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vbnhuet · 5 months

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Before I start another writing project I couldn’t finish, I’m just gonna leave my idea so my head won’t explode. Weird Bowuigi AU idea time.

So we’ve seen Bowser being the “sugar daddy” in the relationship all the time, basically spoiling Luigi and give him all the fanciest rooms, clothes, food because he’s king and all that. But I feel like a role reversal would be entertaining to explore.

So I’m imagining like a regent/aristocrat/business??? AU. Bowser is born blue-blooded and rich but have no self restrain on spending money, while Mario started off as a commoner, but through hard work and being generally lucky in the real estate scheme got himself to the same social status as the other nobles. The two got into a years long rivalry trying to court the same lady (Peach), and bowser spent all his inherited money on crazy expenses and bad business decisions just to try and woo her.

At the end, Bowser obviously loses. Losing his lady and in massive debt, still he begrudgingly show up at Mario’s engagement party to save face and not look like a sore loser. He mingled with the guests, getting a bit tipsy, and then when he tried to pat on Mario’s back to congratulate him, a taller, thinner version of Mario with a different moustache to look back at him. The other guy told bowser that he’s Luigi, Mario’s twin brother, and Bowser just blinked in confusion. He was Mario’s rival for years, and now he just know that mario got a twin brother??? Where was this guy at the social meet ups?

At first bowser thought Luigi was just some nobody who leech off of Mario’s success, but Luigi just smiled and told him that “oh no, I’m the chairman of the business, actually”. bowser laughed it off because he thought luigi was joking

But Bowser went home and search up Luigi’s profile and… holy shit. Three mansions. Hotels and casinos. Multiple brand deals. And he owns like most of the estates in their region. No wonder why bowser was losing to Mario. He underestimated those two because they were born commoner, but turns out behind the scene, they were owning probably triple the amount bowser ever owned in his life. But while mario was having his face plastering all over the place, Luigi, the one who make all the important decisions in the family was trying to keep a low profile, cooping up in his personal mega-mansion on a private property somewhere because he was too shy and awkward.

So cue Bower, trying his hands at courting this insanely rich but socially awkward man, basically trying to leech off of his wealth and get that revenge on Mario. Luigi pretty much dwarfed bowser in everything when it comes to wealth (I could see Luigi coming over to bowser’s place and just turning his nose up and start commenting on how bowser is terrible at architectural design and stuff like that), so bowser have to use his “charisma”. Showing up on Luigi’s property unwanted with a grand piano, dumping love letters in front of his door, offering Luigi rides on his crumpling vintage cabriolet. Luigi promised Mario that he wouldn’t spit out a single coin for bowser… but somehow this is working.

#luigi #bowser #bowuigi #bowser x luigi #ideas #alternate universe #mareach #super mario

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things-about-cars-in-posts · 6 months

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this is the most genderfluid car (derogatory)

, reads the caption this picture of a ‘94 Oldsmobile Cutlass Ciera Wagon S was submitted to this blog with.

And while I would indeed like @sapphicshart to elaborate on why this car would be so genderfluid and why in a derogatory way, and perhaps appreciate how they reused the window triangles from the regular one at the rear end of the body, I feel that must make way for my first reaction upon the claim of “most genderfluid”:

haha.

Hahahaha.

HAHAHAHAHHA.

MUAUAHAHAUAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAAAAAAAA.

Dear friend, prepare to get absolutely motherfucking BODIED.

This is the 1982 Nissan Pulsar NX (Pulsar EXA in Japan and Australia), and it’s not the car we are interested in.

The Pulsar NX was a way Nissan devised to get a more youthful and exciting coupe out of the underpinnings of the Nissan Pulsar/Sunny/Cherry (or even Holden Astra, if you’re feeling weirdly Australian), …conventionally unappealing little sedan and hatchback. Ah, right, I’ve still not made the body styles master explainer - let me brief you very quick. The above is a coupe, a car with two doors and a trunk compartment that is separate from the cabin. When the doors are four, it’s what you see below, a sedan.

Whereas a hatchback is one with a rear hatch that contains the rear windshield, making the trunk compartment part of the cabin.

See what I meant with the “conventionally unappealing”, eh.

Well, in 1986 the base Pulsar/Sunny/Cherry/Sentra/so on received an update, and thus the Pulsar NX based on its guts was updated with it.

And if your brows are furrowed by unfamiliarity and not by the painful realization of how hard our poor submitter is about to get pulverized, you must understand that this car’s body style is… rather unique.

In late ‘60s America, word started spreading that the Department Of Transportation would ban convertibles due to the awful lack of shit between passenger heads and pavement when they decided to change side - thus began the popularity of “targas” like this here NX (though manufacturers called them a lot of different names because Porsche copyrighted that word).

In a targa, instead of both roof and rear windshield all folding down behind the cabin, the roof is a solid panel (or, as in this case, two) that is removed and stored away and the rear windshield stays there, on the rear structure that remains at the service of body rigidity and occupants safety. And personally that feels extremely genderfluid to me.

But of course, there are many targa coupes, so this would not be such a peculiarity. But the thing is, while this car has two doors and a trunk compartment separate from the interior and thus a coupe, it can also be argued a hatchback since it has a hatch that includes the rear windshield.

But why in tarnation would they design a rear hatch like that when, since it doesn’t create any more room above the trunk, it has no cargo space advantage? Well, remember how one key difference between targas and convertibles is that in the former the rear windshield stays in place? Well, here it does stay in place, if you want to. If you don’t, though, you just take it off.

So the Pulsar NX is a coupe that is also a hatchback and a targa and a cabriolet. Except that now, as you can see, the rear compartment is open. So arguably it’s also a pickup - or, if you will, a ute. (It’s doing that weird thing it does sometimes with post submissions where it keeps me on the old editor where I can’t change text color so please pretend that link is the trademark ‘link to a related things-about-cars-in-posts post’ blue.)

But then you’d at least want a canvas cover or something just in case it rains and your rear passengers and/or cargo don’t like rain, right? So indeed, here’s the optional canvas canopy.

Meaning it could also have both a fixed glass rear windshield and a folding plastic one, making it both a hardtop convertible and a soft top one.

But what if you wanted to transport too much cargo to fit under the hatch -or the canvas cover- but you still wanted to have it protected, as you could do in a ute with a rear canopy?

Well, folks, I truly saved the best for last.

Because this thing is not just a coupe, a hatchback, a targa, a soft top convertible, a hardtop convertible, a pickup and a ute. It’s also a shooting brake. (Again, pretend that’s blue.)

You see now why the rear hatch hinged like that.

So while this is a post about a most [specific sexual identity or orientation] car, I am not, as per tradition, offering other options nor a vote between them, because democracy does not apply to matters of fact. (And also again I’m stuck on the old editor.)

But of course, if you want to participate in the creation of any future installments, hop on over into the Discord server linked in my pinned! It’s got glowing reviews :)

#lgbt cars #nissan pulsar nx #nissan pulsar exa #nissan cherry #nissan sunny #holden astra #submission

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fletchysohot · 11 months

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Le grand rendez-vous

Who hasn't wanted a romantic italian summer romance with Kai Havertz?

WORD COUNT: 2.6K

The Italian riviera is exhilarating, from the way the sun makes the sea glisten the most beautiful shade of turquoise, bleeding into bright white when waves hit the cliff beneath the road, to the way white birds swoop in and out among white boats, with sails that disappear and reappear along the horizon like tiny meteorites in an endless sky. Driving along the coastline where the mountains meet the depths of the sea makes your breath hitch at every turn Kai takes on the small roads built into the rock walls of the cliff. You feel your knuckles turn white every time you grip into the handle of the door or edge of your car seat and your stomach drop whenever the car takes a sharper turn, grazing the pebbles of the road side.

You look over to Kai as the wind plays with his hair, his features framed by a pair of dark vintage frames and a black tshirt that hugs his torso perfectly, his tattoo peeking out when he moves his arm. He looks like a heartthrob plucked straight out of an old movie. Like he will turn to you and feed you a line just for it to be followed by a million women swooning and fainting. You are mesmerised by the way his hands steadily hold the wheel of the vintage BMW cabriolet, guiding the car, traversing it between the cliffside and rock wall. You admire the way his face is not showing any sign of worry or concentration, as if one wrong move would not send the two of you tumbling straight into the mouth of the sea with glistening white teeth of the crashing waves a hundred of metres below. The way the corners of his pink lips curl upward resemble those of a cat laying in the perfect spot of sun, you think, content and happy - a man at peace.

If you consider the past six months you don't think you have seen Kai look this way in a long time, his mind always torturing him about could-have-beens and should-have-beens. Even after games that he's won his mind would always trap him in a spiral of self pity for not doing better. It is almost as if you are not sitting next to the same man anymore, this Kai is not pale from the constant rain clouds and time spent indoors, instead his skin is glowing a light olive colour, reflecting the warm summer rays.

“You're thinking again,” he chuckles.

“I just don't like looking at the sea right now.” You throw your eyes over your shoulder and your stomach drops as he nears the edge of the lane again to pass an oncoming car.

“We'll be done with this road soon,” he soothes you, “schatz.”

You know he adds the last part to make your worries trickle away. He only uses that nickname on special occasions, in fear of it somehow wearing off, of becoming less special. Even though he is aware of the effect it has on you.

“You called me schatz.” You smile at him, letting your cheek fall onto the headrest as you look at him dreamily.

“I know I did,” he chuckles, not taking his eyes off the road.

“You look happy,” you observe.

“Yes, I'm with you, of course I'm happy!” He chuckles and the way his face lights up makes your stomach erupt in butterflies.

“I like you happy,” you sigh contently, “I like it so much.”

The car goes back to being silent, the italian radio station mixed with the sound of wind whizzing over your heads. You keep sneaking glances at the man next to you, your attention drawn to the fleeting views passing by the car.

—

The apartment you are staying in is small and quaint and humble in contrast to your spacious and luxurious house in England. The building is old, with old creaky floorboards and pale blue walls in the kitchen and living room faded from the decades of history that the bones of the home carries. The rooms are connected by heavy wooden double doors on rusty old hinges. The bedroom, much like the living room, is adorned by big windows framed by white linen curtains moving slowly in the breeze, beyond them a balcony overlooking the town below and the beautiful sea beyond the lively streets. The air of the space is heavy with the evening heat and humidity that mixes seamlessly with the smell of saltwater and wind that has seeped into every wall of the apartment over the decades. The distant bustle of the streets floats in through the open window making the apartment fill with life and warmth.

“Do you like it?” Kai's soft voice startles you.

You turn to look at him, your mind trying to find the words to encompass how everything, the trip and apartment, feels.

Even though the apartment is a stark contrast to what you would expect a professional football player to book as a holiday getaway, it is somehow perfectly Kai. Simple and humble, yet beautiful and extravagant in its own way. Special and one of a kind. You see him in every nook and cranny of the place. From the walls the colour of his eyes or to the sturdy and reliable furniture. A treasure tucked away from prying eyes.

And there he is, standing in the midst of it all, in a loose white t-shirt and a pair of simple shorts, hair still messy and windswept from spending all day driving a cabriolet, illuminated by the aura of the apartment. As if he was made for this place. This moment. Made for you only. The light from the cheap bulbs and windows illuminating him like he is something sent from heaven. An angel that has been cursed to walk the world until he finds his true love and now, here, in this moment, he's looking right at her. His eyes glisten in the evening glow filled with love and care and excitement.

“It's perfect Kai,” you say. Perfect seems like such a dumb and bland word to describe this place. You scramble for more words - superb, magical, breathtaking. None of them would describe the way you feel. None of them live up to the moment.

He doesn't reply instantly, taking his time to walk towards you, slowly, to let his eyes take you in. Finally he cups your cheek with his palm, slender fingers tracing shapes on your cheek. You lean into his touch the same way a sunflower always finds the sun. Kai slowly reaches down and kisses you. Your lips move slowly, lazily, both of you aware that you have nowhere to rush, nowhere to be. You tangle your fingers in his ebony hair and his hand cups your lower back as a cellist would hold his beloved cello. You feel his muscles ease against your body bit by bit, Kai melting into your body, finally letting himself relax.

“I think it's pretty great too.” He smiles pullin back and looking down at you. “I was thinking we could maybe go get dinner and explore the town?”

“Only if you hold my hand the whole time,” you tease him.

“Who said there was any other possible way of doing this?” He kisses your nose letting his hand slide from your cheek, down your shoulder and arm finally finding your fingers, intertwining them.

You try to find words or a stupid question, to stay here, in this moment, not to leave this perfect bubble of love. To have him kiss you again in your perfect safe haven from the world beyond the doors. To lock him away from prying eyes and sharpened tongues that make him doubt himself. To protect him.

But you know you cannot. He is not yours to lock up in an ivory tower, or in this case a small apartment by the sea in a small Italian coastal town. The worry lines on his forehead will come back and his muscles will tense again, this Kai in front of you, right now, is all but a mirage, smoke and mirrors. A sight only occurring once in a blood moon. A fleeting image that you are desperately trying to catch before it fades.

And then, like clockwork, as quickly as it appeared the air of peace and relaxation is gone. Even if he tries to hide it his shoulders become more rigid and the hints of self doubt and pain sneak back into his eyes. Your heart breaks seeing how easily, like it's second nature to him, Kai slides right back into the role of the tortured and haunted prodigy that will never live up to the expectations set on him by the world. Like Sisyphus always trekking up the hill just to be knocked down again when he thinks he's reached the summit. Never giving up or giving in - determined to bring every ounce of glory home to his team and family and friends.

“You ready to go?” you ask him, kissing his cheek. You are scared that if you stand here for a moment longer, look in his eyes for a second longer, you will break down. Fall to your knees sobbing. Beg for him to give up football. To move here. To run away with you. So the vultures can't get him. So he is safe.

“Yes ” he smiles, leaning down to kiss you, as soft as before. His touch feather light against your body, like a warm summer breeze.

—

The streets of the town are lined by citrus trees, the smell of oranges and lemons mixing with the warm sea air sends your head spinning. Kai swings your hands between the two of you as both of you exit the little pizzeria, bellies full of cheese and bread and wine. Cheeks already sore from smiling and laughing.

“That wine was amazing!” you say to him as you near the seaside.

“It was phenomenal,” he exclaims, bringing your hands to his lips and kissing your knuckles.

Phenomenal. Another word that seemingly loses all its magnitude and weight if you were to try and use it to describe this place and feeling. It feels too overused and mundane if you were to use it as a verbal expression of your feelings. Many things are phenomenal - meals, songs, films or football games. But if you tried to describe the smell of the fruit trees lingering on the nightly streets of this city or the way waves crashing against the rocks by the seaside create a perfect symphony of background ambience to your walk it would not be phenomenal. It's too much of an overused word for that.

“Do you wanna go in here?” he asks, pointing at a small outdoor bar, swallowed by flower vines and adorned by metal tables, music playing from the speakers, people milling around the courtyard.

You nod enthusiastically. The place looks like pure magic, out of a movie. The kind of place people go to fall in love.

You find a place to sit while Kai goes to fetch the two of you a bottle of wine and glasses. As he walks through the crowd you sigh happily. It's the way his face can't help but light up at the sight of you, every millimetre of his features filled with pure unadulterated love and joy. He slides into the seat next to you and pours the wine. The two of you begin to talk about the surroundings, looking at the people passing by. You tell him about how you think you should plant roses like these at home, a reminder of the trip always with you, growing and wrapping around the sleek and seemingly perfect terrace of your England home, breaking up the sterile feeling that the home has even after years of living there. He tells you about how the two of you must find out who makes this wine before you leave so he can import it, so there is always a piece of Italy with you, because never has he tasted a better wine ever. You debate about whether you should stay here another night or move on to Lake Como. Both of you captivated by the sheer beauty of the seemingly meek town that has rooted itself into your hearts. You take turns picking the bottles of wine and making a game of it.

Currently you are on your third bottle watching an old italian couple slow dance to the upbeat music. Both of you grinning at the seemingly oblivious pair, lost in their own world, moving to a beat completely opposite of the current song.

“You think that's going to be us in a few years?” you ask, chuckling.

“Definitely,” he says when you look at him, he isn't watching the elderly couple, instead his eyes are glued to you.

“Kai...” you chuckle, blushing.

“Come on! I'll give you a taste!” He says getting up.

“Kai...” you laugh.

“Come on!” he laughs gripping your wrist. “I want to dance with you!”

He pulls you up from the seat grinning like a maniac, and you don't protest. His eyes are dark like the sky above, the light from the lanterns above illuminating them with flicks of light like stars. You let his limbs pull you after him, the two of you soon moving to the rhythm of the song. Suddenly the air around you is light and time doesn't matter.

“What are you thinking about in that head of yours?” You ask him.

For a moment Kai forgets the missed penalties, the goals that should have been, the booing of fans at away stadiums and fans dressed in blue. His muscles relax and briefly his heart is not weighed down by worries and pain. In the moment, under the moon in this small quaint Italian town, he is not “Kai Havertz - football player”, he is just Kai, a man from Aachen, dancing with the love of his life under the starry skies, not worrying about tomorrow. The way she looks at him makes his heart skip a beat, as if she saved him from himself and nothing matters anymore, he's not pushing a rock up the hill just for it to tumble down again. He's not searching for glory, tripping and falling over his feet. Having her look up at him like he put the stars in the sky and pulled down the moon just for her, makes him feel like there is nothing he can't do. Having her in his arms, knowing she doesn't hate him, even if the whole world does, and knowing she is always in his corner is enough to bring him to his knees. She was sent from heaven above to save him from himself.

“Just how much I love you…” he smiles. His smile is different. Brighter, more genuine. “What are you thinking about?”

“Just how much I love you.” You nuzzle your face into his neck, kissing the warm skin earning a laugh. The kind that makes even the deepest parts of his chest rumble.

In that moment you feel like nothing matters, like no one can ever break this moment. Like in one of those postmodernism books your mother used to read on holidays, time is a construct, and you and Kai have briefly become timeless. Stuck in this moment that is filled with love and calmness, passion and excitement. Excitement for the future and what stands before the two of you. You realise that the magic is not hidden in the apartment, or growing in the vines of flowers everywhere or even bottled and corked here, it is instead rooted between you. Like a secret only you and Kai are in on. Finally the word comes to you. Finally you find words that describe the place, the moment, the feelings. Everything and everything and everything. It's all - Kai Havertz.

#football fanfic #football imagine #footballer x reader #footballer x you #premier league #fluff #kai havertz #arsenal FC #germany #german nt #germany nt #germany national team #afc #arsenal

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carsthatnevermadeitetc · 2 years

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What a difference 70 years makes juxtaposition of Porsche 356 S Cabriolet, 1952 & Porsche 911 Carrera S Cabriolet, 2022. To commemorate the company’s successful entry into the Carrera Panamericana Porsche Latin America and Porsche Mexico have created a special one-off that matches the appearance of the race car from the 1950s. It has been finished in Gentian blue with wheels also in blue with grey centres like the original. The brake callipers are painted black and roundels bearing the number 11 added to the sides of the car. The car has been presented ahead of the 35th running of the “modern” Carrera Panamericana. The one-off 911 will be auctioned with the proceeds going to charity

#Porsche #Porsche 356 S Cabriolet #Porsche 911 Carrera S Cabriolet #one-off #tribute car #70th anniversary #replica #Carrera Panamericana #road race #charity auction #What a difference #1952 #2022 #one of one

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josefavomjaaga · 1 year

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Marshal Soult and his Murillos

A curious thing that I have found so far on checking Google Books is that, in the earliest mentions of Soult’s Murillo paintings in British newspapers, there is no mention at all of the dubious way he may have acquired them. To the contrary, the tone is, considering it’s coming from »the enemy«, almost friendly. As the Spanish government had not allowed paintings of the Spanish school to leave the country before the French invasion, only very few works by Murillo had found their way to London, and the paintings Soult had in his possession simply astonished British visitors.

It seems like it’s only after 1822, 1823, when Soult’s collection started to become renowned, when it was clear that his Murillos were indeed much better than anything British collections had to offer and when a famous art trader named Buchanan loudly claimed he was about to buy the whole of Soult’s paintings in order to bring them to London – a deal that Soult in the end did not agree to, because he rather sold his country estate than his Murillos – that every mention of the collection had to include the description »looted in Spain«.

This article in the London Magazine, Volume 6, of 1822, about a visit to his gallery was written before that. And while Soult is described in a highly condescending (but funny) tone, he’s actually compared favourably to his countrymen, just as his Murillos are compared favourably to paintings of the French school. The whole article is much longer and to be found here. I’m merely quoting the part relating to Soult.

After having mused for a long while about contemporary art and music, the author continues;

But what has all this to do with Soult and his Murillos? - nothing, save that it occurred to me as I was crossing the Pont Royal on my way to his hotel, and so completely engrossed my attention, that I was nearly run over by a cabriolet. Having finished my exordium, and escaped the wheels, I proceeded to the Fauxbourg St. Germain, and turned into the courtyard of Marshal Soult, Duke of Dalmatia, in a corner of which were four stablemen, too busy in tossing up halfpence to bestow even a look upon the visitors. Probably, his Grace has often indulged in a similar recreation, but having tossed up his halfpence to better account, he has found his way into the saloon, and left his competitors in the stableyard. A groom of the chambers having conducted us through that indispensable appendage to every French mansion, a spacious billiard-room, led us to a small ante-chamber, where we were received with a plain frank courtesy by the Marshal, a middle-sized, though somewhat corpulent personage of from fifty to sixty years of age, whose dark curling hair rendered somewhat conspicuous the bald patch in the middle of his head, while his sun-burnt complexion accorded well with his dark intelligent eye. His black stock, plain dark coat, and loose blue trowsers, which, capacious as they were, could not hide his bow-legged form, obviously suggested the soldier rather than the courtier, the Marshal rather than the Duke; though if I had encountered such a figure in London, I should rather have guessed him to be an honest East or West India captain. A Frenchman entitled by birth to similar rank and fortune would have been forward, and vain, and loquacious, amid his unmerited distinctions, but methought upon Soult's countenance there sat an air of reserve, and even awkwardness, in doing the honours of his proud mansion, as if he felt conscious that he assimilated not well with its magnificence; I could fancy him saying to himself: Here I stand, a plain soldier of fortune, consenting to use splendidly the wealth which I have acquired, and the greatness which has been thrust upon me, but disdaining to adopt in my own person any of the fopperies of state.

#napoleon's marshals #jean de dieu soult #murillo

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