#Benches and Settees

[samdecors]

[toyastales]

A cheerful corner.

[thevisualvamp]

Have a seat

[sbnkalny]

My second QUESTION is: are there here! how beauteous mankind is! o Brave new world,That has such people would oppose plans like his with every effort they could find, and their own actions, or if is not upholstered, a bench.[11] a separate little kingdom of Wayrest.

[willqraharn]

Transitional Dining Room - Great Room

[thakefurniture]

Antique settle, 19th century settle, pine bench, pine settle, antique storage bench : Antique Armchair UK - Antique Settee - Open Armchair - Mahogany Armchair - Upholstered armchairs, Sofas

[isana-9]

⁡【 Prototype Settee 】［セッティの試作］ ⁡ 背もたれ付きのこうしたベンチのことをイギリスではセッティと呼びます。 ⁡ カーブした笠木（背もたれ）は、自然の中でもとから曲がっていた部分、 「根曲がり」と呼ばれる部分を使っています。 ⁡ ⁡ 端のスピンドルには真鍮を組み込んで、ちょっとおしゃれにしております。 ⁡ ⁡ ⁡ 新潟・大白川産間伐ブナ材（スノービーチ）／真鍮 ⁡ ⁡ ↓ ⁡ #毎日更新してます #444日目 ⁡ #根曲がり #たんころ #間伐材 #スノービーチ #セッティ #ベンチ #背もたれ付きベンチ #bench #settee #woodworking #woodturning #木工旋盤 #家具工房 #家具職人 #chairmaking #furnituredesign #沼垂テラス商店街 #イサナ喫茶室　 https://www.instagram.com/p/Cl--1QUr3Lw/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

[furnituremakeover]

A curb-shopped settee bench was transformed into a glamorous piece by painting and reupholstering.

Full Makeover Tutorial ~ https://salvagedinspirations.com/salvaged-settee-bench/

Video Tutorial ~ https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4TLo1gjNgsI

[itsphoenix0724]

could i request an azriel x reader body worship. reader sees azriels body while he works out and gets flustered and aroused. She stares at his arms flexing and abs like omg. he notices her and goes harder👀 or he catches her staring at the most inconvenient time, they’re newly mated and they have a meeting with everyone and reader can’t stop staring at his ARMSSSSS

You Lookin'? (Azriel x Reader)

Warnings: Mentions of sex. sexual thoughts

Word Count: 972

A/N: Hi Anon! Thank you so much for requesting I hope you enjoy what I wrote for you! Please feel free to request again! I hope you have an amazing day love, and as always constructive criticism is welcome! <3

Being newly mated truly was a beautiful thing. 

You and Azriel had taken two weeks to pass the energy surge fully. Your family had cleared out of the townhouse for the time you needed, and you were now finally starting to get back to your normal everyday lives. So, here you are now, reclined on the settees atop the House of Wind with Nesta and Feyre watching your mates train. It was a boiling summer afternoon, the golden sun bouncing off the rock making it hot enough for all the males to strip off their shirts.

Watching Azriel train was like looking at a work of art—strong cords of golden muscle working and rippling as he did a set of sit-ups. You were shameless as you watched the sweat drip off his trapezius, the only thing you could think of was licking the sweat straight off of him. Visions of the nights Az spent over you flash in your mind, in fact, you could still see the faint claw marks from your ceaseless two-week honeymoon. 

Frankly, you were insatiable. 

The Spymaster knew it too, and he may have been showing off just a little. He could see the hot flush of your cheeks and the heaving of your chest from where he was pushing a large stone above his head. Even if he wasn’t looking his shadows were whispering to him, floating on a summer breeze, about your every tell. They talked about the way your eyes snagged on his straining biceps, and what he surely knew was pooling between your legs. Sitting up from the bench he rubbed a hand through the sweaty hair and watched as Feyre tried to get your attention. 

“She’s going to need this,” Nesta shook her head and laughed, pouring a glass of cold water before passing it to Feyre, who then pressed it into your hand. The cold of the glass shocked you out of your dazed state, Azriel had the gall to wink at you before returning to his training, and your two friends now sit snickering at your attempt to focus on something that wasn’t the Shadowsinger. 

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

You were currently pressed up against the cold tile of your bathroom wall, the towering form of your mate caging you in, shadows teasing at the edges of your clothes. Azriel might kiss like he doesn’t need oxygen, but you certainly need to take a gasping breath. He doesn’t seem to mind though, he takes advantage of the opportunity to latch onto your neck. 

“Az-” You pant, clawing your hands up into his hair. He cants his hips against yours and you mewl in response. 

“Say my name again and we won’t leave this house for another two weeks.” He growls, going back to his assault on your neck, biting devotion into your pulse point. 

“We have a meeting we have to go to.” You try to pull yourself away, but the Spymaster is relentless in his pursuit.

You’re starting to think you might not make it to this meeting.

That is until you both feel a wave of dark power tap on the shields in your minds. You know Rhys doesn’t actually want to talk, he’s just politely reminding the two of you that you were supposed to meet at the River House five minutes ago. 

“Fucking cockblock,” Az slumps his head against your shoulder and takes a few minutes to compose himself. You rest your hands on his cheeks pulling hazel eyes up to yours.

Pressing a kiss to your forehead he winnows the two of you to the sprawling estate. 

“Nice of you to finally join us,” Rhys purrs perched on a chair in the meeting room. Your cheeks flame when you find your seat as Azriel levels a glare at his brother, slumping into the chair across from you. 

Feyre cleared her throat before starting the meeting. 

You were not listening to a single damn thing she was saying.

You felt a little bad about it, but not bad enough to stop staring at your mate across the table. You just couldn’t help it. He was sitting with his arms crossed over his chest which only made the immaculate muscles pop out in the Illyrian leathers he donned for the meeting, blue light bouncing off the sculpted cheekbones on his face.

You could truly spend hours staring at Azriel, and you fully intend to do so for the rest of your lives.

It didn’t help that Azriel was also shamelessly stealing eyefuls of you from his seat. Hazel eyes tracked you, the green running through like veins of emerald.

You remembered how those eyes looked nestled between your legs last night. 

“Okay, are the two of you even listening?” You snap back into your body and find Rhys’s incredulous stare. Cassian and Feyre look like they’re barely containing laughter, Elain is quietly averting her eyes, and Nesta has a sparkle in her eyes that tells you she’s very amused at not being the one reprimanded for once. “Alright, the both of you fucking reek. Clearly you can’t keep your desire in check.” Rhys says rubbing the crease between his eyes. “If you two can’t focus maybe we should just reschedule the meeting?” He raises one dark eyebrow in question and Azriel shoots out of his chair entirely, rounding the table to you. He hauls you up and against his chest in one smooth movement, and you’re looking at Azriel like he’s grown two heads. 

“Sounds like an excellent idea brother, We’ll see you in a week,” Az sends Rhys a saccharine smile. Cassian starts roaring with laughter so hard he almost knocks his chair over and it doesn’t look like Feyre is far behind him. He sweeps an arm behind your knees and scoops you into his arms before sending Rhys a wink and winnowing away. 

It looks like maybe that energy surge hadn’t quite passed after all. 

[the-kr8tor]

Imagine the twins grow up a little let’s say 5 years old and they ask the most random questions it would be so funny? Like “why happens if the earth stops spinning?” “Why is the water blue?” “How does snow happen” and obviously “how are babies made?”

Cuteeee!!! Thank you for requesting! 🫶

Pairing: Hobie Brown x fem! Reader/ Spider-Punk x fem! Reader

Tags: No use of Y/N, No specific physical description of the reader, Dad! Hobie AU, Twin AU, Billie and Ramona AU, Mom! Reader. FLUFF

ʕ⁠·⁠ᴥ⁠·⁠ʔ

The twins have gotten good at sneaking, scarily good. You have no idea how they've gotten this great at sneaking and bypassing Hobie's spidey senses but you have a hunch that they heard your conversation with Hobie during what was supposed to be their nap time. With his head on your lap and your fingers scratching at his scalp he dishes out a complaint to you, well you both thought it was just you.

Hobie was complaining that his spidey senses can't feel when the three of you approach him from behind. Citing that it has probably been ignoring you and the girls because it's used to your presence and dubs you and his girls a non-threat. He has also grumbled that it only activates for you three when there's danger; like the girls almost falling from the playground or you almost burning yourself from a hot stove. He's deeply annoyed because he misses the little tingles that never fail to make him smile whenever you or his girls are near.

You take this new information into consideration, when you enter a room he's in, you always call his name or knock on the wall so he still gets that warm feeling when you're in his presence. Unfortunately for him, the girls have better ideas.

Both girls keep popping up from somewhere when you least expected it, their footfalls silent, guess they've learned from the best. Then suddenly you hear their voices asking about life's greatests mysteries.

Once, while you were preparing their bath, Billie appears behind you, asking why water in the pool and ocean are blue but not in the tub. You almost fell in the water back then.

A few times the girls have materialized in Hobie's workshop, scaring the crap out of their father. Again asking him a barrage of questions that has Hobie answering promptly of course.

The sun is just about setting, the backyard looks gorgeous in the sun's rays. The metal bench is cold underneath you but with Hobie's arms around you, you don't seem to mind the chill.

You and Hobie cuddle outside in the garden, laps covered in the same patchwork blanket you've gifted him all those years ago. The breeze picks up and you snuggle closer to him, he presses sweet kisses on your temple as his hands rub up and down over your arm. The girls are in the living room watching their cartoons, the telly's light shines in the backyard, illuminating the flowers and veggies all four of you planted.

It's quiet, too quiet.

“How does the telly work?” Mona’s sweet voice rings out in the silence making you and Hobie jump in each other's arms.

“Fu–blo–what?!” Hobie saves himself from accidentally swearing right in front of Mona.

She peeks out from the arm rest, too small to fully reach up, her eyes are curious, hair disheveled from lounging on the settee.

“How does the telly work?” She repeats.

“Oh, lovely, you scared us a bit. Come here” you pat the seat in between you and Hobie. He lifts her up, placing her on his lap.

“Curious, eh?” Hobie pokes her side, she giggles, snuggling closer to her dad.

—

“I've finally got them to go down” you flop yourself on the dining chair, eyes growing heavy. “Remind me not to give them ice cream before bed.”

Hobie wipes his hands on a cloth, the last bit of dishes all cleaned and drying on the rack. He flings the towel on his shoulder, knowing what the imagery does to you.

Before he could throw a witty remark, you're already making grabbing hands towards him, lips pouting from impatience. He obliges, crossing the small gap between you.

You grab him by the ribbon of his sweatpants to get him impossibly closer to you. He's situated in-between your legs, knees knocking with yours. He chuckles lowly, hands placed on your jaw to look at you fully, his thumbs rubbing softly at your tired eyes.

“Missed me? I was home the entire day, lovie”

“Shut up and kiss me, Hobart”

Hobie rolls his eyes, already bending at the waist to meet you halfway.

“How are babies made?” Billie and Mona suddenly appear by the kitchen doorway, holding hands in their blue pajamas. They remind you of a horror movie.

Your soul and Hobie's left your bodies for a second.

“Girls–you scared us!” you clutch your non-existent pearls.

Hobie's head is on top of yours, trying to calm his racing heart.

“Sorry,” Mona apologizes, “Annie said they came from storks but Shane says they came from fairies.”

“And Ricky says they come from parents sleeping together. Daddy always sleeps with you mummy, why isn't there a baby yet?” Billie continues.

Oh childhood wonder. Your brain is already trying to find the right combination of words to answer their burning question.

Hobie chokes on air, you slap his arm as a warning. He lifts his head up with a lopsided smile.

“If you sneaky sneaks didn't interrupt there'd be a baby soon enough—”

“Hobie!”

“We don't get it” they simultaneously say.

[blueraineshadows]

Bath Time

Sebastian Sallow x F!MC

Trauma, feels, fingering - Soft Seb has got his grips on me and I had to do this. Hope you enjoy!

The hour was late. The clock had chimed midnight, Deek had retired for the evening, and the beasts were all settled for the night. Sebastian lounged on a settee in the Room of Requirement, his book open against his chest as he dozed lightly, waiting for MC. She had been gone hours and he was resisting the urge to go and find her.

She was more than capable of taking care of herself, but that didn't mean his heart wouldn't trip at double speed at the thought of her getting hurt. She hated being coddled or fussed over, that independence streak of hers almost as strong as her ancient magic. So, he had bit his tongue and let her fly off with Poppy on some rescue mission. At least she had the little Hufflepuff with her. She was far more feisty than she looked.

The sound of the door roused Sebastian from his napping and he sat up quickly, the book sliding to the rug as he rubbed his eyes. How long had he slept? He turned his head towards the door, his mouth dropping open at the sight before him. He shot to his feet in horror. "God's, what happened?"

MC shuffled in, her hair unbound and caked in filth, a blooming bruise beginning to shadow her cheekbone and a cut on her brow. She was missing a boot and her trousers were soaked, and as for her blouse, she was holding most of it together with filthy hands. Blended with the dirt were darker patches of red, splats of it peppering her exposed skin. She saw him and paused. Her stare was empty at first and then, to his utter horror, her face crumbled and an awful sob escaped her lips.

He moved, instantly, his hands catching her upper arms just as her legs gave way, her whole body now trembling uncontrollably. "I've got you, its alright, I've got you."

"Sebastian." The way she said it cracked his heart in his chest. Tears streaked through the grime on her cheeks.

Filthy be damned, he held her against his chest, arms wrapping her up safe in his warmth while she bawled against his shirt. He had never seen her so vulnerable, so broken, and if he was being honest, it scared the absolute shit out of him.

Her sobs began to slow after a while, he stroked her back, desperate to check her for injuries. Was the blood hers? "MC, can I get you anything?"

"I just need you to hold me," she whispered. "Hold me, and never let me go."

"Now that I can do," he said. "But lets get you cleaned up a bit and more comfortable."

She didn't even resist as he led her towards the potion corner and sat her up on the bench. She said nothing, no insistence that she could do for herself as he handed her a Wiggenweld and then checked her skin for deeper scratches. "I think I look worse on the outside than it really is," she said quietly. "The inside, however..."

How it hurt his chest to see her this way. But he understood. Sometimes pain swallowed you up inside in ways you couldn't explain, like shadows sucking up the light. He took hold of her hand. "Come on."

Hot water gushed from the taps filling the tub as he carefully removed the remains of her clothes. She didn't stop him, but neither did she help. She let him do it all, even after she climbed into the bath. He used a jug to rinse her off, carefully washing away the blood and grime. They had to drain the tub and refill it with fresh water, this time he added scented salts and told her to lay back. The look she gave him, vulnerable, lost, tore at him. He stood, removed his own clothes and sank into the tub behind her, sat her between his legs, back to his chest, and held her.

They sat like that for a few minutes, him straining to bite his tongue and keep the fury he wanted to unleash at whatever had made her this way. She didnt need his fury, she needed his support right now, so thats what she shall have. To keep his hands busy, he began to massage her scalp, she moaned softly and let her head fall back. He lathered some shampoo and washed out her hair, fingers working over her head before rinsing her off. Then, he took the soap and lathered his hands, massaging her neck and shoulders, loosening the knots in her muscles one by one. Her soft sighs urged him on, down her arms, her thighs, and up across her stomach. He paused under her breasts, his hands slick and soapy. This wasn't about sex. This was about her. He wanted her to feel like herself again.

But then she arched her back, nudging his hands upwards. He brought his face near her ear to watch as his soapy hands cupped her, thumbs swirling over hardening peaks. Her head fell back to his shoulder, her lips parted and a low sound came from her throat. He swallowed and continued to stroke her, moulding her in his hands. He lay back against the bath tub and she went with him, her hands moving to clasp his thighs. Air hissed through his teeth and his cock twitched against the small of her back. She gave a subtle grind of her hips. "Mmm, you feel good," she whispered.

"Are you alright?" He spoke quietly into her ear.

She was quiet and he didn't think she was going to answer, but then she did. "I'm not ready to talk about it yet, later," she said. She took hold of his hand and slid it down towards the apex of her thighs. "For now, I just want you to make me feel good."

His breaths were as hot as hers as she arched against him, his hand working an intimate kind of magic, fingers swirling and fucking until she was a whimpering mess, her hand reaching up behind her to tug at his hair. Her climax ripped a cry from her throat that nearly had him spurting his own release up her back. But he gritted his teeth and held back. This wasn't about him.

They towelled off and moved to the bedroom, crawling under the blankets where he held her close, trailing fingers up and down her spine and pressing soft kisses to her hair. She smoothed a palm across his chest, pausing above his heart. "I love you, Seb," she whispered.

He held her tighter. "And I love you."

The silence lengthened and dawn broke across the horizon, but they lay quiet in their own little haven, warm and comfortable in each other's arms.

"We failed," she said finally. "Poppy and I, we didnt get to save the beasts, and the place was crawling with poachers."

She drew in a shuddering breath and he stayed quiet, stroking her with firm hands, giving her the space she needed to speak.

"They hurt Poppy, said they would take her back to her parents." MC's grip on him tightened. "I lost myself, Sebastian. I couldn't let them hurt her. I slaughtered every last one until there was nothing but blood and ash. I became an angel of death and it was so easy, so easy to just wipe them off the face of the earth. The worst part is, I didnt even regret it, not one."

She shifted to look up at him, her hand cupping his jaw. "And then I walked in here and saw you, I saw the love on your face and the pain when you saw the state of me. And then I knew, I knew how it felt to be you, so willing to tear the world apart for one that you love, and I'm sorry. I'm sorry that I ever scolded you, or treated you badly for just loving someone enough to want to protect them."

"I will never stop doing that," he stated. "Never."

She nodded, her eyes glistening. "I needed you, I needed you to take care of me the way that you did, and I never realised how much until tonight."

They clung to each other.

"Is Poppy alright?" He asked.

She nodded. "I took care of her, she is safe."

He kissed her forehead. "You did only what you had to do. I would have done the same," he said. "You're not a bad person, MC. None of us are, sometimes we have to be morally grey if it means helping those we care about. I'd kill anyone who harmed you, Anne, Ominis, even Poppy, because for some reason, I've grown quite fond of that little Hufflepuff. You're the bravest witch I know with heavy burdens to bear, but you are far from alone. I'm right here to help you carry them, and if that means washing your hair or just holding you and never letting go, then I am here for it. I'm here for you."

She smiled, the sight of it a relief to him. She had a beautiful smile, especially when it was just for him. "You'd better be," she said. She gripped his jaw and kissed him, long, hard and slow. "I'm expecting plenty more bath times like that in future."

"Your wish is my command."

[thevisualvamp]

Have a seat

[damedechance]

𝖈𝖗𝖔𝖜 𝖘𝖔𝖓𝖌 (pt 6/12)

𓇢𓆸 𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑑 𝑜𝑛 𝑎𝑜3 || 𝑙𝑖𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑛 𝑡𝑜 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑝𝑙𝑎𝑦𝑙𝑖𝑠𝑡

Pairing: Gwynriel Status: Ch 6/12 (Read from Pt 1) Rated: E (Explicit) Summary: Three years ago, Gwyneth Berdara became the ward of the Night Institute, a band of hunters led by Rhysand who work to rid the world of vampires. After one fateful night where Gwyn unwittingly welcomes one such creature into their home, she strikes a deal with Azriel, one that is just as likely to condemn them as it is to save them.

Massive thank you to @climbthemountain2020 for beta'ing this chapter, and for overall being amazing and sweet and kind!

𓇢𓆸 𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑑 𝑏𝑒𝑙𝑜𝑤 𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝑏𝑟𝑖𝑒𝑓 𝑠𝑛𝑖𝑝𝑝𝑒𝑡

VI.

Today, the sun blared bright and relentless in a powdery blue sky, and the unexpectedly pleasant winter day has rendered the inhabitants of the Night Institute lethargic, and to a hopeless degree. The three Archeron sisters–having appeared no more disturbed by Gwyn’s sudden and frantic entry than they might an errant fly–lie strewn about the music room in various states of inertia.

Elain, having stirred only to flutter her fingers in a half-hearted wave upon Gwyn’s arrival, naps in an armchair by the entrance. Both of her legs dangle over one end, while her hand is flung delicately over her face, blocking out the midday sun which stretches lazily across her upper half. A crumpled up ball of paper lies on her stomach, slowly rising and falling in time with her dozing breaths.

The ball of paper–and its numerous companions–can be traced back to Feyre. She sits cross legged on the ornate persian rug with her sketchbook propped up in her lap and her pencil scratching furiously over the pages. In fits of irritation, she groans before tearing a page from her sketchbook and tossing it carelessly onto the rug, the settee, or the low table placed in front of it. One of her trashed drawings has found its way into a bowl of fruit on the table, and another rests beside a crystal vase on the fireplace mantel.

Gwyn tracks the iridescent refractions scattered by the faceted surface of the vase. Notices how they cast soft colors over the sleek mahogany finish of the piano, or how they slant across Nesta’s pensive face–the prismatic effect softening the eldest Archeron’s usually sharp and angled expression. Blurring the edges, almost.

Nesta sits on the piano bench with her back to the keys, and stares down at a velvet dress lying across her lap. One of the many things Gwyn has ruined, the bodice is marred by a gruesome stain.

Fidgeting once more, Gwyn swallows against a lump in her throat and watches as Nesta scrapes at the stain with a fingernail. Dried mud flakes off, illuminated by the sunbeam that Gwyn avoids, and drifts to the ground. Gwyn’s foot slides forward, grinding it into the carpet with the toe of her leather boot.

“Is that all?” Nesta asks finally.

“Yes,” Gwyn says, her voice rising in unnatural inflection. She tugs the edge of her sleeve even further down. “I’m so sorry, Nesta.”

Nesta hums, nodding contemplatively down at her lap while Gwyn fails in repressing memories from this morning. The sun hanging low, practically scalding against her back as the mud seeped cool into the knees of her skirt. She kneeled in that garden, rubbing filth into the fibers of the most beautiful dress she’s ever worn, until even the smallest dot of blood was obscured. The pungency of the wet earth clings to her skin even now, despite an hour spent scrubbing her skin raw in a hot bath while she rehearsed this apology over and over–each iteration proving more and more inadequate than the one that came before.

She told Nesta she fell in a mud puddle while walking home from the gala. And now that the lie has left her mouth, all that remains within is a tongue pressing heavy and useless against her teeth, and lips groping for a suitable explanation that will never come.

Finally, Gwyn forces out, “I can take it to be laundered.”

Gwyn flinches, not only at how shrill her voice sounds, but at how the words ring so hollow. Gwyn has not left the Institute in all the nights she’s lived here, save for the one she wishes never happened. She certainly would not leave the house to see to a dress being laundered.

“What?” Nesta, usually so stern, lets out a small, incredulous laugh. “Laundered?”

Nesta’s stare is cold as ice against the side of Gwyn’s face. Gwyn swirls her tongue in her mouth until it is pressing against the inside of her cheek, and she stares vacantly at the crystal vase. The center of her palm feels like it is burning, and surely Nesta can see it. Gwyn’s transgressions, playing so blatantly across her face.

“Gwyn,” Nesta says finally. Firmly enough, that Gwyn reluctantly flicks her gaze back to her friend. She watches Nesta shake her head and set the dress beside her on the piano bench. “Truthfully, I don’t care about the dress. The stain will come out, or it won’t. You’re the one I’m worried about.”

Gwyn voids her lungs, feeling them shrivel up in her chest as tears begin to sting at the corners of her eyes. She lifts her chin so that she is looking at the overhead light fixture, and allows it to spot her vision instead of looking into the forgiving face of her only and greatest friend.

Tightly, Gwyn says, “Are you?”

“Yes,” Nesta says, pushing up to stand.

Panic constricts Gwyn’s veins, her blood running cold as Nesta snatches Gwyn’s hand out from behind her back. Gwyn is so sure that Nesta is about to turn it over, will shove the sleeve back to reveal the bandage wrapped around her wrist, that the panic does not recede even when Nesta surprises her by clasping Gwyn’s hand in both of hers.

“You disappeared,” Nesta says, anguish flashing briefly in her expression. She presses a glancing kiss to Gwyn’s knuckles, and smooths it away with the brushing of her fingers over Gwyn’s rings. Nesta continues, “I looked for you all over. I worried something might have happened, or that you were scared.”

Gwyn flushes, unsure whether it is from embarrassment or the sight of the cuff of her sleeve slowly slipping down her wrist. She can see the edge of the hastily wrapped bandage visible through the lace, and she swallows.

“I’m sorry to have worried you,” Gwyn breathes through a clenched jaw, barely restraining herself from tearing her hand out of Nesta’s grip.

“Nevermind that now,” Nesta says dismissively. “If falling in the mud is the worst to have happened to you, I am glad for the stain. It means you must have had a splendid night.”

“I did,” Gwyn says, stretching her mouth into a smile in the hopes it will sufficiently convince Nesta before any more of her wrist is revealed. Of all the members of the Institute, Nesta is the one Gwyn wants to keep it from most.

“Good,” Nesta says. “It’s settled.”

Apparently satisfied, Nesta finally releases Gwyn’s hand, and it is promptly replaced behind her back once Nesta returns to the piano.

“Any requests?” Nesta neatly slides herself onto the bench.

Gwyn allows for a moment to pass before she answers, her heart still thundering in her ears and all of her focus attuned to forcing her breaths out evenly. Every passing moment serves to wind her nerves tighter and tighter, a festering coil at the center of her belly–and she wonders just how much of it she is expected to endure before they snap completely, their ends fraying.

Gwyn steps forward, that poor imitation of a smile still plastered on her face, and watches Nesta listlessly strike a few discordant notes at random.

“Beethoven,” Gwyn murmurs, tucking her hand into the folds of her skirt. “If you have any prepared.” From the armchair in the corner, Elain suddenly emits an uncharacteristically loud and very beleaguered groan. “Beethoven is all she has prepared,” Elain gripes.

˖⁺‧₊˚⸸˚₊‧⁺˖

[what-ho-internet]

what is ur favourite brand of shoe

An excellent question! And an excellent use of modern shortenings. You-are becomes u-r –spiffing.

Where to begin? Being cheesed off by rambling myself, I shouldn’t like to be a fellow who harps on and on without getting to the point so I shall say foremostly: I am extremely partial to a two-toned Oxford, although with a dark suit there is nothing to compete with the solid-coloured square-toe.

Now to the more complex answer: my favourite brand is truly dependent on the time of year. I warn you that I am not so adroit as Jeeves on the objective features of shoes –this is, rather, drawing on personal experience and opinion.

Biltwell’s Oxfords offer more breathability than others if you’re in the market for a Summer-shoe or looking to do curvet some settees and pianos (as I do find myself at times.) Gold Bonds and Marshalls are splendid as far as I am concerned for more formal occasions, or if looking to impress an aunt when in need of a bean. These are shoes I have been reliant on for a long time, but as Jeeves does I will reinforce the modern sayings –one ‘cannot be too careful with one’s look,’ just as it is better one is ‘better safe than sorry.’ This did not prohibit me from taking a dekko at some of the new stuff when walking down Oxford street yesterday, however, being the more spontaneous of the two of us. (Myself and Jeeves, that is.)

I went out with the pristine appearance which has come to follow the reputation of this household, rather tan and healthy from my recent trip to the continent. What I saw variously shocked and interested me –there was an establishment of what seemed to me charlatans selling shoes with holes professed to be  part of the design! It seemed to me entirely ridiculous. I turned to my friend –a fellow I call Chuffy, but whose Christian name is unfortunately Marmaduke– and proclaimed that I had never encountered so blatant an devious scheme in all my life. Chuffy, to my horror (as I am still attempting to make up to him a mix-up we had concerning his latest fiance) turned to me with quite the rosy colour and claimed to have actually bought a pair for himself only the previous week!

‘Foorsooth, Chuffy?’ I said, attempting to ease the way without compromising my principles (very much a trick I have learned form Jeeves.) The fellow nodded.

‘I see no reason why I should joke when you have made such a display of the situation,’ he replied in dubious tones which harkened me back to terrifying visions of him launching himself over a bench at me. 

‘I do not make fun Chuffy,’ I said. ‘I only wish to marshal my facts. I simply cannot understand what use a pair of shoes covered in holes could be to a fellow.’

‘They are loungewear, Bertie,’ Chuffy sighed. ‘They are not created to endure extreme weather, as your fine Oxfords are. They are comfortable for lying about the house and all that.’

I pressed my lips together and resolved not to speak up to say that I could not see what the problem with an ordinary set of warm slippers might be. I resolved, too, not to tell Jeeves of Chuffy’s decision to buy these strange modern shoes. He, however, does read these posts so I suppose he will now discover this and be upset by it. I shall warn Chuffy off turning up at the flat for a few days.

I hope my musings have been sufficient, dear anonymous. More, anon!

[sleepingdeath-light]

cuddling hcs ; poly!huntlow

requested by ; anonymous (29/05/23)

fandom(s) ; the owl house

fandom masterlist(s) ; main | hunter only

character(s) ; hunter wittebane, willow park

outline ; “can I request hunter and willow poly cuddling headcannons?”

warning(s) ; none, just fluff!

cuddling is the number one way that the three of you destress after a long and weary day

sometimes it’s just two of you — such as when one of you isn’t up for being touched or is away — and other times it’s the three of you

it depends

willow in general prefers to cuddle from the side — either curling up against your side or being the little spoon

hunter in general prefers to stack cuddle — having you partially or entirely on top of him with his arms around you, soothed by your weight and body heat (like a living weighted blanket)

and when the three of you get together it only gets more cozy with your positions changing depending on where you are at the time

when you’re sitting on a bench or settee it looks more so like: hunter and willow cuddled into each other’s sides with you laid across their laps, all of you completely and utterly exhausted

horizontal cuddling usually looks like one of the following:

(a) hunter on his back with you and willow curled up against his sides, partially on top of him whilst he has his arms around your waists

(b) the three of you spooning with willow curled up into your chest and hunter spooning her from behind

(c) you in the centre with hunter and willow cuddling into your sides

but no matter the position it will get very warm very quickly because both of your partners are walking space heaters

at least it’s helpful in winter