#polyester border

[indiansareedesigns07]

Discover the Rich Cultural Heritage of Madurai's Handloom

Introduction

Madurai, a city in the western corner of Tamil Nadu, is not only famous for its rich cultural heritage but also for its fine cotton sarees and handloom weaving industry. The city has been producing some of the finest cotton sarees in India for centuries, and its thread is used for making not only cotton sarees but also other varieties of sarees.

Madurai Cotton: The Finest Thread in India

Madurai cotton is renowned for its fine quality and softness. The city and its vicinity produce some of the finest cotton sarees in India, and the thread produced here is used by tailors and other people for day-to-day stitching of clothes. In the olden days, mercerized cotton sarees were made with a silk border, but today the border is made of polyester or shining cotton. The body of the saree remains the same, made of the same material as before. The cloth is of very light weight and is ideal for summer wear.

Madurai Cotton vs. Bengal Cotton

Madurai cotton is slightly thicker than Bengal cotton but much more superior to Bengal cotton. The border and pallav make it ideal for summer wear, and in cities like Madras, Bombay, and Calcutta, it is wearable round the year since winter does not set in these places. The sarees generally have a contrast border and a pallav with the same work as in the border. Madurai cotton is highly affordable and is used for evening or day wear or for visiting anyone or attending a light evening tea or coffee party in the forenoon.

Madurai: A Hub for Designer Sarees

Madurai is famous for its fine cotton thread produced here used for making cotton sarees and also producing other varieties of sarees. It produces some very beautiful designer sarees of fine glazed cotton with zari border. The city is home to some very big saree shops selling many varieties of sarees, some of which are not available in Delhi and Bombay shops and not even in Tamil Nadu.

Madurai Handloom Industry: A Cultural Heritage

The handloom industry in Madurai is quite old, and the shops are by themselves quite old. Madurai also produces block printed sarees on fine cotton cloth known as Sungudi, though they might not be as famous as the block prints of Rajasthan and Gujarat yet they are very wearable in summer season. They are usually printed on fine cotton cloth and have small motifs on the body of the saree with single or double colour.

Conclusion

Madurai's handloom industry has inherited a rich cultural heritage from the city, which is 3000 years old. The city is home to some of the finest cotton sarees in India, and its thread is used for making not only cotton sarees but also other varieties of sarees. The industry is a testament to the city's rich cultural heritage and its commitment to preserving traditional crafts and techniques.

[p0orbaby]

Just a Little Thing for You and I

summary: you think you’ve gotten away with it, until you don’t

warnings: SMUT 18+, oral, fingering (reader receiving)

a/n: the perfect request for the season

word count: 2.2k

-

“Be quiet,” Leah whispers again, her breath hot against your ear, sending a shiver cascading down your spine as she presses you face-first onto the bed. The duvet feels scratchy against your cheek, stiff polyester catching on your skin, but the discomfort is distant, peripheral. Her hands are already sliding down your body, purposeful, her nails grazing just enough to make you shiver. She stops at your hips, gripping them tightly, her fingers biting into the softness of your skin. The firmness of her hold roots you there, unable—and unwilling—to move as she spreads your thighs with deliberate slowness.

“We wouldn’t want anyone to hear, would we?” Her tone is teasing, laced with smug amusement, but the weight of her hands and the heat radiating from her body behind you make it feel like a challenge.

You want to retort, to shoot back something sharp, but your breath catches the moment her tongue flicks over you. A gasp spills from your lips, muffled by the pillow, and your entire body jerks forward as she drags her tongue along you again, slower this time, torturous in its precision. The wet heat of her mouth is devastating, and it robs you of any semblance of control. Your fingers scrabble at the mattress, clutching at the floral duvet, the fabric bunching beneath your grip as you struggle to anchor yourself.

“Fuck,” you breathe into the pillow, the word barely audible.

Behind you, Leah hums in satisfaction, the low vibration shooting through you like an electric current. She’s infuriatingly slow, taking her time, her tongue tracing deliberate circles that make your thighs tremble. The heat between your legs is unbearable, building and building with every careful flick of her tongue, but she doesn’t let you tip over the edge—not yet.

“Leah,” you gasp, your voice breaking. “Stop—stop fucking around”

She pulls back with an furiating slowness, and when she speaks, her voice is low and mocking. “Stop fucking around?” she echoes, her breath hot against your slick skin. Her fingers slide between your thighs, dragging through the wetness there, and you feel the smirk in her words before she even says them. “Doesn’t feel like you want me to stop”

Her fingers press against you, the pressure just enough to make your hips jerk, but it’s fleeting—gone before you can chase it. Leah leans down again, her teeth grazing the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, and you yelp, the sound muffled against the pillow.

“Be still,” she warns, her tone sharp but teasing. Her hands grip your hips harder, holding you in place as her mouth finds you again. The first press of her tongue this time is firmer, hungrier, and it makes your entire body tighten. She licks into you with a fierceness that borders on desperate, her movements unrelenting, her tongue curling and flicking in ways that have your hands clenching the duvet like it’s the only thing tethering you to reality.

“God,” you hiss, your voice trembling.

She doesn’t stop—doesn’t even slow. Her tongue works you over with a precision that’s carnal, alternating between languid, devastating strokes and quicker flicks that make your hips buck against her face. Each sound you make seems to spur her on, her grip tightening, her blunt nails digging into your skin hard enough to leave marks.

“Leah,” you gasp, your voice desperate now. “Please, I need—”

“What?” she cuts in, pulling back just enough to glance up at you, her lips glistening. The sight of her, wild and disheveled, sends a fresh wave of heat coursing through you. “You need what?”

“You,” you choke out, barely able to form the words.

Her smirk deepens, and without another word, she slides two fingers inside you. The sudden fullness is overwhelming, and your head snaps up as a guttural moan tears from your throat. Her fingers thrust deep, curling just right, and your entire body jolts.

“Fuck,” you cry, your voice breaking as she sets a relentless pace.

Her free hand slides up your back, pressing you down into the mattress as her fingers work you open. “Stay still,” she murmurs, her voice dark and commanding. “You’re going to take it”

The sheer authority in her tone makes your knees weak, even as you’re already trembling beneath her. Her fingers pump into you harder now, her thumb circling your clit with a pressure that has your thighs shaking.

“Leah—”

“Shh,” she interrupts, her mouth returning to you. The combined sensation of her tongue and fingers is overwhelming, each movement calculated to push you closer and closer to the edge. She’s meticulous, ruthless, dragging you higher and higher until your vision blurs.

The tension coiling in your stomach snaps suddenly, violently, and you come with a force that rips the air from your lungs. Your entire body spasms, your thighs trembling uncontrollably as Leah rides you through it, her fingers and tongue never stopping, never letting up. The pleasure is so intense it borders on painful, and you bury your face in the pillow, your cries muffled but still embarrassingly loud.

By the time she finally pulls back, you’re wrecked—boneless and trembling, your breath coming in ragged gasps. Leah crawls up the bed, her lips and chin glistening, her eyes dark and full of hunger as she looks down at you.

“Good girl,” she murmurs, her voice rough with pride. She leans down to kiss you, and the taste of yourself on her tongue is filthy and perfect, sending another shiver through your already spent body.

But Leah isn’t done.

“Turn over,” she orders, her voice low and commanding.

Your body obeys before your brain catches up, and you roll onto your back, the duvet crumpling beneath you. Leah straddles your hips, her thighs pinning you down as she leans over you, her hair falling into her face. Her lips capture yours again, messy and desperate, and her hands are everywhere—trailing down your sides, gripping your thighs, sliding under your shirt to drag her nails across your skin.

Her fingers find you again, and the overstimulation is immediate, sharp and electric. You gasp into her mouth, your hips jerking as her fingers slip inside you once more, thrusting deep with an ease that makes your head spin.

“Leah, I—”

“You can give me one more,” she interrupts, her voice firm but soothing. Her thumb brushes over your clit, and you cry out, the sound muffled as she swallows it with another kiss. “You’re so good for me. Just one more”

Her pace is brutal, her fingers thrusting and curling with a precision that has you seeing stars. You’re so sensitive now, every nerve ending lit up, and it’s almost too much. But Leah knows your body better than you do—knows exactly how far to push, exactly how to drag you to the brink and then shove you over.

The second orgasm hits you harder than the first, tearing through you like a tidal wave. Your entire body arches off the bed, your hands clutching at Leah’s shoulders as you ride it out, helpless against the force of it. She doesn’t stop, doesn’t let up, her fingers and thumb working you through the aftershocks until you’re sobbing into her shoulder, utterly undone.

When she finally pulls back, you’re shaking, your body completely spent. Leah collapses beside you, her chest heaving, and pulls you into her arms, her lips pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your temple.

-

The kitchen smells like toast, coffee, and that faint, lingering scent of pine from the Christmas tree in the living room. It’s warm, the kind of warmth that only comes from too many cups of tea and the chatter of a family in no particular rush. You’re wearing Leah’s hoodie—an oversized one she tossed your way last night with a smirk and a muttered, “Mum loves to keep the thermostat on 19, you’ll freeze”—and a pair of pyjama bottoms that don’t quite match. The hem drags slightly against the cold tiles as you move.

Amanda is humming along to the soft Christmas music playing on the radio, flitting between the kettle and the toaster like a conductor orchestrating a symphony of domestic calm. The whole scene feels strangely picturesque, like the end credits of a feel-good holiday film.

Leah stands by the fridge, her head buried in it, one hand on the door and the other clutching a half-drunk mug of coffee. “Mum, seriously,” she mutters, her voice muffled by the shelves. “Why have you still got brandy butter in here from last year? It’s growing its own ecosystem”

“It’s fine,” Amanda says, waving a dismissive hand without turning around. “Brandy’s a preservative”

“Yeah, well, the butter’s not.” Leah pulls out the jar, holding it up with a grimace. “Look at this. It’s solid. I could use it as a doorstop”

You suppress a laugh, sipping your tea as you perch on the counter. Amanda doesn’t bother looking. “It keeps,” she says again, her tone cheerful, as if that somehow closes the argument.

Leah mutters something under her breath, shoves the jar back into the fridge with a clatter, and turns to you, raising an eyebrow. “Toast or eggs?” she asks, as if you’ve somehow become part of this ongoing kitchen debate.

“Toast’s fine,” you say, sliding down from the counter to grab another cup of tea. On your way past, you press a kiss to Leah’s cheek, quick and casual, like it’s second nature. She leans into it without looking up, still grumbling about the tyranny of Christmas leftovers.

It’s all so easy, so relaxed. Amanda's breezing through her morning like nothing is amiss, humming along to Chris Rea’s Driving Home for Christmas, asking you how you like your tea, and chatting about her neighbour’s excessive light display. She even offers you the last slice of Christmas cake, which you politely decline.

Leah nudges you with her hip as she sets a plate of toast in front of you, smirking. “You’re officially in the club now,” she says, nodding at Amanda. “Anyone who survives one of Mum’s interrogation breakfasts gets honorary family status”

“Interrogation?” Amanda looks up, feigning shock. “I’m just being polite”

“Polite doesn’t usually involve an inquisition about future grandchildren”

“Oh, don’t be silly,” Amanda says, but she’s grinning as she hands Leah a cup of tea. “That’s for later, when you’ve had more coffee”

The conversation flows so naturally that you forget, for a moment, that you’re supposed to be nervous. You laugh, you chat, you eat your toast, and you feel completely at ease. It’s almost unbelievable how normal everything feels.

By the time breakfast is over, you’re helping Amanda clear the table while Leah disappears upstairs to pack your bags. The kitchen is filled with the clatter of plates and the steady crackle of the radio, and you fall into an easy rhythm, wiping down surfaces while Amanda stacks dishes by the sink.

“You’re very good at that,” she says, glancing at you with an approving nod. “I might keep you around”

You laugh. “Well, someone’s got to clean up after Leah”

Amanda snorts, shaking her head. “God knows she never cleans up after herself. When she was a teenager, her room was like a bomb site. Socks everywhere, plates under the bed—honestly, I don’t know how she survives international camps”

The conversation is light, easy, peppered with anecdotes about Leah’s questionable teenage habits and Amanda’s fond exasperation. You’re so caught up in the rhythm of it that you don’t notice anything unusual.

Leah comes back down the stairs, her hair damp from a quick shower, one of your bags slung over her shoulder. “What are you two plotting?” she asks, her tone teasing as she drops the bag by the door.

“Nothing,” Amanda says, a little too innocently. “Just reminiscing”

Leah groans. “Mum, I swear, if you told her about the time I—”

“Relax, darling.” Amanda waves a hand. “Your secrets are safe with me”

Leah doesn’t look convinced, but she lets it go, wandering over to lean against the counter next to you. You hand her your half-empty cup of tea, and she takes it without question, her hand brushing against yours for just a moment too long.

Amanda watches the exchange with a small, knowing smile.

By the time you’ve loaded the car with leftovers and exchanged a dozen “are you sure you’ve got everything?”s the morning has stretched into early afternoon. You stand in the hallway, zipping up your coat, while Amanda fusses over a tin of mince pies she insists you take with you.

“It’s been lovely having you here,” she says, handing you the tin with a warm smile. “You must come back soon”

“Thank you for having me,” you say sincerely. “It’s been perfect”

Leah leans down to kiss her mum on the cheek, the kind of casual affection that makes your chest ache with its simplicity.

“Drive safe,” Amanda says, patting Leah’s arm. And then, just as you’re stepping out the door, she adds, “Oh, and Leah, next time you’re home, remind me to oil the hinges on the bathroom door. They were squeaking something awful last night”

The words are so offhand, so casual, that it takes a moment for them to register. Leah freezes mid-step, her hand still on the doorframe.

“I didn’t notice anything,” she says, her voice carefully neutral.

Amanda smiles, turning back toward the kitchen. “Oh, I did”

[scaly-freaks]

inmate 13453

okay don't get excited, i just felt like writing a bit of a drabble to feel out the atmosphere of a potential start to this au (clicking the tag will give up the other stuff i've posted for it btw)

btw check out the playlist and the pinterest board made by @theageofsilver and @allicentsallure bc they're fab

cw: kidnapping

Soft seventeen.

Bambi eyes, bambi legs.

There’s a certain edge to the way people describe the age she’s at. Not quite eighteen, not quite legal, tangible as cherry juice on greedy fingers. She isn’t sixteen, sweet and tender. It’s a soft first step into adulthood, skirting the border, the in between, the unknowable horrors that lie ahead.

She fucking hates being seventeen.

It’s a shit number first of all. Odd numbers make her want to spew. They feel like nails on a chalkboard, polyester static on leg hair. She can’t even dance, so whatever ABBA are singing about doesn’t apply.

Amara sticks out her tongue and tastes the air as the breeze blows west. She swears she can get a sense of the world when she does.

Her stepfather mocks her for it. That blue-eyed, blonde maniac with the ugly Buick Electra he treats like a brand-name Italian from the southern coasts of Europe. He used to treat her mother the same. Until he began to tell Amara you look just like her when she was young. He leaves his porn tabs open on his computer, as if he wants her to know. ‘Teen’, ‘Latina’, ‘Stepfather’, ‘Rough’, ‘Face-fucking’, ‘Breeding.’

She doesn’t have a drop of Hispanic blood in her.

She really wants to tell her mother, but there is a chance her mother will look right through her instead. She’s been doing that a lot more nowadays. They can’t afford her meds anymore. She just sits on the porch and watches and waits. For what, is anyone's guess.

>> can you pick me up?

>> its dark

>> pls

>> sorry ik its inconvienant

'Step-Daddy' always replies quickly when it’s her. He has a heart next to her name on his phone. She never agreed to that.

>> it’s spelled inconvenient

“Suck my dick,” Amara tells the screen and switches her phone off before he can message again.

She can walk.

The route back runs dangerously close to the edge of the forest. All kinds rot away in there, but she doesn’t like to think of them by name. They’ll become real if she does. She wishes her mother had found a man who lived in the wetlands, and not here at the cursed border between life and the realm beyond. Marshes are easier to understand. Forests are cursed.

Still, life is horribly simple here. Her high school is placid and filled with the dull-eyed children of dull-eyed adults. The gas station where she works didn’t bother to interview her. She walked in and the guy behind the counter stared at her breasts until he remembered she had a face. Her breasts aced the interview for her.

Can I work here? Just until I graduate.

Sure, grab a nametag.

Four months later, and she doesn’t mind it anymore. Her brain shuts off. Her customers are a ragtag mixture of suspicious, ferret-eyed locals and the occasionally buoyant hiker from out of state. If she doesn’t look like she belongs, she’s pretty, and that usually gives people like her a pass. At least until the sleazy comments become ethnically charged. But even then, Amara has a way of making her eyes go ‘dopey’ and just smiling like she’s too slow to understand. Displaying discomfort is what eggs them on (kind of a nasty realisation she opened her eyes to one day).

An engine growls some way down the road.

Old Chevy pickup, faded gold.

She recognises it from the parking lot at the station near the end of her shift.

A guy stepped out, young, early twenties, with a shock of hair that looked white until she realised it was just really, really blonde. She remembers thinking it was odd. The range of blondes in town runs from deep and dirty to the artificial bleach rattled out of holographic boxes of dye. No one has hair like his. She’d have noticed.

His eyebrows were a little darker, and his lashes were darker still. He had a funny way of walking, and he looked at her like she had the head of a fish and the body of a human being. Amara did her best dopey eyes. She asked him if he’d had a good day, pointed out the offers they had on pork rinds. He didn’t say a word. His skin had smears of black grease, glistening with sweat and bronzed by the sun.

Deep blue eyes.

Horribly deep.

Not the kind you’d want to swim in. She likes a softer blue, blue like chlorine, reminiscent of the safety of swimming pools. His were anything but.

She picks up her speed, and for some reason, puts her phone to her ear as if mid-conversation. Nothing about him said he was dangerous at the time. At least not from the way he’d barely said a word or looked down at her body. He was just there, and then he was gone.

And now here he is again.

The Chevy hits the horn. He is creeping closer. Amara turns and waves at him to go on. She doesn’t want a ride. Why isn’t he rolling down the window to offer one though?

It slows to a crawl. Her throat closes up. She has a feeling speeding up will give him what he wants. He’s obviously trying to be a prick. But if she goes back to talk to him, that would be exponentially worse. She switches her phone back on and sees her stepfather’s message telling her to get back home herself after she didn’t reply to tell him her location.

She quickly shoots him a message, and prays he’ll respond.

He doesn’t.

Fuck it.

She walks faster. The Chevy matches the increase. Sweat blooms on the back of her neck.

Every woman has that oh fuck moment. That I’m going to be on the evening news moment. The please god if he catches me let him kill me before he gets to raping me moment.

None of that goes through her head. She keeps thinking of her mother’s cooking. Her mother hasn’t cooked in a year and a half, not since her mind began to slip. But Amara can taste the spices on her tongue, the way the rice was perfectly simmered, the cinnamon in the back of her throat, the smell that clung to the walls, the heat of it.

I wanna come home, Momma.

Her mother’s face gathers into shape in her head, built with sand particles and saltwater. When the Chevy roars, she starts running. Her mother vanishes.

The lights of the truck blink across the tarmac. It’s a signal. But it isn’t for her.

She looks over her shoulder, and she can’t see him.

Run me over. Leave me like carrion on the road. Let the maggots eat me. Don’t cut me up first.

He slows when she starts to tire out. Picks up when she tries again. No other car has graced this road since she first turned onto it. A sign points her to the right, ushering her deeper into the backwoods. The town is to the left.

He figures out where she’s going when she suddenly makes a dash for the bend in the road.

There’s no time to dodge the pickup when it goes for her this time. The wheels skid as he yanks it at an angle and blocks her way. The door flies open and misses her by an inch. His arm grabs for her. She dodges, animal fear and rust on her tongue. He still doesn’t say a word.

A heavy fist connects with the small of her back and she drops like a stone.

The pain is electric. Air turns her lungs into taut balloons, but she can’t make a sound. She twists around and the bruise forming over her spine grates. Adrenaline quickly numbs it as she lashes out with her arms and legs. Kicking, punching, scratching, biting. Her teeth hit home. A mouthful of tattooed flesh, car oil and sweat. Still no sound from him.

She never sees the fist coming, just like last time.

A blow to the head and lights out, nancy.

[breserker]

i really do think about how my dad says that they never celebrated dia de muertos in mexico and that it was never a big deal, and if he's being actually sincere or just locally sincere. like i'm sure he's telling the truth, but i also think about how my buelito had a whole other family before the one that became mine, that my buelita was 19 years younger than him, and while i dont' know the details i can imagine the scandal, and imagine the family he left behind that is technically, at least in part, my family, and i wonder if that had any bearing on dia de muertos and whether or not it was ever a big deal to remember the fact that buelito left a whole family behind.

i think about how there are so many people that even if i know their names i don't know anything about them, and some of that is my fault and so much of that is just that i was raised with a barrier--willfully raised monolingually for no good goddamn reason other than "it was too hard :(" for two bilingual parents to juggle that. that i know it wasn't an issue of protection because later on in life my parents would just dismiss that anything racist ever happened to me or our family, and even if it did why ever pay it any mind? don't worry about the classroom of 8th graders jeering at you in front a teacher that was too shellshocked to do anything that you jumped the border, we have the papers to prove otherwise so don't mind it.

i think about how i'm wearing a baja hoodie today that smells of nothing and scratches like plastic, because when i asked my parents to find the one they got for me in mexico that smells of natural hemp and cotton and is warm and breathable and cooling at the same time, they shrugged their shoulders and got me a dirt shit one off of amazon instead because they refuse to see the sentimental value at best, the desperate grasping at straws for a culture i feel constantly denied at worst. how a sarape i bought with my best friend in mexico is somehow missing now, so they also replaced that with a shit plastic polyester bullshit one in much the same way, and there was never a time i wrapped myself in it before it became my designated car blanket cover that i didn't feel like bursting into tears. how my roommate at the very least understood this enough that i do have a sarape that smells of cotton and is both warm and breathable and cool now because at least he cared enough to try and facilitate something my own flesh and blood carelessly continues to deny

hell is freezing over, by the way, and for the first time since i've ever known the man my father is reading a fictional book for his entertainment, and it's mine. having already suffered my mother Refusing to engage with any of the racial tensions the book specifically about racial tensions provides, i have no idea what's going to happen. all i know is that i feel like an impostor and i have no history to proclaim that i'm anything otherwise

[mayakern]

Hi, I was wondering, what's the difference between the old style of bee midi skirt verses the current one? Is it just the thickness of the black border at the bottom, or is there also a color difference/something else?

old style = from our old manufacturer, which means the fabric is entirely different

the old fabric is still polyester, but it’s closer to a cotton jersey in texture and weave than the new fabric. it’s also got a significantly lower thread count.

[wordsandmorewords]

Two-Footed Scarecrows

Swearing to myself, at myself, for there were no birds on my walk. Cussing, with my teeth gnashing on the polyester collar of a coil-knit sweater that I've grabbed to above my chin with my teeth. A full two miles. Not even a pathetic, lonesome song through the branches of bare, deciduous trees. No cowboy lament. No broken-hearted diva. Not a goddamned song. I listened with intent. No birds. Plenty of two-footed scarecrows, plenty of flat-faced curs; all howling our hollows raspy no matter the volume.

Border walls built of yellow paint threaded down a black asphalt needle eye; checkpoints red-yellow-green. Fractured angles of light reflecting from windows acting as suppressive fire. Army tanks rolling at the speed of F-16s. If they'd known an isolated forest, this was a cursed bombardment; and if not, just another Wednesday hidden with the high-school-sweetheart husband drunk off his ass and left holding broken-bottle shards, cardinal blood seeping from his palms, smudges of bright red staining down the legs of his jeans.

The elder owls were surely looking down, incomprehensible disdain, furrowed brows cemented in place; evolutionary traits. Frustratedly patient, waiting for curfew to take effect and for us to return to our boxy wooden nests. "Hallelujah," they would echo. "Hallelooooojah." But all through the day, the sparrows were quiet. The hawks did not cry. For once, the jays withheld their complaints. What to make of the quiet from those whose homes we've invaded, drowned out by arrogant, ignorant, oblivious noise?

[jaggededges123]

hello it's wednesday again and this is from one of the very first wips i started working on after reading gtn <3

Colum touched the silver knob of the door with hesitant fingers, but when it didn’t melt his skin on contact he twisted it and pulled the door open. He repeated his hesitant movements at the threshold, pressing the pads of his fingertips through and waiting for agony. When none struck him, he followed his necromancer again.

The entrance was dark, likely because it wasn’t meant to be in use at this hour. Colum could make out a rack of coats on one side—heavy duty, and pure white, in varying sizes from the smallest of children to a cavalier-sized adult. Hanging from them were wide, stiff hoods which jutted out from the rest of the fabric like a spoon. Colum had never seen one before in person, but he knew what they were. They were sun hoods.

Those who labored for their food on other parts of the Eighth House wore them with great regularity, due to the way their greenhouses magnified the distant light of Dominicus so severely. In the most abundant of settlements, where the ground had been fertilized to the point where vast swathes of land were cultivated instead of small pockets, the entire settlement had been fitted with the magnifying glass, and as a result everyone who left their dwellings during the day wore the sun-hooded coats as a matter of course. In the capital city, however, there was only this one building which required their use.

On the other side of the entrance, there were a set of trunks, the contents unknown. Silas had already gone through to the gardens, the only indication that he’d been there at all the soft shifting of the thick white polyester curtains separating the two areas.

Colum walked through without touching the sun-hooded robes. It was night, and Colum was darker than most of the Eighth House already due to his cavalier training regimen and a particularly ancient Eighth gene the geneticists had slipped into his DNA.

Stepping into the conservatory dazzled Colum, because his gaze was, naturally, elevated. The starlight which seemed so distant and almost cold outside, was amplified and brilliant, dozens of pinpricks of light per pane of rounded glass dancing and winking at him. Colum lowered his gaze only when it became painful, and even then he remained halfway in and halfway out of the greenhouse, with strips of curtain still lying thick on his broad shoulders.

When the spots of white faded to black and then melted away entirely, Colum could take in the rest of the garden. There was a simplicity that bordered artistry but didn’t quite cross into it, in the dark earth packed into marble planter boxes that rose a foot and plunged into the floor. The boxes were spaced into circular, concentric rows which maximized planting space, neat rows of real plant matter filling them. Colum couldn’t identify any of them—botany was well outside of the purview of an Eighth House cavalier. He had only seen one or two real plants before in his entire life, and even now such novelty was not what truly drew his attention.

As was right and proper for the cavalier primary of the Eighth House, the one who had sworn his soul and body to the scion of the Eighth House, the one who had loved so dearly that sickly necromantic child, Colum Asht’s gaze gravitated toward his young uncle who was nearly in the center of it all.

Silas Octakiseron was knelt down next to one of the planter boxes, the white train of his cloak rumpled around him on the nearly-spotless floor. The hood of his cloak had been removed, in this makeshift private space, with only the prying eyes of his cavalier to see. His hair, tied into a simple braid that had a few tufts sticking out, glowed white under the starlight, brighter than night but not so bright as the day. It was eerie to see, in an ethereal and nonhuman sort of way. Silas was very beautiful as he carefully plucked out small sprigs of plant matter between his well-manicured hands—usually well-manicured, but his nails were long now, digging into the rich, dark earth, with the faintest shaking that Colum could hardly make out.

[yarnnerd]

My parents inherited this quilt from my great-grandmother, but the maker and date are unknown. With no repeating color scheme, it appears to be constructed from a variety of scrap fabrics including shirting, feed sacks, and a few polyester pieces. It is self-bound (the binding is made from the backing). Two edges include half-squares with a different border fabric, suggesting that the quilt top was expanded beyond its original dimensions at some point. The filling is exposed due to damage in several areas, and seems to be cotton batting. The entire quilt is hand-quilted with thick white thread in a running stitch, but the piecing appears to be a mixture of running stitch in the same thread and machine lockstitch in thinner white thread. The binding stitches are quite far apart and perpendicular to the binding edge (this is distinct from a whipstitch, but I don’t remember the name). It’s a very interesting historical textile! My mother is planning to patch the holes and display the quilt on an unused bed.

[wild-stray-renegade]

Polyester Pollution

Author’s Note: It is my personal responsibility to make sure none of these characters are having a good time— I’ve butchered their backstories and present to you the bony leftovers. Literally no one asked for this but the idea came to me and I started writing. If you want to see more of these two or this world, let me know!

TW: Plush...gore? Cursing

Word Count: 1622

     Our paws squelched in the tarry mud below us as we made our way across the open land. There's not much that we can see around us aside from the broken down buildings littering the area. I looked to our right at the one we lived in together with our draconian friend Derrin, as evidenced by the small scorch marks around one of the windows from a few of the wilder nights that the four of us had as a group. The crackling of the torch was oddly soothing in comparison to the silence of the vast landscape around us. My mind slipped into a daydream state about the shenanigans we would get up to. 

     A few seconds in however, I was broken from my dreamlike state. "...I miss him." I heard Damond mumble as he slowly came to a stop in our walk. His ears were folded back in pain. The sunlight bounced back from his little beady eyes as if to highlight the stinging hurt that decided to rear its ugly head in that moment. "I regret not being there for his final moments, not being able to say goodbye."

     A slight feeling of something new tugged at my chest; it felt like I had committed a crime and was paying the price. I'm not sure exactly what crime I actually pulled but there must've been something. "I'm…" I paused with a sigh and looked over at my buddy. "I'm sorry, Damond." I reached out a paw to comfort him but paused. Did he want to be comforted right now? Is touching him a good idea? Would that help or just cause more pain?

     Slightly ragged fur brushed against the fleece fabric of my dirty paw pads, shaking me from my thoughts. Damond had noticed my outstretched paw and decided he wanted physical affection, I guess. "Besnik… could you tell me how he was caught?"

     "Hmm? Are you sure you're ready for that story?" I raised my eyebrows. He had told me to wait for months now; the details aren't exactly a typical bedtime story that you'd tell your children late at night.

     Damond looked up at me with the pace of a snail. "I…Yeah. I'm as ready as I'm ever gonna be." He sat down on a mossy rock beside our path outside of the camp's borders. "I need to know how he passed on."

     I looked at him for a moment to make sure I didn't overlook any sign of resignation. The last thing we needed was this little shit of a fluffbutt breaking down on patrol. His stoic features worked a little too well in hiding any emotion he may have felt before. "I'm… okay." I circled around him to the other side of the rock and plopped down.

     "So. I can't recall their names or what in the hell we as a collective group have dubbed them as, but we were over there towards the Deslate Sea cause we were scavenging for those parts for Derrin— you remember, right?" I nodded towards him as he nodded back

     "Yeh; he was workin' on that one weapon; the one with the weighted spiked ball on the chain."

     "Exactly. Well, he had managed to track down a spot over there where there was an old hideout; we were thinking it was for another group of plush." I paused as the memories started to slowly creep back into my mind. "I… Well, Derrin was right on the building still being occupied, however he was a bit off the mark on who occupied it." 

     Damond's eyes shot up and locked with mine. I watched the pieces click together in his head. "No. There's no way."

     "Y'see, you say that," I raised my brow as I tilted my head towards him to emphasize my tone. "However when we arrived on the hideout's lot, the land surrounding it was covered in the same oily substance that we run into when we meet those creatures. The ones with the fire manes and tails?" I raised my paw behind my head and wiggled it to imitate the flames that line the back of the horse-like creature's necks and heads. Damond nodded in silence as he was more focused on what I was saying to interrupt. "The slick liquid? Well, I'm not sure it's really a liquid per se, but it had fully coated the area when we showed up. Was that a sign that we should've stopped?"

     Damond started to aggressively nod in response as his ears flopped in time, the black fur swaying with the wind. He didn't say anything aloud but I could see his eyes screaming You fucking dumbass! as they launched daggers into my chest repeatedly. It felt as if he was filled with the rage of a thousand suns and it was all being directed straight into not murdering me right then and there.

     "Yeah, yeah we should've. It was my first scouting mission though and I had never been properly trained; never thought I'd need to before then because we had Miraden with us. The rest of the team was decent as well." I shrugged as I mimicked a snort. "I thought I could be carried along by the others and be the healer of the group." I started to fidget with the small cloth tied around my wrist, the only reminder of my first and only 'owner'.  The text on it was barely legible, faded by the tests of time and the fact I wore it without any care in the world. 

     "So much for being a healer." My vision started to blur as I started zoning out and shutting everything down. The images of the night flooded my brain; the nighttime breeze blowing through my fur, the heavy scent of burning tar and gas searing my nose, the terrifying reflections in the oil as Miraden was jumped by one of the horse-like creatures, one of the hooves landing directly on his spine and cracking it in half, the ear-splitting screech that tore through the night and etched it's pitch into my memory and my night terrors ever since that terrible night, the lifeless eyes staring back at me as my closest friend's mangled body lied in a pool of tar, stuffing and cloth scattered around his corpse—

     A soft tap on my shoulder tore me from my nightmarish trance as I jumped into the air, my sword clattering onto the rock below. My eyes focused onto Damond's auburn, black and white furred face staring back into mine. His brow furrowed in concern as he tried to calm me down. "Hey, Besnik, bud, it's okay. You're safe now. You can't be attacked here. We have the barriers around the perimeters; you're safe. It'll be okay." I noticed my thoughts and my movements were more erratic than they normally were. My paws vibrated due to the anxiety and severe stress triggered due to the attack. 

     "Sorry, didn't realize I was zoning out so bad." A slight stutter escaped at the second word as I was trying to calm down; something I've never done before. I covered my snout with my paws in embarrassment as my face turned into a furnace— this is a horrible time to find out that my warming mechanism from being an Emotional Support Bear still works to some extent.      

     Damond could pick up on my situation as he smiled softly. "It'll be okay, Besnik." He proceeded to pat my head and then handed my sword back to me. "Here, take your blade before it vanishes into the void with half of your belongings. You have your shield and we need to keep the two together, you nut."       I scoffed as the comment playfully stung. I was still looking for my sewing kit so I could fix up the tear on my knee but that's been lost for a few weeks now. I swear, Derrin stole it and hid it among his hoard like the plush dragon he is. "Okay listen here, you little shit-'' The laughter bubbling up in my throat quickly vanished when we suddenly heard the quiet th-thud, th-thud, th-thud of hoofsteps to our right. A loud exhale soon followed as the massive shape of a horse's head peeked around the corner, liquid as thick as syrup dripping from the snout and the mouth. It's soulless eyes stared at where we sat as if it knew exactly where we rested. The neon flames on its neck blazed with a violent energy unlike anything I've ever seen before and illuminating the area around us. Pieces of rough fabric and coarse fur rested in the pools of the tar, the fabric stained and mangled by the substance as if it tainted the fabric to the point of no return. Small tufts of cotton sank into the horse's skin— if you could call it that.

     There was a massacre here.

     "A Nightmare…" Damond's voice dripped with fear as he gripped his weapon with his long tail and preparing to lunge at the towering enemy. "Time to avenge my fallen brethren." The fire reflected in his eyes to highlight the anger and pain that delved deep into his soul, tearing it to shreds with every passing moment. I turned to face the horse and stared into the glowing holes of his eyes, crouching and preparing to lunge. The calm settled on the field as the wind suddenly stopped for a few seconds and all fell silent. The only noises that could be heard were the crackling of the Mare's flames and breathing.

     As if rehearsed for years and then led by a conductor, we lunge towards the Nightmare at the same time with our weapons held high.

[fragileizywriting]

why are things always so much harder for her? why is everything so much easier for others? why does she struggle so much to stop making things so big?

as gently as she can, she slips her phone back onto her towel. neatly folded and rolled up on the stool near the bathtub as she continues to soak. at first it’d been a good idea; a bath, a long one, to roll out her stiffened calves and get into hopefully a mood relaxed enough to find the courage to ask luka for some heavy-petting during their cuddles. still now, she has to warm herself up to the idea. get into it. she feels sexless most times when the heat dies down and her eyes are able to focus, unless she helps herself get into the mindset.

maybe not this time.

instead, she sniffles. cries a bit, when she blinks and her eyelashes stick and glitter with dew.

“luka,” she calls out, gently, just loud enough that he’ll hear if he isn’t humming under his breath while fixing up the mess they’ve made of the covers. “can you come here?” a noise from outside the bathroom has her sniffling harder. “please come in here.”

the door cracks open enough to let a draft in. she tries not to shiver, but finds comfort in the feeling.

“what’s wrong?”

“i got off the phone with my mom, and i feel...”

that’s all he needs to hear. he’s not clothed, and won’t be for a few more days, because her heat is a bitch and refuses to let polyester get close. his touch, yes; their sheets, maybe; soapy water is allowed, too. but scratchy nylon is the first to go when arousal peaks and washes over like the tide and causes her to strip anything that isn’t skin.

he climbs into the tub with her.

there’s not much room. there’s no room at all, actually, because the tub is cramped for her— a tiny thing, a small thing, a handful and a problem of a thing— and when luka stands up, he goes up and up and up. it takes him a while to find a place for his kneecaps, and a place for his ankles, and feet, and thighs— giant, muscle-filled arms wrap around her while she sobs into her hands.

“i’m sorry,” he tells her.

“i did something wrong.”

“i don’t think you did. usually whenever she does this, you haven’t done anything wrong.”

“she called me a problem,” she tells him with a sob. another inhale through the nose— a wet, disgusting thing— tells her he’s stewing in bordering irritation. it bleeds through the open air, bruising the scent of patchouli and ylang ylang aromatics into submission. “she— she said that im bothering you.”

“what were her words?”

“she asked me where i was. i told her your place, but that was okay, because you’re okay with spending my first heat with me.” her throat is too tight to swallow, but she gives it a try. “she told me to be careful, that i shouldn’t annoy you, because i know how… bad i can be.”

“kitty—”

“—that i would be better dealing with this alone,” she whispers. “that way, i wouldn’t bother.”

“you’re not bothering me.”

“my brain feels numb. and exhausted. and i feel like i’ve been floating the entire time, only for that call to make everything crash back down.”

“your heat isn’t going to let you think about this for much longer.” he kisses her scalp. “i guess we can count that as a positive… i’m here, okay? you’re not bothering me. i want to take care of you. i want to be there for you. you’re okay, love. let’s finish washing your face and get you comfy into bed.”

[trystan-morningstar]

Very bad photos, but I made a new thing! It's from Folkwear Patterns, #126 vests of Greece and Poland. I've made every vest in that pattern set before except this one. This was such a fun project. It came together so easily, even the inset pieces in the back. I was nervous about that part because it was sewing opposing curves and neither of the fabrics I was using had any stretch. The black print fabric was a gift from my bestie and it was a pleasure to work with, and the solid black is a faux suede I bought a while ago for another project. The trims I used I also bought a while ago, on a whim from etsy. They were easy to work with but they do unravel very easily lol. I made my own bias binding for the border and arm holes, it's definitely wasn't my best but it also wasn't horrible lol. I'm still not great at binding, I always miss spots when machine sewing it but I will say this was my best time yet so practice does help. I do plan on buying more of the plain black trim (when I'm not broke) and sewing that on top of the bias binding. I'm definitely going to make another one of these already. I have fabric in my stash that I was actually saving for this pattern. It's this patchworky gold and red tapestry esque thing? I got at a thrift store before covid lol. I'm guessing it was a drape or wall hanging, I used a seam ripper to remove the cheap polyester backing and I'm going to use the main fabric for the vest. I'll try and take progress pics but I'm really excited about it.

[qocsuing]

Brown Packing Tape for a Professional Shipping Appearance

Advantages of Brown Packing Tape Brown packing tape is made of high-quality polypropylene (PP) or polyester (PET) materials with extremely high viscosity and tensile strength. During transportation and storage, it can firmly fix the product packaging and prevent the product from being damaged due to violent shaking during transportation. In addition, the color of brown packing tape itself has an elegant and natural tone, giving people a simple and high-end feeling. Compared with transparent tape, brown packing tape is more resistant to the adhesion of stains and dust, and keeps clean and tidy for a long time, thus adding a sense of stability and professionalism to the packaging. Most brown packing tapes are made of environmentally friendly materials and meet the requirements of green packaging, especially for brands that focus on sustainable development.Get more news about Durable Shipping Tape,you can vist our website!

The perfect combination of brown packing tape and shipping appearance Using brown packing tape can add a unique sense of professionalism to the shipping appearance. When consumers receive the goods, they see a tightly sealed and neat package, which gives people an impression that the product quality is excellent and the company is formal and professional. Especially in cross-border e-commerce, retail distribution and other industries, brown packing tape can help merchants convey the message of stability and reliability. Compared with custom printed tape, brown packing tape is simpler and more elegant, more in line with the public aesthetic, and more adaptable. In addition, the firmness and durability of brown packing tape can ensure the integrity of the packaging during long-term transportation, reducing the risk of moisture, tearing or cracking of packaging bags and boxes. In various harsh environments of logistics and transportation, brown packing tape can provide additional protection to ensure that the goods are still intact when they are delivered to consumers.

Tengen brand brown packing tape Tengen's brown packing tape is a very popular product in the market. With its excellent quality and excellent performance, it is widely used in transportation packaging in various industries. Our brown packing tape is made of high-strength polypropylene material to ensure that the tape performs well in stretching, bonding and anti-aging, and can maintain the stickiness and firmness of the tape for a long time, and is not easy to fall off or fail.

Why choose Tengen's brown packing tape? Tengen's brown packing tape has been recognized by many companies for its excellent adhesion and durability. Whether you are a small business or a large logistics company, we can provide tailor-made packaging solutions to help companies enhance their professional image during transportation. Tengen's brown packing tape is suitable for a variety of packaging materials, including cartons, wooden boxes, etc., and has high compression and tensile strength, which can provide reliable protection during transportation.

In addition to conventional standard tapes, Tengen also provides customized services, which can print company logos or other information according to corporate needs to make the packaging more brand recognizable.

[giftyworld]

Check out this listing I just added to my Poshmark closet: NWT BAREFOOT DREAMS CozyChic Stacked rib Border Throw Blanket 45"x 60" Pearl.

[thecowprintshop]

.sbl-size-table border-collapse: collapse; padding: 0; margin: 0 0 20px; width: 100%; font-size: 14px; text-align: heart; .sbl-size-table th font-weight: 500; .sbl-size-table td, .sbl-size-table th padding: 8px 0; border: 1px strong #e5e9f2; shade: #3e3f42; text-shadow: 1px 1px 1px #fff; text-align: heart; .sbl-size-table th:first-child, .sbl-size-table td:first-child text-align: left; padding: 8px 5px 8px 15px; width: 103px; .sbl-size-guide-container width: 100%; text-align: heart; margin-bottom: 20px; margin-top: 20px; .sbl-size-guide-container img max-width: 200px; margin: auto; .product-tabs width: 100%; show: flex; flex-wrap: wrap; .product-tabs enter place: absolute; high: 0; left: 0; show: none; .product-tabs label width: 48px; top: 36px; order: 1; show: inline-block; padding: 5px; border-bottom: 2px strong #e2e2e2; box-sizing: border-box; cursor: pointer; .product-tabs label img max-width: 25px; show: block; margin: auto; .product-tabs .tab-content width: 100%; order: 10; show: none; margin: 4px 0; .product-tabs enter:checked + label border-bottom: 3px strong #000; .product-tabs enter:checked + label + .tab-content show: block; .subl-product-description img max-width: 100%; These yoga leggings are crafted from a premium polyester and spandex mix, making them good for moments when each type and performance matter. Our extra-soft microfiber material with superior stretch makes these a pleasure to put on for all events. • 82% polyester, 18% spandex • 4-way stretch • Squat proof • Flatlock stitching • Elastic waistband • Microfiber yarn • Interior waistband pocket Washing directions Machine was chilly cycle Tumble dry low warmth Don't bleach Don't iron As a result of it is handmade for you, these yoga pants require 6-8 enterprise days earlier than they're shipped. Orders positioned earlier than midnight might be included within the following day’s batch for manufacturing. Inch XS S M L XL Waist 25 28 30 35 37 Hips 35 38 41 45 49 Inseam 27 ½ 27 ⅞ 28 ¼ 28 ⅞ 29 ¼ Centimeters XS S M L XL Waist 64 71 76 89 94 Hips 89 97 104 114 124 Inseam 70 71 72 73 74

[cococouture]

Check out this listing I just added to my Poshmark closet: This collarless Frank Lyman jacket features large,.

[floridacustommerch]

"Make a Splash: Custom Beach Towels for Effective Branding"

Why Choose Custom Beach Towels for Branding?

Beach towels are large, offering plenty of surface area to display your logo, tagline, or vibrant artwork. Whether you’re promoting a summer event, gifting clients, or stocking a resort, custom towels help you stand out in a competitive market.

The Importance of Thickness

When choosing beach towels, thickness is a crucial factor. While plush, thick towels feel luxurious, they come with a drawback—they take longer to dry. This can be inconvenient for users and impractical in wet environments. Ideally, you want towels that strike a balance:

Absorbent but not bulky: They should quickly soak up water without retaining excess moisture.

Fast-drying: This ensures convenience for users and reduces the risk of mildew or odors.

Light to medium-weight beach towels are a great choice. They’re easier to transport, quicker to dry, and still provide comfort and durability.

Materials Matter

High-quality materials enhance the performance and feel of your custom beach towels. Consider these options:

Cotton: A classic choice known for its softness and absorbency. Look for ring-spun cotton for added durability.

Microfiber: Lightweight and ultra-fast drying, microfiber towels are perfect for active users or those on the go.

Cotton-Polyester Blends: These combine the best of both worlds—absorbency and durability—while being less prone to shrinking.

Custom Features for Impact

Your branding efforts come to life through customization. Features to consider include:

Full-color printing: Vivid, eye-catching designs that make your logo impossible to miss.

Embroidery: Adds a touch of elegance and longevity.

Border details: Enhance the towel's look with unique hems or patterns.

Applications for Custom Beach Towels

Custom beach towels have widespread appeal. Some popular uses include:

Corporate gifts:��Impress clients and employees with a practical yet stylish branded item.

Resort amenities: Elevate guest experiences at hotels, spas, and pools.

Event giveaways: Perfect for beach festivals, outdoor concerts, or charity runs.

Retail products: Add a branded line of towels to your merchandise offerings.

Care Tips for Longevity

To ensure your towels maintain their quality, remind recipients of these care tips:

Wash before first use to maximize absorbency.

Avoid using fabric softeners, which can reduce absorbency.

Air dry or tumble dry on low to prevent shrinking or weakening fibers.

Make Waves with Custom Beach Towels

When designed thoughtfully, custom beach towels can become a staple of your brand’s marketing strategy. Their utility, combined with the large branding canvas they provide, ensures your logo will be seen wherever the water takes them.

Ready to make a splash? Explore custom beach towel options today and bring your brand to life in sunny, wet, and vibrant environments.

Ask An Expert/Request a Quote