#Architecture Space Frame

[mekark]

[arc-hus]

Pavilion ∞, Hangzhou, China - Atelier Lai

[remash]

ba-holz house ~ aum | pierre minassian | photos © studio erick saillet

[389]

[robertmatejcek]

Tableaux Automatique: LPs  - 1″:1′-0″ diorama (still) - mixed media - robert matejcek - 2023

Mark: “Empire Records, open 'till midnight. This is Mark.” Caller: *Inaudible Dialogue* Mark: “MIDNIGHT!"

- Ethan Embry - Empire Records

tags:

[lfmona]

Top steel space frame manufacturer in China

[hsmagazine254]

The Allure Of A-Frame Homes: Benefits And Charm

Embracing the Distinctive Appeal of A-Frame Architecture A-Frame homes have captured the imagination of homeowners with their unique design and inherent charm. These structures, characterized by their steeply-angled roofline forming the shape of an ‘A’, offer a range of benefits and aesthetic appeal. Discover the allure of A-Frame homes and why they might be the perfect choice for your next…

[sysig]

Lost my mind thinking about the Vyer Estate (Patreon)

[parsleysagerosemarytimemachine]

'Amorphous vertebrate' is a curious description - how do you end up without definite form, but still have a spine? Which made me think of sea squirts:

Cute little guys; they're invertebrate chordates! At birth, they have a spine and tail, which they lose in adulthood as they attach themselves to some substrate to grow on.

I suspect that this house meat is probably similar - maybe a young mobile form (a fat snake? tsuchinoko real?) that travels in search of a suitable emplacement to mature in. Afterwards, the spine could be reabsorbed, or simply become lost in the expansion of other tissues. I do have my doubts about their cave origins, however; caves with spaces both confined and expansive for a pre-modern house meat to grow within are also unlikely to have much in the way of feeding opportunities. I think it's more likely that it would have developed in either tree hollows or animal burrows, which would similarly provide it both structure and access to prey animals that had previously dwelt there.

Incubomurum domus, commonly known as "house meat", is an amorphous vertebrate that lodges itself in the empty spaces of buildings.

Originally believed to have evolved in caves, it quickly adapted to human dwellings and their ample feeding opportunities. Apart from predating the inhabitants, they may cause structural instabilities to the foundation. Prompt removal is recommended.

[archi-playground]

Cloudscape | Ariel Weiss

[beloveds-embrace]

(p2 of mail order soldier könig)

Despite everything, you really weren’t ready for how big he was.

Sure, his profile had mentioned it- “tall” in bold, all-caps, like a warning label or a selling point, depending on your preferences alongside his equally intimidating name. And his vibe? Absolutely screamed haunted clock tower. You had expected “tall” in the way NBA players were tall, or the way celebrities looked tall on red carpets but were actually like 5’10” in real life. But this? This was different. This was architectural: König didn’t just walk into a space; he filled it like a cathedral with opinions. You stood next to him and felt like a misplaced LEGO figure who’d been granted custody of an ancient war relic. Every time he moved, you felt the displacement of air like God was adjusting a chess piece.

You had thought all of that because the trip back to your temporary apartment had been… an ordeal. König didn’t drive. You hadn’t even gotten far enough to ask why. It could’ve been a moral objection, a PTSD trigger, or just the fact that his knees probably touched his chin in a Toyota Corolla. You didn’t drive either (personal trauma plus urban nihilism), so rideshare it was. When the driver pulled up and caught a glimpse of König, who stood beside you like an executioner summoned from a darker, angrier timeline, the man audibly gasped and his foot started to inch toward the gas pedal.

You leaned in through the passenger window with your brightest, most deranged smile. “Five stars and I’ll make sure he doesn’t flay you.”

The driver nodded- poossibly blacked out. And drove like the devil was behind him, which, to be fair, he kind of was.

Arriving at your building was when the spatial tragedy truly began. König had to duck to get into the lobby. Not in a cute, awkward way, but like a kaiju visiting a dollhouse. The fluorescent lights buzzed uneasily overhead, dimming just slightly as if reacting to his gravitational pull, and you became hyper-aware of everything you owned and how none of it was rated for the stress test of Austrian death cryptid.

The elevator? Out of the question. Your third-floor apartment? Suddenly way too far from the ground. König climbed the stairs like a war machine from a documentary about siege tactics, each footstep a dull thud that you were certain would cost you your damage deposit, but at least he seemed to have no complaints… though you were sure he was unhappy with how you had to stop to catch your breath lseveral times while he remained military-commercial ready.

When you opened your apartment door and gestured grandly, the words that came out were: “This is… home. Temporary. Probably. Until you accidentally break the building and we need to live in a cave.”

König said nothing. Just paused in the doorway, ducking under the frame with practiced effort, and lingered there for a moment. His eyes- somewhere behind that hood, surely?- swept the place with a slow, methodical awareness that made you wonder how many exits he could already map and how many sniping points your living room offered.

You gestured to the couch with the fatal optimism of someone about to learn a lesson. “You can sit. If it holds.”

It did not. Or rather, it gave one last dramatic gasp of life. There was a creak, a pop, and then a long, soft crunch that felt less like furniture collapsing and more like it was filing for a legal separation. König, to his credit, looked apologetic. Or maybe he didn’t; it was hard to tell with the hood, but his shoulders hunched slightly, and that seemed like the body language equivalent of a Canadian “sorry.”

“…Okay. Floor’s fine too. Floor is classic.”

He lowered himself with all the elegance of a collapsing war monument, folding into a sprawl of limbs that somehow took up more space despite being on the ground. He sat cross-legged like a monk, if monks were built like tanks and radiated a kill count.

And then- the doorbell rang an unwelcome, familiar tune that made you freeze.

Not the good kind of freeze, and not the surprise-party kind. The fight-or-flight-oh-god-it’s-him kind. That sound- that arrogant, familiar, triple-tap of someone who thought your doorbell was a buzzer for attention? That was him.

Your ex-fiancé.

You turned slowly to König, who had stilled completely. His body didn’t move, but his attention locked onto the door like a predator scenting blood. He was suddenly alert, dangerous, like a loaded gun that had remembered it had a purpose.

“Okay,” you whispered, as if trying not to disturb a spirit. “This is a test. A dry run. Like a fire drill, except instead of fire, it’s a narcissistic man with commitment issues.”

König tilted his head slightly, and though you couldn’t see his face, you were 90% sure that meant, Shall I gut him or just remove the legs?

You held up one finger. “Let’s just… see what he wants first.”

You cracked the door open, just enough to peek through and block most of König’s terrifying silhouette. And there he was. Your ex-fiancé, smug as ever with his hair gelled within an inch of its life, shirt unbuttoned just enough to reveal a gold chain that you were pretty sure had been repossessed twice.

“Hey, babe,” he said with that smirk that had once seemed charming and now just looked like he was trying to seduce his own reflection. He completely brushed over the fact that he had followed you all the way here, to this supposedly hidden apartment you got until you had König with you. “You haven’t been answering my texts.”

“I changed phones,” you replied instantly. “And numbers. And species.”

He gave a little laugh like you were just being coy. Leaned on the doorframe with the forced casualness of someone trying to win you back with zero self-awareness and all his tricks learned from BookTok. “Look, I know we’ve had our differences, but I’ve been thinking-”

And that was when König rose. Not stood, but rose.

The doorframe went from well-lit to eclipsed in seconds. A gloved hand slid into view and gripped the edge of the door, the fingers longer than your ex’s attention span. Your ex’s expression did a full software reboot.

“…Who the hell is that?”

You offered a cheerful shrug. “Oh, that’s König. My security system. He came with knives and trauma.”

König took one slow, deliberate step forward. He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. The pressure of him, the sheer atmospheric density of his presence, did all the work. It was like standing in front of an oncoming avalanche and realizing the snow hates you.

Your ex-fiancé made a sound- a half-choked, half-whined hiccup that suggested his ego had just herniated. Still, he tried to rally. Puffing his chest. “I’m not scared of him, okay? You think you can threaten me with some… some cosplaying lunatic?”

König stepped forward again. Just one inch. Just enough.

The air grew heavy.

Your ex backpedaled so fast you almost heard cartoon sound effects. “Y-you know what? This is toxic. You’re toxic. I was trying to be the bigger person!”

König tilted his head again. Just enough to reveal a single glint of eye behind the hood, and it made your ex scream.

Actually screamed. Like a man encountering the consequences of his actions for the very first time. And then he was gone. Fled down the hallway like the answer to a prayer you hadn’t had time to finish.

“We’ll talk later!”

No, we won’t.

You shut the door with the satisfying click of sealing a tomb, you grin slowly stretching.

König turned back to you, then, silent and still waiting. .

You reached up and patted his arm- gently, because you were fairly certain that bicep could be registered as a medieval weapon. “A+, no notes. Extremely threatening. Ten out of ten cryptid vibes. You are great!”

He made a low soun that was not quite a grunt and not quite a sigh, and you took it as a thank-you.

Later, after the adrenaline had faded, you handed him a mug of tea- which looked comically small in his massive hands, like a Barbie accessory. He held it delicately, reverently, as if you’d handed him a precious museum piece instead of an herbal infusion from a grocery store.

You curled up on the wrecked edge of your couch, eyeing him across the room.

“Y’know,” you murmured, half to yourself, “this might actually work out.”

He didn’t reply, but he did lean a little closer.

“What d’you want for lunch?” You finally remembered to ask, standing up with your hands on your hips like you were Superman awaiting orders from Batman and not actually one of the miserable civilians that need to be saved regularly.

“We gotta keep you big and thick, König! So just say what you’d like.”

…he was staring a little too intently at you, actually. You kind of felt like you were kinning your ex-fiancé in this moment.

[arc-hus]

House 0006, Vilafranca del Penedès, Spain - Taller11

[cardansriddle]

Across the Dreams - (Morpheus x fem!reader)

Summary: You meet him in your dreams. You do not know him or his name, you only know that he returns to you every night, taking you in ways you crave but do not understand.

warnings: dream sex but it's not very explicit. not proofread.

A/N: I (nervously) present the long anticipated morpheus one shot. This is for all of you little rascals in my inbox asking me to get done with it and post it. Hope you enjoy and lmk what you think!!

༻♛༺

You do not quite recall when exactly you started seeing him. Maybe it was on one of those nights you were so exhausted your limbs melted into your bed like they belonged there more than they belonged on your body. Perhaps he came to you then, slipped through the cracks of your half-forgotten dreams, weaving himself in your fantasies that never quite made architectural sense.

All you know is that he was there.

And he was there every night.

You always felt him before you saw him. The shadowed edges of your dreams would forge into the shape of him—him who was tall, lean, little more than the glimmer of pale skin visible beneath the dark coat that brushed the floor of your subconscious and somehow stirred even though there was no wind.

His wild hair fell in black, inky strands that framed the sharp edges of his face but never seemed to settle. It was as if the air refused to touch him, or maybe it was him who refused to belong to the air, or perhaps he owned the very air around him. His skin was pale—not the delicate pallor of the sleepless, but the absence of sunlight itself, as if he had stood untouched for centuries beneath a sky that forgot how to burn.

And then there were his eyes.

Oh, his eyes.

His eyes were so incredibly black, like bottomless pits that offered you a glimpse of the vast darkness of the cosmos. And there were stars in his eyes. You did not see them at first. You had to step closer. You did not remember deciding to move, but you did. Your feet dragged forward, slow and helpless, and when you lifted your gaze you saw it— the faintest glimmer of stars trapped inside his eyes.

The sight of them was enough to pin you in place the first time. Because that was when you realised.

He was old.

Not old in the sense of years or decades. No.

He was old in the way stories are old. Old in the way stars are old. Old in the way you were never supposed to see, or know, or touch. But you did.

The first time, you remember you were hesitant. You remember how slowly you had rose your arm, your fingertips sparking with something desperate, aching to close the impossible space between you and touch his skin. You remember how his dark eyes had followed every movement of your hand, brows twitching—the faintest ripple across his otherwise unmoved face— as if amused, and also surprised, perhaps even outraged at your presumption that you could dare touch him.

He stopped you.

He caught your hand before you could complete the touch, his fingers cool as they closed firmly around yours, pressing your hand down as if to remind you. Of what, you did not quite know back then.

It was only later, after countless times of seeing him in your dreams that you realised. When you first touched, it had to have been on his terms.

His gaze slid over you—not with tenderness, but with a kind of distant permission, the way one might allow a flame to flicker a little closer to the drapes just to see what happens.

His other hand rose with deliberate slowness, trailing up to graze the edge of your jaw. His touch was impossibly cool, his skin like marble—unforgiving at first, but yielding in the places where he chose to let you feel him. His thumb dragged slowly along your lower lip, and he looked at you as if you were not entirely real. Funny, considering how he was a man made of shadows with the entire cosmos held in his eyes. You remember the weight of his fingers against you. You remember leaning into it.

You did not know his name. You did not ask.

After that first encounter, the dreams pressed closer, hotter, rougher—your body pinned beneath his as he claimed you against the wall of some crumbling hall, the slick grass of a forest that flickered in and out of coherence, the ground, the marble floor of a castle, still and perhaps never making architectural sense.

You never begged him to stop. But you did beg him not to leave.

And he did not. Night after night, he returned. He touched you like he knew the notes to the strings of your body, and your soul and body sang for him in response. He filled you with his essence, and hoped his seed would take. You knew because he whispered it in your ear like a dirty, secret confession. Every night.

Overtime, you learned to claim him too. You shed your shyness, climbed him boldly like his lap was your throne to sit on, and touched him like it was your birthright.

It went on for months.

And every time you woke from these dreams, you could always feel the lingering echo of his touch, as if it had been seared into your skin. You spent your waking hours in turmoil, thinking about your dreams, about him. You were getting addicted, you could barely function during the day without wishing you could fall asleep, fall into the arms of your dream man. You started going to bed earlier. You started skipping plans. You started craving sleep like it's a drug and he is the nameless dealer.

The days shrink. The nights length.

But it does not matter, not anymore, for every time you fall asleep, he is waiting. Like tonight.

The moment your conscious enters the Dreaming, his weight settles over you like velvet and iron, but you do not mind, it is an ache you ache to bear. Like every night, he claims you. He takes you against the trembling edge of reason, until the line between you and him feels like it was never there.

You still have not asked for his name. You fear what would happen if you spoke it aloud. You don’t know if you are dreaming, or if the dreaming has devoured you whole.

But you want to know, you need to know it for your own sanity.

So once he had his way with ruining you, you decide, for the first time in months, you decide to voice the question. Your lips part, your breath shallow against his palm, still cool against your jaw.

"...Who are you?"

His head tilts, just slightly, the faintest quirk of his mouth appearing as though the question itself amused him more than any answer he might give.

His thumb ghosts over your lower lip, slow and thoughtful.

“That is not a question you should ask.” His voice curls into you, soft and dark and ancient.

But you do not back down. "You have absolutely ruined me for anyone else. I believe I deserve at least the curtesy of knowing your name." The words rush out before you can stop them. and even you are surprised at your own bravery to be so direct with him.

His brows lift, a flicker of something behind his eyes—interest, perhaps. Or patience thinning.

So you decide to soften your request. "Please," you swallow, pulse thudding in your throat.

“You may call me…” A pause, deliberate one. “…Morpheus.”

You whisper it back to him, testing the shape of it in your mouth. "Morpheus."

His gaze darkens at the way his name falls from your lips. You fear for a moment he might pin you beneath him and have his way for the second time in one night. But he does not. He quenches the fire rising beneath his skin instead.

“Careful,” he says, his thumb pressing just slightly harder against your lip. “Names are powerful things.”

It sounds like a warning, one you think you need to heed, but before you can say anything in response, you jolt awake suddenly.

Once again, alone, in your bed.

You release a heavy sigh and look at the ceiling helplessly. You ask the heavens how long you can bear to live like this— living in your dreams, dreading your waking hours. How long you can continue being in love with a man who does not exist.

You close your eyes and imagine him. "Morpheus," you whisper to yourself wistfully. You half expect him to be there when you open your eyes, and you laugh at yourself with pity when he is not.

You push the covers away, and decide you need to start getting on with your day.

You’re still heavy with the weight of last night’s dream when you step outside. The city hums around you, a thin, irritating buzz—car horns, rubber on asphalt, hurried footfalls. You barely notice them. It is him you are thinking about. His hands, his mouth, his breath against your throat. His name.

You approach the crosswalk, waiting for the sign to change. And then, the air shifts. The sound of the city drops out like someone’s cut the wires.

With furrowed brows, you slowly lift your head. And then—

You see him.

Your body freezes. Because it is him. Across the street. Standing perfectly still, untouched by the blur of people rushing past him. He’s wearing that long, black coat—the same one you’ve clutched in your fists, the same one you’ve felt brushing your bare skin in sleep. His hair falls in black waves around his face, just as it does when he leans over you, when his hands pin you to the floor of the dreams.

His skin is impossibly pale. His eyes are—

Your breath catches.

They’re the same. The same impossible, depthless black, the same faint shimmer of stars caught in the dark.

He’s real.

He’s real. Here. Now.

And he’s looking at you.

Not past you. Not through you.

At you.

The corner of his mouth twitches, just enough to be deliberate. Enough to tease you, or perhaps taunt you, you do not know. You do not care to know. You need to cross the road to him. Now.

The crosswalk signal changes.

Heart hammering, throat burning, you take a step towards him.

A car horn blares somewhere behind you.

When you blink, he’s gone.

༻♛༺

[robertmatejcek]

Tableaux Automatique: LPs  - 1″:1′-0″ diorama (animation) - mixed media - robert matejcek - 2023

Jane Curtin: “That's the news, goodnight and have a pleasant tomorrow. - Jane Curtin - Saturday Night Live

tags:

[lfmona]

💥Make the stadium of the future even more stunning, with steel structures leading the way!

Steel structure gymnasium, light, strong and flexible design, perfect for carrying large space. Seismic and wind resistance, environmental protection and energy saving, faster construction. Innovative design to create futuristic space and enhance the viewing experience! Leading the new trend of construction, steel structure, opening a new era of sports venues!

[lesmana-enterprise-ltd]

Windslar M-Train Station (NO CC)

Windslar M-Train Station is the northern terminus of the Windslar-Lykke-Britechester line in the Windenbahn high-speed rail network. Originally built in 1998 through a collaboration between Lesmana Enterprise and the Windenburg Royal Ministry of Transport, the station now stands as a state-of-the-art transportation hub. It houses a dedicated maglev rail for the A12 Seraphim, the fastest train in the Western SimWorld, offering seamless, high-speed connections across the region. With premium waiting lounges, a spacious café, a capsule hotel for overnight stays, digital information kiosks, automated ticketing, and high-speed Wi-Fi, Windslar M-Train Station ensures a smooth and comfortable travel experience for all passengers.

New Interior Facelift

The Windslar M-Train Station interior blends modern sophistication with passenger comfort, offering a seamless travel experience. The spacious concourse features sleek ticketing kiosks, automated turnstiles, and a real-time departure board in Simlish for easy navigation. Soft ambient lighting, elegant architectural details, and lush greenery create an inviting atmosphere, while premium seating areas provide relaxation before boarding. A cozy café (POLA Coffee) serves freshly brewed coffee and local delicacies, making it a perfect stop for commuters and travelers alike. With its futuristic design and high-tech amenities, Windslar Station embodies the pinnacle of efficient and luxurious transit in the Windenbahn network.

Windslar Greets You

The peron offers a breathtaking view of the lush countryside, ready to greet travelers with its serene landscapes.

The A12 Seraphim is a masterpiece of speed and comfort, soaring across the landscape at an impressive 510 km/h. Inside, the cabin is designed for both luxury and efficiency.

Seraphim Business Class

Step into the A12 Seraphim Business Class, where elegance meets high-speed innovation. Plush black leather seats with personal entertainment screens ensure a serene and private travel experience. Soft ambient lighting enhances the cabin’s refined atmosphere, while panoramic windows frame breathtaking countryside views at unmatched speeds.

Seraphim Coach Class

For those who seek both comfort and affordability, the Seraphim Coach Class provides spacious seating with deep blue ergonomic chairs designed for long-haul relaxation. Overhead luggage compartments ensure a clutter-free space, while the warm glow of the ceiling lights adds to the welcoming ambiance.

BONUS: A12 Seraphim on Rail, Photo op Lot

Capture the thrill of high-speed travel with the A12 Seraphim on Rail photo op lot! This scenic location is the perfect backdrop for Sim stories, machinima, and breathtaking screenshots.

Positioned along an elegant elevated railway, the A12 Seraphim glides through a picturesque landscape, surrounded by lush greenery and golden-hour lighting that enhances every shot. Whether you're creating a travel blog, showcasing futuristic transportation, or simply looking for a cinematic rail-themed scene, this lot offers stunning views and dynamic compositions.

Set up your Sims for dramatic departures, high-speed action shots, or tranquil countryside journeys—all with the A12 Seraphim as the star.

Techincal Informations

Packs Used

Download via SFS

Windslar M-Train Station : Download A12 Seraphim Photo op : Download

Sul Sul!,

Lesmana Enterprise Co., Ltd.