#hide patchwork rug

[blogresources]

San Francisco Great Room

Large mid-century modern great room idea with a light wood floor, gray walls, and a two-sided fireplace

[yes-rughouse-universe]

Bringing the Wild Indoors With the Beauty of Cowhide Rugs in NZ Homes

Looking for high-quality Brazilian cowhide rugs in NZ? Our natural extra-large cowhides are perfect for adding a touch of luxury to your home decor.

[hhoneylemon]

dew during the warmth of spring

tim drake x gn!reader

summary: you wake up at the kent farm with a hangover. after stumbling into conners room, you find your friends. you snack on stale popcorn while having a needed conversation with tim, one where things finally change.

warning: mentions of puke. enjoy :)

it was a warm spring.

dew was collecting on the grass beneath you. your eyes cracked open to the sight of a bright blue sky, fluffy white clouds scattered across the canvas. your head was pounding behind your eyes, making everything look brighter than it should. the heat of the rays of the sun spread over you like a blanket, offering warmth even with the coolness of the dewy grass soaking through your clothes.

you aren’t sure why you slept outside. this is awfully peaceful, especially for how you live. a faint taste of copper pushes through your mouth and invades your senses.

you elect to ignore it, rising and using your hands to prop yourself upright. this certainly wasn’t opal city. you swallow thickly, throat dry. something smells. turning your head, you can see the yellow liquid in the grass.

you must’ve gotten drunk. you recognized where you were by turning just slightly farther to see the building. the kent farm in smallville.

you stand to your feet and begin wobbling to the front door. you’re faintly aware that the tractor isn’t on like most mornings that you spend here. pa must not be awake yet. no issues, you know the little farmhouse like the back of your hand.

you carefully trot up the stairs, looking for conners room. the door was painted white, though the paint was chipping. there was a crack down the middle and the paint at the bottom of the door was missing, showing the brown wood underneath. even the wallpaper near the doorframe was yellowed and peeling.

you open the door and step inside, quietly shutting it behind you. you smile fondly at your friends. tim stole the bed, curled up on top of the quilt, facing the wall. the quilt looks similar to some of ma’s patchwork; you’ll have to ask about it later. cassie took the oversized beanbag in the corner of the room, legs stretched in front of her while her head dangles low, blonde hair hiding her face. conner is spread on the floor, the rug barely softening his body from the hardwood beneath. 

you wonder where bart is, but you have a faint memory of the night before. you had called jay to come get him as cassie and conner were reaching for the alcohol that ma and pa like to keep hidden from everyone. bart was too young to drink, you all had decided. 

now you’re wondering how you ended up outside if the others are up here. you jog your memory. you suddenly remember saying you needed to use the restroom. it’s downstairs, a few doors away from the kitchen. maybe you heard a noise outside and went to check it out and just got sleepy. or, the more likely answer, you threw up and got too lazy to come back inside, so you slept under the stars instead. 

you spot a comically large bowl near cassies left leg. you walk closer, carefully treading across the floor. sometimes the floorboards of conners room  would creak when you walked, the foundation of the farmhouse not very stable. it was an old house, after all.

inside the bowl was stale popcorn. you remember that the four of you had planned to stay up late and chat, drink some more and really hang out for the first time in weeks. the popcorn had a tiny dent in it. maybe you going to the bathroom and never returning killed their mood and put them to sleep.

“oops,��� you whisper into the silence of the room. nobody stirs.

you take the bowl and approach the bed. tim is far away from the edge that he won’t feel if you sit on it. the mattress dips under your weight as you lower yourself upon it, popping a piece of the stale popcorn into your mouth. it tastes like cardboard, but you can’t find yourself to care, not on an empty stomach.

you eat a few pieces before you feel movements behind you. turning your head, you hold a small smile. tim’s rolled onto his back now, staring at you through barely opened eyes. he groans, pale eyes fluttering shut all over again. you wonder what his light sensitivity is.

“stale popcorn?”

you offer the bowl, a teasing smile settling on your lips. his eyes open, testing the light once again. it’s clear his head is hurting him, though you know he’ll survive. you wonder how many migraines he’s gotten over the years.

“you disgust me.”

you huff in response. you were only being nice, after all. nonetheless, tim slowly sits up and scoots himself beside you. his thigh presses against yours, warm even through both of your guys’ pants. he cringes.

“you’re wet.”

he grabs a few pieces of popcorn from the bowl, testing out the first one. tastes like salty cardboard and scratches his throat as he swallows it practically whole. he deems it good enough and eats the rest he grabbed.

“i slept outside. the grass gets wet in the morning, though i suppose as a gothamite, you wouldn’t know that.”

he protests lightly, though the small smile that hints at his lips melt away all seriousness that they held. you fall into a comfortable silence, watching over your friends. cassies breaths kept blowing her hair away from her face, though the hair would fall back into place for her to blow away once again. conner has drool dripping from the corner of his mouth and down his jaw. he needs to shave. his stubble has spread from his jaw to his chin and upper lip.

slowly, you turn to tim. he’s polished off a few pieces of popcorn and is now rubbing at his temple. the lights must be worsening his headache. after a moment, he returns your gaze.

his eyes are soft, holding fondness and tiredness. he looks as if he could sleep for another few hours. his hair is falling into his face and framing his cheekbones. you loved the new look, longer hair that wisps around him and making him look more mature. he no longer looks like the fourteen year old that he was when the team started.

your fingers reach out to brush his hair away before you can really think about it. his lips part just so and suddenly they’re on yours within the blink of an eye. he’s so warm, his lips making your head feel fuzzy. tim’s lips are chapped and his breath smells like beer when he pulls back for a breath, but you can’t bring yourself to care.

you’d never quite thought of tim like this. well, that isn’t true. you knew he was pretty, prettier than many other people you’d met. he was also very intelligent, and the way he went on rambles had drawn you in from the start. his loser personality was the icing on the cake, though the casualness of him was the topping.

he was casual in the way he loved you. he held your hand sometimes, squeezed it in his own and smiled at you when you looked at him. he kissed your cheek sometimes, though it was always so fast you never really thought about it. you cuddled sometimes, but you did that with all of your teammates after a rough time. you didn’t think it was too special between the both of you, even if he would put his head on your chest to listen to your heartbeat in the night. not even if he would card his hand through your hair or if he would run a hand down your spine.

you’re thinking too much into this. maybe he’s still not completely sober. maybe he just wants some sensation after feeling so empty. that’s certainly how you feel right now; empty stomach,

empty heart, empty mind.

tim senses your unease like it’s his superpower. like reading you is all he has ever known to do.

“you alright?”

you gulp and shake your head. you don’t want to talk about it, and certainly not to him. maybe if you were drunk again. the thought certainly sounded appealing. though, you suppose all you can really do is kiss him again.

you lean in, lips brushing against him again, curious. almost shy. his arms find their way around your neck, his lips pressing harder against yours. you lean in and slowly wrap your arms around his torso, lips melding to his. his fingers play with the hair at the nape of your neck, teeth pulling at your lips. you grow lightheaded and pull away.

he breathes slowly through his nose, eyeing you through his long lashes. you lick your lips, blinking at him. this was agonizing, the silence between you. there was so much to say, though you couldn’t find the words you wished to use. a snore comes from the floor, sounding like the floorboards themselves.

you then sigh. why be a coward, anyways? you’re a superhero, you risk your life every other day. why is confessing your big fat crush on one of your best friends so hard?

you hype yourself up mentally as you lean in to press kisses at his cheek. one near his mouth, one under his eye, one over his cheekbone. tim melts under your touch. he finds himself enjoying this, leaning into you and smiling beside himself. you pull away for a moment, biting your lip, before deciding to utter the words that sit on your tongue.

“i really like you, tim. i have for a while. go out with me?”

—is what you would have said if you had the courage. instead, tim can see you crumbling mentally just by looking in your eyes. you need some assistance.

“wanna come play video games with me sometime, just the two of us? i just bought a new call of duty game.”

his nose presses to your cheek as he leans in. he nuzzles you, lightly rubbing his nose along your face for a moment before tilting his head to peck your cheekbone. you smile, fingers beginning to tap a rhythm into his back. it seems to soothe him as he melts further into you.

“sounds good.”

you murmured in response, having him smile in turn. you lean in to share another kiss, though the both of you jump as a groan sounds from the floor.

“i feel like i got hit by a truck.”

cassie. you and tim smile sheepishly at each other, carefully extracting yourselves from the other. you had forgotten your friends were here.

A/N: i just finished reading tractors a few hours ago, but i finished writing this very soon after i finished it. it made me largely sad and this is heavily inspired by it. i love the core four very much :(

masterlist

[thehungergamesrenaissance]

I am so sorry for the person I will become in March. PEOPLE magazine released an excerpt from chapter one of Sunrise on the Reaping. Read below

-

“Happy birthday, Haymitch!” 

The upside of being born on reaping day is that you can sleep late on your birthday. It’s pretty much downhill from there. A day off school hardly compensates for the terror of the name drawing. Even if you survive that, nobody feels like having cake after watching two kids being hauled off to the Capitol for slaughter. I roll over and pull the sheet over my head. 

“Happy birthday!” My 10-year-old brother, Sid, gives my shoulder a shake. “You said be your rooster. You said you wanted to get to the woods at daylight.” 

It’s true. I’m hoping to finish my work before the ceremony so I can devote the afternoon to the two things I love best — wasting time and being with my girl, Lenore Dove. My ma makes indulging in either of these a challenge, since she regularly announces that no job is too hard or dirty or tricky for me, and even the poorest people can scrape up a few pennies to dump their misery on somebody else. But given the dual occasions of the day, I think she’ll allow for a bit of freedom as long as my work is done. It’s the Gamemakers who might ruin my plans. 

“Haymitch!” wails Sid. “The sun’s coming up!” 

“All right, all right. I’m up, too.” I roll straight off the mattress onto the floor and pull on a pair of shorts made from a government-issued flour sack. The words "courtesy of the Capitol" end up stamped across my butt. My ma wastes nothing. Widowed young when my pa died in a coal mine fire, she’s raised Sid and me by taking in laundry and making every bit of anything count. The hardwood ashes in the fire pit are saved for lye soap. Eggshells get ground up to fertilize the garden. Someday these shorts will be torn into strips and woven into a rug. 

I finish dressing and toss Sid back in his bed, where he burrows right down in the patchwork quilt. In the kitchen, I grab a piece of corn bread, an upgrade for my birthday instead of the gritty, dark stuff made from the Capitol flour. Out back, my ma’s already stirring a steaming kettle of clothes with a stick, her muscles straining as she flips a pair of miner’s overalls. She’s only 35, but life’s sorrows have already cut lines into her face, like they do. 

Ma catches sight of me in the doorway and wipes her brow. “Happy 16th. Sauce on the stove.” 

“Thanks, Ma.” I find a saucepan of stewed plums and scoop some on my bread before I head out. I found these in the woods the other day, but it’s a nice surprise to have them all hot and sugared. “Need you to fill the cistern today,” Ma says as I pass. 

We’ve got cold running water, only it comes out in a thin stream that would take an age to fill a bucket. There’s a special barrel of pure rainwater she charges extra for because the clothes come out softer, but she uses our well water for most of the laundry. What with pumping and hauling, filling the cistern’s a two-hour job even with Sid’s help. 

“Can’t it wait until tomorrow?” I ask. 

“I’m running low and I’ve got a mountain of wash to do,” she answers. 

"This afternoon, then,” I say, trying to hide my frustration. If the reaping’s done by one, and assuming we’re not part of this year’s sacrifice, I can finish the water by three and still see Lenore Dove.

A blanket of mist wraps protectively around the worn, gray houses of the Seam. It would be soothing if it wasn’t for the scattered cries of children being chased in their dreams. In the last few weeks, as the Fiftieth Hunger Games has drawn closer, these sounds have become more frequent, much like the anxious thoughts I work hard to keep at bay. The second Quarter Quell. Twice as many kids. No point in worrying, I tell myself, there’s nothing you can do about it. Like two Hunger Games in one. No way to control the outcome of the reaping or what follows it. So don’t feed the nightmares. Don’t let yourself panic. Don’t give the Capitol that. They’ve taken enough already.

[vosh-rakh]

The trek from Maar Gan, traveling the treacherous Foyada Bani-Dad up to the northern ashlands of Vvardenfell, was long and arduous, and cliff racers hounded Ku-vastei like flies. Some she could swat away; others, the truly hungry, she had to impale on her spear. She found that a quick swipe, her hands on the far end of the haft for extra reach, could rip open one of their wings. From there, finishing off the creature was a simple task, albeit annoying. She ended up covered in their black blood, staining her robes.

Once she found a gap in the Foyada’s eastern peaks, she found herself in a wide grey expanse of ash and dust. It was different from the ashlands near Ald’ruhn, and the hell-pits of Molag Amur. The air was calm, the atmosphere tranquil. Her scaled feet sank comfortably into the bed of ash, squeezing in between her clawed toes like sand. It seemed like the northern winds from the Sea of Ghosts kept away the ashstorms, and for this, she was immensely glad.

Ku-vastei could see nearby along the coast the distinctive shapes and spires of a Daedric ruin. None of the guides she consulted in Maar Gan mentioned this; she hadn’t thought to prepare for fighting Daedra. She gave it a wide berth as she traveled parallel to the shore, seeking the Urshilaku camp.

She caught the scent of the smoke before she saw it rising into the night sky, obscuring the stars. Tentatively she approached; eventually she saw the source casting warm light on patchwork guar and kagouti hides, silhouettes dancing like a shadowplay against their canvas.

The camp was small. She counted maybe twenty round tents erected around a smoothed plot of ashland, each scarcely adorned with hints of color in small tapestries and hanging rugs. A large silt strider shell, greyed from its many years of disuse, seemed to anchor the little village; a nearby small well surrounded by short black spires of igneous rock centered the huts around it. 

Ku-vastei realized she was being watched. A nearby Ashlander had stopped in his tracks, staring at her without expression. 

“Hail,” said Ku-vastei, breaking the uncomfortable silence. 

The Dunmer only grunted in response, his red eyes still trained on her scales.

Most other times, Ku-vastei might have taken offense. But way out here, in the middle of nowhere, she doubted this Dunmer had ever seen an Argonian in his life – maybe not even heard of such a person. She tried again. “Hail. I wish to speak to your…leader. Ashkhan. And your Wise Woman.”

The Ashlander scoffed. “And who are you,” he said, his voice somehow even more gravelly than the typical Vvardenfeller, “that you should ask for an audience with the great Sul-Matuul?” He spoke Dunmeris well enough, but it was clearly not his first language, judging by his intonation.

“I am Ku-vastei. I wish to learn about the Nerevarine prophecies.”

“You are an outlander,” corrected the Ashlander, “and not of the Velothi, much less our tribe. You will not receive audience.”

Ku-vastei’s tail swept through the ash behind her angrily. The Ashlander noticed, but didn’t seem to understand, his tired gaze unchanging. He began to turn around.

Ku-vastei took a deep breath to calm herself, and thought back to what Hassour had told her in Ald’ruhn about Ashlander customs. “Wait,” she said, calling back to the Ashlander as he started to walk away. He turned back. “Muthsera,” Ku-vastei said, “is there anything I can do for you? Is there something I could give to you, to earn your respect?”

The Ashlander cocked an eyebrow. “Hm. Maybe you do know our ways.” He paused to think for a moment. “Trama root. I need some for brewing Rising Force. I hunt in the foyada to the west for our tribe. It helps me to take flight to chase the racers when they flee.”

Ku-vastei reflected on her inventory, and begged for a moment from the Ashlander. She swung her pack from her shoulders, set it in the ash, and began to dig through her belongings. Eventually she pulled from it a nub of trama root, wrapped in paper to keep it from reacting with her other ingredients, and offered it to the hunter. “This will help you. I offer it freely, as a gift, muthsera.”

The hunter took the parcel and unfolded the paper to inspect the sample. “Yes, this will do. A large root, too. I can make several potions from just this.”

The camp was silent for a moment, its other denizens asleep, as the hunter quietly pocketed the trama root. Ku-vastei was unsure it had worked, and nearly spoke again, but the hunter cut her off. “Zabamund. You will speak with him, with my blessing. He is gulakhan, and the closest to Sul-Matuul. You can try to convince him to give you his blessing to speak with the ashkhan. Make sure to tell Zabamund that Shabinbael sent you. That is my name, and he will know it.”

“Where can I find Zabamund?”

“The ashkhan and gulakhan yurts are five yurts under one canopy, with Sul-Matuul’s at the center. The yurt to the right of his is Zabamund’s.”

Ku-vastei nodded, and said, “Thank you, muthsera.” Begrudgingly, she decided to add, “Blessings of Azura upon you.”

Never in the entire exchange did Shabinbael’s expression change, and it did not now. “Hmph,” he grumbled, before disappearing into a nearby tent.

Ku-vastei clasped her pack and returned it to her back, taking note of the nearby tents – “yurts,” Shabinbael called them – as she did. She took her small journal from a pocket in her robes, and jotted something down with her charcoal pencil about the layout of the camp before closing the book and pocketing it again. Then she headed for the largest complex of yurts, which housed the ashkhan and his gulakhans. Following Shabinbael’s directions, she cautiously entered the yurt right-of-center.

It was clearly the abode of a warrior. Chitin weapons and beast trophies hung from the kagouti-skin walls, leaning inwards towards the fire like individual threats. It put Ku-vastei’s tail on edge, as if she were personally under attack. 

Zabamund sat behind the fire, every inch of his body covered with chitin armor, his war-axe laying by his side inches from his resting hands. His eyes burned like burning coals, piercing the hearth’s flame, and Ku-vastei’s face.

“Outlander,” he spoke, his voice low and threatening. “Why do you think it proper to enter my home, during my time of rest?”

Ku-vastei set her jaw tight, the words barely passing through her teeth: “I am Ku-vastei, sent by Shabinbael. I wish to learn of the Nerevarine prophecies from your ashkhan and wise woman.”

Zabamund did not move; only the dancing of the flame, and the fluttering of the shadows of weapons and trophies on the walls. “And why should Sul-Matuul or Nibani Maesa speak with you on these things? Who are you, that they should trust you?”

Ku-vastei nearly rolled her eyes before catching herself. This old song and dance, again. She considered digging out her coinpurse, but she changed her mind with a glance at Zabamund’s war-axe, the only weapon in the room not flickering in the light. “I will fight you for the honor of Sul-Matuul’s ear. To the death, if need be, but I see you are an honorable man, of great accomplishment, and it would be a pity for your tribe to lose you.”

All was silent save the crackling of flame for a scant moment. But then a surprising thing happened, which caught Ku-vastei off-guard: Zabamund smiled, his teeth shining through the rising fire. “You are not an unworthy opponent,” he said. “I hear honor in your words, and courage in your heart. I would regret killing you. But regret even more should you kill me.” He paused a moment, considering carefully. “Very well. Perhaps Sul-Matuul will be angry with me. But I think I can bear that. Go to the ashkhan's yurt and speak with Sul-Matuul. Ask him your questions, and tell him I have sent you.”

Ku-vastei bowed, and ducked out of the tent. The warm light from the gulakhan’s hearthfire flickered away to nothing with each rhythmic shutter of the door-flap until it fell closed completely.

She turned one yurt to the left, towards Sul-Matuul’s tent. She took a deep breath of the cold night air before pushing the door-flap aside to enter.

The ashkhan’s walls were not covered with weapons, nor hunting- and war-trophies. They seemed bare at first, but then Ku-vastei slowly noticed they were lined with hanging scrolls, their strange lettering faint in the dim candlelight. The space was warm despite the lack of a true fire. Sul-Matuul stood stoic facing one such scroll, his eyes racing down its lines of script.

Ku-vastei made to speak, but Sul-Matuul spoke first. “My champion Zabamund has sent you. This is good. You wish to speak with me about the Nerevarine prophecies.” He turned his head towards Ku-vastei, still standing in the open door-flap. “Come in…Argonian. We may discuss this only in private.”

Ku-vastei couldn’t tell through his Velothi accent whether the tone of “Argonian” betrayed bigotry, or merely neutral surprise. Nevertheless she finished entering, letting the flap fall closed behind her. “Sul-Matuul,” she said, “I am Ku-vastei. I come to you and your people to learn of these prophecies.” She hesitated a moment before adding, “I believe I may fulfill them.”

Sul-Matuul scoffed. “You are an outlander. You are not Urshilaku; you are not Velothi; you are not even Dunmer. You are a fool for believing this, and anyone would be a fool to believe you.”

Ku-vastei’s tail swung viciously, audibly hitting the yurt’s door-flap with a slap. Her jaw barely opening, she hissed, “Test me against the prophecies. Test me by truth, not by assumption. By my claws, not by my scales.”

A flash in Sul-Matuul’s eyes suggested both fury and laughter at the same time. “You are a bold fool, then. No outlander can join the Nerevarine cult.” He scratched under his chin. “But if one were adopted to the tribe as Clanfriend…”

“How must I do this?”

Sul-Matuul finally turned to face Ku-vastei directly. “I have an initiation rite in mind. A harrowing. In a harrowing, you will be judged by the spirits and ancestors to see if you are worthy.” He stepped towards Ku-vastei. “Go to the Urshilaku Burial Caverns. Fetch me Sul-Senipul’s Bonebiter Bow. Sul-Senipul was my father, and his spirit yet defends the caverns, and his bow. Enter deep within the caverns and seek out this artifact. Do not return to me without it.”

“How may I find this place?”

“Ask one of our hunters. Seek Shabinbael. He knows the region well.”

Ku-vastei nodded, and with nothing left to say, she left.

- - - 

By the same time the next evening, Ku-vastei had returned. Exhausted, she barged into Sul-Matuul’s yurt without caution. “Sul-Matuul,” she said. “I bring you your father’s bow.” She grasped its taut chitin length tightly in her claws.

(Sul-Senipul’s bow was not the only thing Ku-vastei claimed from the Burial Caverns to make the adventure worth all the trouble. Among the honored dead she found a staff she knew would prove beneficial to her career with the Mage’s Guild, an enchanted helm of the Telvanni Dust Adepts, a magical glass greatsword, and a poison-tipped silver spear. These she concealed in the ash nearby the Urshilaku camp to retrieve later; another item, a Dreugh-shell cuirass, she wore concealed under her robes.)

Sul-Matuul was sitting against one of the walls, his head lowered either in repose or meditation, she could not tell. He raised his bright red eyes to see. “You return, covered in bone dust and ectoplasm. Interesting. And with the Bonebiter. Bring it here.”

Ku-vastei did as bidden, stepping forward to offer the bow. As she extended her hands towards Sul-Matuul, she noticed some kind of resistance or friction, as if her arms were unwilling to give it away. A curse on the bow, as some kind of final challenge? No, she thought, as she focused her eyes. Sul-Matuul had a vague violet aura about him. Some kind of Shield, either freshly applied in suspicion of her intent, or else a paranoid perpetual one on his person.

Regardless, she forced the bow into Sul-Matuul’s hands and quickly retracted her arms from the Shield. The Ashkhan inspected the bow, his hands tenderly running down its length, fingers testing the tautness of the string. “Yes,” he said. “It is dusty, but in good shape. Sul-Senipul has maintained it, all these years, even in death.” He held it back out to Ku-vastei. “Here. Take it. I have no need for it.”

Ku-vastei struggled against the Shield again to retrieve the bow. “And as for your promise?”

“Yes. Somehow you completed the initiation rite.” He rose to his feet. “I name you Clanfriend of the Velothi. Respect fellow members of the Urshilaku, their health, safety, and property, and they shall respect you also.” 

He walked towards the opposite wall, littered with scrolls. “Now that you are Clanfriend, I will speak plainly. I find your claim hard to believe. You are an outlander. The Nerevarine is to drive the outlanders from Morrowind. How could an outlander be the incarnate?” He turned his head back swiftly. “The Great Houses have stolen everything from us, the true Velothi, and mock us with false gods. They steal our land, and our dignity. The Nerevarine is the last hope of the Velothi to survive. No outlander will steal this hope from us.”

Ku-vastei didn’t know what to say. She knew little of the ashlanders, but what Sul-Matuul said sounded familiar. “My own people have had everything stolen from them by the Houses,” she said. “The Saxhleel have had our lands stolen, our Hist trees burned, our bodies enslaved and beaten.” She sighed. “Once, I raised an army to take back what was ours, many years ago.”

“You live,” Sul-Matuul observed, “yet clearly you failed.”

Her grip tightened on the Bonebiter, her tail straightening rigid. “I have learned much in the last twenty years. I will not fail again.”

Sul-Matuul said nothing, but nodded after a moment. “Perhaps. Go. Speak with Nibani Maesa. She will put you to the true tests.”

- - -

The wise woman's hair was intricately braided and decorated with racer plumes and glass beads. Not just glass beads, Ku-vastei realized, but glass beads, the volcanic material smoothed into small milky-green pebbles. This valuable stuff, which could have been wrought into an axe or spear for a gulakhan, was instead lovingly crafted to beautify the wise woman. This reverence humbled Ku-vastei, who remembered bringing useless but pretty stones found at the bottom of saltrice paddies to her naheesh long ago. She would sit and listen to more stories from the Marsh as her elder drilled quiet holes into them.

The sharp click of a snap stole Ku from her reverie, and she came back to the wise woman’s yurt. Nibani Maesa studied her guest’s face. “Did you hear me, outlander? You are not the Nerevarine.”

Ku-vastei blinked away surprise and grounded herself by listening to the windchimes outside. “Okay,” she said.

Nibani frowned. “‘Okay’?”

“Am I supposed to feel like the Nerevarine?” Ku’s tail swished restlessly behind her in the ash as she sat on her knees atop the rug the wise woman had laid out for her.

“Ku-vastei. You come to us, to the great Urshilaku, to our great ashkhan Sul-Matuul, and claim to be the Nerevarine.” Nibani closed her eyes and shook her head. “You even go on his suicide-quest, and return triumphant.”

Ku-vastei’s eyes widened. “Suicide-quest?”

Nibani opened her eyes again. “Never mind that. You do all this, then you meet the slightest resistance from me, of all people, and you decide you have done enough? You will forfeit your claim so easily?”

“But I’m only doing what I was told.” Ku realized how this must sound, so quickly elaborated. “I mean, I’ve been told I might be the Nerevarine. But I don’t feel like it.”

“A hero never feels like a hero,” said Nibani Maesa, pointing at Ku-vastei’s heart. 

“I thought you said I wasn’t the Nerevarine?” Ku asked, her mouth not closing after the last syllable.

“Yes, I said you are not the Nerevarine. But you could yet become the Nerevarine.”

Ku-vastei clenched her jaw shut. “That makes no sense. I either am or I’m not.”

“Such is the way of prophecy. Azura rarely makes her intentions fully known all at once.”

“Azura,” Ku-vastei breathed, “Azura, Azura. I’ve had enough of Azura.”

Nibani either didn’t hear or pretended not to. “There are conditions you haven’t met. Some you have. You were born under the Steed, which is auspicious. So was Nerevar. Your parents are unknown. So were Nerevar’s.” Nibani took a sip of her trama root tea. “But as for the conditions you haven’t met, perhaps you still may. In time.”

Ku-vastei gulped down some of her own tea. Maybe this won’t have been a wasted effort after all. “What must I do to meet them?”

“Not all is known to me. Many things we Wise Women once knew have been lost. But surely, somewhere, they were written. Find the Lost Prophecies, if you can. Then I can be your guide. Until then, go. Reflect on what you have learned. And take these to study.” Nibani handed Ku-vastei the two scrolls of riddle-like prophecies she had been consulting. 

Ku-vastei carefully tucked the scrolls into her bag and stood to leave. “Thank you, naheesh.”

“Nibani.”

“Yes. Sorry.” Ku-vastei didn’t realize she’d called her “naheesh.” She felt an old sense of peace and comfort around this old woman that reminded her of the matronly elder on the plantation where she was born. 

“Go. Come back when you are ready.”

Ku-vastei left Nibani Maesa’s yurt, and looked up at the moons and stars above her as she stood on the intricate rug outside. She hoped this would be enough for Caius, for now.

[mellarkdandelion]

First look at "Sunrise on the Reaping"

People Magazine released an exclusive excerpt from the first chapter of "Sunrise on the Reaping"! Read it below!

“Happy birthday, Haymitch!” 

The upside of being born on reaping day is that you can sleep late on your birthday. It’s pretty much downhill from there. A day off school hardly compensates for the terror of the name drawing. Even if you survive that, nobody feels like having cake after watching two kids being hauled off to the Capitol for slaughter. I roll over and pull the sheet over my head. 

“Happy birthday!” My 10-year-old brother, Sid, gives my shoulder a shake. “You said be your rooster. You said you wanted to get to the woods at daylight.” 

It’s true. I’m hoping to finish my work before the ceremony so I can devote the afternoon to the two things I love best — wasting time and being with my girl, Lenore Dove. My ma makes indulging in either of these a challenge, since she regularly announces that no job is too hard or dirty or tricky for me, and even the poorest people can scrape up a few pennies to dump their misery on somebody else. But given the dual occasions of the day, I think she’ll allow for a bit of freedom as long as my work is done. It’s the Gamemakers who might ruin my plans.

“Haymitch!” wails Sid. “The sun’s coming up!” 

“All right, all right. I’m up, too.” I roll straight off the mattress onto the floor and pull on a pair of shorts made from a government-issued flour sack. The words "courtesy of the Capitol" end up stamped across my butt. My ma wastes nothing. Widowed young when my pa died in a coal mine fire, she’s raised Sid and me by taking in laundry and making every bit of anything count. The hardwood ashes in the fire pit are saved for lye soap. Eggshells get ground up to fertilize the garden. Someday these shorts will be torn into strips and woven into a rug. 

I finish dressing and toss Sid back in his bed, where he burrows right down in the patchwork quilt. In the kitchen, I grab a piece of corn bread, an upgrade for my birthday instead of the gritty, dark stuff made from the Capitol flour. Out back, my ma’s already stirring a steaming kettle of clothes with a stick, her muscles straining as she flips a pair of miner’s overalls. She’s only 35, but life’s sorrows have already cut lines into her face, like they do. 

Ma catches sight of me in the doorway and wipes her brow. “Happy 16th. Sauce on the stove.” 

“Thanks, Ma.” I find a saucepan of stewed plums and scoop some on my bread before I head out. I found these in the woods the other day, but it’s a nice surprise to have them all hot and sugared. “Need you to fill the cistern today,” Ma says as I pass. 

We’ve got cold running water, only it comes out in a thin stream that would take an age to fill a bucket. There’s a special barrel of pure rainwater she charges extra for because the clothes come out softer, but she uses our well water for most of the laundry. What with pumping and hauling, filling the cistern’s a two-hour job even with Sid’s help. 

“Can’t it wait until tomorrow?” I ask. 

“I’m running low and I’ve got a mountain of wash to do,” she answers. 

"This afternoon, then,” I say, trying to hide my frustration. If the reaping’s done by one, and assuming we’re not part of this year’s sacrifice, I can finish the water by three and still see Lenore Dove.

A blanket of mist wraps protectively around the worn, gray houses of the Seam. It would be soothing if it wasn’t for the scattered cries of children being chased in their dreams. In the last few weeks, as the Fiftieth Hunger Games has drawn closer, these sounds have become more frequent, much like the anxious thoughts I work hard to keep at bay. The second Quarter Quell. Twice as many kids. No point in worrying, I tell myself, there’s nothing you can do about it. Like two Hunger Games in one. No way to control the outcome of the reaping or what follows it. So don’t feed the nightmares. Don’t let yourself panic. Don’t give the Capitol that. They’ve taken enough already.

So what do y'all think!? Let me know and stay tuned for more updates!! I can't wait to read this book, out March 18th :)

[dekkiidan]

OC ask game time :) 11, 38, and 59 for Mohs, Stein and Dusty please!

Merry ask REAL? Thank you so much for your ask, Merry! I had to really think about some of these, especially that last one! I'll respond under the cut again so not to clog up folks' dashes with my rambling!

[11] What are small things that make them happy?

[38] What do they usually do or where do they go when they need to feel comfortable and safe?

[59] What would they want to be remembered for?

[11] What are small things that make them happy?

Mohs

Mohs enjoys simple pleasures in life - the sun on their skin, a good tune and (despite their skinny frame) good food. Nothing is better than a warm evening with a full belly and the prospect of a little dance or singalong.

Mohs also enjoys a neat and tidy living space, things being organised brings them a huge amount of joy. They share a cabin with Tuff, with their own space being a small mezzanine on the upper cabin floor made accessible by a rolling ladder - privacy is achieved by drawing curtains. Both occupants of the cabin are pretty quiet, and they rarely have folks over - or if they do, both parties ensure the other is informed well in advance - so awkward interruptions are few and far between. Anyway, Mohs' little space is always kept neat. They have a place for everything, and everything has its place. Organising their specimen collection, folding/hanging their shirts, and keeping their space clutter-free is a small task they take great pleasure in.

Stein

Stein is easily pleased - good company and a good beer is all they really need to feel content and at peace with the world. They may not say it, but their favourite time of day is closing up On The Rocks whilst sharing Mylo's (and Mig's later on!) company. The routine of cleaning down the bar, washing the tankards and glasses, flushing the taps etc. etc. whilst chatting (and more than occasionally flirting, much to Mig's disdain) with their best friend simply puts the world to right for the barkeep.

Once they have Mig, small, gentle moments during their early years such as Mig nodding off on their chest, bed-time stories, bath-time etc. and, as Mig gets older, listening to them talk about their day, their interests and their hopes and dreams for the future.

Dusty

Despite Dusty's "rugged" exterior and occupation, they take great joy in the softer side of life. When they have time, they enjoy gardening and growing flowers - the seeds and bulbs of which they receive from the Cricket Creek Siblings as part of their usual trades for Treefeller produce.

Dusty enjoys a lie-in when they can afford one, which is extremely rare due to the nature of their work.

[38] What do they usually do or where do they go when they need to feel comfortable and safe?

Mohs

Perhaps unsurprisingly, Mohs' favourite spot to reset their thoughts is with the Museum Shard. If they're having a particularly stressful day, they can often be found just sat with their quantum friend - enjoying the low vibrations of its song. They don't mind that it flits around, as it reminds them of their hatchlinghood of dancing, or, as Hornfels would put it, "playing hide and seek", with the shard.

Stein

Stein is, naturally, most comfortable at On The Rocks. It is a space they specifically crafted to be warm and welcoming to all, and that includes themself! If they need some quiet time alone (although ideally they'll summon Mylo over), they'll often take a seat on one of the old, well-loved patchwork armchairs by the fireplace, and just sit with their thoughts. And the jukebox, of course.

"Comfortable" and "safe" are also not necessarily locked to a location for Stein. They could be anywhere on Timber Hearth, and provided they have Mylo to talk to, they would feel at ease.

In the rare moments where Stein needs to "get away from it all" - they will lock up On The Rocks and head to the Lake; where they will often remain in solitude (unless Mylo comes to keep them company) until they feel they can face the world again. Although, it is important to note that the Lake also holds many happy memories, and is not just a spot for them to wallow when required.

Dusty

Dusty will normally focus their attention on the herd when they need to re-ground themself. Grooming, feeding, welfare checks etc. etc. It's a routine that's so ingrained it allows them to refocus and relax.

Similarly, if Dusty is feeling overwhelmed or uneasy, they will head to the Grub barn and just sit with the Treefellers. Normally, this results in them nodding off whilst leaning on one of the Cows, hehe.

[59] What would they want to be remembered for?

This question was actually really difficult because none of my hearthians are really fussed about having a "legacy", so to speak; so I had to think for a long time, haha!

Mohs

Although they won't openly brag, Mohs is fiercely proud of the work they have done with Lari with the Outer Wilds Geological Survey, and would hope their research could be used to further more discoveries and expeditions for the future.

Stein

Stein is a little more laid back than Mohs in terms of their pride. Really, they would just want to be known for being a kind and supportive soul.

Although they would like some credit, maybe a cool photo on the wall or something, for their hard work with On The Rocks, hehe.

Dusty

As long as the ranch and their animals are well looked after, Dusty couldn't care less of what comes to mind when other folks think of them. Due to their work, they're a rare sight in the village anyway, so most folks can find them a little aloof at times.

Phew! Holy moly, that was a lot! Thank you so much if you stuck around to the end! It was really interesting thinking of answers to these, so thank you for such introspective questions, Merry! ::3

[everchased]

If Finch and Debt had their own tents in camp, what would they look like? What kind of items and decorations would you find in and around their tents?

Finch's tent is large, roomy. A comfortable place to retreat at night, either alone or with someone(s). A general's battlefield accommodations. It's made of deep burgundy and brown cloth with marigold accents. There's a table with a war map, music box, and empty bottle on it, with a stack of books piled next to it. Searching the stack, it's all saved journals and letters he's taken off people who you've found dead. Maybe he can find who they're meant to go to on your travels.

Next to that, as out of the way as it can be, is a rack of weapons. And then, on a small rug to protect it from getting dirty, there is a lute and scattered sheet music by the opening.

-----

Debt's tent would be on the smaller side and low to the ground. It's not meant to be lounged in, you either are there to sleep or you get up. The outside is patchwork muted purples, pinks, and greys. Delicate weighing scales hang like windchimes on one corner. She has a cow hide rug out front that, when hovered over, is just called Myshka.

There's a small cloth awning with herbs and skinned game animals drying from strings hung from the tent poles underneath. Lastly, and perhaps most out of place due to its vibrancy, is a painting of a woman dancing with silks that's propped up against the tent itself.

[tatteredtome]

Antebellum

THE GREAT FLOOD IS COMING

HISTORY IS STUCK IN A LOOP

YET STILL, YOU KNOW ONE FACT REMAINS TRUE

THE VIOLENCE HAS A PURPOSE

-

"Wake the fuck up tranny."

Your flimsy cot rattles to and fro as a leather boot slams into the side, jostling you awake. Hazel eyes drink in the sight of the man above you. Crude buzzcut. Jowls and all, a simple clergyman's suit enshrouding stoicism. He taps the leatherbound book at his side, gesturing towards the rickety door connecting threadbare dorms to outer halls.

"Yes Father, I'll be there in 5."

He scowls, glossy eyes grazing over each interconnected wire hooking your spindly back into the charging station embedded within that bed. They glide down your frame. You didn't bother wearing a shirt to bed. One last lingering look at both mounds, before turning on a dime and striding off. It felt good to be viewed like a piece of meat.

You carefully unhook every strand and tube with practiced precision, singular digits moving incisively. You'd done it a thousand times before. You'd surely do it a thousand more times. A quarter lay rusted. Another clump all but fraying. They didn't have any replacements available. So long as your core processor was recharged, you'd be okay.

The floor was hot. Sometimes, a part of you wished they'd gotten rid of that sense. Touch. It didn't really matter, even if it did burn, your skin was welded to withstand inhumane temperatures. Military flame retardant. Steady footsteps carry you across concrete flooring, stopping in front of a 5'4 mirror.

Of course it was 5'4.

It was made specifically for you, after all. One request. Holding dainty, creamy white arms out. Spinning. Patchwork freckles dancing alongside supple curves. Moving both hands up to cup plump breasts. B+. You shake your short, tousled brown hair about. God. It always made you smile. You looked positively angelic.

Putting on your gear is all but automatic. Urban camo pants, rugged leather boots, skintight black shirt. It was almost a shame you had to put the ballistic vest over top of it. Standard issue, extra protection, Father's order. The less bullet holes, the better. Vest secured, you slip on a pair of mottled gloves. Tight fists.

Naturally the door creaks as it slides open, dislodging built up dust and debris. Empty halls stretching onward for what seemed like miles. When you first got here, getting lost was a daily occurrence. Now, it was physically impossible to lose your way. Mapped. Steps that cause the concrete to sizzle and pop. Further and further. Another rickety old door.

Stepping through it reveals an archaic hangar, fit to burst with every manner of military hardware imaginable, old and new. Heavenly breeding grounds. Of course, Father stands waiting, just as he always does. You run your hand along dormant caterpillar tracks and sleeping tail rotors. The stimulation felt quite nice. Touch still had its perks.

5 minutes after you awake, you're standing right where you should be.

Father bows to you. An iodine lump of steel sits behind him, fused plates linking hands one after another. Bolts and bolts and more bolts. It dwarfed the two of you. You knew they used to carry special units in these.

Nowadays, all it took was one person.

Father stands upon his mahogany podium. He opens the scripture to page 547. Cracked spine. Slipping between bible verse and mission outline. He never bothered to teach you Latin, interested as you may be. That was for the blessed to interpret and for you, damned as you were, to receive with open arms. The next words, however, were all too familiar.

"They're hiding out in some nearby ruins, 11 klicks southwest of here. You know the drill. Get to work."

Father shuts the gospel, reaching underneath the podium before donning a kevlar shroud of his own. .44 magnum bulging from creased pants. Licking your lips, you hurriedly clamber over to the back entrance of the vehicle. Hook two phalanges in. Pry tarnished doors open. Step inside dutifully.

There was enough room for..... well, certainly more than just you. Long, blistering hot, metallic benches left cooking in the wrathful sun day and night. Your cherished infant lies in waiting, nestled warmly. Right where you always sat.

You sit down, pulling that belt-fed beauty into your dainty lap. Cradling it so lovingly. Father steps into the truck soon after you, key in the faulty ignition, calloused hands on the steering wheel. The engine groans like a dying possum. Still fighting for some semblance of livelihood.

You're off without another word.

It trundles along. Bumps and cracks and divots no match for its divine strength, wheezing as it may be. Nothing would be able to stop you now. You peer out the windows.

Floodwater had pushed survivors further and further inwards, trekking vast distances for a modicum of stable, unsoiled earth. What the water washed away could not be claimed again. This was perfect for the two of you. It meant easy pickings. Ruined SUVs and derelict coupes sat frying upon endless pavement. 1 and 2 and 3 and 4 and 5 and 6 and as far as the eye could see.

Father recites verses. Your optical sensors fixate on passing roadsigns. Great grub, 2 miles down the road. Southern living, 5 miles down the road. You wouldn't kill a child, would you? Take him into your heart. Accept him. Please.

You recalled quiet dinners at quiet dinner tables. Corn on the cob and racks of ribs and collared greens and biscuits. Raving news reporters and a raving older figure seated at the head. That's all you're going to eat? Kids in _____ are starving right now, you know.

The next exit barrels into full view, Father judiciously turning off and making his way onto the main road. Bare, concrete synapses giving way to verdant greenery sweltering under God's radiant judgement. Pristine white houses certainly not so pristine anymore. Curious plaques situated wherever eyes wander. This plantation housed _____.

You stare into the glass, at your ever vivid reflection. Pearly white skin. Not a blemish in sight. No need for shampoo or conditioner or anything of the sort. Weaved microfiber strands gleaming proudly. God. It always made you smile. You looked positively angelic.

Past picket fences left undaunted. Past clean carcasses resembling bovines. Past rest-stops and mom and pops. Past arched windows beneath heavenly pillars. It all breaks. Just as it always does. Just as it always will. The grass turns to crisp, the trees follow suit, and both are swallowed by cement. Father frowns, cyan orbs regarding the change with disdain. Narrowing.

"It wasn't always like this. Things were different back in the day. Better."

You don't respond, simply nodding at the eyes visible in the rear view mirror. The buildings are much denser now. Red and blue monuments. Flickering 7s and Qts. It'd take many, many more years for the floodwaters to claim them, for the raw heat to raze stone and brick alike. Great grub, a friendly, barrel chested man in overalls standing proudly out front.

You always wanted a little figure of him. Ancient cartoons where he laughed and twirled alongside daughters in sundresses.

You never received that figure.

Father pulls into a vast parking lot, tipped shopping carts strewn amongst shattered car windows. The building was bright orange. Somewhere you'd been before or maybe not. He parks the car, turning the ignition off and stepping out. You pull your newborn up to each breast, kissing the barrel before exiting as well.

Wooden beams piled high obscure both clear entrances, blotting out any visibility of the building's scorching innards. Father scans it, clicks his tongue disappointingly, before turning to view you. He reaches out a single hand, gripping your shoulder with divine vigor. It makes your head spin and your mouth salivate.

"Go now. Dispatch them with fervor, Ezekiel."

You smile.

"Yes, Father."

He nods, stepping back into the wheezing creature. All on your own.

You fasten the strap around your shoulder tightly, making sure your child is secure before moving forward. The way is all but blocked by solid oak, save for a tiny gap at the top. Easily finding purchase, you ascend the tower with great haste, arriving at the top without breaking a sweat. It was physically impossible.

A loud thud echoes throughout the gargantuan building as your boots hit the ground. Dark. Pitch black in fact. You used to be so accustomed to the static hum of electricity everywhere you went. Now, it all lies dormant. Darkness isn't a problem, mechanical servos clicking into place to facilitate sickly green vision.

Row after row of shelves spiraling off into the guts of the establishment. Enough light bulbs to supply whole neighborhoods. Rotund appliances abandoned. Black Friday sale magazines half burnt, a few measly deals remaining. You take a look at the dangling signs.

"Paint, lighting, garden, hardware, lumber....."

Muttering the words like a prayer meant to lead the way, scrutinizing. Deeper. The paint isles are a mess, caulking and semigloss staining forgotten merchandise. Your hands glide over sample cards. Little Princess, Midnight Blue, Mountain Olive..... Blackberry Harvest.

Something makes you stop on it. You flip it around. The corner is slightly bent. You want to remember. You want to remember so badly. What had you forgotten?

"Violet kinda gal, huh? Judging by your attire, I woulda guessed black was more your style."

The voice is a little whiny. Shrill. You turn to regard it. Black tanktop. Ginger waves loping downward. Tan trousers above pink sneakers. Enough to know this is your target.

"Maybe, I'm not sure."

You adjust your hands. Grasping the grip buried a few inches beneath the barrel. It's not hard for you to level it at her chest. It never really was too hard. It puts its hands up in protest, taking a few hesitant steps backwards.

"Woah there..... I just want to talk. I know what they've done to you, what they do to us all. We're the same, you and I."

The concern in its voice appears to be genuine, as does the way those brown orbs soften. It'd be so easy to melt right into them. It'd be so easy to melt it.

"You don't know me. We're not the same."

Absolute. Efficient in response time. It's not hard for you to level it at her chest. It never really was too hard. You pull the gun up higher, aiming it right at the bulge in its throat. Now its fumbling. Anxious. Sweating bullets that glisten neon green. You want to paint it red already but something keeps nagging at the back of your mind.

"Please, I just thought..... I don't know, that we could talk? Reach an understanding? You don't have to be-"

Deafening. The sound of a bullets slamming against concrete at mach speed, ricocheting off into parts unknown. Your face is bent with unadulterated animosity. Proud marching. It's whimpering now, scrambling to pull at a handle wedged within cavernous pockets.

Your boot comes crashing down on its frail fingers. Grinding back and forth. Wet, popping noises as bones fragment and crunch under foot. It feels so good. It lets out a muffled shriek, desperately beating on your steel legs.

"Stop..... I can't..... I've come so far....."

Its sobbing now. Repugnant. You drop down onto its stomach with the full force of your divinity. Padded gloves running over hair infested thighs, onto that disgustingly flat chest. Broad shoulders. Perfect for grasping onto.

"You're going to die here."

It looks into your eyes. You slam its head back into boiling concrete, ushering out another terrified mewl, deeper than the last. You slam it down again. And again. And again. Painting the ground a crimson, eggshell pastiche. Timeless Ruby. It struggles underneath you. It's no use.

Satisfied with your work, you stand up. It reaches out a timid hand. Trying to get out a few last words.

You level your gun and unload on its windpipe, tearing it to shreds before anything can be uttered.

Father is standing outside the truck when you get back. He bends down to plant a kiss on your forehead. Wrinkled lips parting.

"Good job, doll."

Your heart flutters.

-

Every night, before routine memory maintenance, I stare into the shattered mirror next to my cot.

I look at the girl staring back at me.

Sometimes I squirm. Sometimes I feel myself. Sometimes I giggle a little.

I always, always.

Smile.

[southernhides]

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[ashishvlogsblog]

Cow Hide Rugs

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[homeinterior012]

Cow Hides: The Versatile, Natural Choice for Interiors and Design

Cow hides have long been appreciated for their durability, texture, and natural beauty, making them an ideal material for a variety of uses in interior design and decor. From luxurious rugs to chic furniture accents, cow hides offer a unique aesthetic that can elevate any space. Whether you are designing a cozy living room or a modern office, incorporating cow hide into your decor can add warmth, texture, and a touch of rustic charm. In this blog, we will explore the many ways cow hides can be used, their benefits, and why they continue to be a popular choice in design.

What Are Cow Hides?

Cow hides are the tanned and processed skins of cows that are typically used for upholstery, flooring, and decorative items. Unlike synthetic materials, cow hides are natural products, known for their unique textures and patterns. No two cow hides are alike, which adds an individualistic charm to any space where they are used.

Cow hides are often sourced from the leather industry, where they are a byproduct of meat production. After they are carefully tanned and dyed, they are transformed into durable and functional design elements. With proper care, cow hide products can last for many years, providing both beauty and practicality.

Benefits of Cow Hides in Interior Design

Natural Aesthetic

One of the most compelling reasons to incorporate cow hides into your home or office design is their ability to create a natural, earthy ambiance. Their rich, organic textures and patterns add a tactile dimension to any room. The mix of colors—ranging from bold blacks and whites to more subtle browns, grays, and tans—blends seamlessly with a variety of decor styles, from rustic and country to contemporary and minimalist.

Durability

Cow hides are known for their incredible strength and resilience. When treated and tanned properly, they become a durable, long-lasting material that can withstand heavy foot traffic. This makes them an excellent choice for furniture, such as chairs, sofas, or ottomans, as well as for rugs and throws in high-traffic areas. Their durability also extends to resistance against wear and tear, stains, and moisture, which makes them easy to maintain.

Versatility in Design

Cow hides are incredibly versatile in terms of design applications. They can be used in various forms, including rugs, upholstery for furniture, wall coverings, throw pillows, and even as unique art pieces. Due to their natural variation in color and pattern, they add an interesting, one-of-a-kind touch to any piece they adorn. Whether you’re looking for a bold accent piece or a subtle neutral addition to your home or office, cow hides can fulfill many design needs.

Sustainability

As a natural, biodegradable material, cow hides are a more sustainable option compared to synthetic materials that may take hundreds of years to break down. Moreover, because cow hides are often sourced as a byproduct of the meat industry, they help reduce waste by repurposing materials that would otherwise be discarded. This makes cow hides an eco-friendly choice for those looking to incorporate natural and sustainable materials into their design.

Warmth and Comfort

Cow hide rugs, throws, and upholstered furniture add warmth and texture to any space. The unique feel of cow hide underfoot is soft yet firm, making it a comfortable and inviting material. Whether you use a cow hide rug in your living room or a cow hide-covered chair in your office, the tactile and visual warmth that this material adds can create a cozy and welcoming atmosphere.

Common Uses for Cow Hides in Design

Cow Hide Rugs

One of the most popular uses for cow hides in interior design is as rugs. Cowhide rugs are available in a variety of sizes and designs, from traditional whole hides to smaller, patchwork-style options. A cowhide rug can make a bold statement in a living room, bedroom, or hallway. They are easy to clean and maintain, making them ideal for both homes and businesses. Their natural texture creates visual interest and adds depth to any floor.

Upholstery

Cow hides are also commonly used for furniture upholstery. Whether it’s a chair, sofa, or ottoman, cowhide-covered furniture exudes luxury and sophistication while maintaining a natural, rustic appeal. Upholstered cowhide furniture is ideal for creating a bold design statement, especially in spaces that blend modern and rustic styles.

Pillows and Throws

Smaller pieces of cow hide can be repurposed into pillows or throws, which can add subtle elegance and warmth to your home. A few well-placed cowhide pillows on a couch or bed can elevate the look of a room and create an inviting atmosphere. Cowhide throws also make beautiful accent pieces on sofas or chairs, offering both style and comfort.

Wall Art and Decor

For those looking for an unusual and striking decor piece, cow hides can be used as wall coverings or as a backdrop for custom art installations. Their natural patterns and textures make them an eye-catching feature in any room, whether displayed in a home or office. Cowhide wall art can add an element of rustic charm or modern flair, depending on how it is framed or displayed.

How to Care for Cow Hides

To ensure the longevity of your cowhide products, proper care and maintenance are essential. Here are some tips:

Regular Cleaning: Gently vacuum the surface to remove dirt and debris. You can also use a soft brush to lift any matted fibers.

Avoid Direct Sunlight: Prolonged exposure to direct sunlight can cause the colors to fade. Keep cowhide items out of direct sunlight whenever possible.

Spot Cleaning: If you spill something on a cowhide rug or upholstery, clean it immediately with a damp cloth. Avoid using harsh chemicals that could damage the hide.

Professional Cleaning: For deep cleaning, especially with larger items like rugs, it's best to consult with a professional cleaner who specializes in cowhide.

Conclusion

Cow hides Abu Dhabi are a timeless, versatile, and sustainable material that adds a unique touch to any interior. Whether used as a rug, upholstery, or accent piece, cowhide enhances the visual and tactile experience of a space while offering durability and longevity. Its natural beauty, combined with its practical benefits, makes it an excellent choice for anyone looking to create a stylish, functional, and comfortable environment. By incorporating cow hides into your decor, you bring a piece of nature indoors while making a statement in design.

[westfall-faith]

What does Faith's house look like?

The Westfall plains stretched out like a rumpled blanket beneath a sky that seemed impossibly vast. A lone farmhouse stood defiant against the wind's relentlessness, its weathered paint whispering stories of countless sunrises and howling nights. Once, a fiery red had adorned its clapboard walls, but time and the elements had stripped it bare, leaving behind a patchwork of sun-bleached wood and the occasional stubborn ember of crimson peeking through.

The white blades of a windmill turned languidly with the breeze that stood like a lone sentinel across the field.  Closer to the house, a horse barn leaned comfortably against the afternoon sun. On occasion, you might hear the stomping of hooves or a hungry whinny. 

Two steps deep, a small front porch boasting a rocking chair offered shady respite from the Westfall heat. The screen door rattled against its frame with every gust of wind.  While its paint was peeling in curls and its mesh held an occasional tear, it was oddly welcoming – always left  slightly ajar as if in perpetual invitation. Pushing through it, a visitor would be greeted by the scent of wood smoke, sun-warmed linens, and a hint of fresh-baked bread.

Inside, the living room was a haven of function, practicality, and worn comfort. Sunlight, filtered through lace curtains and onto a threadbare rug of faded floral patterns. A well-worn sofa, its stuffing escaping in valiant puffs from worn seams, sported a patchwork quilt crafted from countless squares of mismatched fabric. Each patch held a story, one that Faith would gladly tell you about if ever asked – a forgotten childhood dress, a favorite shirt worn thin by a long-gone father, and scraps of fabric gifted to Faith by a cherished friends.

A rocking chair, its wood darkened with years of gentle swaying, sat near a stone fireplace and promised relief for aching legs. The smoke stained hearth hinted at crackling warmth that would chase away the chill of a Westfall night. Above the fireplace, a mantelpiece displayed a collection of mismatched seashells, a souvenir from a trip to the distant coast Lewis (Faith's father) had surprised her with decades ago. Each shell, nestled amongst faded photographs and a chipped porcelain teacup, held a memory of a life lived fully. 

Branching off the living room were two modest bedrooms. The one to the left, undoubtedly Faith's, held a simple wooden bed adorned with a crocheted bedspread in shades of sunshine yellow and sky blue. Beside it, a nightstand painted robin-egg blue and crackled just the same, held a leather bound book with its pages softened from countless readings. “Psalms of the Light” scrolled across the creased spine.  A dresser and a clouded mirror stood lonely against the wall. Faith had nothing but memories to hide and those wanting to pilfer her dresser drawers would find nothing but letters tied with faded ribbon, a collection of mismatched buttons, and a worn photograph of a younger Faith with a mischievous grin.

Across the hall, the guest room held a similar sense of worn comfort. A dull white daybed lay covered with a patchwork quilt similar to the one in the living room. A worn rocking chair beside the window offered the perfect vantage point to watch the sunset over the distant plains. A shelf above the bed held a collection of well-loved books – classic novels with cracked spines, worn volumes on gardening and horse care, and a dog-eared copy of Anetta’s (Faith’s mother) favorite poetry collection.

The heart of the house, however, was the kitchen. Sunlight streamed through a window above the sink, illuminating a wooden table with mismatched chairs. Its surface, scarred with countless knife nicks and heat rings had undoubtedly hosted many meals. Open shelves displayed chipped mugs adorned with that same floral pattern Faith seemed to love so much, enamel plates, and scratched crockery. 

Beyond the house, nestled discreetly amongst a grove of cottonwood trees, stood a small outhouse. Its weathered boards and creaky door promised privacy. A single, open window high on the back offered reprieve from unpleasant aromas. 

Further out, a small graveyard marked the final resting place of loved ones. Lewis and Anetta Dorman lay side by side, their headstones carefully etched with their names, dates of birth, and dates of their passing. A simple bouquet of wildflowers, forever frozen at the peak of beauty (probably by some enchantment)  rested on Anetta and Lewis’s headstones. Surrounding them lay simpler markers: A rusty horseshoe (for a horse named Rusty), a porcelain dog figurine (for a faithful mutt named Scout), and a cracked teacup (for a mischievous calico cat named Callie). 

[milkmaidovich]

He finds them in a box in the Gallagher attic.

He didn't know the box existed, was really just up here to scavenge shit for the new apartment before Debbie or Carl got to it, since he's sure Lip took what he wanted when he no doubt came digging for baby things. The Gallagher's are nothing if not pragmatic about saving shit.

But tucked in the back corner, under boxes of Fiona's stuff she didn't take, with an old rolled up rug half hiding it, is a box labeled "Mickey's Shit" in his husband's spikey, jagged writing, as sharp and aggressive as Mickey was when they were kids, dangerous and scary and uninviting.

It must be left over from when they were playing house over on Trumbull, or maybe from after? How it ended up here Ian's not at all sure. That year and change of drug-fueled, unmedicated mania and depression is hazy sometimes, like looking through windows that haven't been properly cleaned in years, filmy and dirty with odd, sparse patches of clarity—easy nights with his beloved little patchwork family, mornings with the babies, and, running through it all, Mickey, Mickey, Mickey, shining and bright and so fucking clear, images of him sharp and bright, always in high definition.

Ian opens the box with the spiky writing, smiling gently at the memories that come back to him, trying to reframe his thoughts like his therapist says—it's so easy to think of all the worst things from that time, but all that does is bring shame and self-loathing with it, some days so strong they nearly drown him. Instead, he can counter those feelings with the good things he remembers, and let the positive balance the negative, one memory at a time.

He's hit with the scent of Then-Mickey: the faintly lingering smoke of Marlboro Reds and the strong, almost cloying smell of the Pinaud Clubman aftershave he'd started to swipe from the drugstore not long after he kissed Ian that first time, almost like it was his way of getting dressed up, of showing Ian he meant something. Ian closes his eyes, inhaling that unique blend of sharp citrus, some sweet, soft, flowery things, an undercurrent of musk and the very specific finish of antiseptic alcohol.

Fuck, maybe he needs to stop by the B & G Heinz on his way home and get a bottle, see if Mickey would switch, just sometimes, from that Davidoff stuff he'd picked up on sale from Walmart.

Shaking himself from his scent-induced daze, Ian opens his eyes and finally looks down at the contents of this mystery box.

It's full of...notebooks? Paper? His brow furrows in confusion as he reaches inside, the crinkling of the thick paper the only sound in the quiet attic (it's still so weird for him, to come to this house and find it empty and quiet, even in the middle of the day). He wraps his fingers around the spine of what he sees now is a sketchbook, and he's hit with more memories, little glimpses and flashes—Mickey with a pencil behind his hear and little pocket-sized notebooks while they were spending their time in the abandoned buildings of the South Side, Mickey with some papers spread over a box or a book, a ballpoint pen moving quickly on it's surface; Mickey, sitting across the dark of their bedroom, keeping Ian company in the only way Ian would allow, deep in the throws of his first, terrible, awful depressive episode.

His breath is shaky as he flips the cover back, and he gasps a little at what he sees, eyes stinging and heart swelling even as it breaks a little all over again for the scared kids they used to be.

It's a sketch of Ian, sleeping it seems, lashes fanned over his still-soft cheeks, freckles faded from all the time he spent inside with his almost-nocturnal club schedule, but still noticeable on the high planes of his face. Fuck, they're so specific, the patterns ones he knows well from seeing them every day, the little constellations of them scattershot across his skin, and of course Mickey knew them that well, of course he could replicate them with such specificity, even from across a dark room. Who had ever loved him like Mickey Milkovich has always loved him?

He spends the next ten minutes going through the box, every single notebook and page he pulls from it covered in drawings of Ian, awake, asleep, on his back, his side, his stomach, hair increasingly stringy until suddenly it's not, clothes the same until they aren't, and he remembers Mickey hauling him to the dingy bathroom, sitting on the floor of the tub with Ian's back to his chest while he scrubbed the sweat and grime from Ian's skin, washed the grease from his hair, and helped him into clean clothes before laying him on the couch so Mickey could change the sheets.

He's crying silently by the time he gets to the bottom of the box, and this sketch makes him sob outright. It's the only one he's seen in color, and it feels somehow right that it is.

Seventeen-year-old Ian is sitting up against the headboard, a chipped mug clutched tightly in his hands, and the threadbare red blanket pulled across his legs and hips. He's wearing the gray hoodie he and Mickey had been sharing longer than anything else, so long that neither of them could even remember whose it was to start with. His eyes are closed, but there's sunlight streaked across his face, his hair bright and shining in the golden light, and the barest hint of a smile hiding in the corners of his mouth.

---

He does stop at the B & G Heinz on his way home, but he doesn't limit himself to the aftershave.

"Whatcha got there, lover boy?" Mickey asks from where he's sprawled on their new couch, wearing Ian's red henley and a pair of boxer-briefs (since they live on the fancy west side now he's decided that maybe he'll try out fancy underwear now).

Ian doesn't say anything, just sets the box on the kitchen counter and empties the bag he'd had resting on top. They don't have much up on their walls yet, just wedding photo after wedding photo, with the one most prominently displayed from the moments before their first kiss as husband's, hands on each other's faces, love and devotion and blinding, radiant happiness shining like the sun from them both.

Right underneath, Ian presses his extra purchases, one after the other, the command strips he'd added before he came inside doing their job and attaching them instantly to the wall.

On one side, a drawing of him at what he knew was his absolute lowest, sweat-grimed and greasy, and yet every detail so lovingly rendered it's almost too much for him to bare looking at for too long. On the other, the color sketch he'd found, sun shining on his face and fragile, delicate hope tucked into the smile hiding in the corners of his mouth.

"Oh," is all Mickey says when he joins Ian in front of the drawings. "I forgot I stashed those there, after."

Ian's eyes are stinging again and he turns to cup his husband's face in his hands. "You loved the fuck outta me then, huh?" he asks, and the words are hushed, reverant and with just this side of amazed disbelief.

Mickey nuzzles against Ian's palms, smiling that fucking smile, the same one in the wedding photo behind them, the one Ian is just starting to get used to seeing. "Ah, see, that's where you're wrong, tough guy." His eyes sweep back and forth, ice-blue and beloved, and Ian is so goddamn lucky he gets to see them filled with joy and love like this.

"Loved the fuck outta you then?" Mickey's smile gets even bigger, even brighter, his own hands coming up to cradle Ian's face, thumbs brushing away the tears running down his cheeks.

"Ian Gallagher, I ain't ever fuckin' stopped."

ok so i have a sad artist!mickey headcanon and i’m sharing it with the hope that it will make other people just as sad as it makes me. post 4x12 when ian is depressed in bed and sleeping, he’s so still that mickey, who has no clue what to do, decides to use him as a model and draws his sleeping figure. ian finds the drawings years later but doesn’t remember the story behind them.

[yes-rughouse-universe]

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