#Torque Classes

[digitaldiseas3]

i hate physics so goddamn much i can’t wait for this class to be over

[sw5w]

Battle Droids Flee the Explosion

STAR WARS EPISODE I: The Phantom Menace 02:02:54

[static-void]

I need to watch animation vs physics again tbh. and maybe the math one too

they're both interesting bc they start off on very basic premises. the physics one slightly less so bc the amount of fucking. Information in physics is A Lot. But yknow it's still pretty much on a starting note

and then more concepts get introduced in a way that like. That Makes Sense a lot longer even if you aren't necessarily sure of the mechanics surrounding it

[ijustwannabecool]

It’s Just a Word, Right?

Lewis Hamilton x wife!reader

Summary... After a chaotic doubleheader weekend, Lewis returns home ready to unwind. But when their son repeats a word from the paddock at school, it sparks a parenting clash that cuts deeper than expected.

✩ ⋆ ✩ ⋆ ✩ ⋆ ✩

The smell of dinner hits Lewis before he’s even stepped out of the car.

It’s been two races back-to-back; Imola and Monaco. He flew home straight from debrief, wearing the same Ferrari jacket he left the circuit in. There’s still engine grease under his nails and a faint scuff mark on his cheek from a chaotic media pen scrum.

He’s not even through the front door when Sofia barrels into his legs, arms wrapped around him, curls wild and still a little sticky with honey.

“Hi, Daddy!”

Lewis lifts her easily, pressing a kiss to her cheek as Y/N calls from the kitchen, “Wash your hands first! Dinner’s just about done!”

Leo and Mateo are already at the table, perched in their chairs with plates of rice, roasted chicken, and steamed veggies in front of them. Y/N is cutting up Sofia’s portion, still dressed in her tank and joggers, looking like home.

Everything feels right.

Until Leo opens his mouth.

“I don’t want any more fucking broccoli.”

Silence.

Y/N freezes mid-slice.

Lewis pauses, mid-hand-wash, eyes flicking to his son with disbelief. He almost laughs. Almost.

“Leo,” Y/N says, voice sharp, calm, but barely.

Leo shrugs, poking a carrot with his fork. “Uncle Toto said it when he dropped the sandwich.”

Lewis chokes on air.

Y/N’s eyes laser in on him like she’s about to start qualifying laps around his ass. “Uncle Toto said it?”

Lewis wipes his hands on a dish towel, walking toward the table slowly. “Babe, c’mon, Toto probably did say it. I’ve heard him swear in six languages.”

“I don’t care if he said it in Morse code. Our son just said it at the dinner table,” she snaps.

Lewis crouches down beside Leo, trying to keep his tone light. “Where’d you hear that, really, bud?”

Leo looks up at him, completely unbothered. “The garage. You said it when the rear jack didn’t lock.”

Y/N doesn’t say a word. She doesn’t need to.

Lewis sighs. “Okay. That one’s on me.”

“It’s always on you,” she mutters under her breath, gathering up the juice cups.

Leo starts chewing on a breadstick like it’s no big deal, but Mateo whispers, “You’re in trouble.”

Sofia nods solemnly beside him, eyes wide.

“We don’t say that word, baby,” Y/N says gently to Leo, crouching to his level. “Not at school, not at home, not anywhere. It’s not kind.”

“But Daddy says it all the time,” Leo says, frowning. “You do too when your computer crashes.”

Y/N blinks.

Lewis snorts and instantly masks it with a cough.

“Oh my God, don’t laugh,” she says, shooting him a glare. “You’re the reason he told his whole class the brake pedal was ‘fucking toast.’ Do you know how many calls I got?”

“It was toast,” Lewis defends. “I almost put the car into the wall at 305 KPH an hour because someone didn’t torque the—”

“Lewis.” Her voice is warning enough.

He stands, frustrated but biting his tongue. “It’s a word. He didn’t hit anyone. He didn’t steal anything. He just... he just repeated something I said. I’ll talk to him.”

“You’re not getting it.”

“No, babe, you’re not getting it.” His voice sharpens. “They already live in a world where everyone watches them because of me. I just want them to feel normal, not like they’re walking on eggshells every time they say something wrong.”

Y/N’s jaw tightens. “And you think letting them swear is normal?”

“I think letting them be kids is normal.”

“You want them to be kids, or you just want to feel better about the fact you barely see them two weekends a month during the season?”

It slips. She doesn’t mean for it to. But it cuts through him like a wing mirror shattering.

Lewis stiffens. Silence falls again.

Sofia stabs a carrot with her little fork. “Mummy’s mad.”

Leo nods. “Like when the blender exploded.”

Lewis just walks away, back into the hallway, jaw clenched. He doesn't slam the door. Doesn’t yell.

He just sits on the stairs for a second. Breathing.

Two minutes later, Y/N follows, guilt already rising in her throat like a lump of gravel.

“I didn’t mean that,” she says quietly, sitting beside him.

Lewis doesn’t look at her. “Maybe you did.”

She places her hand on his knee. “I get frustrated. But you’re a good dad, Lew. The best. I just want to raise them right. Not like we were.”

Lewis finally looks at her. His voice is quieter now. “I want that too.”

They sit like that for a moment. Side by side.

From the kitchen, a sudden giggle erupts.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!”

“Mateo!” Y/N yells.

Lewis sighs. “Oh, come on.”

“I will end you,” she says, already getting up.

He catches her hand before she storms off, and grins, sheepish. “Still want to kiss me later?”

She glares. “Wash your mouth out with soap first.”

-------

flashback

It was years ago.

Pre-kids. Pre-marriage. Pre-Ferrari red. Just a messy hotel room in Monaco, the scent of champagne in the air, and Lewis Hamilton flat on his back, one arm draped over his eyes.

Y/N stood by the open window, robe half-tied, eyes on the Riviera lights below.

“You ever think about kids?” she asked, barely above the hum of traffic and late-night waves.

Lewis didn’t answer right away. She turned and saw it in his face, tension. Not the kind he got before a race, but the kind that lived in the cracks of a past he never talked about much.

He lowered his arm. “Not really.”

She climbed into bed beside him, soft and slow, tracing a finger down the lion tattoo on his chest. “Why not?”

He looked at her then, eyes dark and serious. “Because I wouldn’t know how to be a dad. Not a real one.”

“You had one.”

“Exactly.”

Silence.

Then he added, quieter, “I don’t want to be the kind of father I had. Detached. Controlling. The guy who showed up to take credit but never stayed long enough to do the work.”

Y/N rested her head on his chest. “Then don’t be.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“It is. Love them more than you hate the way you were raised. That’s how you break it.”

He closed his eyes, breathing her in like she was the only real thing in the world. “I don’t want to mess up a kid.”

She kissed his chest. “Then maybe don’t have one with just anyone.”

Lewis huffed a laugh, eyes opening. “What, and have one with you?”

She smiled. “You’d be lucky.”

He wrapped his arms around her tightly, burying his face in her hair. “Don’t tempt me.”

---------

The house was quiet.

The kids were finally asleep. Mateo tucked in with his dinosaur nightlight, Sofia curled up with a plush lion, and Leo sprawled across his bed like he fought demons in his sleep.

Y/N padded into the ensuite bathroom, her hair pulled into a loose bun, a soft cotton robe tied around her waist. She was brushing her teeth when she felt Lewis’s presence before she saw him.

His reflection met hers in the mirror, shirtless, boxers riding low on his hips, tattoos stark in the dim bathroom lighting.

“You still mad?” he asked, voice low and rough.

She spit into the sink, rinsed her mouth, and turned. “A little.”

Lewis stepped closer, caging her in with one hand on the counter behind her. “Want me to make it up to you?”

She didn’t answer, just raised an eyebrow.

“I mean,” he murmured, lips brushing her cheek, “I could wash my mouth out with soap… or I could use it on you.”

That did it.

Y/N shoved his chest, half-laughing, half-annoyed, but he caught her wrist mid-push, twisting it gently until her back hit the bathroom counter.

Lewis leaned in, lips grazing her jaw. “You love when I’m like this.”

“You’re a menace,” she whispered, but her thighs were already squeezing together.

“I’m your menace.”

He kissed her slow at first, maddeningly so. Then his hands were on her hips, sliding her robe open, parting the fabric until it slipped from her shoulders and pooled on the tile.

Lewis sank to his knees without a word, palms dragging down her sides until they gripped behind her thighs.

“Still want to punish me?” he asked, looking up at her from under those lashes.

She smirked. “Only if you beg.”

He grinned. “Bet.”

--------

The bathroom lights are still on, casting a soft glow into the bedroom where they’ve ended up, a trail of clothes and discarded thoughts leading from one room to the next.

Y/N is sprawled across Lewis’s chest, her cheek pressed to the lion ink she’s always loved, the one she used to trace when she was just his girlfriend sneaking into hotel rooms under fake names.

His fingers draw slow circles on her back, steady and grounding.

“Still mad at me?” he asks, voice low and rough with the edges of sleep.

Y/N hums. “Not really. You were right… kind of.”

“Kind of?” he repeats, smiling.

“You’re a good dad, Lew.”

He doesn’t respond right away. He just holds her tighter, like if he doesn’t, she might vanish. Then he speaks, quiet and real.

“I always thought I’d mess this up,” he says. “I used to tell myself I didn’t want a family because I couldn’t handle it. Because the paddock was my whole life, and anything outside of it felt… far.”

Y/N lifts her head to look at him, eyes soft. “And now?”

He gazes at her. “Now it feels like the rest of my life is the time between coming home to you.”

Something about the way he says it makes her chest ache.

Lewis continues, almost like he needs to get it out. “I don’t know what I’m doing half the time. I still panic when they cry too hard. I still think I’ll say the wrong thing. But I love them. God, I love them.”

“They know,” she says. “Every time you hug them, every time you show up, even when you’re exhausted. They know.”

Lewis swallows hard. “Sometimes I think about that night in Monaco. You remember?”

“The one with the robe and the champagne?”

“Yeah,” he says, smiling. “I said I’d never be a dad. Said I’d ruin a kid.”

Y/N brushes her fingers along his cheek. “And now you’ve got three who think the sun rises because you told it to.”

His laugh is quiet. A little broken. Full of disbelief.

She kisses him gently, murmuring against his lips, ��You didn’t ruin anything, Lew. You built this. You built us.”

They lie in silence for a while, nothing but the hum of the house and the softness between them.

Then he whispers, “You’re still a bitch, though.”

Y/N laughs, swats at his chest, and lets herself fall back into him with a sigh. “Yeah, well. You married one.”

“And I’d do it again tomorrow.”

--------

The end.

[keferon]

Inspired by the ask about Ratchets “How to hold a human class”

———————————————————————

“Kid! C’mere!”

Deadlock twitched a finial in Ratchets direction. He wasn’t quite ready to stop sulking contemplating by his spot next to the pond but Deadlock also didn’t want Ratchet to yell at him again.

Actually yell at him.

Deadlock hadn’t meant to piss the medic off, he was actually trying to help in the moment. Ratchet said he needed to get something on the catwalk so Deadlock did the natural thing and grabbed Ratchets arm to put him up there. He’d barely lifted him off the ground when Deadlock felt the shock of pain shoot through Ratchets field a split second before he shouted in pain. He immediately let go which resulted in Ratchet landing hard on his hip.

After which Ratchet flew into one of the most genuinely angry rages he’d ever seen. He’d called Deadlock every variation of “reckless” and “irresponsible” imaginable. Any thought of justifying himself withered under not so much Ratchets scolding, as the faint feeling of pain and concern that bled through the rage like a new layer of paint slapped on before the first layer could dry.

Deadlock retreated into himself and fled the hangar. Flipping endlessly between “I didn’t mean to!” and “That doesn’t matter slaghead!” Through his mind and the night.

It was morning, and Deadlock was determined not to be a coward at the very least. Whatever punishment Ratchet had decided on Deadlock would respect. Even if it was something as spark crushing as “leave and don’t come back.”

Deadlock followed Ratchet, who was favoring his right hip, back to the hangar. Deadlock kneeled and waited for his sentence.

“Okay. We’re gonna go over some ground rules and basic human anatomy so what happened yesterday doesn’t happen again.”

Deadlock’s finials popped straight up. His mouth open to say something but nothing came to fruition.

Ratchet waved his hand through the air, “You didn’t know and you didn’t mean it. We both know it was an accident but if you really want to make it up to me then pay attention.”

Deadlock closed his mouth and nodded quickly.

“Good. Now gimme your hand.”

Deadlock complied, keeping his hand lax as Ratchet manipulated it to wrap it around his arm the same way from yesterday.

“Okay, don’t do anything yet but explain to me why you grabbed me this way.”

Deadlock cycled his optics for a second while he thought.

“Cause your arm is a convenient handle?”

Ratchet breathed out his nose slowly.

“And do normally pick up other mechs that way?”

“Yes?” Sort of. Deadlock didn’t really interact with minicons. Or maybe they just avoided him.

“This makes more sense then.” Ratchet said, swinging his arm and Deadlocks hand slightly.

“Metal can take that kind of torque without easily bending or tearing . Humans are not made of freakin metal kid. We’re a lot of soft tissue wrapped around a hard skeleton. The skeleton is basically a bunch of individual struts held together by soft connective tissue. That tissue is normally pretty strong when it’s pulled the normal way.”

Ratchet leaned slightly in Deadlocks grip, “This. Concentrates all of that weight into a single joint. Now technically, my shoulder can hold my entire weight but not at such a sharp angle to my body.”

Ratchet removed his arm and began to reposition Deadlocks hand to lay flat and palm up.

Ratchet pointed at Deadlock with an accusatory finger. “Rule Number One: Always fucking ask for permission first!”

Ratchet turned and sat on his hand, scooting backwards until his back rested against Drifts thumb. “If you do need to lift a human, best option by far is just holding your hand steady and letting them climb on.”

Deadlock shifted his hand to more comfortably hold the medic. Ratchet was both squishier than he was expecting and more solid. The sensation kind of reminded him of a big warm gel packet. “I think I’m getting the picture. So what should I do if I don’t have time to ask or you can’t answer?”

Ratchet sighed and Deadlock could actually feel him deflate. His face twitched in barely restrained amusement. Ratchets face twitched in the exact opposite of amusement.

“Pick up humans around the center of mass as much as you can. Try not to pick them up by the limbs. Do not ever pick one up by the head or neck.”

Ratchet shuffled in his grip, and maneuvered Deadlocks fingers to wrap around his torso while keeping his arms free. “Now, very slowly. I want you to gently tighten your grip. Stop the second I tell you to. Got it kid?”

Deadlock’s processor glitched for a second. Logically, he understood what Ratchet was teaching him. How and why. But. He’d just hurt him. And not only had Ratchet put himself back into Deadlocks grip of his own volition. Ratchet was specifically putting himself in an even more vulnerable state then almost loosing a limb. Deadlock didn’t even feel a hint of fear in his field. All he could feel was Trust and Patience and Care, as if Deadlock was the one putting his literal life in someone else’s hands.

“Got it Ratch.” His vocalizer came out staticky.

Deadlock closed his grip at a glacial pace, there was much more give than he was expecting so it caught him off guard when Ratchet finally said “Stop.” Deadlock froze.

“This is about how far you can go before it gets uncomfortable.” Deadlock’s processor skipped again, because holy Primus that was almost no effort whatsoever. Good to know how close he came to maiming him yesterday.

“Start again.”

What?

“What?”

“There’s a lot of give between comfortable and painful. I want you to have a frame of reference for both. I’m going to stop you before anything gets damaged kid, trust me.”

Slowly, Deadlock increased his grip again. It took about another minute before Ratchet stopped him again.

He breathed out in a controlled wheeze, Deadlock could feel Ratchets pulse against his palm, only marginally faster then when they started. “And that’s the upper limit. Don’t do this shit unless you need to.”

Deadlock relaxed his grip and Ratchet slipped off his hand.

The medic took a minute to breath and roll his shoulders.

Then, Ratchet laid down on the ground.

“Okay. Final exam. I’m going to pretend to be unconscious and you’re going to pick me up.”

Deadlock actually did start laughing at that point. Starting as silent shaking and then slowly building into not-quite villainous cackling. There was just something so absurd about the situation that all the tension from the preceding day unraveled until Deadlock was also lying on the ground. Vents whining and vocalizer mostly static by the time he started to calm down again.

Ratchet had sat up and was calmly watching him. The only physical tell Deadlock could see was a faint twitch of Ratchets mouth resisting the urge to smile. But Ratchets field radiated Fondness.

“You supposed to make that noise?”

Deadlock reset his vocalizer, “Yeah, it’s just been a long time. Are you ready?” He said rising up on his elbows.

Ratchet flopped down again.

“You’ve got ten minutes and you aren’t allowed to drop me.”

Deadlock grinned like a menace, and wondered if he could talk Ratchet into any extra credit classes.

AHW THIS IS SO LYLHKGKGNH DEADLOCK COMPARING HUMAN BODY TO A GEL PACKET HE LP

[azumasoroshi]

i was hungry and these two won’t stop invading my brain during my physics lectures now

i think i conditioned myself with the hydraulic press…

under the cut for the actual notes version i did in class lmfao

simple harmonic motion is probably gonna kill me but at least i dont have to worry about that until my exam two weeks from now! only worry about the exam this week about torque and fluid dynamics which i also dont get ahahahaha…

[oncasette]

sleepover sleepover! lately i've been thinking about college au caleb... specifically NERD caleb of college au. like he's on the quiet floor of the library, glasses on, fidgeting with his pencil while reading a textbook and he's so locked in that he doesn't realize ur standing right in front of him.... what a sight. #nerdcaleb

ugh you're so RIGhT #nerdcaleb supremacy | join the sleepover

You're not sure how long you've been standing there, not that you're complaining. You'd have already started mauling him if you weren't hyper-aware of the fact that you were in public.

Caleb had texted you a half hour ago while you were still in class with an SOS—he needed more caffeine—but seemingly hadn't checked his phone since. Or looked up from his physics textbook, either. Lucky you, it gave you ample time to ogle your boyfriend in that sleeveless shirt he'd gotten back in high school as a "joke" and his thick black frame glasses sliding down to the tip of his nose and the pen he's got hooked on his bottom lip by the clip. He's sitting criss-cross on the floor in the back of the library, stuck between the non-fiction shelves of religion and philosophy. You're torn between tapping him with the toe of your sneaker and watching how big and round his eyes will get beneath the lenses and granting yourself the gift of watching him in his natural habitat.

"Pips!" he chirps. Ah, well. He beat you to it. The textbook between you is subsequently shoved to the side as he reaches for your hand to drag you down to the floor with him. An assault of his lips and teeth find your cheeks as you try to maneuver yourself down without tumbling. It's a moderate success. You're glad you picked him up a red bull instead of a coffee. "I missed you."

"It was one class," you snicker quietly. "I saw you like an hour and a half ago."

"An hour and a half of misery and longing where my only friends were torque and newtons," he hums.

[itcars]

First Look: The Aston Martin Valhalla

Fusing the performance-driven methodologies and technologies of Formula 1 with spectacular design and scintillating driving dynamics, Valhalla is a supercar of extraordinary scope. With development now at an advanced stage the time has come to reveal full details of Aston Martin’s landmark mid-engined hybrid supercar.

This relentless pursuit of excellence has seen Valhalla’s specification evolve significantly from the original concept with significant gains achieved in power output, downforce and dynamic capability. Central to this is Valhalla’s best-in-class 1079PS (1064 HP)and 1100Nm of torque hybrid powertrain comprising an 828PS (817 HP) 4.0-liter twin-turbo V8 engine and three electric motors (two of which drive the front axle) contributing a further 251PS. An all-new 8-speed DCT transmission sends drive to the rear axle, delivering split-second shift times and a thrilling shift character. Performance targets include 0-100kp/h (62mph) acceleration in 2.5 seconds and an electronically limited 350km/h (217mph) maximum speed.

Aston Martin have entered the industrialization phase of Valhalla with first deliveries of the limited 999 units to commence late in 2025.

[alexanderwales]

There's a scifi trope where the robot is ridiculously strong, being a robot and all, so while she looks like a waif, she can pick up a car or punch a hole through a wall. It's a good trope, I like that one.

I'm not sure I've ever seen the opposite of that, where there's a large robot made from the cheapest materials to the lowest standards, and looks like it could crush you in a fight, but is only barely capable of picking up 50 pounds, because that's the regulatory minimum to qualify as a certain class. Parts are expensive, so everything has been made with plastic instead of metal where possible, and there's only so much torque to the motors. It looks strong because looks sell, but how much power do you really need a domestic servant, butler, or grocery stocker to have?

[tj-dragonblade]

[Fic] With Every Nerve Alive

Fandom: The Sandman Pairing: Dreamling Rated: E Word Count: 4623 Tags: Human AU, Mechanic Hob, Rich Guy Dream, brief appearance by Matthew, Dream of the Endless is a Horny Little Weasel, class dynamics, as a kink perhaps, sweat is sexy, so is automotive grease apparently, scent kink, detailed sexual fantasies, Dream of the Endless is intense and unhinged, questionable lube choices, within a fantasy don't worry, no one's really getting fingered with engine grease, sugar daddy-sugar baby fantasies, glass sex toys

Notes: Prequel/bookend to Customer Service. I realized that Hot Mechanic Hob needed Dream's pov to get the full effect, so this happened. Also fills my @dreamlingbingo square C1, 'Sugar Baby', a couple thousand words in. Title taken from Turbo Lover by Judas Priest

Summary: Dream Atelíotes is merely seeking car repairs from a reputable shop; he was not expecting to get punched in the libido by the most beautiful mechanic he could have imagined.

On AO3

~ "Alright, and what're we lookin' at her for?"

"The clutch. Is not operating as expected; I fear I may have damaged it. Somehow."

Dream is grateful that the stout American behind the counter at Matthew's Motor Repairs does not pass any obvious judgement on this damning statement.

"Well, that definitely needs checking, then," he says instead, punching in notes on his computer terminal. "Hob'll be runnin' things for the next couple of weeks, lemme see when he can fit your girl in." He turns toward the half-open door that leads to the garage and yells.

"Hey Hob!"

"Yeah! Just a tic—"

"He'll definitely be able to find the problem and fix you up," the American is saying, but Dream pays him little mind, thinking ahead to schedules and obligations; the Porsche is not his primary means of transportation regardless. It had been a gift from Alex that he'd kept after the breakup, primarily out of spite. He will say, when asked, that he drives it for fun, but truthfully the manual transmission does not come easily to him and the car suffers for it. He is considering selling it, perhaps once the satisfaction of knowing how Alex seethes to see him with it has worn down—

"What's up?"

Dream spares a glance for the man who's just entered through the doorway to the garage, and promptly loses his breath.

—Exquisite—

The man is beautiful, average height and slim sturdy build, dressed in grimy coveralls that are split just enough at the zip to glimpse the collar of a plain white tee beneath. There is a sheen of sweat on his forehead and when he wipes at it, still with a wrench in hand, he leaves a faint smudge of black grease behind. His hair is dark, longish, tied up in a messy bun on the back of his head with wisps straying loose about his face attractively. His eyes and his smile are warm, strong nose and chin, a few days' worth of beard growth giving him a wonderfully soft-rugged cast that sets Dream's mouth to watering.

The coverall sleeves are rolled and twisted up to his elbows; the forearms exposed are liberally covered with dark hair, skin a warm sunkissed golden brown beneath, shapely and corded with the strength that comes of manual labor, of hefting tires and torquing wrenches. Dream considers, quite despite himself, how those hands might fit around his waist, his hips; how easily this man might lift or manhandle him about in bed, and the heat that has risen in his loins stirs approvingly.

"Mr. Atelíotes here's got clutch troubles with his Porsche," the American is saying. "Think you'll have time to check it out?"

"Not right away, I'm afraid. How soon would you be needing her back?" the mechanic asks, directly to Dream, and oh, the full focus of that gaze is divine.

"I am in no hurry," he manages to reply, voice only marginally dipping down toward sultry. He is here to see about car repairs, not to flirt with the hot mechanic in front of an audience. He is an adult. He is well-versed in exercising all manner of self control.

The mechanic smiles, like a ray of sunshine, and Dream's self-control is tested.

"Okay then, I can probably get you looked at and fixed up toward the end of next week, if that works for you? Thursday or Friday, let's say." He slips the wrench that he's still holding into a pocket on his coveralls, drawing Dream's attention to the lower half of his body, how the zipper on the coveralls goes all the way down underneath, and he firmly corrals and muzzles the thoughts that arise. Later. Let him finish his business here before he embarrasses himself.

"Next week is just fine," he agrees.

"Excellent," the mechanic says, beaming brightly, and Dream's mouth goes dry.

He is so unfairly beautiful.

The mechanic is talking now to the American who is entering Dream's work order and Dream drinks in the sight of him greedily, committing every detail to memory—the brush of silver at his temples, the crows' feet blooming at the corners of his eyes with every smile, the dimple in his chin just visible as a darkening of the scruff that adorns his jaw so beautifully. His arm flexes prettily as he points to the screen with a black-stained fingertip and his voice is strong yet soft and warm like honey; Dream sneaks a glance at his backside when he turns to the printer and finds the suggestion of shapeliness beneath the loose fit of the coveralls. Dream imagines, helplessly, buttocks and strong thighs covered in hair to match those exposed forearms, and barely stifles a whimper.

This man is absolutely exquisite, and Dream wants him.

Badly.

"Alright, Mr. Atelíotes, let me get your signature here," the mechanic says cheerfully, oblivious to the tempest he has stirred within Dream as he hands him the printed work order and a pen.

Dream makes certain that their fingers brush as he takes it, noting the smudge of fingerprints left on the paper by the other.

He glances at the mechanic's name on the form as he signs. Hob Gadling. He tucks the name safely into the vault of his mind, hoarding it for later use.

"Give me a call on Thursday next week, we'll see where we're at," Hob Gadling is saying, handing him a business card and leaving another grey-black thumbprint on the corner of the white cardstock. Dream immediately thinks of such fingerprints against the pristine paleness of his own skin and swallows thickly.

"Thursday," he repeats. "I will call then, thank you." It is Monday, currently; a week and a half is quite reasonable for routine car repairs in a reputable shop, he is given to understand, and Matthew's Motor Repairs is consistently rated with four and five stars online. He is confident that he has chosen well, especially when Hob Gadling smiles brightly while bidding him good day.

It is a good day indeed, for having met such a stunningly beautiful man.

~

He takes a cab home to Kensington, trying very hard to put his thoughts in order and focus on the week ahead, on his business meetings and the client proposal he's expecting on Friday. But his mind is full of brown eyes and warm smiles, hairy forearms and grease-stained hands, and his entire body finds these thoughts far more appealing than those of his day-to-day mundanities.

Hob Gadling lingers in his mind persistently, a siren call warming his blood and distracting him at the slightest provocation. Late afternoon finds him abandoning his office and retreating to his rooms, surrendering to the thoughts that have plagued him since his visit to Matthew's Motor Repairs this morning.

Hob Gadling—

He imagines how the smell of the shop might cling to the man, oils and gasoline and the sweat of his labor, intoxicating and inviting should Dream nuzzle in close. He imagines those hands with their black-stained fingertips, their work-roughened texture, sliding over his body. How might they feel against his skin, his chest, his thighs? On his tongue? He imagines the hungry light that might fill Hob Gadling's eyes, if Dream were to take those skilled fingers into his mouth and hold his gaze while sucking on them, tonguing lovingly at every crack and callous. He imagines those fingers dark all over with a thick layer of fresh grease, the mechanic holding them up with a smirk like a promise, turning Dream to lay on the bonnet of his car—or perhaps bending him over a stack of tires there in the garage, yes—and pushing those fingers inside him, deep and insistent and perfect while his other hand holds Dream down at the small of his back. Automotive lubricant is perhaps not sanitary or otherwise suitable for sexual use, but the heat-of-the-moment urgency of the idea appeals all the same.

He groans aloud at the thought of being fingered with the thick warm grease, the slide and drag and the way Hob Gadling's fingers would curve and press exactly right until Dream was shaking apart with pleasure, scrabbling at the rubber tread of the tires he's bent over. He imagines Hob Gadling murmuring complimentary filth above him—"You look so pretty with my fingers up your arse; bet you'd look even prettier speared on my prick"—as he comes and comes and comes.

Of course he wishes to have the mechanic's cock as well. He is certain it is full and glorious, a beautiful specimen that would fill him perfectly, touch every sweet spot within him and set him alight. He wants it in his hands, in his mouth, in his arse; he wants it any way he can have it.

He desperately wants to get fucked by Hob Gadling in his garage amongst his work, by Hob Gadling strong and sweaty and dirty in his element, vigorous and virile.

The car would perhaps be most comfortable for lying on his back, the better to see Hob Gadling's gorgeous face while taking his cock. He himself would be stark naked and the mechanic still in his coveralls, unzipped all the way to let his prick out. Dream imagines him naked beneath the grimy clothing; Dream envisions chest hair to match what was seen on his gorgeous arms. Dream imagines those arms sliding up along the bonnet beside him, bringing his legs with them until Dream is nearly folded double and breathless with the sweet pressure of the mechanic's dick inside him, pistoning deep and perfect.

Would Hob Gadling pick him up, like so much inventory to be moved about the shop? Would Hob Gadling fuck him standing upright, holding him as if he weighed nothing? He fantasizes about the strength in those forearms and biceps, of the way they would flex and hold, Dream's knees hooked in his elbows and those broad hands gripping his hips as the mechanic would bounce Dream up and down on his prick, Dream clinging around his neck and jack-knifed beautifully in his powerful arms.

He comes at the thought, face down on his knees in his bed with a toy vibrating steadily against his prostate as he strokes himself over the edge, and the orgasm is so intense that he loses all sense of space and time for a moment. The toy is still buzzing merrily when he comes back to himself and he fumbles for the remote beside him, turning it off without yet removing it. He rolls over, brings his messy hand to his face and licks. He wonders what difference he might taste between Hob Gadling and himself, imagines that he is licking Hob Gadling's spend from his hand instead of his own, imagines how those dark eyes and that lovely mouth would smile to see him do so, slow and lascivious.

He turns the toy back on.

His fantasies continue as the days progress. He imagines taking Hob Gadling into his mouth, tasting the sweat and the musk of him after working all day in the garage; he imagines lavishing his tongue all over the length of him, sucking and swallowing and milking him dry. He imagines Hob Gadling's work-roughened hands in his hair, combing through it, clenching tight as he spends into Dream's eager mouth.

He imagines Hob Gadling on his back on the low wheeled board that mechanics use for sliding beneath cars—he does not know its proper name, but he imagines opening Hob Gadling's coveralls while he is laid out on this board and riding him like a prize stallion there on the shop floor with the scent of his work and his sweat all around. He imagines the blackened smears Hob Gadling's hands might leave on him, on his hips, his waist, his arse.

He imagines Hob Gadling bending him over the bonnet of his Porsche, fucking him hard and fast and absolutely without mercy until he is screaming his pleasure, until he is so loud that the mechanic will cover his mouth to muffle the noise and simply fuck him harder still. He wants it, aches for it, imagines Hob Gadling's hands planted firm on his arse, squeezing, spreading him open for his pounding cock, leaving dirty smudges on both cheeks as they careen into orgasm together—

Dream comes under the warm cascade of his own rainfall shower, one hand braced against the sleek tiles while the other grips his pulsing cock tightly. He draws great gasping breaths of the humid air, mind barreling on even as his climax peaks and begins to subside. His mechanic in the shower with him after all of that, sudsy and slippery-wet beneath the spray, shedding the grease and grime of his workplace; his mechanic, pulling him in for a kiss, smelling now of soap more than sweat. The idea appeals, on more than one level, and will not be dislodged even as he dries and dresses for bed. He falls asleep at last to the thought of a scrubbed-clean Hob Gadling on his knees beneath the gently-pouring water, freshly-shampooed hair swept sleek and dripping back from his face and his smiling mouth wrapped around Dream's cock.

He wakes to the sun streaming in his window and lies alone in his spacious bed with drowsy thoughts of being kissed awake, of Hob Gadling's stubbled face and warm lips nuzzling against his cheek, of calloused hands with black-stained nailbeds petting down his sides and grasping his hips. Of Hob Gadling's strong shapely arms pulling him close, Hob Gadling's chest hair tickling his nose, Hob Gadling's heartbeat strong and steady beneath his ear.

He thinks of Hob Gadling following him about the kitchen as he fixes breakfast, imagines his mechanic in a borrowed robe that hits him mid-thigh and doesn't quite close over his chest. He does not currently own such a robe, but that does not matter to the fantasy. He imagines Hob Gadling draped warmly over his back in this too-small robe while he cooks, nuzzling kisses into the nape of his neck, purring about how he wants Dream for breakfast while dragging his calloused fingertips up the insides of Dream's bare thighs. Because of course Dream has merely thrown on a long shirt to cook for his lover, and of course his mechanic cannot keep his hands to himself, and of course Dream would like to be fucked over the kitchen worktop before breakfast.

It is a daring fantasy, this stranger in his home, infusing sex and affection into his daily routines, and Dream wants it with an intensity that is frightening.

He spins himself broader fantasies as the days become a week, of showing up to his mother's summer gala with Hob Gadling on his arm, a mere mechanic brought to an Atelíotes event. He dreams of engaging in increasingly indecent public displays with him where all the high society patrons would see, embarassing Mummy Dearest and igniting gossip that would haunt her for years. He would reward Hob Gadling handsomely for his part in the scandal, sexually, financially, both if he should like. Or perhaps he might offer Hob Gadling gifts and incentives without petty family business mixed in, lavish rewards simply for his affections and sexual attentions. The term 'sugar baby' is very much in line with his thoughts, if not entirely accurate; he is only forty himself and his mechanic had appeared to be in his mid-thirties at least. But that feeds into his story; Hob Gadling is well into adulthood and working in trade labor. Perhaps he never had the chance to go to university; perhaps he had grown up poor. Perhaps he might like to undertake a course of study now, if Dream were to offer to pay for such a thing, in thanks for how well-fucked his mechanic would keep him?

Perhaps he might gift Hob Gadling a luxury car like his Porsche, in return for the sexual services he should like to be provided. Perhaps he might buy him tailored suits, expensive clothes in the latest fashions. He is undeniably drawn to the grimy working-class vision that had been branded on his memory when dropping off his car, sweaty and grease-smeared and glowing with life, but he also imagines how stunning his mechanic might look cleaned up and dressed to the nines. Dream would like to wine and dine him at the finest restaurants in London, put him into a limousine after, open his perfectly-tailored trousers and sample his cock on the drive home. To Dream's home, of course, where he would take Hob Gadling to bed and offer up his body for his mechanic's use—which would be delightfully merciless, given how Dream had primed and teased and denied him with his mouth in the car.

Perhaps he might take Hob Gadling away with him on holiday, show him all manner of foreign destinations he would never have seen on his own; at each of them Hob Gadling would fuck him, in sumptuous hotel beds or private beach cabanas or the gleaming toilet stalls of michelin-starred restaurants, with every bit of skill and enthusiasm at his disposal—delighted to be Dream's kept man and eager to show his gratitude for all that Dream could provide.

Dream groans, dragging one hand down across his mouth and arched throat while the other works swiftly over his cock, writhing on his bed with his shirt undone and his trousers open. He is achingly hard, leaking steadily into every rapid stroke; he hasn't even bothered undressing, so caught up in the feverish fantasies of the money and favors he might lavish on this man who consumes his thoughts, of how thoroughly he could expect to be railed and ravished and seen to in return—

Orgasm overtakes him quite suddenly, leaves him gasping and breathless and wrecked, and still he craves more. His fantasies are delectable, but his appetite is insatiable.

He desperately wants the real thing.

~

It is Thursday of the next week at last and Dream, fueled by his fading ability to recall the precise brown of Hob Gadling's eyes or the way his cheeks crease up when he smiles, does not call Matthew's Motor Repairs to check on the status of his Porsche as instructed. Instead, he drives out, excusing the trip to himself by visiting a local bookseller first and picking up several selections to add to his personal library. He does not linger overlong among the shelves, however; today he is consumed with much more pressing distractions.

He must see Hob Gadling again, if only for a moment.

When he enters the shop, there is no one at the counter up front and the door to the garage is ajar, raucous music drifting faintly through. "Hello?" he calls, but receives no reply.

It is a warm day outside and quite warm inside as well; Dream imagines how sweaty Hob Gadling must be, to be performing physical labor under these conditions. Such thoughts do nothing to calm or cool him.

After only a moment's hesitation, he rounds the counter and passes through the doorway, at which point he can hear Hob Gadling's voice singing along—"You don't have a clue/If you did you'd find yourself/Doin' the same thing too!"—beneath the music, passably on-key no less.

Yet another appealing feature to this man; it is simply unfair. Dream draws himself up, heart beating harder, and ventures around the large sink and cleanup station until he can see his Porsche, up on ramps, and—

And legs sticking out from beneath the side of it on one of those rolling boards, Hob Gadling's legs no doubt, spread wide like an invitation.

Dream stops abruptly, heat pouring into his belly; he takes a deep breath of the warm stuffy air, the machine-and-metal smell of the garage doing nothing to calm his libido. He stares, helplessly, at the work boots and coveralls, at where they stretch across Hob Gadling's crotch, affording frustratingly little suggestion of what lies beneath. And just above that, he can see that the coveralls are unzipped, not quite far enough to expose underwear but enough that Dream is treated to a glimpse of warm golden-brown belly and the dip of his navel, the dark sweep of hair above and below it.

—Mouthwatering—

It is with tremendous effort that Dream corrals his thoughts, steps forward again, closes the space between them and clears his throat to announce his presence. He nudges one booted foot with his own, not entirely meaning to do so but somehow unable to resist.

"Bloody—" The mechanic scoots out from beneath the car and Dream's knees go weak; he is grateful they do not give out altogether.

Hob Gadling is indeed shirtless beneath his open coveralls, displaying a chest far more gloriously hairy than Dream had imagined, a pelt thick and dark and alluring. He wants to touch, to comb his fingers through and rub his face against it, to lick the trail of hair that leads down to where the parted zipper comes back together. There is a visible sheen of sweat on his skin and Dream would lick that off as well; Hob is smudged with grease in various smears across his torso and forearms and Dream can hardly think for the rushing of blood in his ears, the swelling of want in the pit of his stomach. He drags his eyes back up to Hob's face, trying to school the ravenous hunger from his own gaze; he does not think he is overly successful in that regard but there is discernible heat in the warm brown eyes that meet him, and it is difficult to care about dignity, propriety, with reality unfolding so near to the fantasies that have carried him through the last ten days.

He stutters through some explanation for his presence, barely aware of his own words, barely registering the rundown he is given in return, watching hungrily as Hob climbs to his feet. His car will be finished tomorrow. He will have reason to see Hob again tomorrow. But right now he is unraveling, his self control a tenuous and threadbare thing barely within his grasp. He is watching Hob's mouth as he speaks, captivated, obsessed with the warm color of it flashing among the dark scruff of Hob's beard, and Dream wants to taste. His mouth, his skin, his cock, which is surely as magnificent as the rest of him—Dream cannot bear the thought of leaving without confirming his certainties, but it is one thing to revel in fantasy alone in his bed and quite another to actually act on it when faced with the man before him—

"Is there something else I can do for you today, Mr. Atelíotes?"

Hob Gadling is looking at him, hip cocked and coveralls alluringly open, smile just this side of invitational; there is the strong suggestion of interest and an implied offer in that warm tone and Dream's resolve, such as it is, crumbles.

He reaches. He touches. He speaks his want and follows with a flirtatious tease to mitigate his intensity, is met by teasing agreement in return, but when his mechanic mentions cleaning up first he absolutely cannot agree.

"No. As you are now, please." He steps closer, directly into Hob's space, a week and a half of fantasies clamoring in his mind as the scent of the man wafts into his nose—oil and grease, warm metal, sweat and a faint trace of citrus and a hint of some pleasantly masculine deodorant; Dream's mouth waters, and his prick throbs.

His mechanic hesitates. "I'm kind of filthy though?"

There is a tinge of shame beneath the words, and Dream. Will not have it.

"I am aware, yes," he purrs, seizing the open lapels of the grimy coveralls, and kisses Hob Gadling with ten days' worth of anticipation and want.

~

Dream is coasting on an adrenaline and endorphin high as he drives home, afterwards. He acted. He spoke directly of what he wanted. And he got it. He had spent ten days nursing fantasy and now he has experienced a delightful sliver of the reality of Hob Gadling.

And tomorrow, he will experience more.

Sleep does not come easily that night, keyed up and aroused as he is, but he manages at last. He wakes later than usual the next morning; he eats a light brunch, the excitement in his stomach counterproductive to the task, and makes sure to drink more water than usual. Thoughts of Hob fill his mind, arousing, distracting, enticing; he recalls with a sharp thrill the taste of Hob's pleasure on his tongue, and he is eager to be on his way to their appointment.

But there are things he must do to prepare, first.

He takes an enema, then shaves and showers, lathering everywhere with his sweetest-smelling soap, determined to be the polar opposite of what he lusts for in Hob. He strives for the cleanest prettiest and freshest he can get, the better to be taken and sullied and dirtied by his mechanic; Hob had seemed quite pleased with that dynamic yesterday and Dream is eager to repeat it with Hob's cock in his arse this time.

To that end, he employs a favorite dildo once he is clean and dry, lubing himself carefully and working himself open on the toy, mind blazing with thoughts of Hob all the while. He knows, now, the size and the shape (and the taste!) of Hob's prick, and he is giddy with the anticipation of having it inside him. He is salivating over how Hob compares to the dildo, how Hob will fill him just that much better, what filthy things Hob might say while taking his time over long slow thrusts, how good it will feel when Hob finally rails him without mercy—

He must force himself to stop, hard and panting as he withdraws the toy from his body. He sorts through his glass plugs quickly, finding the one he wants and fitting it carefully inside himself. It's broad enough to stretch him just a little more, perfectly flared to fit just right inside and out, short enough that he can bend and sit without discomfort. It's a beautiful tease, as a matter of fact, keeping him keyed up and aroused as he dresses himself, making him squirm just a little with every step as he gathers his condoms and his pocket-sized bottle of lube and his phone wallet and water, and leaves the house.

He composes himself over the two blocks he walks to the busier streets where he can hail a cab, steeling himself to normalcy in both movement and appearance while pleasure sings in his veins with every subtle shift of the toy within him. He is half-hard, hidden well enough by the loose cut of his slacks, and works to keep his thoughts from heating any further until he has reached his destination.

The cab drops him outside of Matthew's Motor Repairs and he pays, distracted and breathless with anticipation. Hob is there, inside, and Dream is certain that Hob is just as eager as he is for their rendezvous.

He hopes that Hob is just as eager.

Closed for walk-ins due to special circumstances, reads the hand-written sign taped to the glass of the shop door. Ring if you have an appointment.

Dream's heart plummets for half a second, until he remembers their parting conversation yesterday about appointments and showing up and fitting in. This sign is for him, surely, a blatant invitation.

He takes a breath to calm the excited pounding of his heart, squirms surreptitiously on the toy inside him, and rings the bell.

= Started: 5/15/24 Drafted: 7/27/24 Posted: 7/29/24

[transport-methodology-101]

1995 Chevrolet Corvette (C4) SCCA Trans-Am Race Car.

Engine: 5.7-liter V8, producing 245 horsepower at 4300 RPM and 340 lb-ft of torque at 3200 RPM.

Top Speed: 154 mph.

Transmission: 4-speed automatic or 4+3-speed manual.

0-60 MPH: Approximately 5.7 seconds.

Note:- The ZR-1 version, introduced later, had a more powerful engine producing 375 horsepower and could reach 60 mph in 4.5 seconds.

Also note:- C4 Corvette did have a period of dominance over Porsche 944 Turbos in SCCA Showroom Stock GT racing between 1985-1987. However, this dominance led to the Corvette being banned from that specific class.

[sw5w]

Battle Droids Open Fire

STAR WARS EPISODE I: The Phantom Menace 02:02:27

[prayedafterreading]

THINK I’M A PUSSY?

Ever squared off with a woman who doesn’t give a single solitary shit?

I’m not talking about your “pink gloves” cardio class.

I’m talking about the kind who:

Keeps a box of hollow‑points on her nightstand.

Practices her draw while reciting the Second Amendment as bedtime liturgy.

Masturbates—yes, you heard me—while staring at that arsenal of brass and lead.

Because here’s the kicker: no amount of “tough guy” posturing—no bulked‑up bicep or starched collar—can tank the force of a woman who’s religious about her right to bear arms and has the reflexes to back it up.

1. She’s Armed—Literally and Figuratively

You think physical strength is a straight‑line equation. It’s not.

It’s torque. It’s leverage. It’s momentum born of absolute conviction.

When she drills your jaw with her words—or her .45—she does it from a place of primal ownership.

You feel the knock‑back, the scrambled synapses, the echo of every round she never fired.

Her power isn’t measured in muscle. It’s measured in will.

2. Fists vs. Firepower

Yes, fists can break ribs. But hollow points?

They expand and tear—they unmake flesh and intimidate bones.

A punch hurts. A bullet owns you.

And she’s practiced at both. She’ll circle you, eyes glinting, asking:

“You wanna try your luck?”

Her voice is soft. But her intent is deafening.

3. The Psychology of Armed Seduction

Watch her lean against that safe, fingertips grazing the metal lock.

Hear her whisper, “One day, you might piss me off enough…”

And feel the adrenaline spike—because she’s already won.

Her seduction? It’s not lip service.

It’s the promise of absolute control.

And every man knows the sex‑appeal of someone who doesn’t need you… but wants you anyway.

4. The Second Amendment Fetish

This isn’t about politics.

It’s about sovereignty.

It’s about being the last line of defense for your own body.

Her lust for hollow points is her love letter to autonomy.

And when she invites you into that creed, you know you’re in for a ride that’s half‑rape fantasy and half‑religious revival.

5. Final Warning

So next time you scoff at the “pussy” who packs heat—

Remember: the fiercest predator isn’t the one with the biggest biceps.

It’s the one with the sharpest intent and the deadliest backup.

She’s not your frag slot.

She’s the entire war‑chamber.

And if you cross her?

You’ll wish your fists came loaded.

Reblog if you’ve ever met a woman who packs more fear than your entire locker room.

🛡️ Save this for the next time someone underestimates her.

🔥 Send to the woman who treats her arsenal like a love story.

💬 Comment one word: Unfazed. Bookmark if you’d kneel before her trigger finger.

Reblog if you’d take your best shot—and still walk away trembling.

This post is not a gun‑safety lecture.

It’s fierce feminine energy disguised as dark humor.

If you’re offended—

you were never meant to survive her crosshairs.

You were meant to be the target.

If something moved in you when you read this — reblog.

Don’t hoard the key to the chastity belt, stupid. This ain’t a museum. It’s a war cry. And you were supposed to pass the weapon.

[dailycharacteroption]

Powered Armor Jockey (Starfinder Archetype)

(art by Shardanic on DeviantArt)

Ah, power armor. Smaller than a proper mech but heavier and tougher than anything in the heavy armor category.

The technical definition of power armor is any suit of armor that comes with additional servos, pistons, and other mechanical parts meant to transfer ordinary human motion into something with a lot more torque, effectively making the wearer superhumanly strong, though depending on the setting, maybe not any faster since moving too fast without protections could see the armor ripping the wearer apart inside of it, which would of course defeat the purpose of it being armor. Additionally, typically power armor is coated in a layer of heavy plating dense enough to take heavy fire which an ordinary human could not normally move in, but can due to the help of the power armor itself.

If you’ve been reading your item descriptions, you might note that a lot of heavy armor in Starfinder is in fact technically power armor, what with assistive servos built in, but proper power armor in the system has it’s own strength score, and is big enough to have hard points for attaching weapons even if they don’t have the integrated keyword.

Now, I told you all that to tell you this: I love power armor, and I love specialist pilots for power armor even more, and that’s what we’re covering today in the form of the Powered Armor Jockey!

Not just a heavy ordinance pilot, these jockeys are also equal part modder enthusiast and field repair mechanics as well, no matter what their skillset is otherwise. This is part of the beauty of the archetype too, as anyone can take it as long as they’re proficient, and while combat-focused classes are the most obvious choice, we’ll see exactly why there’s something here for everyone.

These specialists are constantly modifying and tuning their armor, allowing them to add either an additional weapon mount or space for an upgrade. Later on, they refine this to be able to have both.

They also become intimately familiar with how their armor moves, allowing them to move closer to their normal speed, both in powered and heavy armor.

With knowledge of leverage and the upper limits of their armor, these jockeys can squeeze a bit more power and hit harder with the limbs of their power armor.

Finally, for all their love of the armor, these warriors understand that their lives are still more important than the suit, and they can choose to let their armor take the brunt of attacks they can’t stop outright, damaging it but keeping them alive.

A pretty solid archetype all around, and perfect for any character seeking to specialize in such heavy armor. Now, soldier is the obvious choice, and armor storm is definitely going to be one of your fighting style choices. The fact that so many abilities synergize and specifically stack between the two guarantees it, but beyond that, you might specialize in heavy armament with bombard, bullet storm, or shock and awe, or mix in melee focus with hit and run or wrathful warrior. Other combat classes like solarian and vanguard likely will lean either super defensive to become nearly unkillable, or let the armor do the protecting and go full offense. Meanwhile, nanocyte or evolutionist might be shockingly versatile in such armor.

With non-combat classes, mechanic and technomancer are obvious choices with their technical know-how. You might think experiemental armor is the only choice for mechanic here, but consider the exocortex as an onboard targeting system, experimental weapon as a unique integrated weapon, or even a drone support buddy covering your back. Meanwhile, mages of all stripes can make use of the powered armors durability or strength in a pinch while hammering foes and buffing allies, and sneaky classes like operative and envoy can put in some work making for surprisingly agile and fast power armor sets not unlike Samus Aran.

There’s plenty of ways you can roleplay a character like this. Whether they’re currently serving in a military, a mercenary company, or some other role, they can be anything from brash hotheads to more technical combatants. What remains true is their appreciation for their armor, which can range from technical fascination to an anthropomorphized bond with the armor. On that note, it’s important to remember that it’s completely possible to upgrade the stats of a suit of power armor instead of trading up to the next best one if your character would rather keep their current suit.

Powered armor pilots are known for being eccentric, with some even having small pets they take on missions. However, few are stranger than Aldo, Callsign: Grindhouse, who has a cable serpent named Escavor inhabiting his armor. The two formed a strong bond with each other after the latter spontaneously gained life inside the former’s armor during a mana storm. The internal damage nearly compromised the armor, but the two saved each other and have been inseparable ever since.

Balnar’s Folly is a section of the Kollas System’s asteroid belt that is also the territory of a notorious ysoki pirate, Captain Bloodtail, who fights with her custom rigged armor she calls Scrapclaws as well as a heavily armed support drone called Noisemaker. Needless to say, she likes getting up close and personal with the defenders of any ship she intends to take.

The party is tasked with infiltrating an enemy stronghold, one that should in theory be relatively unguarded save for an on-site skeleton crew of soldiers. However, the intel was bad, and one of the enemy’s elite power armor units is there, a particularly eccentric but nevertheless deadly group.

[inchidentally]

Hey! About your last essay, i've just foudn a proof about the "getting together out of work and out of sight" :

That said, Piastri admits the pair have found time to set aside their differences and unite with the odd padel match in their home city of Monte Carlo. “We don’t hang out that much outside of the track – we don’t really have that much time – but we’ve played padel together a couple of times,” he says. “He’s not bad, but I think I’m better. We’re definitely not the best – the two Spaniards have most of the grid covered when it comes to padel.

We never got one picture of them playing together!

babe literally !! they're both absolutely fine posting playing padel - or any other form of down time - with any other driver but then with each other they switch off from social media and like. I know I compare a lot with the Lily and Lando stuff but in a very sane non-rpf way I think Oscar decided at some point to class his time with Lando in with his time with all the people in his private life! he is extremely specific with when and how he posts/interacts w his family, Lily, his boarding school friends or his friends from karting days. but w the F3, Prema and Alpine folks he was totally fine posting content casually and frequently and the same now goes for other drivers on the grid.

he and Lando posted each other very normally those first like 3-6 months together - but at some point Lando got classed in with the people who Oscar wants to keep his time with largely off the public radar. it's the whole "private not secret" approach. and tbh esp when it comes to Lando bc as he said, they get very little actual downtime together and the rest of their time together is very public.

and what's wild is that Lando has followed suit! the guy who loves posting content of his teammates - and who at first seemed to be the same way about his fresh young teammate - has done the exact same. he even complained that Oscar didn't share a hobby with him (after spending literally a year trying to get Oscar into golf) until Oscar started sharing one of his hobbies, but his aim wasn't to post about it! he just wanted to do something not work related with him!

side note that I have an insane theory for why Lando refused to acknowledge the Williams/McLaren padel matchup proposal and never went on Team Torque bc he hated that Logan was Oscar's childhood friend and how Oscar would go off alone with Logan whenever he could and had all these in-jokes with Logan that Lando wasn't in on and !!! Lando didn't even warm up to the Williams/McLaren fan stages fully until Logan was replaced but that's insane surely like surely that's not the case...

[safire-lupe]

Mine

Rivetra (Levi Ackerman x Petra Ral). AU. +18. One-shot. A prequel to Telomeres and The Night Does Not Belong to God (Part of the Telomeres series, a world where Petra Ral lives.)

"She'll recover."

"Physically," Levi muttered but didn't elaborate further.

Erwin finally sat the papers down on the desk to turn to him, giving his full attention. And Levi only continued when he noticed the commander's waiting, curious gaze.

"She's not speaking. Barely eats. Sleeps in fits," he was quiet for a beat. "All she does is stare… at the wall."

A brief silence passed between them. Erwin remained still, letting him continue to speak.

"She's not doing well. It's like she's punishing herself," Levi said, looking down at the shadows on the floor. "And she's the one person in this squad who I thought should've been fine by now."

Erwin leaned back in his chair with a thoughtful gaze. "Miss Ral always was the center of your squad, even though you're the captain," he let his fingers steeple in front of him, his blue eyes narrowed at him reflectively. "But out of everyone in your squad, I had thought if anyone made it, it'd be her."

Levi's eyes narrowed slightly at that. "You thought that?"

He leaned forward, tone turning deliberate.

"Petra Ral is one of the most efficient soldiers we have left," he began.

"Sharp instincts. Level-headed. Precise. And most importantly," He paused to look up at him, calculatingly. "Her coordination with you is unmatched."

Levi scowled. "She was trained for that, Erwin."

"And you've trained many others as well. Yet, only she can truly match up to you," he replied, straightforwardly. "You and Petra always work cleanly. Coordinated. The two of you moved like you've been training together for a decade."

He continued, "It makes sense. You're both close in build. Same weight class. Similar agility. Speed almost matches. You trust each other completely. When you two are on a Titan together, it's near seamless how, when one of you moves, the other compensates quickly, even without verbal cues."

Levi shifted his stance, clearly uncomfortable with the scrutiny. But the taller man continued, much to his chagrin.

"Not to mention, ever since she came into your squad, you haven't had any major mishap or injury that would debilitate your ability to fight."

Levi raised a brow at that, looking skeptical. "What're you talking about? I get injured all the time."

He saw Erwin roll his eyes at that, "I didn't mean a few scrapes and scratches, Levi. You used to pull muscle strains or torque your shoulder after tough expeditions, always doing too much than you can handle. Granted, you seem to heal up faster than an average person would. But I couldn't help but notice that, since you started partnering up with Ral, reports on your injuries began thinning out."

He looked at Levi, studying him, "And look at you now. First time in a long time I see you walk with a limp. And it happened right after she was incapacitated."

"Purely coincidental," Levi countered flatly, "And I twisted my foot because of that reckless brat that follows Eren around like a sad mut. Petra getting herself injured had nothing to do with it."

"All I am saying is that Petra always had a unique effect on you," Erwin leaned forward slightly, looking more thoughtful than reproachful.

"There are very few who can match you in rhythm, Levi. And she's one of them."

Levi didn't respond to that. At least, not verbally. He shifted stiffly against the wall, bearing a little of his weight over the bad foot until the dull throb reminded him of what was still healing, and what wasn't.

Erwin once again leaned back onto his chair and released a soft but audible exhale.

Then he added, almost dryly, "Hange said something similar the other day."

Levi's gaze narrowed warily.

"Oh? And what'd Shitty Glasses say?"

"That the two of you fight so well together, it's unsettling," Erwin allowed a faint smile to tug on his lips, "It's like you were made for each other."

Levi scoffed loudly. "Tch. Typical Hange bullshit."

Erwin's tone took on a teasing lilt as he continued. "They said–and I quote– 'they fight like they're in some kind of weird, hyper-lethal choreography'," He let the words hang for a moment before adding, more sincerely, "they're not wrong though."

"She's like your equal on vertical maneuvering. You're exceptional in your own right, Levi. Petra is too,” he continued as he turned to Levi, gaze steady. “But together, she makes you better."

Levi stayed silent for a while, processing his words. Then, slowly, his eyes drifted to the large window behind Erwin. The afternoon sun had begun its descent against the high curve of Wall Rose, casting tall shadows into the room.

"Well… my 'better' is rotting herself in a hospital bed dwelling on things she couldn't control," his voice was hard and contained. His words are heavy in his throat. "She didn't survive just to fade away."

He pushed himself off the wall and turned toward the door.

"I'm going to see her."

"Good," Erwin nodded once, his tone steady. But there was a glint of something unreadable behind his calculating blue eyes. "She'll need you, Levi."

"Yeah. Maybe." He muttered softly, pausing at the threshold for a moment, trying to digest everything that was said in this room, before twisting the knob without looking back.

(She needs you.)

(No.)

(You need her.)

The door had closed behind him with a click, but he remembered how that sound still echoed in the halls, following him down the path to the infirmary.

That had been approximately a year and four months ago.

Now, another silence filled the room. Different from when he had been in the late commander's office that day. But just as heavy.

>>> Read the full story at AO3 here

a/n: Title is from Sleep Token song (Listen to "Mine").