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distantdarlings · 5 months

Text

INDULGE // t. nott

RATING: R / 2.8K WORDS

Theodore Nott x Reader Insert (No gender-specific details, but reader is wearing a skirt)

+ SUMMARY - *Requested, based on this* You've been working on an insane amount of schoolwork all evening and just want to lie down with your boyfriend. Your boyfriend has been doing the same but wonders if you might be interested in something else.

+ WARNINGS - SMUT! Body worship, oral sex, (perf. on reader), no protection used - piv, brief orgasm denial, language (also not proofread, sorry), very brief overstimulation, dom!Theo

+ MUSIC (listened to while writing) -

Sinner - Teflon Sega

---

The flame in the corner of your eye extinguished itself with a slight sizzle. You jumped slightly as it interrupted the constant silence that had stretched itself over the library.

You sighed and rubbed your fingers over your eyes, attempting to massage some of the aches. You seriously thought you would keel over if you looked at one more chart or paragraph. Your head tilted to the left and the right, feeling the pops that echoed in your ears.

The books and parchment laid out before you would just have to wait until tomorrow morning. You could barely keep your head up. You gathered everything together and slid it all into your bag, giving a polite nod to the librarian on the way out.

You glanced down at your watch, expecting it to be well after midnight—which it was. Did the librarian ever sleep? You wondered if she had some special draught to keep her awake for long periods. If she did, you needed some of it.

The halls were completely empty, as they generally were at this time of night. You’d gotten special permission from Professor Snape to stay in the library past curfew for the next weeks. You were balancing quite a few different projects and extracurriculars and, on top of all of that, had accepted a side assignment from Professor Snape, studying the side effects of the Venomous Tentacula’s venom and all that happened to the body before it eventually died from it.

It was fascinating and you felt content with your current workload, but you were just tired tonight. It was Friday, and it had been a long, long week. Right now, you just wanted to stop in with your boyfriend to see how he was doing. He should be asleep, but you know he likely wasn’t.

Finally, you arrived before the Slytherin common room, spoke the password, and slipped through the entrance. A few students remained in the common room, sketching or scanning a book, but none seemed particularly concerned when you came through.

You made for your dorm so you could set your things down and quickly change into your pajamas. The best thing about the dorm rooms at Hogwarts was the beds—no challenge. They were the most comfortable thing you’d ever laid on with silky, feather pillows, two thick comforters, and a large, form-fitted mattress you half wished to be buried on when you died. Thinking about them now had you picking up the pace.

You slipped down the long hallway, hearing the soft echo of your shoes hitting the floor with every increasingly rapid step. The books in your hands were becoming more of a burden than they initially were. You readjusted the way they were placed against you to bear your arms some rest.

Soon enough, the dorm entrance stood before you, bidding you a good evening and some sweet dreams. You pushed through the door and set your things down on the bed. Fortunately, yours was the one right next to the threshold, and you could just lay your things down as soon as you got in. You were considering not even taking a shower tonight.

You moved to the foot of the bed and grabbed your folded pajamas. It was awfully quiet in here, but you figured most of your friends were out for the weekend. It was no concern of yours; more reason to take an early night.

You slipped out of your day shoes and unfolded your pajamas, preparing to put them on. Plans, schedules, and your to-do list for the next day swirled through your head as you worked the buttons down your shirt. You figured if you knocked out all of your other assignments, you could spend the rest of the morning focusing on Snape’s project. That was probably the best plan of action…your hands allowed your shirt to slip down your arms. You grabbed your tank top and began to pull it over your head.

Warm hands suddenly became familiar with your sides. A yelp escaped you as you backed away against your bed. Standing before you was a quietly laughing Theo holding his stomach. The laughter slowly brought tears to his eyes. You crossed your arms and squinted your eyes at him. Dick.

“Theo! Why did you do that?” you scolded, smacking him across the arm. “I nearly jumped out of my skin.”

“I know, I know, it was hilarious,” he laughed, wiping his eyes with his fingertips. You didn’t smile.

“Do I look like I’m laughing, you jerk?” you asked, tapping your finger impatiently against your crossed arms.

“I’m sorry, baby, I just wanted to come see you,” he smiled, his laughter finally dying. His hands slowly slid back around your sides, massaging the skin through your tank top. The meaning behind his smile seemed to change slightly.

He leaned against the bed and bumped his nose gently against yours, causing chills to spread down your arms and legs. He leaned in closely and pressed a gentle kiss to the small center of your neck and shoulder. You tilted your head a bit to allow him easier access. He chuckled darkly and pulled away.

“But if you’re mad at me, I totally understand,” he said, throwing his hands up in defeat. “I’ll just have to head back to my dorm…” He began to walk towards the door, shrugging his shoulders. You rolled your eyes at him, a smile sneaking its way onto your face. You wondered how long he would lay into this role. He did this all the time.

“Are you sure you didn’t have an important reason for coming over?” you teased.

“Nope, I’m just going to head back to my dorm…where it’s lonely…and cold…,” he sighed sadly. You tilted your head back and laughed at his award-winning acting skills before pushing yourself off the bed and walking over to him. You slid your hands around his waist, and he came to a stop, reveling in the feeling of your hands on him. You pressed yourself to his back, giving a sweetened hug from behind. His heartbeat seemed to slow as if you calmed him down.

Your hands around him traced their fingers over his stomach and traveled down to his hips. When you ghosted your fingers just below his belt, his breath hitched. You smirked at his reaction, hearing his heartbeat intensify. Your hands pulled away just as they were about to make contact with his core, you turned away and began walking back to your bed, ignoring the groan that came from him. It took him only a moment to swallow his pride and walk back over to you, catching your arm just as you were about to lay down.

He spun you against him and captured your lips with his, encasing your face between his large hands. His lips worked hastily against yours, cupping your bottom lip with his and pinching it between his teeth. You sighed into his mouth at the sudden shock of pain.

He walked you just a step back before you were both falling to the bed, never breaking away from the other. Kissing Theo was like coming up for air after being trapped underwater. His lips always moved against yours like a starved man, begging for a taste of you, never acquiring enough. His hands held you in place and his lips split you down the middle, leaving no room or need for air. He was all you needed, your only necessity. You could stay here forever, pressed against his body with no escape.

He parted from you and worked his lips down your neck. Before he continued down, he pulled the tank top from over your head and gently became acquainted with your chest. His lips pressed slowly against your skin, massaging the weight of it with his hands. His tongue skirted gently across the peak of each side, watching the way your lips parted at every swirl of the muscle. He touched you everywhere, and you always let him.

His fingers traced delicately down your ribs, sliding between them like a trap. He left nothing unkissed, untouched, unloved. His tongue worked absolute miracles over your stomach, each kiss lighting a scorching fire between your legs.

“You are so, so beautiful,” he breathed against your stomach. You sighed as his tongue traced one gentle swipe up the curve of your abdomen. Your fingers were shaking as they raised to slide into his hair, begging him to lower his head between your thighs. He hid a smirk at your desperation, loving the feeling he gave you.

Whenever your eyes would roll to the back of your head or your beautiful lips would part, he felt like royalty. If there was anything he was put on this Earth to do, he was sure it was to worship every inch of you and to pray to the sweet breadth of heaven between your legs. There was never a time he wasn’t thinking of you, thinking of fucking you, thinking of watching your every move. He wanted to bottle your every orgasm and bathe in it.

He flipped your skirt up and over your legs, not caring to take it off. You wore no tights today. All that was before him were your barren legs waiting to be parted by him. He slid his hands beneath your thighs and set them over his shoulders, adoring the weight of them against him. He pressed hot, open-mouthed kisses to the insides of your thighs, slowly working to his final destination. His thumb reached out and barely guided itself over the cover of your undergarments, already dampened. You gasped sharply. He wanted to destroy you.

“Please, baby,” you whimpered quietly. “Don’t tease.” He did not intend to.

The tips of his fingers slid beneath the waistband of your underwear and pulled them down, admiring the way your core pulsated gently beneath his gaze. Every exhale that escaped his lips sent a shudder through your body. He was close enough to smell your scent wafting all around him. His eyes rolled to the back of his head as he breathed in his one desire, the anticipation of the moment nearly taking him over. Beneath his belt, the core of his body ached so sweetly, begging for anything. He could not wait any longer.

He placed a soft kiss to you, feeling the way you jolted at the small touch. He kissed you once more, feeling the way your wetness collected on his lips. His tongue darted out against you, sliding between every inch of skin and against his lips, tasting every drop. You were like a dark wine tainting his tongue, shooting straight to his brain and cock. Every time he did this, his head would luxuriate in your taste and smell. Dulcet moans would leave his lips and echo against you. His hips would begin to move against the bed, rolling against the soft material. His self-indulgence in you and against himself would become too much for him. If he could never do this again, he’d find no reason to walk this Earth.

Your fingers clenched tightly in his hair and breathy, perfect moans spilled from your lips. Desperate whimpers of his name, begging for more, only urged him on more. He would never stop as long as you wouldn’t stop him. He didn’t need to eat, need to sleep, need anything other than you.

His fingers, previously holding your thighs apart so he could have full access to you, pulled between him and you. They slowly pushed through the expanse of your wetness, drawing a new kind of moan from you. Each digit circled around the folds of your skin, allowing your essence to seep between them and spill over his hands.

“Please, Theo,” you begged, your eyes making contact with his, “I need them now.”

His eyes never left yours as he pulled his hand to his face and ran a long, begging tongue up the palm of his hand. Your lips were parted in a deep, flushed moan as he slid them into you with little to no resistance. Nothing about your current condition was going to push him away. You only wanted more of him. Your head laid back against the pillow, your fingers curling tightly against his scalp once more.

His tongue found you again, matching the rhythm of his fingers. You wouldn’t last much longer, and he knew this too. Every time you came close to your end, your thighs began to shake. He knew the sight so well. As soon as the smooth skin there began to shudder, he knew you were getting close. He pulled away from you.

You nearly screamed in frustration, severely feeling the loss of him. He smirked evilly, watching you squirm against the mattress, attempting to push the tip of your climax over the edge. His hands slammed onto your hips, pushing you into the mattress. A small yelp left you at the action.

“I don’t think so, darling,” Theo whispered, his tongue skirting one more hot swipe over your core. You moaned loudly, bucking your hips against his lips. “Don’t I get anything?”

“Just shut up and do something, anything, I’m so fucking close,” you whined. He complied quickly, undoing his belt and sliding it from his pants. Your hands slid up and down your sides, trying to hold your finish where it currently rested, just on its edge.

“Spread your legs for me, baby,” he said lowly. Your eyes found his. His pupils were nearly blown across his whole eye with only the smallest amount of blue showing through. They were hardened and focused in on your core, watching intently as your legs slowly slid apart. The way he watched you and clenched his jaw, you felt like prey.

He knelt between your thighs, running soft fingers over the tops of them, caressing meaningless shapes. His tongue darted out over his lips and his eyes fluttered shut as he slowly slid into you. His lips parted as an angelic moan pushed from his mouth. His breathless voice slid across his swollen lips as he began to roll his hips into you.

“So good, baby,” he whispered, his hands tucked tightly beneath your ass, driving you against him. Every time he pulled out and pushed back in, he hit a new spot inside of you. The sounds of earlier were lost in the air. Nothing was able to come out of you but soft whines at every thrust. His fingertips dug into your skin, bruising the supple flesh there.

“You’re so warm, so perfect,” he breathed, his pace quickening. “You were made for me, made for this dick.” Your heart fluttered at his words. Ever the gentleman.

His hips were pushing into you so hard your whole body jolted up. Your head was inches from hitting the headboard, but you couldn't care less. The only thing you could focus on right now was the feeling of him inside you, claiming every ridge and valley as his own. Every inch of your body was branded with his name, burning wildly beneath his touch. His lips, his fingers, his everything had pulled you over in on yourself more times than you could count, yet it never got old. The only thing that made you feel truly alive was his touch.

One last shove from his hips and your finish was spilling over his hips and the sheets. Stars were flashing across your ceiling and blood was rising to your head. The letters of his name were lost on your ears and carved into the flesh of his back, bleeding beneath your fingernails. He was groaning into your neck as your entire body tightened around him, pulling him toward his own climax.

He groaned suddenly and inhaled sharply, preparing to pull out of you. His hands gripped your hips, and he began to pull away when you tightened your legs around his back and pushed him back into the hilt. The moan that left him could have shattered the stained glass. You could feel his release spilling into you, so slow and warm, and every pulse of him within you pushed a deepened moan against your chest. You released his hips and allowed him to pull back a bit before you shoved him back in one more time. A pitiful whine slipped from his lips at the bit of overstimulation.

The arms on either side of your head gave out as he collapsed against your body, his head resting against your chest. He sighed contently.

“How was that?”

He scoffed, lips pressed messily against your skin. “‘How was that?’ they ask,” he chuckles sleepily, “yeah, that was pretty good.”

“Only pretty good?” you ask, faking offense.

“That was the most perfect sex I’ve ever had, but—then again—I do say that every time we have sex,” he laughed. Just before he fell into a pleasantly deep sleep, you brushed his hair from his forehead and kissed him there, though you didn’t have much time before light snores echoed in the room.

#fanfiction #creative writing #fanfic #writing #harry potter #harry potter fanfiction #reader insert #oneshot #slytherin #harry potter smut #theodore nott x reader #theodore nott #theo nott #gender neutral reader #smut #hogwarts fanfiction

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fraugwinska · 8 days

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Follow up idea to the person who suggested that lovely birthday doodle request,, Reader who can draw proficiently as a hobby and often sketches folks at the hotel in their sketch book. Alastor is a bit offended that no matter what it seems as though he’s no where in this book, when they retire for the night he brings it up almost as if he’s jealous and they laugh at him. He’s upset because now he feels as though they are making fun of him until they retrieve another book and turns out they draw him in privacy (he’s so special he has his own book) It’s so cute too theres little heart doodles and them holding hands everywhere

Darling, how can I say no to 1) you *handheart* and 2) to such a cute pürompt? Make way, guys, gals and non-binary pals, here comes the fluff-queen!

❤️🦌❤️🦌❤️🦌❤️🦌❤️🦌❤️🦌❤️🦌❤️🦌❤️🦌❤️🦌❤️

Pictures of You

“ME NEXT! ME NEXT!” You tugged your sketchbook out of Niffty's small but surprisingly strong fingers. The little demon giggled and almost fell from your shoulder, making you laugh.

“Niff, any more doodles of you and I'd have to pay you royalties. Also, Angel asked first.”

You grinned, turning another page of the thick binder to an empty canvas and twirled the coal pen in your hand. Husk had just involuntarily changed his sleeping position from 'face in hands' to 'face on counter', groaning at the impact, so you wanted to start anew. Niffty resumed to braid your hair – you often let her just do what she wanted, she had a knack for it anyways – and huffed. “You only want to draw him because he can do impossible poses.” “Well, he is flexible.”

“Comes with the job, sweet cheeks.” Angel, who had entered through the door, grinned at you, taking his pink heart-shaped sunglasses off while he walked behind you, leaning over your shoulder. “Aw, toots, you really are talented, Husky looks like a snack there. Can I have that when 'ya done?”

“Have what, my effeminate fellow?” Angel jumped as Alastor materialized behind him without warning, releasing a startled 'Jesus Christ on a cracker!' while his lower set of arms clung onto your tensed shoulders. The radio demon laughed heartily, bending over slightly to look past Angel's head. He craned his neck and reached with his cane, forcing you to lean sideways so he could examine what you were drawing.

You flinched at the contact with the strangely warm metal, but didn't look up from the page. You only gripped the black coal tighter, feeling it beginning to crack. Alastor hummed in what sounded almost fond praise, giving a brief tap to Husk's shape on the paper.

"Marvelous! What a talent you have." he proclaimed. "Although I have to ask again, my dear, how come you never draw me? Surely I could..."

You lifted a finger, face scrunched up in concentration and shook your head, eyes firmly on the almost finished sketch. Alastor clicked his tongue in a displeased way, clawed fingers impatiently tapping the microphone at the end of his cane.

"Really, dearest. I have a great interest for-"

"Hold on!"

"-a unique idea of the possibilities-"

"Done!"

As you finished, you stretched your cramped hand, setting down the charcoal on the armrest of the red plush sofa and rubbing your fingers to get rid of the black stains. You ripped the paper out of the sketchbook and handed it to Angel, carefully avoiding Alastors burning eyes and ignoring the angry static pops sizzling on your skin.

"There you go, Ange. You can lock it in with a little coat of hairspray, otherwise it will smudge easily."

You hastily stood up, letting Niffty tumble down your back onto the sofa with a wild giggle while you quickly assembled your things. You saw Alastor open his mouth and interrupted whatever speech he might've wanted to deliver you, your heart racing and mouth unusually dry.

"Oh, would you look at the time, I promised Charlie to get laundry done by the evening, I better get going. Maybe another time, yeah? Okay, bye!"

You were already through the door by the time he had registered you leaving, mouth half-open and ready to protest against whatever injustice he felt you had done him. His eyebrow twitched slightly at your retreating figure, eyes flickering between the corner you disappeared around and Angel Dust, the latter laughing mockingly at the deer.

"Aw shucks, failing again, deer daddy? What is it now, the fifth time she blew 'ya off?"

"The seventh.", Niffty corrects him, scratching on the black spot where you had set the charcoal in between your work. Alastor gave her a sour expression, while Angel leaned back, eyeing the sketch of his subject of interest with lovingly.

"Maybe she took 'ya by heart, Smiles. Don't 'ya always say 'ya got a face for radio only?"

***

Alastor was fuming.

Everyone was in that damn book, everyone. And yet, he was nowhere in it to be found.

In his opinion he was far superior in beauty of aesthetics then, for example, Angel Dust, or Vaggie. Hell, Husk had even made an entry, and all he did was lay around and drink himself into oblivion. Why would you take the time to sketch these nobodies in detail instead of him? Was he that unimportant to you, did you deem him that unworthy? Or was this your subtle way of making fun of his appearance, his laughable predicament of being a predator in a prey body?

He thought he'd have been generous enough not to reprimand you, or destroy that damned book all together after all this time. It was your luck that he had developed a strange fondness of you. Alastor only ever bothered himself with a few souls since his arrival in hell, and his encounter with you was a happy coincidence indeed. You were so much less annoying, so much more quiet and respectful than most of the demons around him, with your charcoal pen behind your ear and a keen eye for beautiful things that you turned into artworks like it was your second nature.

And even though you've always seemed to take a liking to him, his patient questions for a sketch, a portrait or just anything of him was met by you with dismissiveness, awkward excuses or outright evading, only ever drawing other sinners, even the cursed piglet Angel called a pet. But never, never him.

This couldn't go on any longer. He would talk to you about it, and either you would draw him willingly or you would draw nothing at all.

Your room was located only three corridors down his own suite, right across of a broken down door. Despite the late hour you had left the door cracked open, music faintly streaming through it along the orange light of your desk lamp. Which meant you were still awake. Still working. Still drawing.

The door made no sound when he pushed it open, carefully peeking his head inside. He was right, your back was hunched over your desk, completely lost in your work while your voice hummed along with the little melody from the radio.

The radio he had gifted you. He snapped his fingers and the music screeched loudly before coming to a stop, the radio dying instantly and making you jump in your seat.

"JESUS!" You whipped your head around, clutching your heart. He gave his best charming smile, red eyes narrowing in on you.

"No dear, it's just me." he smiled maliciously and closed the door behind him, it clicking ominously shut. Locked. You laughed awkwardly, brushing a loose strand of hair out of your face and hastily closed the thick, black sketchbook on the desk shut, a different one than the one from before. A new one. Another cursed one without him in it, surely.

"Haha, thank satan, I'm not dressed to meet the son of god." you quibbed, avoiding his gaze and twirling your pencil, something you always did when you were nervous.

He didn't join into your joke, instead he walked over to your dresser, where the filled sketchbook from before laid. Open, showing a detailed drawing of Keekee stretching in front of the fireplace. The blasted cat was the last straw.

"Why," Alastor spoke sharply, barely registering his antlers sprouting in angry cracks, "are there any and every sinners and creatures depicted in that... doggone, ridiculous thing?".

His words were spat with so much anger he missed your scared and confused look when you pushed your chair back, almost tripping and scrambling to get away. "What? Alastor, I..."

He hit the book once, almost tearing the thick parchment. "And not one mention of me? You have no idea how utterly vexing and insulting it is to feel ignored, or rather unnoted! What did I do, oh do tell, dear, that makes you think of me so below you that you just outright forget my existence?!"

Again, he hit the book, feeling it starting to rip from the amount of pent up frustration tightening his grip. But it did feel good, immensely so, to take it out on the damn thing he would have shredded weeks ago, if you didn't enjoy it so much.

"N-Nothing, you really don't... you don't understand...", you laughed nervously, eyes too pleading, too soft for his liking, as if you mocked him or worse: Pitied him. The thought alone fueled his anger further.

"Then I advise you to make me understand, my darling.", he growled, shoes scratching on the wooden floors with each step as he neared you, pressing you against the desk. "Because otherwise, I have no inhibitions to incinerate every single one of these god damn..."

"I draw you all the time. In your own book."

You grabbed the sketch book from the desk and thrust it in his face, spouting more nonsense with teary eyes that went deaf through his ears, only glaring at the cover and then opening it, ready for anything.

Nothing. Nothing but him.

There was no mention of anyone else.

There was nothing but him. His face. Portraits, stills, sketches, whole sceneries, doodles even.

Pages and pages full of his own features, his eyes looking back at him, so carefully captured in coal lines that his head reeled.

There he was, walking in long strides through the lobby, hair perfect and suit straight, the drawing so detailed it could've been a photography. On the other side was a picture of him, his eyes narrowed, showing no emotion as he stared down at the hotel papers in his hand. The next page, he was captured in a fight with that buffoon Sir Pentious, his is mouth cracked in an evil smile, claws stretched and ready to snap the snakes' airship in half.

And ever in between those artworks: Little doodles, as if drawn with an absent mind, of him and you. Holding hands. Embracing each other. Laughing together. Gazing into each others eyes. Silly hearts all around them.

Alastor almost dropped the book and the shakily uttered your name, for once truly at a loss for words.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry Alastor...", he finally heard your muttering, voice trembling with tears. "I didn't know how... I was just... so... so embarrassed, and..."

Embarrassed. The absolute absurdity of it all.

Here he had been, worried you found him beneath the beauty you held in such esteem, wounded even so much as to bring out this unjustified anger. The fool he was. He was an idiot to have not considered the other possible explanations for your reticence.

Slowly, carefully, as if you'd spook and run should he move too fast, Alastor wrapped his arms around you and pulled you close, still holding the book safely in his hand, pressing it into your back. At his will, his shadow lifted a hand and turned the radio on once again, a low hum resounding from the speakers as the soothing, quiet music continued.

"Mon cœur, the unnecessary pain you caused us both. And yet, I'm the one who has to apologize.", he said with an honesty he rarely spoke with. "We're both, evidently, quite hopeless. No use in keeping these feelings and words unsaid any longer then, hm? Can you forgive this old fool?"

You stared at him bewildered, at a loss for words yourself, before a relieved smile cracked your worried frown. Shiny tear streaks were running over your reddening cheeks, he wiped them off your face with a soft swipe of his thumb.

"Of course... As long as I can continue drawing you." You chuckled and pushed your face into his chest, Alastor was more than certain to hide the flush of your cheeks. He chuckled, gripping the book in his hands tighter as he buried his nose in your hair. You smelled like paper, paint and charcoal. And underneath it all lingered the scent of something new, yet familiar. Something... very much like him.

"Draw the both of us like this to perfection, darling, and that would be a deal worth to agree on."

#hazbin hotel #hazbin alastor #alastor #alastor x reader #hazbin hotel fanfiction #fraugwinskawrites #angel dust #hazbin hotel niffty #quick fic #oh so fluffy #i love ieatcocoa #fraugwinskas frauchen

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thecatduet422 · 2 years

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getting your soulmate mark: jason todd

Funny how a name could be everything and yet nothing at the same time.

You never dwelled on it before until you woke up one day, your soulmate's name inked neatly on your collarbone.

Jay

Pretty, yet plain.

Bold, yet mysterious.

Jay could be anyone. You could see them being whimsical and flirty. Or maybe strong and confident.

Either way, you wore the tattoo proudly, content just to know that there's someone out there for you.

And then you woke up burning.

And as you cried from the pain, you pinpointed the source to be your tattoo, its edges sizzling like acid, fizzing into the center until your entire mark was scorched. Scared. Unreadable.

And suddenly there was no longer a reason to question a name. No reason to lie at night, dreaming about what could be. What could've been.

Now the only question you ask is why.

Why?

The thought moved with the sun, rising to begin the day and setting to end with it, sometimes followed by the shadow of the name that was once sketched beautifully on you. It was painful to think about it, that name. Everytime you tried, the burn came back, as fresh as the night you first felt it.

And somehow in-between the burns you managed to carry on with life. Going through the motions as best as you could with that scar on you. Not everything was lost, after all. There were plenty of people that live life never having a soulmate.

And one day (one that was actually going well in beginning, thanks), you find yourself in the middle of a bank robbery, holding your hands up in surrender, wondering if this was how it was going to end.

He came in with a crash, bringing chaos, a motorcycle, and deathly precision. He was cocky and rude during the action, but quiet and shy afterwards, moving to leave with nothing but a small nod, his face hidden by that red helmet.

But even with helmet you could feel his eyes pierce into yours, the burn sizzling your mark once again. The pain used to make you cry, but now it made you smile, as you realize that burn wasn't your soulmate dying. It's them living.

Surviving.

"Thanks, Jay," you whisper in the air, feeling the two ends link together, finally connected.

Red Hood, in the process of mounting his bike, froze. He could feel it too, as he looked back at you, two words racing up to respond to yours,

"Holy shit."

#jason todd x reader #jason todd x you #jason todd x y/n #red hood x reader #red hood x you #red hood x y/n #jason todd fic #soulmate au #catduet writes #catduet drabbles

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wri0thesley · 2 years

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thinking about poor maid reader being left to clean someone’s desk who has left rather an . . . interesting book open.

ft: albedo, lisa, ayato, yae miko. not sfw, minors dni. power dynamics, mentions of food in ayato’s.

perhaps they’re a maid for the knights of favonius. though albedo’s workshop is off-limits to most people, his office still needs to be kept in something close to good order - and you are very careful and fastidious and smart enough to know what ought to be left where it is. ‘books that albedo has left open’ are definitely in that category; if it’s left open on a particular page, it must be because albedo is studying something in it. normally, this kind of thing would go over your head - but it’s terribly hard for the extremely detailed diagram of two people locked in sexual congress to be ignored. neither can albedo’s sketchbook, left open - the same position rendered in loving detail. the man in the sketch is quite clearly albedo - even in pencil, the line of his mouth and the sweep of his hair is unmistakeable - but the other . . . that’s a startling representation of what you would look like, naked and on your hands and knees with albedo’s fingers digging into the soft skin of your waist - of what your face would look like, thrown back in pleasure with intimately sketched beads of sweat trickling down your face, eyes hazy--

albedo comes in behind you. he’s very, very matter of fact when he opens his mouth - not an ounce of shame in him, simply a very real, very honest hunger;

“oh. you saw them. i can’t help thinking that i haven’t gotten the angle of your hips quite right. would you be willing to assist me with some hands-on experience?”

or, sticking with the thought of the knights of favonius - one of their duties as maid is to head into the library, and assist lisa in making sure all the books that have been dragged from shelves and onto tables are put back exactly where they belong. for as languid as the librarian is, she’s very particular about the books; and so, you always make sure to check the correct dustcover is on them, that no bookmark has been left unattended. you’ve also become familiar with the books that are in the ‘restricted’ section - and the one that lisa has open on her desk is most certainly for that.

you’ve always been fascinated by her; it’s hard not to be, hearing whispers of her prowess and how she’s wasted in the library. fascination, too, rears its head in the form of how lovely she is; the glitter of her eyes and the low-cut dress and the spill of her hair, the lilting voice when she thanks you for your assistance and teasingly says what a good little helper you are. so you sneak a glance at the text - just to know what it’s about.

your face rapidly heats as you realise you’re reading what amounts to a recipe for an aphrodisiac potion; one that talks about making the intended target ‘ripe and lush for the taking’, ‘sizzling with need to be claimed in every way possible’ - one that talks about how the subject will - depending on genitalia - either find themselves dripping all over the floor in desperate need to be filled, or achingly hard in need to fill something themselves.

“there you are, cutie,” lisa’s voice is a purr, a hand coming to rest on your shoulder. “i made you tea.”

perhaps you’re a maid of the kamisato estate, who thoma places a particular trust in - partly because ayato has taken such a great liking to you. you’re rather in awe of the young master - he’s so elegant and fastidious and terribly handsome, and sometimes he says things to you that make him smile at you like he’s a fox circling a small rabbit. mostly, people do not clean ayato’s desk - he uses it as a hub of sorts, with people who need him clipping things amongst the pages in order to let him know whatever they need when they may not be around to speak with him - but his office still needs tending to a little.

and so does the inkwell, which he never properly empties - his various calligraphy brushes, which he never properly cleans. as a conscientous maid, you never go snooping about in ayato’s personal matters and work-related paperwork - but it would be someone with poor sight indeed who’d miss that he’d left a book open on his desk--

your eyes widen as you see the illustration; one clearly drawn for titillation above all else. the page beside it features much of the same; and it’s also very clear from context clues that this particular series of illustrations continues throughout the book, and portrays the rich young head of some clan making love to a maid, his hand over their mouth whilst he has them ride him in a luxurious office.

flustered by the idea of someone else seeing such a lewd display, you flick the book shut. it’s not your place to write him a note, so you instead try and put the thought of ayato lusting after a maid out of your head as you go about your business. this must have been an accident.

you come in to do your little cleaning the next day to find that the book is once more in pride of place; that the page has been flipped over, to an image of the maid and young master taking a picnic in the grounds of his estate - only the maid is straddling him in his lap, with their mouth open as he hand-feeds them a strawberry dripping with cream. there’s an elegantly written note in handwriting that you recognise as ayato’s slipped between the pages. it begins . . . it begins with your name.

‘little maid; i take it you saw my book. what do you think of it? i can always carve time in my schedule out for one as lovely as you - and there are several things within these pages i’m just dying to try out--’

your duty in the yae publishing house is simple. editors often work late into the night, writers often find themselves in the back-rooms desperately looking for some final inspiration, proof-readers and all other manner of people leave the offices of the publishing house a hideous mess - and you go in at the very end, and clean it all up for them, so nobody knows that just an hour ago the author of the most popular children’s light novel in inazuma was crying to the point of considering giving up and going to live on watatsumi island, where she already had plans to start a little farm (you didn’t tell her about the soil quality there; it’s never good, you’ve learnt, to give too much logic in these creative breakdowns).

in stark difference, being able to slip into lady yae’s office at the end of your shift and breathe in the scent of cherry blossoms and perhaps move a book or two from her desk to her shelf, dust a few of the fox knick-knacks decorating the space, is practically a vacation. you always linger there just a little longer than you should - thinking about lady yae herself, and how lovely she is. how much you admire her.

today, she’s left a book open with a beautifully decorated marker, a red pen in her inkwell. you can’t help but sneak a glance at what kind of book has required her attention in such detail - and as your eyes skim across the words, you feel the tips of your ears grow hot and your throat grow dry.

the lady shrine maiden . . . her silky ears matched by her silky thighs . . . the sweet taste of honey lingering on the warrior goddess’s lips as she hungrily mouthed between the shrine maiden’s thighs . . . slender fingers twisted into inky locks . . . the tight pulsing of the maiden’s body around said goddess’s fingers as pleasurable fireworks lit off inside of her and she came with a prayer that rolled off her tongue in desperate need--

“tut tut, little one.” yae miko’s voice breaks you from your fascinated revelry, and you start guiltily to see her smiling smugly at you - as lovely as ever, and looking like the cat (fox) who has gotten the proverbial cream. “don’t you know how rude you’re being? ah. you’re in luck. as it happens, i need someone to test this on and make sure it elicits the . . . preferred response in our readership. sit.” her voice does not broker argument. “i’m going to read to you.”

#genshin impact smut #not sfw text #lisa x reader #yae miko x reader #albedo x reader #ayato x reader #genshin impact x reader #lisa smut #yae miko smut #albedo smut #ayato smut #genshin impact posting #concept postin

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jiubilant · 1 month

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what do you think little aduri’s first impression of avrusa and sinderion was…

"And this," says Sinderion, leaning with a grin across the shoulder-carriage bench, "is Asplenium regelliam."

The toddler on Avrusa's copious lap stares, cross-eyed and scholarly, at the sprig of green tickling her nose. Then she squishes her face with a thoughtful gurgle.

"Yes, indeed," says Sinderion with utmost solemnity, "it's named for the estimable Chivius Regelliam, whose work has proven invaluable to we who crawl through hedgerows in his wake. Very good."

"Don't listen to him, sprout," says Avrusa, raising her eyebrows. "Never crawled through a hedgerow in his life. I did all the field work." She bounces her new charge, winning a giggle, then peers with mock severity into her face. "What's A. regelliam in the vernacular?"

Little Aduri gives her a rapt look. Then she reaches up to pull Avrusa's lip.

"Ouch," says Avrusa, amused. "Nirnroot, that's right—ouch."

The shoulder-carriage jostles through the City of Gems on bright and crowded streets, bobbing around foot-traffic like a boat. It has windows. Avrusa tries not to look at them. Outside, the city brims with light and noise: the rattle of pushcarts, the sizzle of frying scrib, the shouts of the chairmen bearing them from her father's squalid palace to the rooms they've rented over the market-square. Not cheap. Nor is the chairmen's fee—but the child can't walk, Avrusa reasons, and Sinderion will be two hundred and ninety next week.

And her father, she thinks, bitter as wormwood, has willed the sprout some pocket-change.

Sinderion, replacing the nirnroot in his bottomless bag, looks sidelong at her. Then—with that awkward, punctilious insight of his—he takes her hand.

"I'm all right," Avrusa rasps, then clears her throat. "Will be." She shakes her head, struck with amazed grief—how suddenly it comes and goes, like the gusts of ash that had once rolled through Ald'ruhn. "He used to keep such a clean house. More than clean."

Her mentor's hands had been lively, once: scribbling notes, sketching lectures in the air, flicking her fingers when she held a pestle wrong. Now they tremble with the simple strain of squeezing her hand. "Orderly?"

"Yes." She looks with bewilderment at the toddler—her half-sister, for gods' sake, two hundred years younger than herself. "And he—n'chow, Sinderion, he was older than you. I just don't understand—"

The shoulder-carriage bucks. Avrusa finds herself doing several things at once: clutching the toddler to her chest, cursing, kicking out a leg to keep Sinderion's bag from flying into him. It crunches. The ungrateful old twig cries out and swats her knee. "You harridan, my retort!"

"Bother your retort—"

"My flasks!"

"Were you planning to brew elixirs," demands Avrusa, righting herself, "here in the sedan—"

Aduri giggles again. Sinderion's grin reappears, as it always does, like an ancient light sputtering on. "Funny, are we?"

Avrusa sets the squirming toddler on her knee. The sprout is scrawny, she thinks with a frown. She smells sour, milky; she'd screamed and kicked the maid who, an hour or so ago, had shoved her at Avrusa with a desperate smile. Avrusa had understood them both. Part of her, she thinks, had wanted to kick something, too—had wanted it ever since she set out, across countless leagues and second-guesses, to fetch home a child she hadn't known existed—

The toddler puts her hand in her mouth. "Bah."

"That's right," says Sinderion, the old cellar-dweller. "Species Plantarum is our art's most inviolable text."

Their new pupil takes her hand from her mouth, studies it academically, then puts it back. Something in Avrusa's chest moves.

"Excelsior," she says gruffly, and tickles her sister's skinny ribs. "I'll read you some."

Aduri laughs. The sound is bright and sweet as a nirnroot's chime.

#she was so little <3 #skyrim #microfic #avrusa sarethi #aduri sarethi #sinderion

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sshewonders · 3 months

Text

WARM BODIES

Chapter 05: Doubtful

chapter synopsis: Daryl and Merle arrive with supplies. When you ask Daryl to teach you hunting, he dismisses you. Frustrated, you turn to sketching in your tent for emotional release.

chapter warnings: Social isolation, rejection, and self-doubt themes as the protagonist struggles to fit in, seeking validation and finding solace in art.

word count: 1.4k words

author's note: Don't you just love it when writers depict Daryl Dixon in Season 1 just as Norman Reedus portrays him? He's an annoying jerk in Season 1, and I kind of hate it when writers make him out of character, suddenly super sweet. Anyway, enjoy reading!

MASTERLIST

NEXT CHAPTER >>

The Dixon brothers set their tent at a distance, out of sight from the others. You could still keep an eye on them, given that your and Glenn's tent wasn't too far from the Dixons'. While Daryl was busy skinning the squirrels he had caught, Merle had gone off somewhere, probably into the woods to retrieve their pickup or something. Daryl wasn't exactly the sociable type, and when Carl approached him to ask about his cool crossbow, Shane sternly instructed the boy to stay away from the Dixon brothers. You couldn't blame Shane, though. He was just looking out for Carl, right?

Later around lunchtime, Merle returned with a red, worn-out pickup and a motorcycle on the back. A group of men, including Shane, Jim, T-dog, Dale, Morales, Glenn, and others whose names you didn't know, gathered around the pickup. It was loaded with a small arsenal of guns and ammo, enough to provide a bit more security but not nearly sufficient to arm everyone.

Daryl began frying some squirrels, and you observed from a distance while hanging your laundry, which had been washed by Carol. You had a plan - to talk to Daryl and ask him to teach you how to hunt, so you could help bring food to the table and not leave him hunting alone.

After finishing your chores, you made your way to the Dixon brothers' tent. Merle was still absent, probably indulging in who knows what in the woods. The sun was slowly descending in the afternoon sky.

"Hey, Daryl," you started, your voice slightly shaky due to nervousness. You weren't great at socializing, especially with strangers, and there was an unfamiliar lilt in your voice. You cleared your throat, hoping to ease your awkwardness. "I just wanted to thank you for giving some squirrels to Dale. He's cooking them for dinner now. So, thank you."

Daryl, his eyes hard and unreadable, looked up from the pan where he was frying squirrels. An uncomfortable silence hung between the both of you as you tried to decipher his expression.

Then, Daryl scoffed, still focused on the squirrels. He plated more of them, his gruff voice expressing his reluctance to chat. "It's nothin'. It's part of the deal, what tha' cop said, and my brother agreed to it."

After a moment, his gaze returned to the pan, fixated on the sizzling squirrels. He then put a few cooked ones onto a plastic plate, adding another batch to the pan, which crackled with the sound of frying. You kept your distance from the hot oil.

As the oil sizzled and popped, you flinched, your frustration growing. Daryl didn't seem to care much about your unease, and you clenched your fists in frustration.

"Damn it," you muttered to yourself, releasing a heavy sigh. You felt like you were failing at this whole conversation thing.

Daryl glanced at you, a hint of curiosity in his hard eyes. "What?" he asked.

You gathered your courage and got straight to the point. "I need you to teach me how to hunt," you said, causing Daryl's eyes to lock onto you. "Please."

Daryl stared at you, as if you had lost your mind. He offered a disdainful glance and finished frying the squirrels before transferring them to a plate. "Ain't a damn teacher, girl," he scoffed, making his way toward his tent.

Unwilling to give up, you followed him, an anxious expression on your face. "Please. I really need to learn how to hunt. I want to be useful here."

Daryl's harsh tone continued, making your heart sink further. He spat out, "Why don't ya teach yourself? You're an archer, ain't ya? Or are you too delicate for that too? Some people just ain't built for this world."

You felt your heart sink, his response making you upset. You mustered up your resolve and replied, "I may know how to shoot a bow, but I don't know how to track, skin, or prepare game. That's why I need someone like you to show me. Please."

Daryl continued to give you the cold, harsh stare. His annoyance was apparent as he sneered at you, "You ain't cut out for this kind of life, girl. You should stick playin' with your bows and let the real hunters do their job. Ain't nobody got time to babysit you."

His words hit you like a punch to the gut. You felt your cheeks flush with embarrassment and anger, but you kept your composure and replied, "I may not be cut out for it now, but I'm willing to learn. So, sorry for bothering you, Daryl." With that, you turned away, your eyes glistening with unshed tears, and walked back to your tent, leaving Daryl to his squirrels.

Inside your tent, you stared at you recurve bow with a sense of hopelessness. What was the point of begging someone, especially a skilled hunter, to teach you how to hunt if they clearly despised you? It felt futile. You couldn't help but feel proud of bringing Daryl and Merle to the camp, securing a valuable source of food and weaponry. Still, a small part of you had hoped that Daryl would agree to teach you.

You had always excelled in archery. You had won numerous awards and accolades before the world fell apart, both at school and in town events. But now, in the damned new world, everything was different. Target practice on stationary darts was nothing like aiming at moving and dangerous creatures like the geeks.

You grappled with a deep sense of inadequacy in the camp. Every time you attempted to help with chores, the older women insisted on taking over, believing the tasks were too strenuous for you. When you expressed interest in gathering firewood, the men gently discouraged you, stating that such labor wasn't suitable for someone of your stature. Trying your hand at cooking resulted in laughter and ridicule, with a past incident involving almost setting a pot on fire being the source of the amusement.

You despised it all. You couldn't stand being treated like a child. You were twenty-seven years old, after all. You and Glenn were of the same age, yet he had been remarkably useful to the camp, taking on various tasks like firewood collection, car repairs, and even venturing into the city for supply runs. For you, it was an ongoing cycle of feeling inept. You had been seen as useless before the world turned to chaos, and it seemed that nothing had changed since.

You couldn't help but feel overwhelmed by a sense of self-doubt. You thought about your brother, who had always been there to support you and push you to be better. Your eyes began to well up with tears as you reminisced about those moments.

Your voice cracked as you muttered to yourself, "Why can't I just be strong and useful like Glenn?" You wiped away a few tears and took a deep breath. It wasn't just about being strong physically; you felt a deep need to prove your worth to the group.

You set your bow aside, your trembling hands reaching for the worn leather bag beside you. With a deep sigh and tears glistening in your eyes, you carefully unzipped the bag, revealing the art materials within. The act of unzipping the bag felt like unearthing a piece of your past life, one that was filled with colors, inspiration, and dreams.

The sketchbook, its pages slightly yellowed with age, felt cool to the touch. You opened it gently, revealing a blank canvas waiting to be filled. Your charcoal pencils, meticulously organized by size, lay beside the sketchbook. The variety of pencils, from 4H to 6B, held the potential to capture the depth of your emotions.

In the dim light of your tent, illuminated only by a flickering candle, you began to draw. Each stroke was a release of the tension that had built up inside you. Your hand, guided by your emotions, moved with nothing but sadness.

Tears streaked down your face as you allowed your emotions to pour onto the paper. The sketch took shape, revealing a face with furrowed brows and eyes heavy with sorrow. The lines of the sketch mirrored the turbulence within your soul, the turmoil you had been trying to contain.

Time seemed to stand still as you poured your heart into the artwork. By the time you put down your charcoal pencil, the sketch was complete. You gazed at your creation, your tears now dried on your cheeks. The intensity of the emotional release left you feeling drained yet strangely relieved. The sketch captured a glimpse of your inner world, a silent cry for understanding and acceptance.

Art had been your solace for as long as you could remember, and it was a reminder that even in the darkest of times, you could find a way to express yourself and heal.

@celtic-crossbow @maackiimoo @duckmania127 @xmaeyonaiise @richardsamboramylove55

#norman reedus #norman reedus x reader #daryl dixion imagine #daryl dixon fanfiction #daryl dixon x female reader #twd fanfiction #twd fic #warm bodies

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sizzleissues · 3 months

Text

One day I’ll draw a face the same way I drew it the previous time

I guess I couldn’t go a month without drawing them. My brain was rotting away, my soul degrading not engaging in my interests for longer than two days.

Gotta build myself back up with Alyanette

#miraculous ladybug #miraculous #miraculous fanart #ml fanart #marinette dupain cheng #alya cesaire #alyanette #sizzle sketches

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creativesnek · 9 months

Text

🔥Bowser Day🔥

The draconic Koopa stood by the stove, watching over some sizzling eggs and bacon. Junior sat on the counter, furiously coloring something on his drawing book. Bowser placed the breakfast on three separate plates, then turned around. “Luigi, food’s up!” he yelled. Junior perked up at his voice and shoved his supplies to the side.

Luigi hopped down the hallway, putting on his shoes. He was dressed in black shorts and a green tank top; the outfit matched Bowser’s, except his was red. As Luigi entered the kitchen, he couldn't help but notice the delicious aroma of the sizzling eggs and bacon. His stomach growled in anticipation as he took a seat at the table. Bowser placed a plate in front of him, then turned to Junior.

"Here you go, kiddo," Bowser said, placing a smaller portion on Junior's plate. Junior's eyes widened with excitement as he eagerly dug into his breakfast.

Bowser glanced over at Junior's drawing book, curious about what had captured his attention so intensely. As he leaned closer, he saw that Junior had been coloring a sketch of yesterday’s visit to the beach. Impressed by his son's artistic skills, Luigi smiled and ruffled Junior's hair affectionately. "You're getting better every day, buddy," he praised.

The koopa moved toward Luigi and kissed the top of his head before taking his place at the table. He enjoyed the peaceful domestic feel at the table. It certainly helped balance the chaotic side of his life; with summer nearly over, the bar he worked at was going to be packed for weeks.

Bowser felt a sense of contentment wash over him as he observed his family's joyous interactions. The clinking of cutlery, the laughter echoing through the room, and the warmth radiating from their shared moments filled his heart with a rare tranquility.

Having eaten their fill, the trio cleaned and put away their plates. Junior grabbed his supplies and stuffed them back into his backpack before standing by the door. His father chuckled before grabbing their belongings; he was alway excited to go spend the weekend with his grandparents.

Bowser secured his sling bag, then opened the door for his family. Junior practically bolted out of the house and towards his truck; Luigi followed closely behind with a mug in his hand. Bowser pulled out his keys, “I’m going to be a little late today,” he said.

Luigi raised an eyebrow. “Oh, did you get extra hours today?”

“Yeah. I find it kinda weird ‘cuz I didn’t request any,” Bowser replied.

His boss, Birdette, pretty much stuck to a routine for him. She would have him there during rushes but would be home early to spend time with his family; however, she deviated from that today inexplicably. Eh, he wasn’t about to complain; extra hours mean extra money. Luigi walked to Bowser’s side and said “All right then. I’ll see you later,” before moving away

After dropping Junior off, Bowser headed to work. He parked his truck in the back of the building and got out. The koopa quickly entered and was met with loud cheering. Bowser exhaled smoke in surprise, then opened his eyes. The entire bar was decorated with black and red spiky decorations.

As Bowser made his way through the rowdy crowd, he couldn't help but feel a mixture of confusion and excitement. The usually dimly lit bar was now illuminated with an eerie red glow, casting menacing shadows across the room. The air was thick with anticipation, and Bowser's heart raced as he tried to make sense of the unexpected scene before him.

His fellow co-workers were dressed in their usual fitness-related uniforms; however, they had spiked accessories on, similar to the decorations. Now that Bowser looked at them closely, the jewelry looked alot like the ones he wore. He chuckled nervously and clutched his sling bag. “What’s uh… what’s all this?” he said.

Daisy pushed people aside, grinning like a madwoman, her vibrant orange top caught everyone's attention. Its bold hue seemed to radiate energy, mirroring her infectious enthusiasm. The white shorts she wore added a touch of contrast, accentuating her carefree spirit. The tall, buff woman playfully smacked his chest, “Ready, Pec-Man?” she asked.

“Um… Is there something I missed? Is this a special event or something?” replied Bowser.

Daisy’s face dropped. “It’s August 4th.”

The koopa gave her a blank stare.

“It’s Bowser Day, handsome.”

The black curtains covering the bar moved, revealing a massive crowd. Customers gathered around, some were even holding posters and wore black jewelry. The crowd erupted into thunderous applause and cheers as they caught sight of Bowser. Many clawed at the glass in a fanatic craze.

The koopa, still wearing a puzzled expression, finally registered Daisy's words. His eyes widened in surprise as he comprehended what she meant. The co-workers around him burst out in laughter at his expression. Bowser had completely forgotten about his day. Birdette looked at him from the window and shook her head. She walked towards him with her hands on her hips, “All right everyone. Get to your stations! Give the man room to work his magic,” she said. Daisy and the others walked away.

The dragon koopa ran a hand through his hair, suddenly feeling very self-conscious. Birdette fluffed her bow. “Remember, Bowser: if any of the guests start getting handsy, don’t be afraid to stop them. Don’t, like, throw them into the wall but also don’t let them get their way,” she said.

Bowser nodded. “Got it, boss queen.”

“Damn right I am.”

Bowser moved away and put his bag behind the bar. Giving Birdette the all clear, she threw open the door. The crowd quickly filed in just as the koopa was taking a seat in a special table, just for him.

As the guests started to fill the room, Birdette stood at the entrance, greeting each one with a warm smile and a gracious welcome. She made sure to keep a watchful eye on everyone, scanning the room for any signs of trouble or inappropriate behavior. The atmosphere was buzzing with excitement as people mingled and chatted. Alcohol started flowing.

However, the true highlight was him.

The second guests got their drinks, they would bee-line for his table for pictures with Bowser. All sorts of guests, male and female of all kinds of species, flocked to his table, yearning for his attention. He posed for pictures, signed autographs, and answered questions. Bowser’s fangs smiled through his smile.

From what he heard, some people even flew from out of state just to participate in Bowser day and he was very grateful for that; it certainly fed his ego a good amount but it also filled him with a sense of warmth. Bowser’s not exactly the warm and cuddly looking guy and it has taken time for people to realize that he’s not as frightening as he seemed.

Many shared stories of how they had initially been terrified of him, only to discover that he possessed a surprising depth and complexity. They spoke of his loyalty, his determination, and even his occasional moments of vulnerability; he did the occasional volunteer work with Peaches. Quite a few of them idolized them and wanted to follow their example. Other fitness enthusiasts wanted to know about his routine and other things related.

Occasionally, Bowser got the brave soul that wanted to flirt with him; however, he quickly shot them down. Bowser’s heart was entirely occupied by Luigi. The little green man was the only one who had Bowser’s full affection and it will remain so until the end of time.

Honestly, the dragon koopa has been thinking of proposing. They both have stable incomes (his was the fitness bar; Luigi had that plumbing business with his brother), Junior adored Luigi, and frankly it seemed overdue. But that’s something to consider another day.

Right now, he has fans practically fighting like piranha plants for his attention.

A bell ringing echoed through the room. Customers, all in varying stages of intoxication, cheered and smiled. Bowser chuckled and stood up. “Come on, everybody! Iiiit’s showtime!” While squealing and cheering with excitement, the crowd followed him to an adjacent room full of training equipment.

Midbus, another employee, joined him at the arm-wrestling table. Several of the customers hooted and slapped their chests; the pink warthog had quite the fanbase himself. Not as huge as Bowser’s, but he still had one nonetheless. The koopa took off one of his bracelets, then threw it into the crowd; a human man grabbed it and bolted out, several others on his tail. With a puff of smoke, he sat down and extended his arm. Midbus did the same, flashing a cheshire grin.

As the crowd cheered and placed their bets, the atmosphere at the arm-wrestling table grew electric. Midbus, known for his immense strength and intimidating presence, was a force to be reckoned with. His massive arms bulged with muscles, and his toothy grin only added to his menacing aura.

On the other side of the table, Bowser exuded confidence. He’s faced Midbus before and honestly this thing could go either way. The two have similar routines and were at similar strength levels so it was all on them. Birdette raised it to signal the start of the match. The room fell into a hushed silence as all eyes focused on the two competitors. Bowser's fiery determination clashed with Midbus' unwavering resolve.

With a sudden burst of energy, they locked hands in a fierce grip. The table trembled under their combined strength as they strained against each other's might. Sweat dripped down their brows as their muscles bulged with exertion. The crowd exploded with cheers and chants as they tried to motivate their favored champion. Midbus sputtered with the strain. “Losing your touch, old man,” he said. His accent was heavy.

Bowser raised his brow. “Old?!” he said, fully offended. “Did y’all hear that?”

His followers gasped in offense for him and started booing Midbus, whose grip slipped ever so slightly. Bowser narrowed his eyes, “I’ll have you know I’m only 34! And just recently benched 2045!”

With a new fire in his belly, Bowser pushed himself to the limit, muscles straining against the heavy load. Midbus snorted steam and fought against his grip more earnestly but faltered. As Midbus struggled to maintain his grip on the weights, doubt began to creep into his mind. Bowser seized this opportunity to prove himself once again. With a mighty roar that reverberated through the room, he slammed Midbus’ hand on the table and quickly stood up to cheer.

The room exploded with cheers. Bowser flexed his arms and laughed boisterously, relishing in the sound of victory and flashing cameras. Midbus stretched his wrist, “No easy on the newbie?” he asked.

Bowser snickered. “Nah, man. You messed with the King of Koopas; deal with the consequences,” he said jokingly.

Midbus halfheartedly groaned. Bowser patted his back and returned his attention to his fans. As the crowd continued to cheer, Bowser basked in the adoration, reveling in his triumph. The room was filled with a mix of excitement and awe, as people clamored to get closer to the fearsome King of Koopas. Cameras flashed incessantly, capturing every moment of his victory.

The night continued in a similar fashion. He would interact with his fans back at the table and at the end of the hour, Bowser would perform a fit of strength like lifting weights (with 2 fans hanging onto the ends) and pull-ups. He did it all with a huge smile on his face.

Fans eagerly lined up to meet Bowser, hoping for a chance to exchange a few words or snap a photo with their idol. The room buzzed with excitement as people shared stories of their favorite Bowser moments and debated his unparalleled strength. Cameras clicked incessantly, capturing every moment of this extraordinary encounter.

But like all good things, they have to come to an end.

Just as the sun was setting, his shift ended.

Many of the customers, mostly the diehard ones, did not want to leave and had to be dragged by their friends. Birdette even had to chase some out with a spray bottle; it took all of Bowser’s willpower not to laugh at the amount of times people yelled they loved him and then got hit with water. He yawned and leaned against the bar. Daisy walked over to him, “I still don’t know how you forgot today is your day,” she said, playfully pulling on his horn.

Bowser hissed and slapped her hand away. “Could you not?”

“How’s Luigi and the little demon?” asked Daisy.

“Junior’s good. Still a menace to society as usual,” he said with a chuckle. “And things with Luigi are going great. He's been working hard at the plumbing business and we've managed to save up enough to finally take that vacation we've been talking about," Bowser continued, a hint of excitement in his voice.

Daisy smiled, her eyes sparkling with curiosity. "Oh, where are you two planning to go?"

“Delfino probably. Although we might go to Italy since I know Luigi wants nothing more than to show us his hometown,”

The two continued to chat for a bit. Bowser certainly appreciated a calm conversation; his social battery was running low after the day he had. He was just ready to go home and cuddle with his boyfriend. And with that in mind, he said goodbye to his co-workers and headed home.

──●◎●──

Luigi was lying on his stomach, body aching from today’s work. He sighed with disappointment; they had such a high volume of customers today that he missed Bowser Day! He so wanted to go; ever since they started dating, Luigi hasn’t missed it once until today. It was such a fun day and why wouldn’t he want to see his big, buff boyfriend Bowser showing off his strength?

As Luigi lay there, reminiscing about past Bowser Days, he couldn't help but feel a pang of regret. He had always admired Bowser's incredible strength and power, and watching him compete in various challenges was a thrilling experience. From lifting heavy objects to participating in intense arm-wrestling matches, Bowser's dominance was undeniable.

But today, as the customers flooded their business, Luigi found himself trapped in the whirlwind of work. No gawking at the handsome hunk of a dilf that he bagged for himself. He thought about asking Mario to let him leave early but he felt bad about leaving his brother on his own. So he bit the bullet and stayed.

Even if he did want to see Bowser being his boisterous self.

Suddenly he heard the front door open. The house shook slightly by familiar footsteps. Luigi looked to the side as Bowser entered the room with heavy-lidded eyes. He shrugged off his shell and placed it on the wall hook. Then he flopped onto the bed, right onto Luigi. The human let out muffled chuckles and wrapped his arms around Bowser’s head, “Tired, amore?”

Bowser replied with a grumble.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t go… Things were very busy today; I was almost all over town.”

“ ‘s fine…”

Luigi moved so that Bowser’s head was comfortably on his chest; he moved hi shand through his red mane and gently scratched the base of the horns. The dragon koopa purred with content. Luigi could feel the tension slowly melting away from Bowser's body as he continued to scratch his horns. While Luigi continued his ministrations, he also kissed his head. Bowser rumbled with delight and fluffed the blankets with his claws, like a cat making biscuits.

“I hope you had fun today,”

“My day got better the second I flopped on this bed.”

The human laughed and pulled the koopa closer. Luigi smiled warmly at Bowser's response, feeling a surge of affection for the usually fierce and intimidating koopa. As he continued to stroke Bowser's head, the two slowly drifted off to sleep.

#bowuigi #bowser #luigi x bowser #luigi #super mario bros #fanfic #super luigi #super mario #midbus #oneshot #bowser jr #writerscorner #bowser day #gay love #gay #fitness #fluff #wholesome

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eleanor-bradstreet · 6 months

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Chiaroscuro - Part 6 (Benedict Bridgerton x Reader)

Benedict Bridgerton x fem!Reader Vampire AU Rated/warnings: G - none Word count: 1.1k Art by @bridgertontess

Part 5 Part 7 Masterpost

You didn’t know if you had managed to sleep. You couldn’t see the room around you anymore but it had nothing to do with your eyesight. Your mind was entirely elsewhere, replaying every moment with Benedict. The stories he had told you about his past, the shock of seeing his eyes looking out at you from an heirloom portrait, the painful beauty of his body. Your mind was so jumbled with the images, coupled with exhaustion and hunger, that you barely managed to dress yourself when you crawled out of bed midday.

Tea. Tea would help. That and something for your growling stomach. You wobbled out of your building and into the crisp autumn sunshine. You remembered the sound of Ben’s flesh sizzling in the light and shuddered. Ravenous, you ordered a full English at your favored cafe. The sight of blood sausage gave you momentary pause but hunger won out and you felt somewhat human again after a hearty brunch. You sat in a daze at the outdoor table watching people pass on the pavement, yellowed leaves breaking free in the rustling wind, sunlight dappling the ground beneath them.

The world was a different place now. More complicated. More magical. That is, if you chose to believe what Ben had claimed. The evidence was already stacked in his favor. You weren’t sure what else he could do to prove himself other than sinking his teeth into the neck of a human being, which you admittedly did not want to witness. And even if he was a vampire, was he really Benedict Bridgerton or some kind of impostor? He had Benedict’s possessions but maybe he had collected them as a jealous artistic rival. Maybe he was Granville and the portrait had been of himself, shared to deliberately confuse you. It was all too much. The only traces of Benedict that you could trust were his pieces in the museum. Those works that you had studied and treasured for years. Their authenticity had been verified for centuries and showcased the spirit and talent of the man you admired.

That’s when it hit you.

Your feet pulled you through the streets of their own accord, which was helpful because your mind could only buzz with anticipation. The museum closed early on Sundays and you reached it just as the last visitors filed out. With half-hearted greetings to the staff you marched into the Bridgerton room and scanned the familiar images. The signatures and style were indistinguishable from the paintings in the penthouse. But you knew how to determine once and for all whether the man who lived there was lying to you. You moved to your favorite landscape and lifted it off the display wall. Quickly but carefully, you carried it through the halls and downstairs to the archives.

You closed yourself in a rarely-used room and raised the lights to a dim glow, then rested the painting gingerly on the contraption that took up the middle of the space. Moving to the control panel, you flipped switches to turn on the massive, humming machine and calibrate the settings. Very few pieces in the museum had been subjected to this process. Only those that stirred enough intrigue for scholars to suspect they held more than what met the eye. All of Bridgerton’s pieces had solid documentation tracing them back to reputable galleries or direct donation by his family. His work had never aroused that level of intellectual curiosity. Until now.

A few more whirring sounds, a harsh flash of light and then the x-ray of Dreams in Kent began to materialize in grey shadows on the screen in front of you. As the picture loaded slowly from the top down you could see the foundational pencil sketches of the horizon line, the distant trees, some errant brushstrokes that were covered over. Then your body went completely numb. You stood transfixed, forgetting to breathe as the unmistakable image of a woman appeared in the foreground. With long hair and a windswept skirt, she was looking across the field in profile. The figure was defined enough to indicate that the paint had dried before being lightly painted over. On closer inspection you could see outlines of fainter renderings, hinting that she may have been painted several times before ultimately being hidden under the final layers of grass and sky.

Your heart lurched into your throat. He had known. There was no way on earth anyone could know about the hidden layers of paint in this landscape. It had never been x-rayed before. You had never known. And yet there she was, almost coyly looking back over her shoulder at you, proving that Ben possessed inexplicable knowledge. Knowledge that only Benedict Bridgerton would have.

As you stood, trembling and alone in the dark basement, your disbelief finally shattered. You had no choice but to accept that Benedict Bridgerton, acclaimed regency artist, was a vampire. And he lived in your building. And he wanted you. You felt an odd sense of excitement. Not only had you discovered what had happened to him, but he had introduced you to a secret, supernatural world. It seemed a privilege more than anything else. The only remaining question was, what were you going to do with it?

As calmly as you could, you returned the painting to the gallery and took one more turn about the room before leaving the museum. You walked slowly through your favorite park and wound your way to the river, watching the sunset dance over the ripples. You managed to snag a seat at your beloved ramen shop right on the water and ordered a large bowl with all the toppings. You luxuriated, eating slowly, watching an ice cream vendor hand out cones to couples and children. You drank a spritz and watched the sky fade in its fiery hues. Orange, pink, purple, then the indigo of night. You walked home through a touristy square, peeking into little shops and stopping at a bakery that made apple tarts nearly as good as your mum’s. The city felt happy and gentle on a Sunday night. Refreshed and ready for a new beginning in the morning.

Back in your flat, you changed into a silk nightie and wrapped yourself in a cashmere cardigan. The nights were growing colder. Ben’s bottle of wine was still on the counter. Careful of the ancient cork, you gently pried it open and poured yourself a deep glass of the dark contents. Sipping tentatively, you couldn’t help your eyes rolling closed in pleasure. The aged terroir imparted tastes you had never encountered before. This was his gift to you, a sweetness born of earth and sunshine and time, and you were going to savor every last drop.

Tagging: @angels17324 @broooookiecrisp @secretagentbucky @colettebronte @queen-of-the-misfit-toys @mysticwitchcraftco @suspendingtime @faye-tale

#bridgerton #bridgerton fanfiction #bridgerton x reader #bridgerton x y/n #bridgerton x you #bridgerton imagine #benedict bridgerton #benedict bridgerton fanfiction #benedict bridgerton x reader #benedict bridgerton x y/n #benedict bridgerton x you #benedict bridgerton imagine #female reader #vampire au #romance #angst #happy halloween

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wheelsgoroundincircles · 11 months

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Harley Earl

Harley Earl is the father of the Corvette. The Corvette was his idea pure and simple. He was influenced after World War II watching Jaguars and MG's run road-racing courses like Watkins Glen. He felt America needed its own sports car and he convinced GM to develop its own, inexpensive two-seater. Originally code named "Project Opel", Earl kept the Corvette program pretty much to himself. He had a special small studio with a handful of people working on it. At the time, Earl wasn't sure which GM division ought to sell the Corvette, But he felt close to Ed Cole at Chevrolet and decided to give the "Bowtie Division" first shot. Cole was sold the first time he saw the prototype. He knew it was just what the stodgy Chevrolet division needed. The Corvette debuted at Motorama in New York, January of 1953 and was an instant hit. Six months later the Corvette went into production and the rest is history. But the Corvette may not have been Earl's greatest achievement. His main accomplishment was making automotive design an institution. It was the work of Harley Earl that put the sizzle back into the American car business after World War II. His expressive designs defined an entire era. He was the first man to design a car with a wraparound windshield, cars without running boards, and the first to tantalize the motoring public with dream cars like the 1938 Y Job and the 1951 Le Sabre. He grew up in Hollywood in the early 1900s and quickly developed designs with a flare for the dramatic. His father ran a custom coach building company, and young Harley was put to work- as Chief Designer. He would often produce clay models for customers, showing them what their future vehicles would look like. Earl later became close friends with Lawrence Fisher, who became president of the Cadillac Division of General Motors in 1925. Fisher asked Earl for some design help on the new LaSalle. His successful design caught the attention of GM Chairman Alfred B. Sloan. Harley moved to Detroit in 1927 and quickly set about making GM one of the world leaders in design. In 1937, his Art and Color department was renamed General Motors Design Staff. Among Earl's most memorable designs are the Chevy Nomad, the Cadillac Eldorado Brougham, all of the early 1950s Buicks and of course, the Corvette. Earl's legacy, however is the Corvette which will live on as a testimony to his vision and his talent. Harley Earl died on April 10, 1969.

Harley J. Earl (November 22, 1893 – April 10, 1969) was the initial designated head of Design at General Motors, later becoming Vice President, the first top executive ever appointed in Design of a major corporation in American history. He was an industrial designer and a pioneer of modern transportation design. A coachbuilder by trade, Earl pioneered the use of freeform sketching and hand sculpted clay models as automotive design techniques. He subsequently introduced the "concept car" as both a tool for the design process and a clever marketing device. Earl's Buick Y-Job was the first concept car. He started "Project Opel", which eventually became the Chevrolet Corvette, and he authorized the introduction of the tailfin to automotive styling. During World War II, he was an active contributor to the Allies' research and development program in advancing the effectiveness of camouflage.

#Harley J. Earl #car #cars #classic car #muscle car #autos #sports cars #chevy #chevrolet #opel #buick

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violet-prism-creatively · 5 months

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For Huntlow Week day 2 (umbrella), I was inspired to write a little fic! Plus a sketch to go with it:

Image description: A pencil drawing of Willow and Hunter standing under a tree. Willow is holding an umbrella over both of them and they're smiling at each other.

Read the fic on Ao3 or below! (745 words)

Willow's therapist had told her she didn't have to be the responsible one all the time, but right now, Willow wished she'd been a bit more responsible.

The first drop of boiling rain hit her shoe with a sizzle. Willow ducked under the shelter of a tree, not quickly enough to avoid another droplet on her arm. She hissed. She hadn't packed a first-aid kit, or an umbrella, or even a raincoat. It was just supposed to be a little walk in the forest. And now she was stuck in a surprise boiling-rainstorm, utterly unprepared.

Text friends, Clover buzzed. At least Willow's palisman was with her.

Willow pulled out her scroll and sent a message to the groupchat: "SOS caught in rainstorm"

Almost immediately, responses flooded in: "r u ok??" "Take shelter!"

"I'm under a tree," Willow replied, and sent a selfie. "just annoyed that I didn't think to bring an umbrella and now my dads prob won't let me go out alone again for a while"

"I cAN bring you an umbrella,. send location." Hunter's texting style had been getting better since Willow had first met him about a year ago, and at this point, she found the occasional errors endearing. (As well as his nerdiness, and his sense of loyalty, and a lot of other things... but that was another discussion.) Even though he was obviously the only one who could come rescue her, with his immunity to boiling rain, she couldn't help but smile at the offer.

Willow shared her location- a forest not far from Bonesborough- texted her dads that she was okay, and settled in to wait. Clover rested on her shoulder. It wasn't a heavy rainstorm, but drops occasionally filtered through the edges of the tree's canopy, and Willow pressed her back against the trunk to avoid them.

Soon, Hunter arrived on his mechanical staff. He wore a raincoat, but where the rain hit his bare hands and face, it slid off harmlessly like human-realm rain. "Are you okay?" he asked as soon as he'd landed. "I got here as fast as I could, but I had to find an umbrella first- here." He handed an umbrella to Willow.

She opened it, feeling much more secure under the boiling-rain-proof material. "Thank you. I'm okay, but I really appreciate you coming here."

"No problem." The tension in Hunter's body drained away, leaving him standing there awkwardly. He eventually asked, "Do you want to fly back to your house or stay here?"

"I was always taught it's safer to shelter in place till the rain ends," Willow replied, "and besides, it would be kind of hard to hold the umbrella while flying."

"If anyone could do it, it would be you, Captain. Or I could hold it over you if you want- I just don't want to leave you here alone."

Oh. "You could wait here with me," Willow suggested. That... would be kind of nice, actually, she thought.

"Oh yeah. I could." Hunter gave a soft smile.

"Come here." Willow beckoned Hunter closer. "I know the rain doesn't hurt you, but it's cozy under here."

Hunter obliged, and she shifted the umbrella to cover both of them. Their arms were touching... Then Hunter noticed the red mark the boiling raindrop had left on Willow's arm.

"You're hurt! One second, I brought a first-aid kit." Hunter rummaged through his bag.

"It's just a small burn." It didn't even hurt anymore, but Willow was touched by his care nevertheless.

With the precision of a field medic but the care of a friend, Hunter dabbed antibiotic cream on the burn and covered it with a band-aid. Willow tried not to focus on his hands on her skin, how close he was, the intimacy of him caring for her.

Hunter released her arm when he was done- was she imagining the blush on his face? "There you go."

"Thank you." Willow could tell she was blushing too. "I feel so silly for not bringing a first-aid kit or umbrella of my own."

"You don't have to be perfectly prepared all the time. I've got you."

Willow's heart was glowing and blooming and doing ridiculous somersaults. Did Hunter even know he had just said the sweetest thing ever?

"Thank you." Willow tentatively reached out and took his hand. It was warm and calloused and fit perfectly with hers.

And so for a while, they stood together under the umbrella, holding hands, watching the boiling rain.

#huntlow #huntlow fanart #huntlow fic #the owl house fanart #the owl house fic #the owl house #huntlow week #huntlow week 2023 #my art #my writing #a violet original

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