#under 600

[prashantmmmk]

In the fast-evolving world of gaming, having the right equipment is crucial for an immersive and lag-free experience. Explore our carefully curated list of the best gaming laptops in 2024, designed to elevate your gaming adventures to new heights. From powerful processors to stunning graphics cards, these laptops boast cutting-edge technology to deliver unparalleled gaming performance

[astrobei]

prompt for @stonathanweek’s first stonathan sunday: “who protects you, though?”

“Dude,” Steve says. “This can’t be good for you.”

Jonathan peels his eyes open to register two separate things, at more or less the same time. One: Steve Harrington, standing over him with his arms crossed, hip popped, and one of his muddied white sneakers tapping disapprovingly on the ground in near-perfect time to the ticking of Jonathan’s wristwatch. Two: the fact that Jonathan has had to peel his eyes open at all, which can only mean one thing.

He fell asleep.

His stomach drops.

Not good, he thinks, because falling asleep means his reflexes are sluggish now, which means it takes him a few extra seconds to process what Steve is even saying. And this means that Steve has had enough time to notice that Jonathan has woken up, and manages to frown even more, getting in an additional “Dude,” before Jonathan manages to frown, blink, and rub his eyes. Not good, because sluggish reflexes defeat the point. Not good, because—

He reaches an arm out, skimming over the hay-covered ground, frantic, frantic, until his fingers close around his gun and he sighs in relief. Secondary sensations to take note of: the twinge in his neck as he rolls it out, the ache settling in between the knobs of his spine, inelastic tension coiling taut in his shoulders, and Steve’s laser-focused stare burning a hole right through Jonathan’s head.

“What?” he insists, trying to play it off, but it comes out hoarse, sleep-rough, and Steve was here before Jonathan opened his eyes at all, so it’s probably not even worth trying. Still, there’s a look in Steve’s eyes that Jonathan doesn’t love, soft in all the wrong ways, that immediately has his hackles raising. When Steve doesn’t say anything — just lets that weird look in his eyes get even more goopy around the edges — Jonathan sits up straighter against the barn door, frowns, and repeats himself. “What?”

He expects Steve to— well, he doesn’t really know what, actually. Steve’s been surprising him these last few months, which always makes him think about the thing Nancy had said when they’d gotten back to Hawkins — about how Steve changed, in the week he and Nancy had spent fighting monsters together in Jonathan’s absence. Enough for her to go on the defensive when Jonathan asked about him, anyway.

Jonathan doesn’t know about all that. He’s known men like Steve before Steve, and he’ll know men like Steve after him. But where he would have expected the Steve of two years ago to scoff, maybe, to roll his eyes and make some offhand comment about how like shit Jonathan looks right now, the Steve of today does none of those things.

Today-Steve holds his hands out, and gestures for the gun. “Give me that.”

“What?” Instinctively, Jonathan clutches it closer to his body. “No. Why?”

“Because,” Steve says, and then he’s kneeling to the floor, dirt and hay and God-knows-what caking up along his kneecaps, another streak of mud along the sides of those white tennis shoes. Jonathan braces himself for it — you look like shit, you’re gonna take someone out with that thing — but Steve just says, “It’s three in the morning. What the hell are you doing?”

“Keeping watch,” Jonathan says, blinking even more forcefully, as if this will clear away the rest of the disorientation lingering there, in the minute creases of his eyelids, the insides of his mouth, the cracks between his molars. It doesn’t do much to help; he finishes blinking and his eyes are on their way to closing again, stinging against the chill of the night breeze.

“Yeah, no shit,” Steve says, both louder than Jonathan expects him to, and — well, more blatantly than Jonathan expects him to. It startles him just enough to make him look over sideways, at where Steve’s silhouette is illuminated by the porch light they installed by the barn door. He’s not sure what he expects to find there, but it isn’t this: Steve’s eyes simultaneously wide with concern and brows furrowed in what seems like confusion. Jonathan opens his mouth to say something, maybe to defend himself, or say hey, man, what the fuck? when Steve seems to realize how it came off and winces before correcting course. “I mean,” he says, quieter now. “I know, you keep— I see you come out here every night, and you don’t come back in until everyone else is starting to wake up again.”

The hey, man, what the fuck? that had been forming on Jonathan’s mouth makes another attempt to make itself heard, but it’s late, he’s tired, there’s a comfortable breeze blowing through the clearing, and in the end, it comes out without any bite. “What?”

It’s Steve’s turn to blink now, long and slow, like he’s realizing that Jonathan’s not doing a very good job at processing what he’s saying. “Go to sleep,” Steve says slowly, over-enunciating now, like a little bit of sleep deprivation automatically means Jonathan’s fucking stupid now. “Seriously,” Steve says, intonation picking up again, falling back into a normal pitch and speed. “How long has it been since you got a good night’s rest?”

“Not that long,” Jonathan says, but it’s probably undercut somewhat by the yawn that sneaks out around it.

Steve makes a disapproving noise, low in his throat, like he didn’t even really mean to, and Jonathan feels himself exhale in response, exasperated and exhausted, two counts turning into three, into six, seven, eight.

He wants to tell Steve that it’s not his first rodeo. That he’s used to this, a routine that comes to him almost easier than breathing: sitting awake in the dark, heart racing and ears straight for the first indication of a noise of distress. Waiting for the sharp creaking of floorboards, a jolt in the bedsprings, a sudden pause in the snores that had previously been floating their way down the hall. The quiet tap of knuckles against his door, a pair of small hands shaking him awake. The thing about the weed, later, is that it helped him fall asleep, but it didn’t help him stay that way. Left him lurching awake at two, three in the morning, heart pounding and sweating through the sheets, waking up again a few hours later feeling like he hadn’t slept at all.

He knows Will doesn’t sleep much these days. He knows Will sleeps even worse when they’ve had a close call, when the threat of something creeping up on them in the night is marginally more real than it normally feels. Steve pulls his knees up towards his chest, like he has no intention of leaving anytime soon, and Jonathan grips the pistol harder in his hand. “It’s fine,” he says. “I have to— someone has to—”

Watch them, he thinks. Protect them. Jonathan’s learned to sleep light, tread light, dream light. Guard up and bearing down.

“Okay?” Steve says, like Jonathan is simultaneously stating the obvious and also missing the obvious, something bright and glaring, right in his face. He puts a hand out again, and Jonathan hesitates; Steve glances down at the gun, raises his eyebrows again, waggles his fingers, and just for a second, Jonathan gets it — the thing Nancy had seen in him, that change. Something vulnerable and open in his expression, the early morning hour, the hair that’s falling into his face instead of standing coiffed up around it. Jonathan hesitates, and Steve says, “Jonathan, I— you think I don’t know you come out here every day?”

Jonathan opens his mouth. Lets it close. No, he hadn’t known that. “It’s not,” he tries again, and then just, “no one else is keeping watch in there.”

It might be the exhaustion, or maybe the idea of Will or Mike or Robin or Nancy sitting up in their sleeping bags, awake, waiting for something to crawl out from the shadows and reach its long claws until the door, but his voice cracks there, wobbling on the precipice of the last syllable in a way that’s nothing short of mortifying.

“I know,” Steve says, too soft and quiet for the easy target Jonathan is making of himself, and then there’s a hand wrapping around his pistol, pulling it gently out of Jonathan’s grasp. “But, like— shit, dude— what about you? Who protects you?”

An unwelcome, panicked laugh bursts out of him, too sudden and too loud for the early morning silence, but Jonathan can’t help it. He’s seen Steve in action, the way Will’s friends follow him around like ducklings in a row. Him and Robin, bodies angled towards each other, tittering away in the corner. Years ago, the idea of Steve protecting anyone would have made Jonathan throw his head back in laughter. Now, his limbs feel heavy, and there’s something open and warm in Steve’s eyes, wide and brown and dark in the dim lighting of the barn’s lanterns, and Jonathan’s fingers are brushing the palm of Steve’s hand as he passes the gun over. He thinks about that stupid baseball bat, the nails he and Nancy had hammered into it, the sound of the wood splintering around the rusty metal, and blurts out, “Do you even know how to use that thing?”

Steve’s eyebrows shoot up, like he’s surprised, like he wasn’t expecting Jonathan to take this so lightheartedly. “Do you?” he replies.

Jonathan shrugs. “Enough,” he says.

Steve’s lips tilt upwards. “Enough,” he echoes in response. He turns the gun over, holds it up. Squints into the distance and pretends to shoot.

Jonathan’s eyelids are drooping again, but he glances along the firm line of Steve’s hands, thumb and index finger lined up along the trigger, and is reminded of it again: Steve’s changed. How his hands used to be so fidgety, rapping against their front door, twirling that stupid bat back and forth. How they’re steady now. Jonathan heard about Max, heard Lucas and Dustin tell Mike and Will about that day at the cemetery, Steve’s arms around her after she fell twenty feet out of the sky.

Steve lowers the gun, bumps Jonathan’s shoulders with his. “We can stay out here,” he says. Wary, like he thinks Jonathan’s going to put up a fight, even after laying his weapon down. “If that helps.”

It does help. “Okay,” Jonathan says.

“Okay,” Steve parrots.

Sleep still doesn’t come easy. Jonathan has a sneaking suspicion that it never will, for him. But for the first time in months, Jonathan tips his head back against the splintered walls of the barn, weather-worn and chipped red paint, and lets himself try to get there.

[messymoonmad]

Do I have ur blessing to (possible) make a oc x Amphinomus drawing/eventually a mini comic thingy 👀

Of course and tag me pls !

Don't send it in my inbox tho it might rot in there with the 571 other asks

[ahedalshaer]

25/October ⬆️

URGENT EVACUATION OSUPPORT REQUEST!

Be the light on our path.🥹✨

Be the reason for our dreams coming true.🕊️🩷

Be the hope we need.♥️🫶🏻

I'm Ahed from Gaza .please donate to save my life and my family 🇵🇸🍉.

Asking for help is not easy, I ask for a small donation of only 20€ from each person, 20€ will save my family from death in Gaza 💔 Donate through the link in bio (gofundme) Together, we can achieve our goal within a day and provide crucial support to me and my family in Gaza. Your contribution means everything to us and in these difficult times your kindness is our greatest hope. We are very grateful for any assistance you can provide and thank you for your kindness and generosity in our time of need.

‏the link to my first campaign was stopped and the scam was directed against me and my family, I created a new campaign link. Please publish and document my campaign. I will be very grateful.

⭐️I was verified by :

(@ibtisams list 11 ) here

(@gaza-evacuation-funds No347)

(Butterfly Effect Project Line No 407 )

Donate and share! Save money, and give your family and friends the money they need! There are people who have to go into debt to help us Palestinians get to safety. If they can do it, so can you. If we work together and work hard, we can make a real difference.

Setp up !!

@newsfrom-theworld @malcriada @turian @mathosapabeads @appsa @khizuo @tamarrud @three-croissants @mrs-theirin @mexqix @magnus-rhymes-with-swagness-blog @mansbutchery @northgazaupdates2 @neurotypical-sonic @brutaliakhoa @sayruq @sar-soor @sneakerdoodle @witchywitchy @rebel-girl-queen-of-my-world

@raccoonboytalks @rainofthestarlight @riding-with-the-wild-hunt @just-browsings-world

@intersectionalpraxis @palms-upturned @palentonga @plomegranate @palipunk @dormimi-zzz @feluka @fadingplaidtrashpatrol @zigcarnivorous @commissions4aid-international @vakarians-babe

@heritageposts @pcktknife @gazavetters @punkitt-is-here @determinate-negation @killy @sabertoothwalrus @90-ghost @turtletoria @tamamita @robotclownindulgence @ot3 @trickstarbrave @valtsv @vakarians-babe @schoolhater98 @vetted-gaza-funds

[stellastra-scribbles]

Another Arcanum fan here^^ thank you for the awesome fanart! i went looking for other arcanum fans around 7-8 years ago and the scene was basically dead, i think i could only find literally 1 piece of arcanum fanart on tumblr at the time lol. BG3 and YouTubers doing videos on arcanum has really brought back a little life to its fandom i think

Hello to another fellow Arcanum fan! It's so lovely to see y'all come out of the woodwork haha~ It's a pleasure to make fanart of this absolute gem of a game!

Here are my two favorite dwarf lads: Logs and Mags~ 💛

lol I am one of those folks who discovered Arcanum because of YouTubers, specifically through MandaloreGaming's video back when it came out in late 2022. The game's name immediately intrigued me because I love "steamworks" (the 19th century/Victorian/steampunk aesthetic) and "magick" (high fantasy settings). I knew I had to play it after watching the video, so I did!

On the left is the first pass at the design for my Living One, Rí'an Mal'los back when I first started playing the game in January 2023. I eventually overhauled her design completely (right image that I finished in February 2025) to match the colors of her in-game portrait + sprites. mutton sleeves, my beloved...

(I also have an unhealthily large historical fashion reference collection, a lot being about the 19th century, so this game allows me to play fun dress-up with my Living One and the various NPCs)

I remember playing super sporadically/on-and-off for a while in my first playthrough. Based on my screenshot history, I blitzed through most of the game in April 2024 after I finally got through my roadblock of finding Renford A. Terwilliger's book, because after T'sen-Ang, I just tore through the main quest (Master of Persuasion route because heck yeah!).

I finished my first playthrough in September 2024, hence the huge uptick of Arcanum fanart from me since then. I just enjoyed the game so much and was inspired to draw! It reawakened the character/clothing designer within me since the limited graphics leave a lot of fun room for interpreting how the NPCs look.

I'm currently early on in my second playthrough, but I find myself feeling the urge to draw more rather than play, which isn't a particularly bad thing imo haha~ 💛

[krethes]

(a little behind but time to get back in the game bb)

@wolfstarmicrofic - day 1: truth - words: 547 - rated m

(warnings: Remus/Evan and Remus/Sirius, non-Wolfstar infidelity, little touch of partner violence)

"Oh good, I thought you were dead!"

Remus only spares half a glance as he hangs his coat on the hook. It doesn't stop him from seeing the relief turn to suspicious anger on his boyfriend's face, though, and annoying guilt gnaws at him from behind his naval.

"...Where were you?"

Can he smell what Remus does? The expensive cologne clinging to his body in a haunting shadow of the lover's clutch? The sweat and spit of someone else, someone with eyes the color of moonlight and a smile like a lightning flash? The tangy sex that remains even after a shower, the borrowed soap, towel with different detergent?

"Lily's," he lies. It's easy. Lily would cover. (She would be ashamed he did it like this.)

Evan's hand grabs his shirt collar and pulls, ripping buttons, revealing lurid, telling bruises. "And did Lily send you home with these?" he asks, voice shaking. Funny, Remus's voice shook when he asked Evan a similar question three weeks ago, but his heart was breaking. Evan just looks pissed.

Remus won't look at him, can feel come dripping out of him even after the spectacular rimming in the shower. Fuck him, but his cock fattens a little at the memory.

Evan's fingers dig cruelly into a particularly dark bite on Remus's collarbone. "Tell the truth, Remus." He pauses, face so close to Remus's he can see the hate in his eyes. Evan inhales and his face twists into pure rage. Smelled the cologne, then. "Black." Evan shoves him into the wall and Remus just stares at him, trapped in the war between guilt and relief, because finally... Finally. "You fucking slut."

Remus can't help himself. "You're the one with the wife and girlfriend- sorry, girlfriends- Evan. I'm just having phenomenal sex with one person." Remus looks at him with a slight tilt of his head. "And it's certainly not you."

"I told you not to fucking-

Remus laughs, feeling light headed from the emotion. "Yeah, sure. And I told you not to fuck around on me and look how well you listened. At least Sirius listens." He sees Evan's eyes flash with anger, can't stop himself. "Listens real good when I tell him harder, faster, another, make me come-!"

He expects the blow to his jaw, and takes it expertly (one doesn't grow up with a smart mouth like his and not learn how to take a hit). Remus wipes the splash of blood from his lips and rolls his eyes, rolls up off the wall, rolls up his guilt and ships it off to Fuckallville. "Go home to your wife, Evan. I'm gone."

Evan grabs his wrist when he shoulders past and tries to yank him back. "Where the fuck-"

Remus wraps his hand around Evan's forearm, applies just enough pressure that he remembers oh shit, I've actually been fucking a werewolf for a year, right, and delights in the reluctant peel of Evan's fingers as he releases him. He doesn't say anything, just waits until Evan retreats a few more steps before grabbing his coat and leaving.

Sirius is on the steps outside and startles when he sees Remus. "Moony, your face-"

Remus pulls him close and kisses him, hot, firm, wanting. "It's fine. It's over. Take me home."

[toppamplemousse]

ok no one requested this but it's been in my brain for a while so. bottle ep max pov, end of summer 1. warnings for angst.

if u haven't read bottle episode then this won't make sense. linked here :)

summer 1 bottle episode | max pov, 1198 words, rated e

Charles had wriggled his way into Max’s life in a similar fashion to how he wriggles into Max’s space on the sofa. There’s plenty of space for the both of them, really, and there’s even an ottoman to stretch their legs out, but Charles isn’t doing that. Instead, Charles is squirming his toes under Max’s thighs, trying to distract Max from playing chess on his phone, even if Charles claims he is focused on reading his book. His toes worm their way under Max’s leg, and Max can feel how incomprehensibly cold they are, despite the humid summer thunderstorm outside.

Max doesn’t turn away from the game of chess at hand – he is shaping up for a nice move to capture his opponent’s knight – but rests his left hand on Charles’ ankle. That placates Charles, obviously, as if asking to be touched was too much, but wriggling his freezing cold feet under Max is sufficient. He mindlessly brushed his thumb over Charles’ ankle, mapping the bone and skin and softness of it all. 

He has to leave for work soon, and the familiar ache settles in his chest. Max doesn’t quite know when it started, the pang of emptiness when he had to leave Charles and go to work, the way he wished every minute could stretch on for hours and he could just spend more time like this, in comfortable silence, just existing with Charles. 

He doesn’t know when he became so used to seeing Charles in everything, everywhere he went.

The coffee grounds in the sink that never quite make it down the drain. The rogue contact lens case that missed the trash can. The socks in his laundry that definitely do not belong to Max because they are Armani for Christ’s sake. There’s bits of Charles everywhere, in every crevice of Max’s being, and it’s ridiculous. He wants more. He wants Charles’ clothes in his wardrobe and he wants a new place that isn’t a studio with a proper bedroom to give them space and a sink with two toothbrushes and two sets of shoes by the door, two sets of keys hanging up.

It just feels – Max can’t ever quite place it. They’ve never discussed anything, obviously, just accepted hanging out with each other more and more frequently until they started discussing times when they wouldn’t hang out with each other. It’s been one summer, one, and now–

Max doesn’t have the metaphors he would like to in order to describe it. There’s a Charles-shaped mould into which Max fits. There’s a crevice in his heart where a certain Monegasque now sits. There’s a thunderstorm outside and Max would stand outside in it and get drenched to the bone if Charles asked him to. 

He won’t say it to himself, he couldn’t, but he sees it in Charles’ eyes and he feels it in Charles’ touch and it’s written between all the words they do and do not say in the sheets in the morning when they’re too sleepy to have a proper conversation. He won’t say it, but it feels like–

“Anyone you know interested in a bar cart?” 

Max looks up at Charles, who has put the book down on his chest, then looks over to the bar cart that sits awkwardly against the wall of Charles’ kitchen. He looks back at Charles. 

“No, I mean, I can ask.” Max is puzzled at this sudden question. Charles’ bar cart has far too many odd bottles of wine and liquor on it that won’t fit anywhere else. “Why?”

Charles’ gaze is flitting across the room, looking at his furniture. Max isn’t even sure if Charles has registered his confusion yet. His toes tap in their limited space under Max’s leg. 

“Oh, you know, just need to get this apartment back to the way it was soon. Obviously the bar cart cannot make it in my suitcase.” Charles lets out a chuckle. Max doesn’t see what is very funny. He looks back at the bar cart, and back at Charles. There’s something settling beneath the green eyes now. Max is afraid he knows what it is. 

“Might need your big arms to help me put the couch back where it was, too.” Charles pokes at Max’s skin, a smile on his face. Max sits up, pulls back, darting his eyes around Charles’ face.

Max’s lungs collapse and his chest sinks and it feels like all the blood running through his veins evaporates and leaves behind a bag of bones with nothing else.

Charles is leaving.

Max always knew he was going to go back to school at some point, but–

He was delusional enough to think that maybe Max would be a part of it.

Max had tried so hard not to think about the future from the moment he knew about Charles’ plans, his temporary summer in New York. But he couldn’t help but wonder, daydream about it. Max had thought maybe he would ask Charles if he wanted to keep dating, and Max could visit him in California in the fall, and Charles could come by again at Christmas, and maybe they could go to Monaco together over the New Year. Maybe Max could visit again in the spring, two times if Charles wasn't too busy, and then they could discuss which coast to live on or pick somewhere completely new to start. 

And, and, and. 

What a fucking idiot.

The conversation goes very poorly. Max is outraged– he bites back tears and he rips the inside of his cheek with his teeth. Charles looks like a kicked puppy, big glassy eyes and pouty lips and helpless words that tear into Max piece by piece.

Charles had been insatiable from the moment Max met him, and he was foolish enough to have started believing it was because Charles wanted him for more than just a good fuck. Charles was always climbing in between Max’s legs and getting his lips on any part of skin and whispering filthy things into his ear. It’s not like Max didnt’ want that – Max loved being inside Charles, loved fucking him until he begged, loved watching him come undone on his cock. But he thought there was… more. That the way Charles intertwined their hands at night or the way he bought things because they reminded him of Max or the way his eyes lit up when he laughed meant something. 

Meant anything.

Max slams the door shut behind him. He’s so mad, so upset, he wants to tear the whole building down. And he wants to be mad at Charles, wants to hate him and hate him and hate him, but Max is the only one to blame.

Max, who foolishly believed there was something more. Max, who thought Charles wanted him. Max, who let himself get swept up by a pair of green eyes and a smile that blinded him and dimples that deceived him. 

Max cries the whole walk home, but New York City streets have seen much stranger sights. Sniffling, sobbing, wiping his nose against his sleeve. 

The thunderstorm rages on. He gets drenched to the bone. Charles did not ask him to. 

[winnerkirkwood]

i have so many thoughts on alexander rossi and his new (over the past two years) popularity and the importance of a good social media strategy (and why indycar/indycar teams need to improve).

first off, rossi has always been a popular driver. that is a fact. however, i feel like he has had a lot of growth in popularity, mostly among 20-30 year old women in the past few years. i also think that he’s a really good case study for what a driver/team/indycar as a whole should do. because rossi has not significantly improved as a driver in the past two years, nor has his personality changed significantly. i think that a lot of the popularity is due to how social media coverage of him has changed.

so, i think that there are a couple of reasons rossi has seen so much growth in his audience. one part of it is the podcast with hinch. hinch is a incredibly personable guy, he could probably have a good conversation with a brick. add on to that the fact that he and rossi are genuinely best friends, and the podcast is obviously going to go well. rossi is able to show his personality on the podcast. and he has a kind of weird personality. so it makes sense that people are drawn to that personality, and have a fondness for off track, and specifically rossi. that is the first part of it.

the second reason is the arrow mclaren social media team. the arrow mclaren social media team is really fucking good. they know how to showcase their drivers personalities in short, consumable videos/reels/tiktoks. and because of this, people were able to really get introduced to rossi’s personality.

They also got introduced to Rossi in a very specific way. They got introduced to Rossi through his friendship with Pato, and the various tiktok trends that were created to make him look good. And I’m not saying that it’s fake, but it’s also i think a very different lens than how people were introduced to him in the past.

correct me if i’m wrong, but i kind of feel like there’s a certain pipeline for rossi fans (not all, obviously, and there’s some variance in the pipeline too): f1 fan —> indycar fan (often specifically a fan of arrow mclaren, as they have definitely set up their social media presence to be easy for beginner indycar fans to understand/learn about drivers personalities, along with transference in motorsport- if you’re a fan of mclaren in f1, obviously you’ll be a fan of mclaren in indycar) —> think ‘oh this guy is cool’ and check out his instagram (his and brian simpson’s ‘runoff’ series is helpful here too) —> listen to the podcast, maybe start listening to older episodes —> become a big rossi fan —> post about him —> more people become curious and maybe listen to the podcast/check out his social media/become fans

the arrow mclaren social media has been, in my opinion, really instrumental to the uptick in popularity rossi has had. obviously it’s not the only part of it, but i do feel like it’s regularly the first domino in the rossi fan pipeline.

now we have to talk about what this means for other teams/indycar as a whole. i feel like rossi’s arrow mclaren popularity shows how important social media/personality driven content is right now. it also shows how much andretti dropped the ball in terms of potential with rossi (that being said, over the course of the year andretti social media has improved significantly, becoming the 2nd best indycar team social media this season in my opinion). indycar social media has become much better in the last couple of years. however, i think that indycar needs to continue improving their social media strategy, showcasing the racing product of indycar along with the drivers personalities - personality driven content has become more important than ever, and with the variety of personalities/weirdness in the indycar paddock it shouldn’t be too hard. it’s just about making sure that indycar actually does it.

[fullsp33d4h34d]

Eurylochus took a fucking ten minute nap. That 's all he wanted, a single minute away from the chaos of the ship

Well... he technically got that! But he didn't really expect to travel back in time, you know? He thought he had just been moved to the corner of the ship as a joke or something, Perimedes tended to do that to him. But no, too many people around and the ship was in perfect condition

The biggest sign was allowing his eyes to scan the area and spotting-

"You have got to be kidding me."

- yk who

“But no, my wife is fucking so cool. I can’t WAIT to finally get home.. I’m gonna lay in bed with her for like.. days. It’ll be just like before I left!” *He said before taking another bite of his rations. The crew around him waving at him as he laughed.*

*So care free.. so.. happy. So excited to be going home, just waiting, hopefully to see Ctimene again.* “Yeah when I get back we’re gonna have like, 3 kids, trust me.” *He said another elbow to his side making him let out another laugh.*

*As they left eurylochus to his food he smiled. Looking out at the sea.. just.. waiting to get home..*

*Waiting....*

[vitrificvitriol]

not sure if you're open to asks rn but thoughts on Perceptor and Whirl?

I'm always down to yap!! I'm just terrible at answering asks LMAO

Hm... I can't say I've really had any of them together specifically, but a quick rundown of my personal opinions:

(During Wreckers): They don't have many interactions as far as I know, the biggest thing I think I can remember is during the G9 liberation, where Perceptor is one of the only survivors of the squad sent, and Whirl is discharged dishonourably. Other than that... hm..

Whirl is so much of a wildcard to me that I have no idea where to place him. I think what stands out to me most is just how much he doesn't care. Nothing matters to him; rank, religion, empurata, lives. I think I distinctly remember him saying something that he's messed up, and that by keeping his features, it's a constant reminder and insulates him from scrutiny b/c ppl will look at him and just assume he's fucked, he looks at himself and knows that he's fucked, and so he acts the part regardless if it's good for the whole. (sorry had to write that all out so if I'm wrong, then ppl can correct me, but this is the basis of my understanding of whirl's character)

Perceptor. I mean. Fuck I guess I'll put my writeup here too. You got pre-impactor,post-impactor, and then mtmte perceptor.

Whirl and Perceptor both occupy the space "irreversibly changed by factors out of their own control" and "decide to keep these changes out of a desire to remind themselves/others of their failures and/or who they are now (empurata > scary, eyepiece > sharp)

but you asked this on the Sex Blog. So uh. Sex Things let's go:

Whirl's deceivingly dexterous with those claws of his, and is very much an appreciator of weaponry. Perceptor's fine-tuned himself from a nobody to a crack shot sniper; much of how that's accomplished is less in the sniper and pistols, and is more in the physical upgrades that he's given himself. The dials are already sensitive, but taking the plating off, and engaging with the sensors in his forearms (measure crosswinds, weight), legs (gravity, planetary rotation), mounted scope (distance, identifying weakpoints), eyepiece (fed all the previous information plus humdity, temperature, predicted ballistics). I'm sure Whirl can find a LOT to tinker around with in there.

(ignore the fact that these things would only really matter for a ballistics weapon, and tfs are usually using energy ones. it sounds cool, so I'm gonna do it)

this goes into (c)nc territory, so turn back if you're not about that!!! and also bottom percy bc im picky

ok now the weenies (joke) are gone. oh god it's so embarrassing typing all of this out but if I close my eyes and do it then it's ok

(Wreckers, post impactor) smth about how Whirl's claws make it impossible to actually really jerk himself off, and who else to menace into handjobs (and then maybe blowjobs... and then maybe just rutting, and then outright fucking..) than the wordy nerd. Bonus points if it'll piss off drift, cause like.. who even is this spiritualist weirdo who just shows up and acts all holy and good. It would be suuuch a shame if Whirl were to "taint" the mech that Drift was able to save, the one who is a little starry-eyed at his mysterious saviour... Yeah right, like Drift would ever be interested, you're lucky that I (whirl) am even granting you the light of day,

[op3n-arms]

Polites! Hi!

[He perks up at his friend's voice, smiling at the man.]

"Hi, Eurylochus!"

[lyculuscaelus]

Just some silly thoughts

(Feel free to ignore me but here’re some ideas for a 600 Strike AU and ofc they’re based on LotR what else are you expecting)

And six hundred strike sounds more like “six hundred, strike” then they’re up and off and away they go against Poseidon

[the-worms-in-your-bones]

I am once again going down the rabbit hole of trying to figure out the ages of the Gallifrey characters

[melatien]

testing default brushes in CSP

[sopekooks]

39/638 days of missing yoongi