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wesstars · 11 days

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crush

cairo sweet x fem!reader (no pronouns used)

summary: when cairo goes home, what comes to mind are thoughts of you. wc: 2.3k tags: explicit, minors DNI!! all characters 18+. university au. masturbation, smoking, non-linear narrative. reader is cairo’s teaching assistant, reader described as masc presenting. a/n: let me know what y’all think :) for the vibes

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“Is Professor Miller not coming?” Winnie had just dropped into her unassigned assigned seat next to Cairo, two minutes before Greco-Roman Literary Theory started. The flipping of pages punctuated the chatter of other students waiting, a comfortable sound.

“He said he’d be gone today,” Cairo replied absently. “There’s a ‘guest lecturer,’ our teaching assistant.”

“Oh, right. Who’s that?”

Cairo shrugged. “Who knows.”

As if on cue, the door swung open. Cairo didn’t even look up—Miller mentioned that he kept a handful of research assistants that would be there to help with the advanced reading. But honestly, Cairo wasn’t sure what they could tell her that she didn’t already know. A melodic hum fell through the air for just a moment, a chorus.

“Good morning.” At your lilting voice, rough with the edge of 10am, Cairo started. She watched you set your messenger bag on the desk. Your white shirt pulled over your shoulders; there was a glint at your collar, a necklace peeking through. A thin watch adorned your wrist. Winnie, along with some of the class, echoed your greeting, and Cairo blinked.

Late spring afternoon draped across the furniture in Cairo’s room, the quickly waning light giving easy way to a blue hour. Dropping her bag at the door, she tore off her shirt and skirt with the confidence of one standing before a crowd. Running a hand up from her sternum to her neck, she stretched languidly, sinking down onto her bed. After so many uneventful days—when she applied to Yale, she didn’t think that there would be any uneventful days—she finally had a story to turn over in her mind.

You. You were a mystery. Even as you had started the class with an introduction, telling Cairo you’d graduated from a middle-of-nowhere college in California and sought a writing career in Vermont before delving into research, she longed to lay out the details and pull them out from under the rug. Where did you learn to teach? Did you like to drive, or be driven? Mountains, or the sea? Where did you grow up? Was there coffee or tea in your cupboard? Cairo’s stomach burned to know. Her dark eyes burned the ceiling with smoke signals, searching for you even though you were god knows where in that seaside state.

Arching her back, Cairo let her hand travel down, palm flat against her stomach, to trace the seam of her upper thigh. As the class had progressed, your keenly observant nature did not elude Cairo. Maybe listening was something that your pedagogy instilled in you, but the way you held each student’s question in the cant of your head, an answer in your crinkling eyes, listening seemed to be in your nature. It was meticulous, the way you picked apart the class text, weaving in references and tying it all in. In that two hour lecture, Cairo learned that you watched the same way you listened.

Balmy as it was, the humidity made her dark waves cling to her skin, and she shivered as she brushed them back, thinking of a different pair of slim hands. Your scrutiny of each student had an intention that she couldn’t quite place; a determination that thrilled her. Cairo imagined that you’d observe her the same way, that she would be the one you were most fond of. It was only natural that her own attention would draw yours onto her. Holding the weight of your envisioned gaze made Cairo’s core twist, a pleased little flush that she prayed you could see. Your affected impartiality didn’t bother Cairo—in fact, it pulled her into your shadow. In her bed, she rolled onto her stomach then her knees, shaking her hair out.

Her hands were steady as she reached for her bedside table, thumb rolling on the wheel of her zippo as she held the cigarette to her lips. Cairo took a drag, blowing out neat smoke rings as she settled back on her heels. The skin of her own fingers was cool against her lips, and when she took the smoke away, she studied the pattern of her lipstick on the white paper as she had so many times before.

She’d watched, unabashedly and unafraid of being caught, as you drummed your fingers on the chalk tray. Would your fingertip be soft or work hardened if it pressed down her tongue? Would your skin carry the stain of her red lip as deeply, as obediently, as the malleable wrapping paper?

“Alright, class,” you cleared your throat, turning slowly around the room to make eye contact with each student. “As you know, Jonathan’s away on a conference today. I’ll start with a bit of role, just so I can learn your names. Not many of you come to my office hours, I know.” You smiled easily. It was so guileless, Cairo mused, nearly childlike. You had the class go around the rooms with names and majors, a circuit that Cairo gave no attention to other than your lilting rhythm of hums, the tapping of your foot on the floor, the way you flicked the corner of the role sheet with your thumb. Your gaze was soon on hers, waiting expectantly. She looked right back with a blink.

“Cairo Sweet. English major.”

“Cairo.” Her name rolled off your innocent little grin, making her cock her head. “Wonderful.” Fascinating. Would you whisper midnight black desires in her ear, so deep and dark they might be murmured into the ink of your own empty room?

You continued, circling back to the front and easily transitioning to the lesson plan. You had an awfully effortless way of grasping the class’ attention, holding gently and never forcing. It wasn’t like Professor Miller, who always seemed to hasten through the lecture so he could return to his research. She could tell you liked the woods of the text, to fall down into the depths of each word, feeling its weight in you and letting it rock. Just like Cairo.

She sighed into the warm air prickling up her skin, the curl of your voice around her name making her nipples harden in her bralette, even in retrospect. Exhaling around her cigarette, Cairo brought her hands up to palm her breasts, feeling the drag of her rubied nubs on her palms. Was it the high of the nicotine, the blur of smoke ridden air that made her float straight up into the lofty space you’d created in her mind? Though the feel of her own fingers scraping the lace against her skin was familiar, she found herself keen to think of your soft or callused hands. She was wet already, and she couldn’t remember the last time she’d gotten wet so fast.

The weight she imagined of your touch on her flushed skin was completely, deliciously foreign. Unbidden but intimately welcome, Cairo wished that your caress would find the map of her chest as familiar as a classic, something you had searched a million times over yet always managed to find something new. Shamelessly, Cairo trailed her fingers down her stomach, nails catching on every rib as she arched her back in the spilled moonlight. The mystery in the crossing of your long legs as you’d leaned back on the desk climbed up her belly, curling in the thump, thump, thump, of her heart. The uneven roll of your sleeves clung to the corners of her eyes, eidetic and oh, so, tempting. She had watched you so ardently—did you like to watch? Would you watch?

The space between her thighs was achingly empty, craving the set of your narrow hips. She was comfortable there, and she remembered the taut stretch of wool as you dropped into your chair and set one ankle over your knee. There was something endearing about the way your trousers had pulled up to reveal slouchy black socks, and darker her mind went as the material pulling creases around your lap made her shudder and—she reached behind to pull one of her fluffy pillows under her, smoke billowing into the air.

Cairo gave her hips an experimental roll, imagining it was the soft fabric of your slacks against her aching cunt, and grinned around her cigarette. Unlike the pillow, you would be ever so solid under her, grabbing for her thighs like a dog yearns to please. Were you more likely to bruise her skin, yanking her into you without care for blood—or would you guide her gently, make a home in her innocence and hold her more dearly than life ever could? Either way, your desire for Cairo would be so apparent that you couldn’t help yourself.

The dip of your tongue in her navel, the little smirk you’d undoubtedly wear as you went down further—would you go for her throbbing clit first, or would your lips press so warm—she didn’t know. She didn’t have to, content with all those different versions of you unfurling before her. In her bedroom, each time she moved her hips, it became easier to imagine you guiding her actions, the bump of your nose on her folds, damned if not addicting.

Cairo grinned as she fell onto her forearms, hips pushing into the soft pillow without abandon. The slide of her panties soaked with slick against her sensitive clit felt like the delicate press of your splayed hand on her desk as you’d passed, eyes occupied by the text you were holding. It had only been a split second, but it was enough for her to memorize every crease, every vein. Cairo let out a whine, a demanding little sound, as her movements grew erratic. Looking up into the heaven where you must be, she imagined that you’d murmur to her, “I’m here, I’m here, how could I be anywhere else but here?” as you traced the dip in her back. Her arousal took her down every sullied path she’d ever dreamed of, but her mind stuck on one gesture that made her mouth go dry.

She remembered the way your shirt got just a bit untucked when you stretched during the class break. You’d instinctively tucked it back in, quick as you surveyed the class. Cairo thought that you’d dress yourself back up the same way after you bent her over the desk after class, pushing her skirt up and shoving your fingers into her, painting bruises onto her hip bones with how tight you held her.

The two of you would share a mutual understanding that she wanted this, wanted it bad enough for you to take it whenever you saw fit. Cairo decided that today, this time, you’d be as rough as you pleased, a cup of pens clattering to the ground as you pushed her down, forearm across her shoulder blades. Your necklace would be cold on her warm skin, would it be cold on her tongue? You’d put two, three fingers inside, humming in that absentminded way you did. She thought you’d nuzzle into her ear, all lips and sharp teeth, asking if she’d sprayed your favorite hair mist of hers because she hoped you’d notice—she did—and take her, break her, whatever you wanted.

You’d send her plummeting down towards a deeper hell (or was it higher, up to your majestic heaven?), already knowing everything that her body needed. Cairo imagined herself coming so helplessly around the stretch of your fingers, so high strung from nights of trying to mimic the press of your touch on her clit, unable to reach the same heights you sent her to. As she held back tears, eyes on the ceiling in reverence, feeling herself drip to the floor, you’d sigh as your mind wandered to other things already, carelessly running a hand down her back.

Cairo gasped, dropping her nearly finished cigarette in favor of gripping the bed sheets. The white fabric wrinkled around her fingers, reminiscent of your shirt creasing as you’d rolled your sleeves up. This was something new you could show her, just how fast she could come and just how wet it made her. It was a marvel, feeling the fabric cling to her cunt, almost as good as how you’d feel. Resting her forehead in the crook of her elbow, she murmured your name over and over again, a little susurrus of a litany, so similar to your preoccupied hum. Panting, Cairo giggled in her bliss, soft and bright as Californian oranges clinging to rich leaves. You were dark enough to be tucked into the wrinkles in the soft pillow, dark enough for Cairo to love, as a journal loves a secret.

Sated, Cairo grabbed her phone and typed your name in. The results spilled out, and she scrolled, looking for all of the details in the background of your social media posts, curiously drunk on the year’s gap in your CV. Cairo noticed the perfect little circle where the cigarette had burned when she dropped it, and she brushed away the remnants. The gesture smeared the ash on the sheets.

—

Walking into your office with barely a knock, Cairo took in the familiar room of an academic, but with your unfamiliar knick knacks around the place. A lighter, a leather wallet, glasses and wired headphones. You didn’t look surprised as you glanced up from your laptop. Instead, you smiled.

“Cairo, isn’t it?”

A flush of pleasure shot straight into her—you remembered. She nodded. Your shelves were covered in books and stacks of reviews, the morning’s leftover cup of coffee sitting on one of the ledges. Did you smoke before, or after your coffee? The terrible, terrible want to replace the taste of smoke on your tongue with the taste of her gave Cairo just the confidence she needed.

“What can I do for you?”

Cairo leaned over your desk, watching the way your eyes dropped to her burgundy lipstick. “Would you be able to help me on the Aristophanes reading?” She pushed her copy of The Clouds towards you. “I can’t seem to grasp it.” Your eyes met hers. “Of course.”

a/n cont'd: can you read my mind, i’ve been watching you… there’s just something about you, baby… ♪ / hope you enjoyed @woewriting :)

please do not repost, reproduce, copy, translate, or take from my work in any way. thank you!

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rughouseau · 2 years

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Strange Facts About Felted Wool Rug

Felted wool rugs are fashionable, especially the colorful felt ball patterns. They are frequently utilized in kids' rooms to add brightness and foster a kid-friendly environment. People like them for kid's rooms since they are considered safer than wool. Nylon carpets because wool is inherently flame-retardant. However, not many people know how difficult it is to maintain a felt rug.

A Felt Rug: How is It Made?

Felted wool rugs are made of small wool balls and are made entirely of wool. These are hand-stitched together firmly using strong thread. These carpets are highly labor-intensive to produce and intricately detailed since they frequently contain thousands of felt balls.

Every felt is created from one hundred percent wool, which is softly rolled around on a soapy surface during the felting process to form a ball. The balls shrink and assume a spherical form when constantly moving and rinsing. After that, the balls are given one more wash in cold water. After drying in the sun, they are prepared for use.

Cleaning Felt Rugs at Home

While rug salespeople may claim that maintaining a felt rug is simple, it requires more work than a regular rug. Felt is likely to snag onto toys, clothing, and shoes, causing the balls to be torn apart. This results in an unpleasant fuzz texture and weakens the rug.

Since this wool is raw, stains are simple to form and almost hard to remove. You should ensure your rug is not placed where spills of food or liquids might ruin it. Although you may take a felted rug to a specialist cleaner like Wood's Rug Laundry, they are challenging to clean since felt is a delicate material.

Ignore Wet Areas

Wet and humid circumstances can damage felted wool rugs. They may mesh together or flatten out due to water, bringing the carpet back to the felting stage. Additionally, your house will start to smell strongly of wet dogs. Water can also cause the rug to stretch, contract, or change shape.

For the sake of preventing this type of harm, we advise against trying to clean or damp your rug yourself. Although it is a very delicate operation, professional rug cleaners may be able to remove stains from your carpet. Giving your selected rug cleaner a call beforehand is recommended to inquire about their ability to clean felt ball rugs.

Conclusion

Although felted wool rugs might look fantastic in the house, particularly in children's rooms, they are useless. Felt rugs must be handled and cleaned with extreme care while being professionally cleaned. Ordinary washing machines won't be able to handle them without deforming and flattening the balls. Due to their density, they also need more time to dry.

rug online

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janeykath318 · 11 months

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Help! My Groom Is Trying To Kill Me! (TaserBones)

Running for your life in a wedding dress and heels was generally not a good combination. Unfortunately for Darcy Lewis, she didn’t have a choice after overhearing her soon to be groom plotting against her. She didn’t know whether to be more angry at him for being Hydra, or herself for not picking up on it sooner. So much for any potential career as a spy.

She’d sent one quick text to Jane, then one to Tony, before abandoning her phone and fleeing the side door of the church. She was hoping they could hold off Ian, but who knows how many agents he had in the area?

Darting around a corner, she glanced behind her and spotted a couple of dark clothed individuals scanning the area on the opposite side of the street. Terrified, she gripped her small travel bag and headed down an alley, emerging toward a busy looking cafe, hoping to get lost in the crowd. She needed a chance to catch her breath and change into something less eye-catching. Sinking into a chair in the darkest corner, she kept a sharp eye out. It was mostly full of young couples, teens, and business types, but two men at the table closest to her stood out with their build and demeanor. Darcy tensed, hoping they weren’t more Hydra agents. They had badass written all over them. She leaned down and took off her heels, stuffing them into her bag and grabbing the flats instead. Hearing the door chime, she tensed, and sank down to the floor behind the soda dispenser.

Brock and Jack were enjoying a leisurely lunch when their people watching took a more interesting turn. A young woman in a lacey wedding dress entered the building, looking around nervously.

“Cold feet?” Jack guessed, looking at her in amusement.

Brock would have agreed, but then she passed by their table to sit in the dark corner, he saw the raw fear in her eyes and frowned.

“She’s scared to death.” Brock muttered.

The door chimed, and a tuxedo clad man came in, glancing around the room before approaching the girl at the counter and flashing a picture. The woman’s wide blue eyes got even wider and she looked frantic, scribbling something on a napkin and then holding it up for them to see.

Help! My Groom is trying to kill me. He’s Hydra.

The last word was triple underlined.

Immediately, Brock and Jack rearranged themselves to help hide her.

“You distract him, I’ll get her out of here,” Brock said in a low tone, subtly flashing his badge at the woman, who looked surprised and then relieved.

Jack got up and engaged the devious groom in conversation, while Brock stopped to whisper in the bride’s ear.

“There’s an emergency exit that way.”

Nodding, she gathered her skirt up and started cautiously towards the door, Brock keeping a sharp eye out.

Getting into a total stranger’s car, a big black suv, was perhaps risking the very thing she was fleeing from, but the sight of the Shield badge and the feeling in her gut had Darcy putting her trust in the rugged, extremely jacked individual who was guiding her. He was handsome in an intimidating kind of way and probably ate nothing but meat and vegetables. She could recognize the type.

He opened the back door for her.

“Stay down until I say so,” he ordered gruffly. “I have no idea how many could be on your tail.”

Darcy meekly obeyed, glad for the suv’s tinted windows. She wedged herself on the floor between the seats and took a few deep breaths, hoping not to hear gunshots or the squeal of tires in pursuit.

“Thanks, dude,” she spoke up after a few minutes. “For a second I thought you might be one of them. Sweet ride, by the way.”

“One of the perks of being a federal agent,” her savior replied. “And I did spend three years pretending to be one of them. It was weird.”

“I bet it was,” she said. “I’m Darcy Lewis and my ex-fiancé is Ian Boothby, in case you want to put out an APB on him.” She sighed. “I can’t believe I almost married a Hydra sicko. He had me completely fooled.”

“It happens,” he commented as he weaved through traffic with masterful precision. “I’m Brock Rumlow, by the way. My partner is Jack Rollins and your Ian is gonna be no match for the two of us. We’ve dealt with his ilk many times before.”

“That’s comforting to know,” she responded. “Jack is like two feet taller than Ian. I used to lovingly call him a “short king.” Turns out, he’s just a trash prince.”

Brock made an amused sound and she felt them merging onto the highway.

“Where are we going?” she queried.

“A friend of mine has a safe house a couple hours from here. You can hide out there for a while. Did you tell anyone you were running?”

“Only my best friend and also Tony Stark,” she admitted.

She could hear the surprise in his voice when he responded with “You’ve got Stark’s number?”

“Yeah. I lived at the Tower for a few months as an assistant for Jane Foster. I learned how to manage Tony as well. Sleep deprived scientists are a danger to themselves and others.”

“Wow.” Brock commented. “So you’re used to dealing with eccentric superheroes.”

“Yep. They have my back and I have theirs,” she proclaimed proudly.

He gave her the all clear to sit up finally and the rest of the drive passed uneventfully. They pulled into the driveway of an average looking brick ranch and she was ordered to wait in the car while he did a sweep.

Given the all clear, she finally climbed out and followed him into the house, heaving a sigh of relief.

“Nice dress, by the way,” Brock remarked.

“Thanks,” Darcy replied, a trifle startled by the obvious admiring glance he’d given her. His dark eyes were very expressive and left her with a funny feeling in her gut. “I saved for months for this. Effing Nazis.”

Brock grinned at her. “That’s the spirit. You’re remarkably calm after all this.”

“It’ll hit me later, I’m sure, but It’s not my first time running from baddies,” she explained. “ Associating with people who have a lot of enemies means multiple kidnappings and attempts to use me to get to them. Hence, my super powered taser.”

She pulled it out of her bag and showed it off. Brock’s eyebrows flew up as he examined it.

“Holy crap. That’s an illegal amount of volts. I love it.”

He nodded approvingly as he handed it back.

“Now that I know you’ve got some protection, I’m got to make some calls. Bedroom’s the second door on the right down the hall. Bathroom beside it.”

“Thanks, Brock,” she acknowledged gratefully. She kinda wished she’d met him before she’d met Ian. He was kinda intriguing in a gruff, brooding way.

When Brock got off the phone and returned to the living room, Darcy was there, looking much more comfortable in sweatpants and a large Captain America t-shirt. She was busily pulling pins out of her hair and releasing the updo, resulting in Dark hair spilling down her back. He stared for a second, then pretended nonchalance. Darcy Lewis was a dangerously beautiful woman.

“What’s the word?” she asked him.

“They’ve got Boothby and four of his cronies in custody. Sounds like you were the only planned target in this, but interrogation is ongoing. Dr. Foster sends her well wishes and reminds you to be cautious. Hill wants us to spend the night here to be on the safe side and we’ll get another update tomorrow morning.”

“Well, I’m glad it’s not another take over the whole city plot,” she mused. “Then Steve would have to beat up a bunch of dudes in the elevator again.”

Brock couldn’t help but grimace and she noticed, eyes widening.

“Wait, were you playing triple agent back then?”

He nodded, not eager to remember that time of his life.

“So you had to get beat up by Steve?”

He nodded again.

“Ouch, dude,” she said sympathetically. “I mean, you look like you could put up a good fight, but he’s ridiculous.”

“Absolutely,” Brock agreed. “But the worst part was a building falling on me.”

Her eyes bugged out.

“How are you even alive?”

“Sheer stubbornness and and incredible medical team,” Brock shrugged. “Helen Cho is a genius.”

“I agree with that, but now I need to hear the story. Distract me from the roiling mental turmoil and self loathing I’m experiencing right now.”

Brock wasn’t all that eager to rehash the past, but Darcy had just experienced a pretty awful betrayal by the man she’d loved. If she needed distraction, he’d help out. He had stories that would keep her entertained for quite some time.

It turned out, telling the stories to such a rapt listener as Darcy wasn’t all that unpleasant after all. In fact, he found himself enjoying it and talking about his family’s hijinks as well.

Hardened as he claimed to be, seeing Darcy laugh out loud at his mother’s attempts to set him up made him soften inside. She had a very pretty, very genuine laugh and he found himself hoping he’d run into her again someday.

Darcy had expected to not be able to sleep well after the very tumultuous day, but after some tossing and turning, found herself drifting off thinking about Brock’s muscular arms.

The next morning, after a call to Brock’s superior, they were given the all clear and instructed to take her to Stark Tower, which had better security than Darcy’s and Ian’s apartment. This time, she sat up front and allowed herself to relax.

“Thanks, Brock,” she told him, breaking the comfortable silence.

“You’ve said that before, but you’re welcome again,” he responded, the corner of his mouth tilting up.

“This time is for making me feel safe,” she explained. “I’ve had some not so great experiences with jack-booted shield thugs, so it’s nice to find some professionalism among you, if you get what I’m saying.”

Brock gave her a quick glance and then nodded.

“My momma raised me to respect women. If I’d been pervy, she’d find out and cut my balls off, if Hill or Romanoff didn’t get them first. I also respect your taser.”

Darcy chuckled.

“Smart man. Seriously, though, I wouldn’t mind running into you again in a few months, under less dire circumstances.”

He definitely grinned at that comment.

“Given who you hang around with, you probably will. Just so you know, I certainly wouldn’t be opposed to that.”

Darcy liked the promise in his tone and filed it away for later.

#taserbones #darcy lewis #brock rumlow

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kursed-curtain · 10 months

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Haha Scam fic!

@captmickey gave the idea and she n @flurrin gave the motivation <3

Will post to AO3 soon,,,

-+-

The Merchant of Miracles scanned the caravan, making sure no one was watching, before he took off his turban. He grumbled as his ears popped up – his long, pointed ears.

They ached from the hours spent pinned under his turban. He massaged them carefully.

Jumping to his feet, he sifted through his piles of wares before pulling out a small blue bottle with a worn-out warning label. Something about the all-natural ingredients increasing stress and anxiety levels, blah blah, he didn't care. He just wanted his ears to numb a little so he could do business in peace.

Then his ears twitched, turning to the sound of something at the door.

"Hey, just came to check in on an old pal again! How's my favorite merchant?"

Ah, zards, it was Stan.

The Merchant panicked - he couldn't be seen like this, so he pretended to slip and fall into the pile of merchandise.

"Agh! Don't you know it's rude to come in uninvited?? You're going to sprain my sartorius at some point, you old coot!" The Merchant blurted, in an attempt to ward Stan away.

It did quite the opposite. Merchant could hear Stan's steps getting closer.

"The caravan door was unlocked, so that's your cue to install better security!" Stan dug through the ingredients to try unburying the Merchant's face.

The Merchant buried himself further on purpose. "Excuse me, Mister Fancycakes is the best security anyone could ask for!"

He covered his entire body in the vial pile while he crafted a distraction.

"And, well, while you're here, you could…" Merchant reached for the first item he could, then unfurled it in front of his face. "...view this rare hand-woven rug found only on the outskirts of the endless desert! Goes great in living and dining rooms!"

Two sounds - The tapping of a foot, and contemplative, slightly unimpressed silence.

"I'm not here to buy anything, although your offer is intriguing! Maybe later." Stan scratched his chin. "It's a little awkward trying to make conversation with a rug."

"Sure is."

"...Could you put the carpet down?"

"...Yes. Of course! Let me just…" The Merchant shimmied out of the mess of merchandise and hid on the other side of it, unsuccessfully trying to cover his ears while he made a plan to retrieve his turban again.

Stan noticed the turban hanging off the caravan's coat rack. "Say, I've never seen you without your turban on. Why's that?"

The Merchant snuck around, trying to blend into the corners. "Uh… I'm bald! Absolutely no hair on this noggin. It's very unflattering, so you do not wanna see it!"

Stan chuckled, "Well that's nothing to be ashamed of!" Stan took the turban and weaved his way towards the Merchant. "The only people who need to worry about that are customers wanting to buy hair growth tonic – buy one and we'll throw in a second one for just half the price!"

Stan turned to see a very obvious, not-at-all stealthy Merchant – pointy ears and all.

"...Though I don't think that's what you're worried about."

The Merchant just stood in the corner, awkwardly crouched, ears flat against the corner walls.

"Huh. So you're some kind of leprechaun?"

"Wh- oh, no no no! Do I even-" The Merchant stammered, "I'm an elf, a trickster fae, whatever term isn't offensive!"

"Ah, an elf! Would've never guessed. Your look doesn't exactly scream mystical, ethereal being, you know?"

The Merchant sneered, "Well you're not exactly the pinnacle of humanity either, are ya, bub?" He crossed his arms. "There are different kinds of elves."

"Aren't you folk supposed to have wings?"

"You're getting your fae jumbled, so save yourself from any wrong assumptions." The Merchant eyed his turban and snatched it from Stan's grasp, then screwed it on - leaving his ears out for comfort, and since hiding wasn't much use anymore.

"To answer your questions that I'm assuming you have, I hide them to prevent suspicion. People have biases against the unknown, especially in Daventry. No one buys from beings known for chicanery.

"Also…" The Merchant flicked his ear and it drooped. "They're a nuisance."

"Well, curbing suspicion is a good business practice, so I understand that," Stan hummed, "But I think there's a certain appeal to them! An extra sort of panache, to double the flair you already have." He shot Merchant with some poorly-timed finger guns.

Merchant's ears twitched again at the sound of Stan's voice. "Also every time someone like you yells, these puppies are on the move!"

"Great, that means you're paying attention to my spiels!" Stan grinned – so wide that it was practically mockery.

Stan plopped down next to the Merchant. "And on top of that, you can hear the bargains a mile away!" Stan cupped his ear in the Merchant's direction, giving a warm smile. "You can't just turn down a good deal."

The Merchant couldn't help but echo back a smirk, rolling his eyes. His ears wiggled that slight bit more. "Heh, I suppose there are some perks."

#- Apologies for joke ship and being self-indulgent #- but also no apologies #otp: scam #- gottem #- reviving a very old ship #- because its good #- and now i have brainrot #fanfic #stan stanman #the merchant of miracles #merchant kq #kings quest #monkey island #- brrrrr #- i dont actually know how to tag this on ao3 can someone help

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casavanihomes · 4 months

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Casavani - The beautiful Handmade cotton rug is available in all custom sizes, allowing you to make it to your specific needs and preferences. Its Indian-inspired design adds a unique flair, making it a distinctive element in creating a cozy and inviting ambiance.

-> Material : Cotton -> Work: Flat Weave -> Style: Bohemian -> Type: Area Rug -> Colour: Blue & Brown -> Features: Vaccum Clean Only -> Thickness: 5 mm approx. -> Care Instructions: Hand Wash Only -> Availability: Available in variant colors and sizes

For more information visit the link below👇 https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0CRDJPZNP?

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rugsforeverusa · 4 months

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This handwoven cotton area rug will add a touch of Indian art décor to any home. A hand block print and geometric design offer a unique look to this flat weave rug. This lovely rug is available in various sizes and is perfect for any space, from the living room to the home office.

-> Pattern : Geometric -> Material :Natural Cotton -> Weave : Hand Woven -> Regional design : Indian Traditional -> Color : Blue and Pink -> Features : Easy to clean, Eco-friendly, Kids friendly -> Thickness : 5 mm approx. -> Care Instructions: Normal wash -> Size : All custom size, color and shapes are available.

For more information visit the link below👇 https://www.ebay.com/itm/285137602283

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livinginculture2022 · 8 months

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Hand block print rug made by #livinginculture orange, grey, black bedroom custom cotton area rug, a stunning addition to any home decor collection. Handmade with care and precision, this rug boasts a unique boho design that is sure to impress. Perfect for use in the bedroom, living room or as a stair runner. Its blue and beige color scheme adds a touch of elegance to any space, while its custom design ensures a perfect fit for your home. Elevate your interior design with the Blue Beige Bedroom Custom Cotton Area Rug, a true masterpiece of handmade home decor.

->Material: 100% Cotton

->Pattern: Geometric

->Weave: Flat weave

->Features: Easy to clean

->Regional design: Modern

->Color: orange, grey, black

->Care Instructions: Normal wash

->Size: All custom size and colour

For More Informesoin Click This Link-->

#rugs#handmaderugs#blockprint#diningroomdecor#bohodecor#carpet#cottonfabric#blockprintrug

#decor #handmaderugs #arearug #interiordesign #arearugs #carpets #homedesign #rug #carpet #furniture

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artsofrajasthanindia · 8 months

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ARTS OF RAJASTHAN is not just the name, it is the guarantee that you receive the exact and quality rug that you ordered. ARTS OF RAJASTHAN manufacture beautiful quality durries with new eye-catching designs and this dhurrie is one of them. Our dhurrie is a handmade dhurrie and made using by hand block technique with 100% natural cotton.

--> Material :100% Pure Cotton

--> Weave: Hand Woven, Flat weave

--> Care Instructions: Normal wash

--> Size: All custom sizes, colors and shapes are available.

For more information click on the link below.

https://www.etsy.com/.../blue-cotton-rug-handmade-rug...

#rugs#homedecor#interiordesign#carpet#rug#carpets#handmade#interior#home#design#decor#handmaderugs#interiors#rugsofinstagram#art#arearugs#homedesign#furniture#vintagerugs#decoration#vintage#interiordesigner#livingroom#kilim#arearug#carpetdesign#customrugs#modernrugs#interiordecor#persianrugs

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casacrafter · 8 months

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This is a elegant 100% cotton handmade doormat. It can be used in kitchen, at entrance, bedside or near the console table and also for meditation as a yoga mat. It really gives a rich and vibrant feel. Its timeless and simplistic design will enhance the beauty of your place.

// Material : 100% Cotton // Color : Blue, Off-white // Size : 2x3 Feet // Pattern : Striped // Weave : Flat weave // Condition : New & Original, Good Condition, All rugs are pre-washed and ready to use.

For more information visit the link below👇 https://www.etsy.com/listing/1525686063/welcome-mat-handmade-blue-striped-cotton

#doormat #carpets #entryway #welcome mat #doormatdesign #doormats #entrywaydecor #doormatsofinstagram #homedecor #doordecor #decorreels #yoga mat

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oneway1968 · 9 months

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"The room is bathed in the same foggy blue color from the floor to ceiling," Anderson Wier says. "A variety of textures, from the Swedish style flat weave rug to the linen upholstery, and the tactile, dimensional quality of the millwork feel approachable and easygoing."

http://dlvr.it/StTw3p

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wovenruggallerypgh · 11 months

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The History and Beauty of Antique Caucasian Rugs

Antique rug and carpet hold a timeless allure that transcends generations, and among the most captivating are the antique Caucasian rugs. Originating from the Caucasus region, which encompasses present-day countries such as Azerbaijan, Armenia, Georgia, and parts of Iran and Turkey, these rugs are cherished for their rich history, exquisite craftsmanship, and unique designs. In this blog post, we will delve into the fascinating world of antique Caucasian rugs, exploring their origins, distinctive characteristics, and enduring beauty.

Origins and Cultural Significance

The Caucasus region has been a crossroads of various civilizations, with rug weaving dating back thousands of years. Antique Caucasian rugs are deeply rooted in the cultural heritage of the diverse ethnic groups that inhabited the area. Each tribe and village had its distinct weaving techniques, motifs, and color palettes, resulting in a diverse range of rug styles within the Caucasian rug category.

Distinctive Characteristics

Antique Caucasian rugs are renowned for their bold and dynamic designs, reflecting the vibrant cultural traditions and influences of the region. Some common characteristics that define these rugs include:

Geometric Patterns: Geometric motifs dominate the designs of Caucasian rugs. These motifs often include hexagons, diamonds, stars, and intricate latchhook patterns. The precise execution of these geometric designs showcases the skill and precision of the weavers.

Rich Color Palette: Antique Caucasian rugs feature a captivating array of colors, ranging from warm reds and blues to vibrant greens and yellows. Natural dyes derived from plants, insects, and minerals were predominantly used, resulting in rich, earthy hues that age beautifully over time.

Flat-Woven Structure: Most Caucasian rugs are woven using the flat-weave technique, known as the "kilim" technique. This technique creates a flat, reversible rug without a pile. The absence of a pile allows for intricate and sharp design elements to be displayed clearly.

Durability and Quality: Antique Caucasian rugs are renowned for their exceptional durability and quality craftsmanship. They were woven using high-quality wool sourced from local sheep, which provided strength and resilience to the rugs. The meticulous weaving techniques ensured that these rugs could withstand the test of time.

Enduring Beauty and Collectability

The beauty of antique Caucasian rugs lies in their ability to seamlessly blend into various interior styles, from traditional to modern. These antique rug and carpet serve as captivating focal points, adding warmth, character, and a sense of history to any space. Their intricate designs and rich color palettes can effortlessly enhance both contemporary and traditional decors.

Due to their scarcity and historical significance, antique Caucasian rugs have become highly collectible. Rug enthusiasts and collectors appreciate the unique artistic expressions, cultural narratives, and technical mastery displayed in these rugs. Owning an antique Caucasian rug is not only a testament to the beauty of the craft but also a connection to the rich heritage and traditions of the Caucasus region.

Preserving Antique Caucasian Rugs

To ensure the longevity of antique Caucasian rugs, proper care and maintenance are essential. Regular vacuuming, rotating the rug to distribute foot traffic, and protecting it from direct sunlight are key measures to preserve its beauty and integrity. Additionally, professional cleaning and restoration services can help revive and maintain the rug's vibrant colors and structural integrity.

Conclusion

Antique Caucasian rugs are exquisite works of art that showcase the skilled craftsmanship, cultural heritage, and artistic traditions of the Caucasus region. Their bold geometric designs, rich color palettes, and enduring beauty continue to captivate rug enthusiasts and collectors worldwide. Owning an antique Caucasian rug not only adds elegance and charm to your space but also allows you to cherish a piece of history and appreciate the remarkable artistry of the weavers.

#Caucasian rugs #antique rug and carpet

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jacks-tracks · 1 year

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Tapetes

Teotitlan the weavers village.

A 9 am start after a sleepless night, groggy but determined, walked 6 blocks to where the tourist office said the collectivos ran to Mitla,passing Teotitlan. I stood on the sidewalk, and sure enough 100 collectivo taxis passed, all heading into town. Buses too, off to some destination known to all but me. i stood in the fast vanishing shade, thinking perhaps there are only a few taxis to Mitla. After 3 quarters of an hour I asked a taxi driver who knew just where the collectivos left from, way across town. For 20 pesos he drove me there, directing me to squeeze down a taxi choked alley. Sometimes you just have to go on faith, and I really did not want to spend a useless day in my room, having exhausted the supply of museums in town. Behold, along came a Mitla taxi, and I got in the back with a couple of silent Japanese tourists going to El Tule ( the 1000 year plus old tree , survivor of the valley clear cutting).2 locals were in the front with the driver, all chatting away like mad. Off we went, past the seemingly endless shops, stores, and mini malls, over a hundred topes.

we were on ferrocaril street, where a train track once led into town, now converted to a linear park for bikes and pedestrians, and planted with shade trees. Once we hit the highway the driver opened her up, shock absorbers clanging. A quick trip to El Tule, where the Japanese got out. i suspect that they would revere old trees.

Almost missed the crucero for Teotitlan because the driver was so busy chatting up the good looking babe beside him. I chicken walked across the 4 lane highway just in time for a moto(tuk tuk) that let a passenger off. For 20 pesos he rode the long hot uphill street into town, past a dozen home based weaving stores

My luck was in, or instinct, or whatever it is that guides our decisions, and i made the right turn through the school street fiesta and came out at the town museum. Quite good,with big carved stone blocks from the aztecs, cased pottery, metates, corn pounders, and a nice display of weaving techniques, including the natural products used to make the dyes. just to round it out there was a display of how an arranged marriage was done.

On to the church, huge for the size of the town and of course built on and out of the zapotec temple.I'll refrain from ranting about fat churches and skinny people. The town market was just getting going for food sales. Across the street were 10 stalls setting out tapetes and rugs. Did i say that Tapetes are small floor rugs. This is what I came hoping to find. I nipped into one and was collared by the owner who gave me the rote speech about home weaving, dye sources and how much work it all was. Had to break away, not ready to buy. I moseyed through the cavernous and mostly empty mercado, emerging on the street facing the church. In a creaky stall, an ancient woman(my age) was making a traditional drink. Chocolate and atole ( corn drink) whipped with a special stick to a deep froth. Very tasty, eaten with a flat stick to lift the froth and then slurped from the ceramic bowl. Served by her since 1971. 40pesos. i took her picture and her friendly granddaughter took me to the nearby family weaving store. A thousand rugs , all the colours you could imagine and none alike. Ranged from bathmat size up to full room rugs. i took my time selecting the colours I liked, and we negotiated a price. 800 for the little one 1100 for the larger size. Combined i paid 1500 pesos.Less than the cost of one in town. She was happy to make a sale, I paid what I,d set as my limit, we chatted a bit in mixed english and spanish,admired her baby, and were both satisfied.

The rugs are art, soon to hang on my walls. A deep blue large one with geometric designs in strips of brown, grey, yellow, gold, red, and purple. the smaller one is alternating strips of reds, yellow, russet and or orange. Sounds like a hodgepoge, but the colours work. The sheeps wool is thick and tight .

Back to the Mercado for lunch, a chicken taco made with hand made tortilla, and served hot.40p. A group of city kids arrived and soon there were 20 customers. Some local ladies in traditional huipiles and pinafores left, and so did I.

Told there was a 1 oclock bus, I headed to the stop through the fiesta but was told by the brusqe driver that the bus went to Tacalula. Well it does, but then goes to Oaxaca. This I found out after it left. Seeing a driver drop off baked goods at a corner stall I asked directions and was advised to go to the crucero and flag a bus, but wait, Dad is going that way, hop in. Really people are so nice. We chit chatted for the 10 minute ride in his beater Nissan car, and I got to the corner just as a bus came. Luck is with me! got the last seat and then the bus filled to stuffed. Belching black clouds of diesel and bits of transmission, rip roared towards Oaxaca, stuffing more folks on. It's sunday so everybody is on the move. No chickens, but a big pile of hand carved wooden platters. Again, I had no idea where the bus would end up,sometimes you just go and see. Dropped off in a bad part of town, i started walking, getting directions at a hardware store. My my, why are all these lovely ladies standing along the sidewalk? Very dressed up and looking expectant. oh! Hookers! Kept going and in a shor

t while I found myself back in my neighbourhood, glad to be home. Very satisfactory, got out of town, bought what i wanted, and used my instincts to navigate succesfully

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