#marrakesh flare

[levans44]

leave me with nothing when I come down

pairing: steve rogers x fatal touch!reader

summary: The Almighty Captain America, laid to waste by your bare hands and pussy.

Now wouldn’t that make for a nice headline.

warnings: 18+ SMUT, just pure filth, some angst, FWB, hate fucking, heavy choking, breath play, sub steve rogers, subtle fdom, reader has fatal touch meaning she can't make bare skin contact with anyone without killing them

word count: 1.8k

a/n: I... don't even have words for this one, really. just that steve rogers with a choking kink and submissive streak would heal me.

"Second time this week.”

“Shut up. Take that shit off.”

A 2 a.m. text is all it takes. 

He’s at your door, helmet in hand, hair wild from the ride—straight off the tarmac, still carrying the scent of Marrakesh on his skin.

There's no small talk, no kissing, no preamble.  

It’s not like he needs it anyway, the strain of him evident against the kevlar—a monument raised in devotion. 

Because out there, beyond the sanctum of your studio apartment, he’s a god of war—sharp lines, discipline incarnate. Issuing orders like edicts and delivering punishing blows in the name of combat training. 

But in here? He’s just a man. 

Yours.

His uniform sloughs off like old skin—discarded offerings marking a trail to the altar of your living room. The shield leans haphazardly against the doorframe, forgotten.

There’s a dumb, boyish grin on his face when you corner him against your threadbare couch, climbing over him and settling roughly in his lap. And when your bare thighs slide up next to his own, caging him beneath your heat, his lashes flutter involuntarily—because the first touch is always an adjustment, no matter how many times he’s been here. 

Like a live wire pressed to his skin, ripping through his veins and setting every nerve ablaze. 

All the white-hot brilliance of a collapsing star; tiny supernovas erupting under his skin, leaving behind a constellation of heat marking your divine path. 

You narrow your eyes at him, nostrils flaring, yet your dainty fingers still tremble when they rise up to his chest.

The locus of your power—where your touch is most potent—laid flat over the flushed skin covering his heart. The thrum of his pulse flutters against your palm, reassuring.

Still beating.

The first time you'd touched him, you’d been so cautious—fingertips barely grazing his skin, sending sparks across the top of his knuckles. Yanked your hand back just as quickly, wide-eyed and breathless as if you expected him to crumble to the ground in front of you.  

Instead, he’d caught your quivering hand in his, grip warm and unyielding.

It’s alright. 

Guided it under his shirt, pressing your palm flat against his chest, just left of where the five-point insignia's etched into his skin. He'd kept your hand there for a long while, letting you feel the warmth of human flesh, the steady rise and fall of a moving ribcage besides your own—maybe for the first time.

Met your gaze as if to say:

See? Still beating.

Disbelief and trepidation in your eyes when you stared back, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

But when it didn’t—when he didn’t—you’d gone straight for his lips instead.  

“Where’d you go, Rogers?”

Your distant warning calls him back, punctuated by a soft tsk as your hips tease slow circles over his lap. One hand braced on his shoulder for leverage, his stomach glistening with your arousal. 

There’s something chiding in the furrow of your brows, the purse of your lips—like you’re disappointed that he’s managed to remain in one piece. Like setting him alight was the only absolution.

He blinks, still drowning in the feeling of your skin against his, the overwhelming burn reduced to a steady buzzing as his eyes focus back on you. 

But it’s too late—you’ve found other ways to keep his mind tethered.

Your arm slides behind your back, finding the head of his cock, swollen red and throbbing in time with his heartbeat. As soon as your fingers graze the tip, his breath hitches, abs clenching like he’d taken a blow to the gut. His hands shoot up to grip your hips, palms searing at the contact. 

An appeased grin touches your lips as you stroke him once, twice, then sink down in a single, fluid motion, the heat of your body enveloping him whole. 

“Oh, fffu—“ 

His mouth falls open, a half-formed hymn forming on his tongue, the rest swallowed by the ruthless pace you set.

Both hands anchored to his chest as you lift back up, until just the head of his cock is enveloped by the tight, wet ring of your entrance. You swivel your hips in a slow, teasing circle, testing his restraint before sinking all the way back down. Then you'd start over from the top, the weight of your thrusts heavy and relentless—eyes squeezed shut, head thrown back as if you’re basking in the first downpour after a lifelong drought. 

He tracks your every movement, eyes lazy and half-lidded, head lolled against the back of the couch. The thick column of his neck bares itself to you, his jugular pulsing a steady offering.

And being the merciful god you are, you take it.

Four dainty fingers curl around his throat, your thumb pressing just enough to feel his breath catch, his pulse thundering under your grip. Searing heat shoots up his neck, sharp static rippling across the flesh.

And as his vision grows hazy around the edges, you begin to glow at its center. Your silhouette illuminated by a blinding radiance as you bask in his pain—the ache, the burn, all laid bare for you.

“That’s it, show me.”

His voice breaks out gravelly and thick, nearly unrecognizable with you pressing down on his vocal cords. His hands grow restless, quick to worship the curve of your hips, your stomach, before sliding up under your shirt. Calloused fingertips find your nipples, pebbled and straining against the flimsy cotton, and pinch hard enough to elicit a choked gasp. He smiles as you glare and press harder against his neck, betrayed by the way you clench around him when he repeats the gesture. 

The only man who can withstand your touch without succumbing to its power. His super-soldier healing ability absorbing your raw, unbridled energy, strong enough to send anyone else into a permanent coma with just a moment’s touch. 

And there’s a thought in there somewhere, deep in the corner of his sex-fuddled, oxygen-deprived brain, about something Sam once told him. How some people grow so accustomed to pain that they seek it out—caught in a relentless cycle of self-destruction and sabotage, never having known a life without it. 

Sound familiar, Steve?

And maybe the fact that this was what he was thinking about, in the midst of being fucked into oblivion, was a good example as any to prove Sam’s point. But he shoves that thought aside too, tossing it onto the ever-growing pile, stacked miles high. 

Like all the others, it’ll have to wait. When you’re not grinding your hips and arching into his touch, so warm and tight and perfectly fitted around him.

So he pushes you harder, meeting your thrusts and pinching your nipples sore until you’re struggling to keep your eyes open. Draws you to the edge, just like he knows how, that line where control and reason blur into nothing but raw sensation. 

His Adam’s apple bobs under your palm when he swallows thickly, smiling: 

“You’re gonna cum, aren't you?”

You let out a sharp breath, eyes squeezed shut, whispering as if you’re pleading for forgiveness. 

“Shut up. Shut up.” Your prayers grow louder still.

“God, just fucking—”

He meets your glare with a steady gaze, the subtext in his eyes clear as day:

Do it. Try me.

You slow the relentless rotation of your hips, brows furrowing as you lift your other hand. It hovers for a moment, uncertain, before draping over the one already pressed to his neck. 

The added pressure’s enough to actually render him starved for air, back arching as his breathing grows shallow. Pressure builds up in his ears, the blood rushing to his head and muffling the world around him, leaving him with only the thrum of his own pulse and the filthy slaps coming from between his legs, wet and frenzied as you pick up your pace.  

Your brows are knitted together, a bead of sweat rolling down the curve of your temple. Knees rubbed raw against the scratchy upholstery as you roll your hips over and over, hands still fixed over his throat. With no room to swallow, spit starts to pool in his mouth, the same time your rhythm falters, a familiar pattern of spasms signaling your end. 

He’s right there with you, teetering on the brink—whatever breaths he can muster getting shorter, faster. It leaves him lightheaded and reeling, the serum working overtime to absorb the onslaught of your energy. 

And if the thought of his healing ability stretching out so thin, enough that you could actually choke him to death, only makes his dick swell inside you, then… fuck it. He likes the noises you make anyway, eyes rolling back every time it finds that tender spot deep within you. 

The Almighty Captain America, laid to waste by your bare hands and pussy.

Now wouldn’t that make for a nice headline.

He drops one hand to find your clit with deft precision, desperate to see you tip over the edge before his lungs give out. Rubs tight, small circles, just above where his dick’s plunging into your heat, until you're twitching violently against him, collapsing forward with a sharp, fractured cry. 

Your hands release around his throat, flying up to grip his hair instead, and the sudden rush of oxygen precipitates his own release as he bucks up into you, a strangled groan ripped from his abused throat.

He finds solace in the crook of your neck, the cradle of something divine, as light bursts behind his eyes. He comes in thick, pulsing ropes, his body collapsing under the weight of the sensation, trembling as he’s made undone by your touch. 

He blinks away black dots from his vision in the comedown, ears still ringing as you shuffle off his lap. You raise a soft tissue in his direction, smiling at his defeated form—legs spread and chest heaving—and grant him a few more breaths before he lifts himself off the couch.

“Same time next week?”

"Fuck off, Rogers.”

With a tired huff, you snatch up his uniform off your floor, shoving it against his chest. He smiles, letting his hand brush against yours, savoring that electric surge one last time. 

His shield feels feather-light when he slings it across his back, giving you one last look before you slam the door in his face. He doesn’t miss the blush that bloomed across your cheeks, just seconds before you averted your eyes, mirroring the one on his own face. 

Because the truth is, he needs this just as much as you do. Maybe more.

Someone to break the parts of him that never healed quite right, snapping them clean so he can piece them back together. 

As he stares at the faded mahogany of your apartment door, that familiar high begins to settle in—a fleeting but vivid taste of what it felt like before the serum, when cuts stayed open and bruises remained tender for weeks. 

And as the long-lost weight of exhaustion starts to seep into his bones, making his eyelids grow heavy, he rejoices. 

He’s treading on nothing but air when he bounds down the stairs of your building, giddy with anticipation for a night of deep, unbroken sleep. 

He’ll dream of you until the next time he’s back.

[distillerchic92]

Check out this listing I just added to my Poshmark closet: J. Brand Black Marrakesh Low Rise Wide Flare Leg Denim Jeans Size 30.

[centiasoddboutique]

Check out this listing I just added to my Poshmark closet: SOLD! MiH Skinny Mid Rise Kick Flare Marrakesh Jean 26.

[vnvyb]

Check out this listing I just added to my Poshmark closet: Anthropologie MiH Skinny Mid Rise Dark Blue Kick Flare Marrakesh Jean Size 26.

[blessingsfromcambria]

Check out this listing I just added to my Poshmark closet: MiH Skinny Marrakesh Jean Mid Rise Skinny Kick Flare Joplin Wash Navy Size 27.

[raheltade]

Check out this listing I just added to my Poshmark closet: Peruvian Connection Marrakesh blue sleeveless Southwest knit size Large.

[style-on-a-dime]

Check out this listing I just added to my Poshmark closet: MiH MARRAKESH Kick Flare Jeans Womens 29 Dark Wash Stretch Mid Rise.

[clothingjackpot]

Check out this listing I just added to my Poshmark closet: Anthropologie Mih Marrakesh Flare Jean.

[whatisflorencewearing]

August 30, 2022 - TikTok

Florence thrifting Gunne's and bonnets at the @chelsea_flea market this weekend.

She's wearing a navy blue and cream Hungarian blouse from @silkandrope...

Her signature @mihjeans Marrakesh mid-rise flare jeans

@gianvitorossi Resort 2019 Navarre 85 tan suede western-style boots

Oversized retro @chloe Misha sunglasses

... and a @gucci New Blondie brown leather medium shoulder bag.

The jewelry includes a long gold Art Deco watch chain with square links and a gold Victorian turquoise horseshoe locket from @boudoir_vintage.

[generallkenobi]

*Spoilers* Light as a Metaphor for Death in The Old Guard

As requested, here are my thoughts on how TOG uses light as a herald of death, specifically through doorways and windows. Doors and windows are points of transition, entrances/exits, and that is used to emphasize the metaphor of moving from life to death. Furthermore, stepping into the light also has a double meaning of being exposed. A major theme of the movie is that they must stay secret to survive, so light = exposure = death, while darkness = secret = safe.

So first I want to preface the visual analysis with my theory about when exactly Andy loses her immortality. I’ve been trying to pinpoint it since my first watch and I think it’s this moment here:

As we see when Copley shows Nile the web of her successes, Andy’s purpose has always been to make the world a better place. The team fights for what they believe is right, that’s their purpose. Despite her cynicism, it’s not until this moment that Andy stops caring and loses her purpose. Nicky, Joe, and Booker still have hope that they can make a difference, but she has fully given up here. The moment she loses that, she loses her immortality, because she doesn’t need it any more.

Now, the first instance of this is the very first shot that we get after the title card. It’s a tracking shot that pans from the wall and follows behind Andy walking through the streets of Marrakesh, backlit. We get a couple shots of her face, but then she actually walks into the light, setting up this metaphor perfectly:

Immediately after this shot they cut to Booker on his bike - he’s the catalyst for the whole team’s death during the mission, but especially hers, because the mission is what causes her to lose her purpose and immortality. We then see her reunite with the group and as they discuss the mission, we get this shot:

Andy turns away from the team and goes to the window, as she says “we’re not helping”. This shot supports my theory that she loses her immortality when she loses hope - this meeting here is the beginning of her path towards losing hope, and towards her last death.

The next time we see this metaphor again, is the iconic scene in the bunker. They walk into a dark room, confident in their safety and ability, and the lights go on:

It’s a literal blindside, and symbolizes their exposure. Notice also how we see Andy backlit first, before the group shot (after which they all get riddled with bullets). This serves to underscore the significance of this death for Andy. It’s her last one she’ll have before her future perma-death. After they get shot to all hell,  we then see the bad guys turn away from their bodies, back towards the light - and that’s when we cut back to our heroes coming back to life. The baddies turn to the light and are met with what Copley calls “an unanticipated amount of carnage”. 

Afer this mission we’re introduced to Nile. Like the team, she walks into a dark room confidently, where she dies framed by light:

What’s interesting here though, is that she’s not framed with as much finality. The light comes through a door, but we don’t see the frame of it, because this death is her first step into (near-endless) life. By stepping into the dark doorway, it’s also her first step into her new life of secrecy.

Now the next time we see this used is with the flashback to Quynh:

She’s not facing the light because she dies without agency. She’s being dragged, forcibly, into the light and towards her death, while Andy remains alive in the dark. The door closes on her, separating the two of them into distinctly different spaces.

After the flashback we get the attack on the Charlie safehouse, and one of the most obvious uses of the symbolism:

The light flares in through the window just as these guys get royally fucked up by Andy. I don’t actually have very much to say about this, it’s pretty self-explanatory, but it’s one of my favorite shots in the movie so I decided to keep this in here even though I cut some of the less significant examples.

Afterwards, Andy, Booker and Nile go to the next safehouse:

They’re walking into supposed darkness and safety, but there’s Booker right behind Andy, watching her. There’s something sinister about this blocking - usually when you have someone behind a character like this, it’s because they’re about to attack.

This next part, during Booker’s flashback, we see his son’s bed under a window while he sits off to the side, blocked from the light. Like Andy and Quynh, Booker is separated from his son by light and death.

Now, we get to Merrick’s headquarters. If we build on this analogy of light referencing death, the fact that Merrick’s headquarters is all made up of windows is because it is a place of death. It’s also a place where things are exposed by being studied.

We see Nile come out of the elevator and walk towards these windows before she’s shot by guards. It’s interesting here that she walks towards the windows but then turns from them - perhaps it references her circumventing death, because she’s so new? Or perhaps it’s a reference to the fact that her next death is one she has planned, and isn’t one that took her by surprise.

Finally, we get the window. Nile and Andy stand on either side of the window, still in its light but turned away from it. They’re pausing here to discuss death, while standing at its side.

Then finally, we get Merrick’s iconic defenestration. I don’t have much to say on that other than I love that Nile yells “SHIIIIIT” the whole way down, and I think it’s a pretty iconic capstone to finish off this theme.

[thysparrowsdrew]

“So what now?” asks Dean, around a mouthful of hamburger. The disgusted look his brother shoots him is either unseen or ignored. He was the Michael Sword, destined to bring about the end of the world, and Margarita is watching him rudely stuff his face at a diner in Phoenix on a Tuesday afternoon. “We got no leads and no witnesses.”

/I was hoping to avoid this,/ says Benjamin. “We do have a witness. Mirabel’s vessel.”

“Didn’t we rule that out at the morgue? She’s dead, and she ain’t coming back.”

“To this plane. You’ve only been dead a few dozen times, so you’ll be shocked to learn there are others.”

“You’re talking about visiting her in Heaven,” says Sam.

“No, I’m talking about visiting her in Tahiti.” He looks from Sam to Dean and back, his gaze passing over Castiel. “Unless anyone has any other ideas?”

Sam and Dean look at Castiel.

“He’s right,” says Castiel. “This is our best option.”

“Is one of you gonna...?” Dean waves his hand vaguely in the direction of the ceiling.

“It has to be me,” says Benjamin. “From what I hear, Castiel is unpopular in Heaven at the moment. I can’t imagine why.”

“Benjamin--”

“This shouldn’t take more than an hour.” /Volveré pronto a ti, amiga de mi corazón./ Warmth flares through Margarita’s veins as he fills them with extra grace. /In case of emergency, break glass./ Benjamin pours out of her in a radiant cloud, shimmering blue-white, and he disappears out the diner door.

The physical world jolts into sickening focus: the lights are too bright; the booth is too hard; the air is too cold. She slumps over, elbows on the table, a headache building behind her eyes. Benjamin’s grace swells up to wash it away, but Margarita pushes it back. Mirabel’s killer is still out there somewhere. She doubts anything will happen before Benjamin comes back, but if it does, she’ll regret wasting grace on something as small as a headache.

(Margarita can almost hear Benjamin scolding her. You’re in pain, he would say. That isn’t small.)

Sam whispers, almost-but-not-quite quietly enough, “Cas, I thought you said Benjamin was a friend?”

“No offense, Sister,” says Dean, “but your angel’s a dick.”

If Benjamin were here, he would defuse the insult with a private joke (I don’t think Dean quite understands angel anatomy), and Margarita would answer with a silent laugh, and she would let it go. A celestial being as old as the universe doesn’t need her to defend his honor. But because Benjamin isn’t here, because she screamed with him as his wings burned, because she spent two hours in a morgue and the fourteen before that in a car, she snaps: “If a drunk driver paralyzed you from the waist down, would you be happy about having to work with him?”

Castiel looks stricken. “Is that how Benjamin sees me?” he asks, with such sad resignation that Margarita’s retort dies in her throat.

It’s wrong, that tone in that voice, that expression on that face. Too human. The last time she saw Castiel in this body, he was a granite-eyed whirlwind of flashing silver, cutting down soldier after soldier (vessel after vessel) to keep the relics of Saint Demetrios out of the hands of Raphael’s army. The fight left sixteen pairs of wings burned into the red carpet of the Patriarchal Cathedral in Bucharest. Castiel, God’s Chosen, was responsible for eight.

She recognizes the face across from her. She doesn’t recognize the angel.

Her headache throbs behind her eyes. Again, Benjamin’s grace swells to soothe it; again, she bats it away. Her gaze fixed on a scratch in the formica tabletop, she says, “The only thing he wants is to find Mirabel’s killer. For her sake, he’ll work with you, but you can’t expect him to pretend the last seven years didn’t happen.”

Seven years ago, Benjamin came to her with news of a civil war in Heaven. Eight months later, she was in Bucharest, feeling her hands sink a blade to the hilt in Ammiel’s chest. She remembers light pouring from Ammiel’s eyes as angel and vessel both died. Remembers glass raining down. Remembers a voice shouting, and Benjamin spinning just in time to parry--

Two booths over, someone’s knife scrapes against their plate. Margarita’s feet answer without consulting the rest of her. Before she knows it, she’s standing, heart pounding in her ears. Her head throbs and throbs. “Need some air,” she manages to say. “I won’t go far.” A bell rings as she pushes the door open, high and tinny. The sound digs into her like a scalpel.

A wall of desert heat hits her the moment she steps outside. Palm trees dot the parking lot; Margarita takes shelter in the shade of the nearest, sagging against it, pressing the heels of her palms against her eyes. The voice that saved her in Bucharest didn’t belong to one of Castiel’s soldiers, but the vessel of one of Raphael’s. He took control just long enough to shout: Kill me.

His name was Rémy Samson, Margarita learned later. His body was returned to his family (who would never learn how a librarian from Ottawa wound up dead on the floor of a church in Romania), and when his wife and three children buried him, Margarita and Benjamin were there, hidden from sight. One of Rémy’s daughters had an undetected tumor in her bone marrow that would have turned into stage four lymphocytic leukemia within a year. Benjamin cured it with a touch, and the newly-widowed Mrs. Samson’s arthritis, and another daughter’s torn ACL.

After his family left, Margarita laid flowers on Rémy’s grave with the same hands that killed him.

He belonged to the enemy, Benjamin said, staring down at the hydrangeas and gladioli. He prayed for death. Why do I regret granting it to him? I don’t understand. Rita, please, help me understand.

For the third time, his grace rises up to soothe her headache, and finally, she allows it. It feels like a cool breeze; it rinses away the pain like a bath rinses away dirt. The memory of Bucharest doesn’t fade, but the grace blunts its edge enough for Margarita to breathe again.

If she asked him to, Benjamin would take those memories away entirely. He would erase Bucharest, and Zipaquirá, and Marrakesh, and all the others. Every fight he fought with her body, every drop of blood he spilled with her hands-- he would wipe it all clean, if only she asked. He alone would remember. He alone would carry the burden.

She has never asked to forget, and she never will.

[aliesteem]

A Market Adventure at Chelsea

I’ve recently broken into my old, student email and was reunited with the dozens and dozens of papers I’ve written about dining in Culinary school. These papers scored me A’s and made me realize I possibly do have a future in writing. I’m still proud nearly two years later so I thought I’d share. Enjoy!

I arrived at Chelsea Market on a super chilly and busy Manhattan Tuesday. In front of the market were bustling city-goers standing on their phones making calls, waiting to meet up with someone to enjoy the mall. I met up with my classmate to embark on the discoveries and it was an adventure indeed. Walking in, I immediately noticed the atmosphere was upscale and refined. The paths were clean and well decorated in shiny dark wooden floors and brick walls with glass at the opening of every shop. The design reminded me of a romantic Italian theme with a modern flare. There were many shops we stopped in and spoke with the owners plus the employees but the most interesting businesses were Eleni’s Cookies, Spice & Tease, Bowery Kitchen Supply, The Lobster Place and Imports from Marrakesh.  

Only a couple of feet into the market’s main entrance I was lured by a bakery with a hot pink and white color scheme reminiscent of Barbie. In giant, pretty, script letters I saw a name that reads “Eleni’s New York” and looking only from the outside I saw well-decorated shortbread cookies of all types.  I nearly ran in. I asked the nearest employee who I could go to, to ask questions. They pointed me to a blonde woman, her name was Amy. I introduced myself to Amy, told her I was a Hospitality Management student from City Tech and would like to ask her one or two questions. She was very sweet and instantly agreed. From my mini-interview, with her I found out some awesome fun facts about Eleni’s and the market. For one, Eleni began in the Market in 1995 by a woman named Eleni Gianopulos but before then the market itself was a Nabisco Factory! Topping it off Amy also told us the Oreo cookie was created right in that very space. I am an Oreo lover and this heightened my excitement about the rest of our tour in the market. The price of the cookies ran about $3-$5 for one. I decided to settle for the free samples they were passing out by the front door. Nonetheless, the cookies were just as I imagined, absolutely delicious.  

Leaving the bakery and walking throughout the mall I began to smell something a bit sharp and spicy in the air. I turned around and of course, it was Spice & Tease. I’ve heard of Spice & Tease and always wanted to buy there but never got around to it. The strong spices I was smelling was just that, spices. We went up by the front table covered over by transparent glass and saw endless bowls of earth-toned powders and grainy spices. On display were flavors like Frenugreek, Hungarian Paprika, Sweet Curry Madras and Jamaican Jerk. At another angle was another short staircase of numerous bowls but filled with teas, they sold $7 for a small tin. I went up to a lady by the cashier and asked  “What’s the most popular tea in the store?” her co-worker grabbed a bowl next to her and pointed to a deep, reddish tea titled Hibiscus Kir Royal made with hibiscus, blueberry, papaya, raspberry, strawberry, and rose petals. I was allowed to smell it and it gave super sweet scent as if it was candy.  I knew it probably tasted amazing and vowed to come back and purchase a bit for myself.  

There was another stop be wanted to make.  The Lobster Place but before we stopped there we explored Bowery Kitchen Supply slightly ahead. There I introduced myself to the owner, an older man named Winston. He told us a little about his store and showed us his most expensive knife available which was a Kikuichi Cutlery Sushi Knife running for about $1,200 alone! It did look worth it. It looked powerful and well made. After that, it was off to the place of all the best seafood! The Lobster Place was my favorite store of all. Inside was so bright from the white lights above the scales of all the fish were shimmering in the ice. They had so much selection in abundance. There I saw options like Diver Scallops, Stone Crab Claws and Sashimi boxes for $17.50! That wasn’t the only expensive item around, in fact, most products were pretty pricey especially the actual whole lobsters that were $28.95 for a pound and a half! Luckily, I did pass a display where they sold cold Escargot in garlic butter sauce. It was probably the cheapest item there, 1 for $1.25 so I decided to buy two and cook them when I got home. I never had escargot before and was pretty enthusiastic. While I was continuing to sightsee The Lobster Place I saw others sitting and standing, dining on giant crustaceans and dunking the large pieces of juicy lobster flesh in butter and lemon juice. It made me hungry and I could wait to get head home to have something similar to eat but far cheaper!

After that, we made a trip to Imports of Marrakesh were we met Alexei, a young, trendy dressed woman who collected gorgeous African décor. She told us every one of her pieces was handmade in Morocco. The warm, small shop was covered with vibrant rugs, all leather totes, shoes, glittering pillows, dark and gold necklaces, and even bleached white goat fur. Many items were so detailed it and appeared as if they were ancient artifacts, it enchanted me. I felt as if I were I were transported to Morocco. As I swayed a bit to the traditional music playing in the background I saw a marvelous handbag priced at $165. I wanted it. I wanted every glorious thing in the store!  I asked Alexei for names on a few items I adored and wrote it down to put on my holiday wish list.  

My classmate and I realized the market came to an end after Alexei’s store so we decided to call it a day and leave. In my opinion, Chelsea Market is a fantastic place to find and experience what’s new, unique and alluring in Manhattan. Eleni’s Cookies, Spice & Tease, The Lobster Place, and Imports or Marrakesh, as well as Bowery Kitchen Supply, was fun just as much as it was informational. The people I met were kind and did have the best hospitality I have ever experienced in such a large, packed mall.  I now understand why Chelsea Market has been successful for decades. I fully enjoyed my time there and I am definitely coming back, this time to buy!  

[distillerchic92]

Check out this listing I just added to my Poshmark closet: J. Brand Black Marrakesh Low Rise Wide Flare Leg Denim Jeans Size 30.

[centiasoddboutique]

Check out this listing I just added to my Poshmark closet: SOLD! MiH Skinny Mid Rise Kick Flare Marrakesh Jean 26.

[vnvyb]

Check out this listing I just added to my Poshmark closet: Anthropologie MiH Skinny Mid Rise Dark Blue Kick Flare Marrakesh Jean Size 26.

[blessingsfromcambria]

Check out this listing I just added to my Poshmark closet: MiH Skinny Marrakesh Jean Mid Rise Skinny Kick Flare Joplin Wash Navy Size 27.