear heart For the furtive truths they each impart –"

She trailed off expectantly.

Loki ransacked his memory for the reference.

"Too obscure?" She suggested with a slight grin.

Loki held up a hand, stalling.

Biting down on her smile, she yielded to the request, stepping away and letting him think.

Loki was almost certain that he knew the poem. He vaguely recognised the irregular lilt whittled into the stanzas, but he couldn't place it. Given their shorter lifespans, Midgardian artists in general tended to be more prolific, and the lack of a unified planetary culture making the offerings diverse, but currently that virtue was only a hindrance.

Midway through debating whether to search back another century, it struck him.

They were, after all, still playing a game.

Or rather, several games layered over each other like a multiple exposure photographic film.

Loki's eyes snapped up to meet hers.

She was grinning from behind her fingers, delighted that he was catching on.

He cast his mind forwards, to the most recently published poets who had debuted the past half decade.

Oh.

He turned to her abruptly with a rush of recollection.

"For words they speak not, yet still confirm With every utterance and phrases' turn. Thy heart, as stars in daylight skies, Is unveiled in the dark of gentle lies."

She hummed, a low musical note in the back of throat. "Title and author?"

"Lies. Ellison." Loki exhaled slowly, irked. "That was unfair."

"How so?"

"It was published barely two years ago," he said rancorously, "a novice effort by an unknown neophyte of barely fourteen-"

"And yet you can still cite the date of publication, and the poet's age," she replied blithely, "so it couldn't have been that unfair, could it?"

Loki glared at her mutinously.

"You asked for obscure," she said, unaffected. "If you wanted to me to continue with the ancients, you should have said."

Entirely against his will, and much to his displeasure, Loki was impressed.

"Very well," he said, quietly dangerous, "I am now specifying."

She flicked out an open palm, ceding the floor in challenge.

Loki set his jaw.

"Kàn zhūchéngbì sī fēnfēn, Qiáocuì zhīlí wèi yì jūn. Bùxìn bǐ lái zhǎng xià lèi, Kāi xiāng yàn qǔ shíliúqún."

He had deliberately recited the original text, rather than speaking through the filter of Allspeak. Some nuance was inevitably lost in translation, particularly within the limited fidelity of the universal tongue- but while more precise in meaning, the original was also several shades opaquer. The Hanyu languages were tonal, brimming with homonyms differentiated solely by inflection, easily missed by non-native speakers. And considering that the poem in question was a few centuries older than Loki himself, with the linguistic drift, she would find it nigh impossible-

"So deep in thought while watching reds change to greens," she translated pensively, as though she were somewhere else. "So frail I've become in memory of you. If you do not believe these tears I have wept, open this chest and see the marks on my pomegranate dress."

Loki started at her in carefully masked disbelief.

"You speak Chinese."

"Mandarin and a little Cantonese, yes," she said simply- before wincing into a sheepish grimace. "Although, you also chose one of the few classical Chinese poems I know well enough to recognise."

Loki sent her a sour look.

"You could have mentioned that."

"I might have, if you had asked," she retorted. "You're the one who quoted Wu Zetian out of the blue."

Loki glowered, but relented.

"How many languages do you speak?" He asked instead.

"A few. Enough to qualify as a polyglot, if not a hyperglot."

"Impressive."

The compliment had spilled out of him, unthinking and genuine.

Like the sun breaking through cloud cover, she warmed through.

"Thank you. I've always been good with languages."

"I can credit it." Loki ran a fingertip along his lower lip, observing her through his lashes. "Care to put forward any other non-English poems?"

She paused, her mouth twisting slightly in thought.

"There is one. But- it's not a poem in the strictest sense."

It was a strange caveat. "You have my attention, darling."

"Do I? Lucky me."

Her tone was wry, but the look in her eyes was intense, glowing like embers.

And instead of speaking-

"Vedrò con mio diletto –"

- she sang.

Loki's heart stopped.

"L'alma dell'alma mia, dell'alma mia Il core del mio cor Pien di content Pien di contento –"

The Vivaldi aria was crystalline and angelic, composed for vaulted opera halls and soaring cathedral naves, for white marble and clerestory windows flooding light into a basilica, rather than black steel sealed against the open air- but the way she sang it was lower, warmer, sweeter. She allayed the piercing brightness of the upper register into something gentler, more earthly, like a dawn-soaked aubade heard on the cusp of waking.

The lights in the cell flickered briefly.

"Vedrò con mio diletto L'alma dell'alma mia, dell'alma mia Il cor di questo, cor pien di content Pien di contento

E se dal caro oggetto Lungi convien che sia, convien che sia Sospirerò penando Ogni momento…"

The air throbbed, metal shivering from the final note, settling like dust.

Loki swallowed, unsealing his lips.

"I will see with joy," he translated, throat stoppered, vocal cords strangled by the words, "the soul of my soul, heart of my heart, full of contentment. And if from my dear object I be far away, I will sigh, suffering every moment."

Her eyes were locked on his.

"You have a lovely voice," he confessed.

There is witchcraft in your lips.

The air left her lungs in a slow, soundless billow.

Watching her watch him was like pressing his eye to the lens of a kaleidoscope. Every brilliant facet of her was cracked open, letting him look for as long as he wanted- and gazing back.

Loki wanted to demand more and to wrench away.

Eventually, she fell away from the cell.

She returned to the books, sinking to one knee. Pulling a few from the collection, sampling seemingly at random, she stacked them into the crook of one arm until she could barely balance them against her torso.

Rising to her feet and rounding the cage, she dropped just out of sight, behind one of the thickset pillars set at the cardinal points of the cell.

Loki heard the chirp of a digital keypad, the snap of a latch, and a clunk.

Not for the first time, Loki noticed the faint seams in the pillars, the outline of a door. It hadn't been relevant, before; he already had his plans in motion, locked into place like clockwork, and indifference towards his prison only served to make his captors more unsettled.

It had taken the bare minimum for Loki to start splitting them at the seams, to turn disinterest and wariness into open hostility and discord.

Imagine what someone could accomplish if they were actually trying.

With a click, and the snick of a digital lock, she emerged from behind the pillar, arms empty and eyes expectant.

Loki arched an eyebrow, and indulged her. Crossing the cell, he found the handle, and pulled the hatch open.

Inside the hollow interior were several shelves, installed at intervals. It was completely empty- save for an assortment of books on a ledge just below his ribs.

Loki turned the stack with a near-frictionless rasp of paper against metal, examining the spines.

The Complete Works of William Shakespeare. Northern Lights. Paradise Lost. The Tragedy of Eleanora Belmont. Il Principe. Pride and Prejudice. The Theory of Existentialism. The Pretender. Hogfather. Wicked Things. Wolf Hall.

"You gave me the best of your library, darling," he observed, tracing the satin cover of the Bard's anthology, stitched with floral devices in shimmering gold.

"Oh, don't worry." She slid the rest of her library into place against the wall. "I held a few back."

She hefted up a modest hardback, interlocking geometric detailing embossed in gold leaf in the leather, ubiquitous and unmistakable.

Tales of Norse Mythology, the cover declared.

She burst out laughing, sweet and unmalicious, at his look of affront.

"Relax," she soothed, setting the offending book down, "I prefer Greek mythology anyway. Much better attested, and with contemporaneous sources, unlike the Prose and Poetic Edda. Ah, no offense intended, Old Norse poetry is deliciously intricate. Especially dróttkvævitt, with the way the kennings and heiti turning it into a labyrinth of meaning."

Loki's lips quirked. "Well. I must admit, your pronunciation is-"

Then he caught up with what she had just said.

Greek.

Oh.

"Aletheia."

She looked up, a trio of books gathered to her chest, halfway through moving a folding plastic chair from against the wall.

"Yes?"

"Lethe," he continued, "meaning oblivion, forgetfulness, concealment. With the alpha privative, aletheia- unconcealed. Or- truth."

She straightened, setting the chair in front of the control panel, and smiled faintly.

"You know your Greek," she acknowledged, before shifting into neutral explanation. "Aletheia is the Greek goddess and personification of truth. She's often interpreted as the daughter of Chronos, personification of time, who is also usually her vindicator and protector, revealing her to the world. It's a popular allegory in Western classical art." She gave a self-deprecating smile. "In one of the novels I gave you, there is a device called an alethiometer, a golden compass that tells the truth to any question asked. That's where I got the name, originally. In my defence, Aletheia is far more obscure a deity than, say, Nike."

"How apt," Loki commented dryly. "Victory favoured over truth."

She stifled an amused smirk.

"You have no idea."

"I can hazard a guess, darling."

She stilled.

"Oh," she said, doubtlessly catching the truth in his grim tone, "you can."

Loki tapped his index finger against the nearest book cover.

"Do you have any recommendations? As to where I should start?"

She slipped into her seat, swivelling and bending to extract a slim device from a pocket of her duffel bag, followed by a tangle of candy-coloured silicone earphones.

"My suggestions will be biased," she warned without heat. "And probably unnecessary, depending on how many of them you've already read."

Loki smirked. "Darling, I'm counting on it."

"Ah- so you've been trying to read me though my preferences all along." Her eyes glinted like the taper of a needle. "Clever."

She spoke as if the ploy hadn't been double-edged from the beginning- as if she wasn't aware of it, in the same way that Loki had known his ploy would draw his own blood as much as hers.

It was becoming increasingly difficult to convince himself that he was looking at a lie, and to stop himself from cataloguing all the loopholes that could make it true.

"Hm, well," he mused with a smile, dropping his voice to something dangerously intimate and only mostly insincere, "I could be sweet for you, and have you spilling all your secrets. Is that preferable?"

She suppressed a smile.

"Start with a few Shakespearean plays," she instructed, plugging in her earphones and cracking open one of the books in her lap, tucking the other two aside, holstered next to her hip. "Merchant of Venice, Othello, Much Ado About Nothing- in that order. Then Northern Lights, The Pretender, and Hogfather. Throw in a few breaks with the lighter ones, especially The Prince. That particular translation is very digestible, and probably as succinct as Machiavelli originally intended."

"More laconic than loquacious," Loki added, leafing through her slender copy of the infamous work, an edition with the gloss of recent printing and the wear of thorough, repeated study, "all the better for the intended audience of a short-tempered political leader with an even shorter attention span."

"Too much lion, not enough fox," she agreed with a conspiratorial smirk.

"Thus spake the fierce fox," Loki observed, easing the brick of the Shakespearean anthology out from inside the pillar.

She looked up, settling back in the chair as comfortably as the rigid frame would permit.

"So utters the cunning lion," she said, kicking one leg up to cross over the other.

She raised the music player, tapping the play button with an audible click.

Wresting back a laugh as bright as snow-blindness, Loki took a seat at the bench.

The two of them sank into the quiet.

-

[PREVIOUS] | [MASTERLIST] | [NEXT]

[subiysu-chan]

High elf achitecture ideas

Now, let's say "High" means "Highland" suggesting maybe a climate and geography similar to Northern Sweden or Norway, or maybe even some Cfc climates, that sounds good.

Because of their hatred of waste, and respect of nature, many elves would build many of their items out of pine needles and some kind of thread. It'll be relatively abundant, light weight, and thus would be used to weave baskets and maybe even serve as a base for beds (camping in areas that have a lot of pines is actually a lot more pleasant, since the fallen needles take a longer time to decompose, and thus offer more cushioning). Medieval bed bases were often made of woven material. But pine needle wants to be more round, and thus, if there is no bed frame, the bed base on top of which a matress would go could very well be round. However, it is not as spacially efficiant, but since my elves have wings that do take up space, they might find such sleeping arrangements more comfortable. When space must really be efficient, the bed frame could be made out of spruce or pinewood treated with brine and pinenut oil, and the bed matt over which the matress would go could be made out of some more convencional materials, at least to the human eye: straw or rushes. However, if my elves are fungivore, they would probably not cultivate it, and thus, it might in their eyes be a fancy material they would have to trade for. Such a bed would be made out in a trapeze shape. In any case, these structures would keep the matress and the body away from the cold stone floor. Also, since pine and spruce wood are softer woods, it would allow for some very intricate carvings in places that don't hold a lot of weight.

The houses themselves could be made out of: stones picked up as is, and stuck together into a round, hexagonal or octogonal shape forming a base for the building, with some mortar, clay or even bark-based glue. The bare, hard rocks of such places would be quite condusive to such techniques. However, colder climates have the left overs of glaciers, which can lead to the formation of a lot of clay, which means some houses might be made out of bricks, although it'll be a more expansive material, would probably be popular with anyone who can afford it. It would probably also be used to level out the floor, creating a sturdy base. Only a minority of buildings would be made out of carved stones, and they would be the most by far prestigious. It would be carved into beautiful, intricate shapes, often with stylized blueberry blossom motifs. Square buildings would also be a thing, mostly out outgrowths of larger buildings with an hexagonal or octogonal shape. In terms of more temporary buildings, the abondance of pine and spruce trees, providing a flexible and rather light-weight and flexible wood, would allow the making of tents a rather practical option, in places were long-term buildings would be out of reach. It would also provide the idea material to hold up the canopy of their beds (which would often be round), sometimes carved quite elegantly.

In spots were a more solid structure is needed, but still light weight, birch wood would be the material of choice.

With circular beds being the cheapest in terms of materials, it would also provoque an interesting development of their textiles: prefering crochet, either as lace or plainer, denser more practical patterns, would be the favored method for cloth making. However, it doesn't mean they would completely ignore woven fabrics, just, it'll have different uses. For matrasses, cloths would be tightly crochet'ed, sewn together, and stuffed with whatever cushioning is available to them. The downward side, meant to face dirty, would be made out of the coarsest, most study and cheap fabrics available while the top layer might be finer to maximize comfort. Pillows would only be simple stuffed stuff for kids, adults, because of their wings, would fine more comfortable to sleep on their belly, and thus, it'll be a small stool with some cushioning, allowing one to sleep comfortably on their belly, or alternatively, their elevated beds would have specialized holes for their wings to fit through, perhaps lined with a kind of sleeve. These sleeves, in an elevated bed, would be visible from the outside, and thus, be in the case of the wealthy, extremely decorated and ornate, using only the softest fabrics.

[talentforlying]

☎️ 👀

day 2.

' ey, luv. just wanted to 'ear your voice. '

low, raspy, tired. just the sort of thing you'd expect from a late-night caller, spouting cheap lines from soppy B-movies with titles along the lines of no place like home for the holidays. a little more easy-breezy casual than you'd expect from someone cuddled up to an ansaphone.

' best be keepin' safe, an' all. tell me not t'cause trouble, you're the bleedin' poster child for it. how m'i supposed to keep from gettin' bored without you around, eh? '

the rustle of sheets as he stretches, sighs. brief, content silence, like an audible glow at the end of the line.

' don't make fun of me f'i say i miss you already. i do. i 'ope whatever it is you're doin' works and it en't hard, an' you end up back 'ere before i open my eyes in the morning. f'not, you just drop us a line, yeah, an' i'll come by to 'elp. wherever it is you are. i'll find a way. '

it's quiet again, but not silent. the creak of a mattress, the pad of bare feet on wood, the pouring of a drink. humming, soft and absent-minded. a sip, and a sigh. a smack of lips. sharing a late night with her, even when she's not around to hear.

' right. i'll let you go, then. you be good, now. '

day 12.

' oi, i know a couple days is relative to you n'i, but at least drop a line at the end of week one, yeah? so i know you're still breathin'? '

light and humorous, syllables tripping in the dizzy spirals of sleeplessness. there's crashing in the background, like someone's going to town on a hunk of metal with a wrench. it fades slightly with a shuffle of shoes in dirt, as though he's belatedly realized the potential for eardrum damage and stepped away.

' been workin' me tail off over 'ere, chasin' ghost stories. been some weird shite with the veil between worlds recently, gettin' thinner in places. nothin' cataclysmic, mind, easy fixes all. but i wouldn't mind havin' my best girl at me side, one'o these times. smooths things over when there's a less breakable pretty face around. '

the banging in the background stops, followed by a vague holler. a laugh barks into the receiver, half-mischief, half-mocking.

' chas sends 'is love. as best he can do, anyways, you know chas. try t'dig the one stick out of his arse, all you'll wind up with is two — geroff! '

the scuffled sounds of wrestling take up the line, phone speaker knocking between fingers and furniture as scouse and london overlap incoherently in a battle for dominion of speech. it's almost a full minute before a hasty ' alright, alright, fuck! ' that signals surrender ( point to chas ) and the clatter subsides, voice returning to the speaker with a scornful huff.

' big pillock. anyway, you 'eard him, love and all that. be well, yeah? chuck us a good word when you've got the chance, you know it'd give me peace'o mind an' all. see you soon, i hope. '

day 52.

' c'mon, answer. ' curt, stressed, stern. teetering on a cliff-edge between detached and despairing. ' fucking answer, lilly. whatever you've gotten yerself into, whatever's happened, i need to 'ear you say you're fine. or you're not fine, or you're bloody well awful, or you 'ate my guts and have fucked off to switzerland to become a nun. something. give me something. '

a sharp, shuddering breath in. the thud of a fist against a solid surface from close-range: table, maybe, from the accompanying rattle and the slither of paper to the floor. pacing steps chase more haphazard sounds across wood, like rolling bottles and the skitter of scattered pencils.

' just give me one word. ' there's no hard edge to that one, no stoic pretense; he sounds lonely. he sounds like he's grieving. ' please. just . . . pick up the bloody phone. give me one word, an' i won't call again. '

long, long silence. the sharp snikt of a lighter flicking open and on, and the accompanying sizzle of paper catching a little too close to the speaker. a deep breath in, a harsh one out.

then a frustrated growl, and the crunch of glass.

day 120.

' "gone for a few days". ' it's acid, chemical backwash from a long night and a few bevs and four months of radio silence. he sounds bitter, sounds scraped-thin — sounds a few bottles off from making friends with the toilet seat. ' cosmic bleedin' check-up. i found yer fucking note, y'know. doesn't make it any better. you should've told me to my bloody face, 'cos this? this is . . . this is. '

clink and clatter of glass rolling, a wordless snarl with no bite. long, steady silence, with the soft rustle of hands in hair.

' haven't stopped looking, but i can't find you. you know i can't find you, don'tje? did you plan it like that? to just up n'leave and i'll never see you again? that's fucked, lilly. you know that's fucked. '

a low, aching laugh, angry and desperate and beyond anything else, exhausted, and the clumsy thud of fingers seeking out the end button that almost drowns out the rest:

' do you care? '

day 164.

nothing spoken; just the soft sounds of movement. quiet breaths, shaky at the ends, unsteady. too loud to be self-soothing, too quiet to be shameless.

there's a few hitching starts, like he's going to speak. a swallow here, a half-formed consonant there. it comes to nothing.

the call comes to nothing.

day 260.

' i'm done. '

this voice is flat. hollowed out of anything and everything he might have wanted to give her. something's been lost between this call and the last, something irreplaceable, something ripped and carved and flayed out of him. even the shiver of loss that threatens to trip his tongue is muted, like it's coming from thousands of fathoms below the sea, where mortal things either evolve under pressure or crush like aluminium cans.

he didn't evolve.

' this is maudlin. it's not doing any good. you're just as dead as my s — ' a muted sound, choking on something unvoiced. a swallow so loud it pops in the speaker. he returns compacted, composed, syllables strung so crisp and tight there's no way for emotion to creep between the lines. ' . . . and if you're not, you made your decisions. i'm not in 'em. so let's pack it in and quit while we're ahead, yeah? before you ruin me pretty speech and pick up the phone. '

this silence builds on itself like static: longer than all the rest, and heavier. weighing down, and down, and down.

finally, after a breadth of time so long it goes immeasurable, an empty little chuckle.

' yeah. s'what i thought you'd say. '

day 300.

340. 350. 360.

day 364.

a drink and a note slide along the bar top. he looks up.

he won't look anywhere else for hours.

@asteritm / MIDNIGHT CALLS

[publicabsent]

small drabble under here. warnings include: implied spousal abuse, physical violence, gendered language, mentions of alcoholism, death. <3

things have been normal. perhaps that, in itself, might have warned the medium that such smooth waters precede a violent storm. but normalcy is intoxicating, & leads to complacency.

the task was simple – deliver the books to the addresses, picking up any that are due, nothing complex. nothing she hasn’t done plenty of times before. (except now, complacency bleeds into carelessness, & she’s misread an address.) nothing strange till the last house. the roof of it sags, shingles missing in small patches. the lawn is somehow both brown & overgrown. the door, a light, cheap wood, sits crooked between two luan-covered windows. annette hesitates before knocking, a brief chill running down her spine.

that was her one & only warning.

delicate knuckles rap on the door, which easily opens without a sound.

“h - he-hello … ? i’m fr-from the l-li—“

a sickeningly familiar cold freezes her lungs solid as the gravelly, slurred voice of a man interrupts her.

“well, well, well. look-y who’s come crawlin’ back. surprised t’see me, ava?”

like a prey animal, annette freezes as one large ghostly arm wraps around her waist, the smell of cheap booze & decay flooding her senses. delicate frame braces itself for whatever may come next, dread stiffening bone, when she’s roughly cuffed on the back of her head & released, careening forward onto the ground. she lands with a smack, palms & knees bearing the impact.

“that’s fer leavin’ me —”

one large grubby hand jerks her up by her hair, pulling a strangled cry from the girl. now she sees the face of this spirit – distorted by anger, seemingly eaten in places by the vermin of the house. he wears a puke-stained shirt & stands so big, a hulking terror in both life & death.

an open-handed slap to freckled face disrupts her thoughts, rattling her skull.

“i-i — s-sir, i … i’m n-not —”

“shut up, you lyin’ bitch! that w’s fer lettin’ me die.”

“bu - b-but i —”

putrid hand clamps around her jaw, squeezing just tight enough to be a warning. annette closes her eyes, hoping the man at least kills her quickly.

he instead begins ranting.

his drunken ramblings are lost on the medium, interjected only with hits or shakes. he says something about losing a job, about ava’s family, something about children, all half-intelligible. he interrupts himself every so often to toss the girl to the floor, stomping at her while screaming for her to listen. he manages to catch her once or twice with his feet, though she’s hardly aware. she is far away. her mind is somewhat safer, imagining her small nook of her attic. the spirit continues to shout, striking the living girl when deemed necessary.

one sharp hit — large knuckles to fragile cheekbone, jolting her back into the present — elicits a soft whimper of a response.

“i-i … m’n-n—” she can hardly speak, her stutter working in distorted tandem with her busted, swollen lip. annette figures she must be crying, though she can’t tell. her weak attempts at speech are clipped short by two hands clamping viciously around her throat, the force pushing her harshly again a moldy wall.

“y’think i wanna hear one goddamn word outta yer mouth? shove those fuckin’ excuses aside. yer a coward! a weak, pathetic little bitch! f’you couldn’ handle me, y’shouldn’t’ve married me!”

his grip was growing tighter. it’d leave bruises, she’s sure. thin hands & short nails scrabble at the half-there hands, hoping to loosen the vice grip on her throat. the dead man continues shouting, his voice louder & the louder as his hands tighten, thumbs digging into her pulse points. the volley of foul insults never stops, even when the pressure on her neck vanishes & she collapses to the floor.

the voice, now disembodied, feels almost inside her ears, screaming obscenities at ava, who would never hear them. the small, somehow still-living girl shakily climbs to her feet, favoring one side greatly. her right ankle, clearly a victim of his stomping fits, is bulbous & a sickeningly dark purple. her every breath wheezes, but she limps out of the now-empty doorframe. his voices still screams in her mind for months.

she wears scarves to hide the slow-to-fade handprints round her throat.

she wraps her ankle.

she wakes in the night, screaming and clutching her chest.

& as always, she tells no one.

[justasking]

Do you realize what big stars real estate agents have become?

The act of ownership is all it takes to become famous.

Landlords lord more than lands.

Economy in shambles.

Avocado toasts and economic disparity. Record low wages. Record high profits. The pyramid is made of solid gold and built upon piles of bones.

Men who dwell in distant towers many hundreds of miles away from a home they own. Controlled by a subcontractor of a subcontractor and rented to no one. No pets. Could damage the cheap wood floor.

Speculations of grim cyberpunk future dystopias often depict Tokyo-style dense urban centers.

The American Cyberpunk reality is 800 lane highways. Superdense parking structures that service an apartment complex consisting only of 6,000$ a month studios.

The American Cyberpunk is global parking lot. Asphalt and concrete stretching as far as the eye can see in every direction.

There is no neon.

There is no sleek EDM music.

There are no cybernetic enhancements.

There are Tesla Cybertrucks.

There are self-driving cars incapable of telling the difference between an empty street and a human child.

There are fast food communities.

There are infinite rooms of marketable beige.

[fakesurprise]

start of a new rpg campaign....

Basically, using the cypher system for a 'yanked into other worlds/bodies game' that should be quite fun to do!

Darkness. A grey crushing. A feeling of being *stretched* and shrunk at the same time, like silly strings pulled into monofilament threads that hum as music plays over them. Thunder, but there is no sound. Light, but there is nothing of you to see it with. Shadows roil and move, and there is pain. Cold atoms shattering apart, the space between them larger than cathedrals. 

Our systems explain the world. But they are not large enough to comprehend the vastness, not small enough to see the infinitesimal. You are. Space is. There is something to that, beyond pain. Something pulls at you. Commanding, but not cold. Calling, but not summoning. As rivers seek the ocean, you ... move.

And a dream becomes something not a nightmare. Because you are awake. And aware. And far from everything you once knew. 

You know three things. That this is real. That you are not alone. And that the body you are in is not the one you were born in.  Other people are beside you. If they are people? Around you is a room made of crude stone. Circular, a good 20’ in height. Behind you is a staircase of solid wood, two stories above you a cloudless open sky in which stars wink far overhead. 

At the far end of the room stands a woman. She is older, in a robe that is slightly frayed and patched with time, hair streaked with white and leaning on a plain wooden staff she holds in her left hand. Her gaze is focused on her right hand, and a small ring with a cracked crystal in the middle. Behind her is a cheap wooden table on which sits a broken fishbowl, a collar and some wilted flowers. The walls are blackened with soot and ash scours the floor, highlighting some errant cobwebs in the corners. 

[dontditchtheluxurybushbaby]

The Biggest Travel Trend - Wild Luxury

"Wild luxury camping" refers to outdoor camping with the perfect combination of mountains and luxury. When it becomes a trend, it is the start of Internet celebrity homestays, with high-quality camping trip experiences. Outdoor camping has always been very popular with tourists because outdoor camping has become the five key points of the current era: memory, freedom, comfort, contact with nature, and adventure. With the gradual elimination of various camping tents, a variety of luxury glamping units, such as safari tents have been selected.

The material of the safari tent is PVC or PTFE tarpaulin. It is UV resistant and flame retardant and can resist temperatures from -30 to 70 degrees. It is acid and alkali resistant and can be disassembled and cleaned to ensure a clean and beautiful appearance. strong and sturdy.

PVC floors tend to make tents seem cheap and easy to get abrasions. Usually, the indoor floors have options, such as a composite floor-SPC stone plastic floor-BPC bamboo fibre floor. You can make the choice among them, or use other floorings that you like, such as solid wood flooring, ceramic tiles, etc.

The suppliers who specialise in the production of luxury safari and glamping tents. It is an enterprise that builds characteristic hotels for resorts, scenic spots and tourist areas. With professional design, professional layout, camp planning and other solutions, no site restrictions, long service life, and stable construction, you create your own personalized luxury glamping tent.

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[roosterbruiser]

I humbly request some landslide crumbs

and some Landslide crumbs I will give you!!

here's a bit of Stevie/Faye content for you

Stevie was Maggie’s cat. She’s a Persian, or something like that, and she was the first big purchase Maggie made when she got some money. She painstakingly created the perfect environment for Stevie--bought air filters and an electric litter box, bought the vet-recommended food based on Stevie’s age and breed, curated ridiculously expensive furniture dedicated to Stevie entirely. Stevie loved only Maggie from the first day Maggie brought her home. No one else was able to cuddle her, let alone touch her. 

When I first picked her up from the boarding facility, over a month since Maggie died, she howled and mewled the entire drive to my house. She was lying in the dome carrier Maggie had spent an arm and a leg on, crying and crying. My ribs, the cracked ones, ached deeply with every breath I breathes. My left wrist was slung across my chest and it hurt badly enough that I’d been prescribed hydrocodone. I’d hit my head very hard on a tree branch when landing and sometimes I still got confused--things felt fuzzy, even a month later. Possibly what caused the most discomfort was the frostbite on three of my toes on my left foot. The doctor’s considered it a mild case and they were healing, scabbed over, very ugly. I had to clean each of the toes individually and wrap them nicely or I would get an infection. 

“Stevie,” I’d called to her from the driver’s seat, narrowing my eyes at the road. The sun was blinding, “shhh, girl.” 

Stevie was desperately moaning. I tried to turn the radio on, but suddenly couldn’t remember which button turned it on. 

“Oh, fuck, come on!” I’d yelled, exasperated. 

It was exhausting to be hurt, exhausting to have a dead sister, exhausting to pick up the pieces of the life that had imploded so randomly, so terribly. I’d been pushed over the edge then and there, somewhere on Pacific Coast Highway. I pulled the car to the side of the road, held my scabbed and bruised face in my hands, and screamed into my palms. 

“Do you think I want this?” I yelled to Stevie, who was blinking at me from inside her kennel, “Because I don’t!”

Our parents had told me to just forget about Stevie--surrender her to the boarding facility. She would be taken to a shelter and would be adopted quickly since she was a purebred. I knew, though, that Maggie would’ve keeled over again if Stevie wasn’t taken care of.  

Now Stevie lives with me, in my house that I’m always renovating. Mingled among my antiqued furniture--my velvet sofas and solid wood tables and ornate rugs--are the expensive pieces Maggie had bought for Stevie. The chrome litterbox lives in the laundry room, plugged into an outlet, beneath the quartz counter that houses wicker baskets and glass bottles of white vinegar and baking soda. Her four-tier cat tower lives in the sun room, a blob of flower-shaped levels and bright green rope against the rattan patio furniture I’d carefully selected. Stevie’s food bowls were even a stark contrast--pink BPA-free plastic dishes--against the original wood flooring in my home. 

This is all to say that nothing Maggie bought all those years ago matches the aesthetic I’ve curated. I cannot get myself to switch any of the items out, even if I’ve looked before. The self-cleaning litterbox reminds me of how busy Maggie always was, one foot out the door all the time. The tower reminds me of her exuberance--her love for bright colors and feminine things. Her uncharacteristically cheap plastic bowls are reminiscent of Maggie’s tendency to accidentally kick or trample things on her way out the door. They are little fragments of her. 

[devilsons]

who: isabella espinar ( @gravefed​ ) where: the bad monkey bar + nightclub when: sometime after the city has begun to evolve for the night, the sound of heels hitting the pavement turning to drunken staggers, the neons casting the only solid light aside from few flickering street lamps.

the bass in the bar keeps booming regardless of the empty dance floor. 

despite the money laundering nature of the building, its owner loves it unconditionally; the rotting floorboards, the grimy back bathroom stalls, the ripped faux brown leather of the bar stools showing white between creases. perhaps its not the building itself, not the promise of rowdy patrons or even the fully stocked bar, but the way archibald sits on the bar top when the whole place is desolate and looks over the poorly-kept mess of an establishment and thinks, ‘ this is mine. ‘ the bar is in the worst shape. the apartment in the basement, while not pristine, refrains from being disastrous, some piles of documents and the closet is a mess of clothes but overall he took a lot of care to make it a nice space. 

upstairs, however, had other funding. 

behind a locked door in the back is a staircase up to the hanging man’s offices and meeting space, sleek white walls and grand wooden desks, safes and reinforced steel. everything ties back to them, sleeping where he eats; there is no going home after a long day, but some sacrifices can be made without hesitation. this is the life he chose, and what it gave him can only be repaid in blood; so blood it is, caked under fingernails or stained on his psyche, he can never unsee the things he’s seen, undo the things he’s done, but this is the flavor of survival, and it tastes just sweet enough on his tongue that he’s hooked to hell and back.

he sits on a bar stool with papers laid out in front of him and a drink in his right hand, cheap whiskey and a splash of coke, the left writing something along the margins. it was information uncovered from a recent job he was sent on, likely a dead end if they were trusting him with it, but he appreciated the busy work. when the city got quiet there was never much for him to do. he took it seriously, even despite the little picture he’d drawn of a vampire in the corner when his mind starting wandering. the pencil tapped against the wood of the bar top, eyes skimming the pages over and over again without taking in much information. he’d been at it for a few hours and it was all beginning to blur. 

the music was still so loud he hadn’t heard the footsteps on the stairs or the opening of the back door. it was a moment before he caught sight of her in his peripheral and his eyes shot up, blinking away the haze. “isabella.” he says, but her name is lost under the music so he fumbles around for the remote and turns it off, the silence slamming over them all at once, almost eerie after the nonstop cacophony that had muted his hearing. everything was muffled, he shifted in his seat, the creaking too quiet, the air still. it made him just the tiniest bit uncomfortable until his gaze fell back to her, eyes doing a quick once over, head to toe, that he tries to cover by glancing back down at the papers for a moment. she looks great as usual, it’s expected, but still his heartrate rises just a little, that weird little feeling in his chest and stomach that made him feel incredibly young. he should probably stop drinking. 

he finishes his drink in one sip. “isabella.” he says again when he puts the glass down on the bar top, the back of his sleeve coming to wipe at his mouth, the picture of class, “late night?”

[the-fiction-witch]

Princess of darkness

Media irl

Character Thomas Brodie Sangster

Couple Thomas X Reader

Rating cute and spooky

Concept gothic home (possibly in the same universe as baby bat or you can see it as its own thing up to you)

"Cheers" I nodded to the taxi driver to have At Last drop me at my front door. I gave him a wave as he scurried off down the road and I took a sigh as I looked up at our beautiful little stone house. I was thrilled to be home having been gone half way across the world for the last nine months. I had barely really seen the house as we bought it only a month before I left so I had left it in the capable hands of my little princess. I wasn't worried we had agreed on most things months before we bought the place anyway. I headed to the sweet wooden door about to knock but I noticed a little cast iron door knocker against the wood so I gave it a few solid taps waiting for a moment before the door opened to a sweet and beautiful sight.

She stood in the doorway in her little bat slippers, thigh high black socks with little cat heads at the top, a little white and black plaid pleated skirt, a long sleeve black and white striped shirt with a little black faux… latex faux leather not sure what it was little best top with various little straps. Her hair clearly damp put in two pigtail braids with little more makeup on her face then some highlighter and her beautiful black lipstick. 

"Tommy!" She smiled jumping into my arms

"Uuuummmm I missed you princess!" I smiled hugging her tightly, feeling so happy to have her in my arms again. I immediately inhaled her sweet lavender and lemongrass smell even if I could smell a little bit of that chemical hair dye smell and it was just then I noticed "you dyed your hair?"

"How could you tell?" She giggled

"I can smell it. And also… it wasn't blue last time I saw you"

"Yeah I did it yesterday" she smiled taking my bag and leading me inside 

"I thought you said you dyed it red? Just after I left?"

"I did"

"And?"

"You've been gone nine months Thomas I got bored of having red hair"

"You couldn't wait till I got home? Atleast to let me see it?"

"Nope" she giggled taking my bag to go start a load of laundry 

"Fine" I rolled my eyes before having a look around the house …

I don't know what I expected, the furniture was all thrifted or picked up cheap, most of it antiques to an extent all of which she had lovingly repaired and cared for all of them a dark wood clearly freshly polished. The hallway mostly just had the stairs and it's detailed banister, the horizontal black and white striped wallpaper, dark wood flooring, a little wooden unit for coats and shoes by the door, a little ouija board doormat which I quickly got off of. Even the key hook was shaped like a bat. I continued on seeing the living room the TV packed away into a unit hidden away completely the blinds drawn on the windows with the curtains open this side of them, the walls a deep purple, the beautiful dinning table up the counter with a vase shaped like a ghost in the center filled with beautiful flowers, the table set with the bleeding candles, purple placemats to match the walls on the table and even coaters on the wooden coffee table all to match the walls and curtains, a large black shaggy rug under the coffee table, the large gothic mirror above the log burner and our display cabinet pride of place with all our fancy glassware and such. My guitars hung up perfectly on the wall almost as if they had been designed to be displayed. And the large leather sofa tucked against the wall with all her little cushions, one shaped like a bat, them a ghost, then a skull, then a couple larger ones that had tarot cards and the two small cushions either side each with a star sign of course mine on my side of the sofa and her own on hers admittedly it was really nice and cosy. It likely sounds strange I Basically gave my baby bat free reign to decorate our house but it makes her happy. She works from home and I'm off out of the house working for months on end so I'd rather the house make her happy I don't care she could have painted it neon green for all I care. I followed her to the kitchen where she was unpacking my bag making up some loads of laundry basically sorting by colour which may as well be sorting by my colors and… black. The technical machines like the TV had a door to hide them away from our perfect little dark blue Victoria kitchen with wooden counter tops little windows for our cupboards and our beautiful vintage oven and fridge, even a farmhouse sink. With all the retro styled items you could ask for all of which in dark colours to fit the asthenic. I had input in this room the only room I did and I'm thrilled I did it becoming a beautiful mix of us both my retro and vintage classic and her… well goth. alot of her spooky style snuck in with black plates, coffin cutting boards and a bat wine opener. I went over and started a coffee for myself before wrapping my arms around her leaning my head on her shoulder

"I missed you"

"I missed you too" she giggled "do you like the house?"

"It's beautiful princess" 

"Ugghhh"

"What?"

"Don't call me that"

"Why not? I like calling you my princess"

"Why would I ever want to be a princess? Their boring and glittery" 

"Well you're my Gothic little princess. Ummmmm my princess of darkness" 

"Really?"

"Of course"

"So you your not mad at me making us live like the Adams family?'

"If we can be as happy as Gomez and morticia after getting married and having two kids I'll be thrilled"

"Three kids they have a baby in the sequel"

"Do they?"

"Yeah? The little baby?"

"Oh yeah. But no I don't care princess if your happy then I'm happy" 

"Good" she smiled turning to nuzzle with my shirt "you haven't seen your study yet"

"I am very excited too. But hows about we go out for dinner tonight? Celebrate bring home?"

"That sounds lovely Tommy, can I be spooky?'

"Your always allowed to be spooky I love when we dress up, even if you always seem to make me look underdressed" I told her "I love when you wear your beautiful outfits"

"Ummm I love you"

"I love you more. Come on then my little princess of darkness let's get this laundry on and decided where we're going" I told her giving her sweet lips a kiss before helping her with the laundry 

[silpamm]

Plywood vs. Particle Board: Which One Should You Use?

Plywood and particle board, They both have their advantages and disadvantages and knowing these differences will help you decide.  We'll explore the characteristics, applications, and pricing of plywood, including hardwood plywood and MR plywood, while comparing them with particle boards.

Understanding Plywood

Plywood is a wood product made by gluing sheets of veneer together. This makes the product very sturdy and durable and not as likely to warp or crack as solid wood. There are many different kinds of plywood, one type is hardwood plywood which has hardwood veneers that make it very strong and durable.

Benefits of Plywood

Strength and Durability: The outstanding strength-to-weight ratio of plywood is well-known. It will not warp or crack under a lot of weight, which makes it good for furniture and structural uses.

Versatility: Plywood is very versatile, it can be used for furniture, flooring, cabinetry, etc. Whether building custom plywood furniture or using plywood sheets for wall paneling, it offers great flexibility.

Aesthetic Appeal: With options like plywood sheet white or decorative veneers, plywood can be finished to match various interior styles, enhancing the overall look of your space.

Moisture Resistance: Some plywood like marine plywood is made to withstand moisture and is perfect for a damp surrounding.

Eco-Friendly: Plywood is often considered more environmentally friendly than particle boards because it uses fewer chemicals in its manufacturing process.

Pricing of Plywood

Plywood has different prices according to the type and how thick it is. For example, hardwood plywood is more expensive than regular plywood, but it is of better quality and it will last longer. Plywood sheets usually run from moderately to very expensive, depending on the grade, the finish, etc.

Exploring Particle Board

Particle board, (or particleboard or chipboard) is composed of wood chips sawmill shavings, and even wood dust, mixed with some sort of resin or glue, and pressed and heated to form a board. It is a type of engineered wood and is widely used in furniture.

Benefits of Particle Board

Cost-Effective: One of the best things about particle board is that it is very cheap. It is much cheaper than plywood most of the time and that is why people who are low on money tend to use it a lot.

Smooth Surface: Particle boards are very smooth and it is easy to paint or laminate them so they are good for many types of furniture.

Lightweight: Particle board is lighter than plywood, which can be beneficial when moving or transporting furniture.

Easy to Work With: Particle boards are easier to cut and shape than plywood, and therefore more detailed designs and finishes are possible.

Drawbacks of Particle Board

Lower Strength: The particle board is good for light stuff, but it's not as strong or as durable as plywood. It may sag or break under heavy loads.

Moisture Sensitivity: The particle board isn't as water-resistant as plywood. If it gets wet, it expands and becomes structurally unsound.

Limited Aesthetic Appeal: Particle boards can be finished of course but they are kind of ugly compared to the natural beauty of wood veneers in plywood.

Which One Should You Use?

When to Choose Plywood

If it's durability and versatility you're after, plywood takes the cake. It is especially recommended for:

Furniture Construction: Some strong, durable plywood furniture that can take everyday wear and tear.

Cabinetry: In the construction of kitchen or bathroom cabinets, where moisture resistance and strength are needed.

Structural Applications: If you're doing some construction work with load-bearing stuff.

When to Choose Particle Board

Then again particle board might be the way to go if price and accessibility are important. Consider particle board for:

Budget-Friendly Furniture: For pieces that won’t undergo heavy use, such as occasional tables or decorative shelves.

Lightweight Applications: If mobility is a factor, then the light weight of the particle board is a plus.

Temporary Solutions: For projects where longevity is not a concern, such as DIY furniture for short-term use.

Conclusion

Ultimately, the choice between plywood and particle board depends on your specific needs and budget. Plywood is strong, durable, and beautiful, and should be used for fine furniture, and structural applications. Particle board on the other hand is cheap and can be used on light-duty, less stressful applications.

Before making a decision, consider factors such as plywood price, MR plywood price, and the specific applications you have in mind. Engineered wood and plywood, each have their place in construction and furniture building, but knowing the difference between the two will aid you in selecting the appropriate material for your project.