#class 720

[alphamecha-mkii]

Star Wars: The Roleplaying Game (WotC) - Starships of the Galaxy (Saga Edition) - Class 720 freighter dumps its cargo to avoid Imperial Customs inspection by Mark Tedin

[swtechspecs]

Ghtroc Industries Class 720 Light Freighter

Source: Starships of the Galaxy, Saga Edition (Wizards of the Coast, 2007)

[national-rail]

See pinned for more info!

[polling-sonic-fans]

What DND class would Sonic be?

Barbarian

Bard

Cleric

Druid

Fighter

Monk

Paladin

Ranger

Rogue

Sorcerer

Warlock

Wizard

Thanks for the poll! Polls for the Sonic fandom on just about anything. Share polls you like to get more data. Asks and submissions always open.

[visualvocabulary33]

[guplia]

Forgot to mention here (not like anyone cares) but I got a 1410 in my SAT!

[viper-motorsports]

The N°5 McLaren 720S GT3 Evo settles into a groove at the 2023 Spa 24 Hours as the Optimum Motorsport Gold class winning machine heads towards a top ten finish. (Photo: Ramon Kok)

[newjerseycoffeeschool]

Latte Art Class for Coffee Enthusiasts

Master the art of making beautiful coffee creations in our hands-on Latte Art Class. New Jersey Coffee School helps you turn your lattes into works of art, one cup at a time.

[carsmashorpass]

[ecrireverie]

i rlly would like to know how people genuinely push through brain fog and exhaustion while studying 🫡 bc yesterday by literally 8pm i hit my limit and usually i can call myself out and keep going when i'm being lazy, or just slightly tired which can be fixed by a nap or a walk outside, but this time i knew that even if i'd forced myself to keep going until 12am or whatever nothing would've registered in my head. and by 8pm i still hadn't mastered the material 😭 like HOW do you just "power through" if ur genuinely just. Out of it at that point as in you don't understand what you're reading anymore. a nap couldn't fix it

paid the price for it when i took my quiz and committed the holy trinity of mistakes: 1) encircled the wrong letter (like?? What?? i literally reviewed my test for 15 mins and i didnt see it) 2) was overthinking items i'd answered correctly by gut instinct but changed them 3) literally just. not knowing what the answer was and taking a shot in the dark

[baristaacademy]

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[woncheolisms]

CRUSH (ushijima wakatoshi x reader)

summary: wakatoshi has a crush.

word count: 720

warnings: fem!reader, its all just fluff

tags: @keiva1000

Ushijima knows he has fans. He might be simple-minded and a little oblivious, but he’s not stupid.

He knows girls stare at him from the balcony during practice. And he can hear their giggling when he passes them in the halls. Tendou often calls him Shiratorizawa’s Golden Boy, which Ushijima wholeheartedly disagrees with, but never voices out loud. Tendou often says strange things. He doesn’t mind.

Ushijima doesn’t understand his popularity. Sure, he is a good player. The best ace in the prefecture. But most of these girls have no understanding of volleyball. So why are they spending hours upon hours in the stands, watching him play?

“They’re not watching the match, Wakatoshi-kun. They are watching you.”

Hm. Strange. His play is very consistent. Watching him do the same thing over and over has to get boring, especially when they aren’t watching for the sake of the game.

But then he sees you for the first time.

You are in his third year English class. In his three years of high school, Ushijima is sure he has never seen you before. Because if he had, there was no way he would forget you.

He is curious. And a little enamored by you.

You are, by all means, a regular girl. You sit on the same chair every day, bring your own bento instead of eating from the cafeteria. It is always wrapped in a pretty multicolored patterned cloth, done up in a knot on top. You have a small stuffed cat chain on the zipper of your backpack. And you wear your hair differently every day. Some days it is tied up, some days it is let down. And some days it is half-up and half-down. You have one pink bunny hairclip that you wear maybe once every two or three days that Ushijima thinks is very cute. Your uniform is always immaculate.

There are so many tiny details about you that Ushijima has learned, and he finally understands why girls would stay hanging over the gym balcony to watch him for hours, because he could watch you for hours too.

You are very smart, he could tell. You always answer correctly when the teacher would call on you, and he has glimpsed at your notes. Simple, but neat and easy to understand, just the way he likes it. There are no crazy colors and highlighters, and your handwriting is neat and beautiful, just like the rest of you.

You are also quiet. You have a select group of friends that you talk to, and while you are nice to anyone who interacts with you, you don't go out of your way to stand out. Again, Ushijima loves that. It seems he loved everything about you. All the minor details that make you a little bit more unique to everyone else.

When you show up at his game, he nearly loses his focus.

It in’t an important game by any means, just a practice match with another local university team. So why are you here? Have your friends dragged you along? Or are you here by your own volition? Ushijima feels how sweaty his palms are when he clenches his fists, and it surprises him.

Is he….. nervous?

Why? Because you are watching? How ridiculous. Ushijima has never once doubted his own strength, or his ability to win. How could your presence alter that? The thought annoys him, and he is determined to prove that you being here would not be a hindrance to his play.

Turns out, he needn't have worried. It seems your presence had sharpened his senses more than ever. Shiratorizawa won in straight sets, and of the 50 points they scored, 39 had been from Ushijima’s hand.

“You were on fire today, Wakatoshi-kun.” Tendou comments as the final whistle rings. Ushijima unintentionally glances at you in the stands, cheering for the team. Cheering for him.

His heart is beating a mile a minute, and he doesn’t think it is because of the game he had just played. He hears Tendou let out a dreamy sigh.

“Ah, the miracles of having a crush.”

He feels his lips tick up in a tiny smile as he throws a towel over his shoulders. Tendou is wrong. Ushijima doesn’t think he has a crush.

He thinks he is in love.

[devildomwriter]

Fun Facts 721-730

• When MC suggested Raphael and Barbatos could live in peace rather than fighting over them, Barbatos laughed and told them they had a good sense of humor.

• Lucifer told Diavolo even he (Diavolo) could not match him in the art of seduction.

• Satan cried reading a romance book called “Love’s Winding Road.”

• Solomon says he is not normally very ticklish but his sides are his weakness

• Mephistopheles believes most of what Leviathan says is utterly incomprehensible

• Diavolo seems to enjoy pampering the Little Ds. One example is in lesson 41 where he spoon feeds his own soup to Little D no. 7

• Solomon taught a broom rising class at RAD before it officially opened

• The blackboards in RAD are enchanted to act as mirrors that can see all the way to the back of the classroom. It was Lucifer’s idea.

• When Solomon finally made good food (thanks to Barbatos and Luke), Leviathan and Mammon cried from joy.

• Diavolo credits MC (in Nightbringer) as the reason he found his purpose as the future king.

711-720 • 731-740

[leejenowrld]

first ballerina dream

paring — single father! na jaemin

word count — 720 words

synopsis — single father na jaemin, finally free from the shadow of hospital rooms, holds his miracle girl’s hand as she twirls into her very first ballet class. every step is a triumph, every laugh a gentle unraveling of all their old fears. in the hush between piano notes, he learns what it means to witness your child’s dream—soft and shining—come true.

the characters in this drabble are characters from my na jaemin fic ‘𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐓𝐎 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐓,’ this drabble is slightly off the main plot and a reimagined world. just something i wanted to write.

There are mornings when Jaemin wakes before the sun, curled protectively around the small, warm body of his daughter—her cheek pressed against his chest, one tiny fist curled in the fabric of his shirt. These are the hours when the world is silent and the only sound is Haeun’s breath, soft and uneven from so many nights spent fighting for every inhale. Sometimes, Jaemin just watches her sleep, one hand splayed over the gentle rise and fall of her back, guarding her heartbeat like a sentry on a forgotten shore. Even in sleep, she stirs at the smallest shift, her lashes fluttering against his collarbone, and he’s reminded again of every night they counted machines’ beeps instead of sheep, every lullaby sung beneath fluorescent bulbs. He never lets himself forget—not the weight of her, not the way his hands still tremble when she coughs too hard, not the promise he makes anew with every sunrise: as long as he breathes, nothing will ever touch her.

When the diagnosis first arrived, it crashed through his life like a tidal wave, sweeping away every illusion of safety. He remembers carrying her, so small she fit into the crook of his arm, into exam rooms painted in sterile blues and grays, hearing words like “congenital,” “rare,” and “life-threatening” echo off cold tile. He learned the taste of fear—sharp, metallic, constant—as he watched doctors draw blood from chubby arms and nurses tape wires to her chest. Jaemin became the unmovable wall between her and the world: every doctor had to answer to him, every medicine was triple-checked, every chart scrutinized with a surgeon’s eye. His possessiveness grew not out of pride, but out of survival—if he blinked, he feared, she might slip away. He would hold her during procedures, whispering soft encouragement, his body physically between her and anything that hurt, memorizing the curve of her fingers as she gripped his thumb and the shudder of relief that rippled through her when he wiped her tears away.

In the darkest months, when hospital walls closed in and hope seemed to waver on the edge of every doctor’s voice, Jaemin built their world out of ritual and touch. He learned how to braid her hair one-handed while she clung to his sleeve, how to read her favorite story upside-down so she could see every picture, how to draw sunbeams on her cast with a purple marker until she giggled through her pain. He dressed her in yellow—always yellow, the color of stubborn joy—laid soft blankets over her, carried her pressed close against his chest from room to room. If anyone looked too long or asked too many questions, his gaze was ice; if anyone tried to suggest she needed less—less comfort, less holding, less of him—he bristled, every muscle taut with the urge to shield her. His love for Haeun was possessive not because he needed to keep her, but because he had nearly lost her, and the ache of almost was carved into his every touch.

Now, every milestone is a small, private victory: when Haeun’s fever finally broke, he wept in the bathroom with relief; when she took her first steps, he nearly crushed her with the strength of his hug, whispering “brave girl, you’re so brave, you’re everything.” Even a trip to the ballet studio is an act of courage, a silent promise to the world that she’s more than her scars. Jaemin watches her with a gaze that never wavers, ready to intervene if her breath falters, hovering at the edge of the room while she learns to spin and leap, shoes too big for her feet, tutu slipping sideways. He is present for every moment, every giggle, every stumble—so alert that even joy feels fragile in his hands. Anyone watching would see a man haunted by fear, made beautiful by it, a father who would torch the world for his daughter and still gather her close, whispering vows against her hair: “No one will ever hurt you again. Not while I’m here. You’re safe, baby. You’re safe.”

It’s a morning spun from honey and cotton, the kind of fragile, golden newness that tastes like hope. Jaemin kneels to lace up tiny ballet shoes, his big hands moving clumsily over delicate ankles, careful as if he’s stringing pearls or learning a prayer for the first time. Haeun sits on the studio bench, grinning around a mouthful of hair as she tries to tug it into a ponytail herself. The light from the windows paints the pale wisps of her hair gold, and when she lifts her arms for help, Jaemin swears his chest might break open with pride and disbelief—she’s here, she’s whole, she’s his. He gathers her close, knotting her hair with a pink ribbon. “Ready, sunshine?” he whispers, and she nods, solemn as a queen.

He crouches beside her as they walk into the mirrored studio. Haeun’s dress is the softest shade of yellow, skirts like whipped butter, and she clutches her bunny in one hand, unwilling to let go even for her debut. The teacher kneels to greet her, and Jaemin watches her introduce herself in the shyest voice, holding tightly to his leg. “This is my Dada,” she announces, wide-eyed. “He’s my bestest.” Jaemin tries to hide his smile, nodding at the other parents, the edge of nerves sweetening his awe—after so many months of beeping monitors, cold hands, and the taste of fear, this feels almost like a fairytale.

He sits quietly on the floor as the music starts, heart in his throat as Haeun tiptoes after the other girls, arms outstretched like little wings. Her movements are clumsy and soft, but every time she glances over her shoulder, Jaemin smiles wide, hands over his heart, mouthing encouragements—that’s it, baby, you’re doing it, you’re flying. She beams, mouth open in wonder, cheeks flushed with pride and effort. Each little twirl is a miracle, every giggle a psalm. At one point, she wobbles and nearly trips, but catches herself and runs to Jaemin, throwing her arms around his neck. “Dada! I ballerina now! Did you see me?”

He lifts her onto his lap, squeezing her gently, forehead pressed to her temple. “You’re the prettiest ballerina in the world, Haeunie. Daddy’s so proud of you.”

She giggles, whispering, “Daddy, can you spin too?” And he does—clumsy and enormous, arms sweeping her up into the air, the two of them laughing as they spin, dizzy with lightness and relief. Other parents smile, teachers laugh, but in this moment it’s only the two of them—her safe in his arms, pink ribbon trailing, bunny squished between them.

When class ends, Haeun sits on his lap, sweaty and spent, tucking her head beneath his chin. “I love you, Dada. You come every time? Even when I’m big?” Her voice is a whisper, uncertain, as if the world might change again if she says it too loud.

Jaemin kisses her brow, squeezing her tight, promising, “Always. Daddy’s never missing a single dance. Not ever.”

He wipes her cheek as she munches her snack, still in her tutu, sticky hands clutching his fingers, legs swinging above the floor. The sunlight lingers in her hair, gold halo catching every little movement, every sign of her hard-won joy. She turns and kisses his nose, giggling, “You smell like home, Daddy. You make my heart happy.” Jaemin’s eyes sting, but he just laughs, pulling her in close, memorizing the weight of her in his arms, the sound of her voice, the gentle miracle of this ordinary, extraordinary morning. In this room of music and mirrors, she is whole, and so is he—her dancer, her hero, her forever place to land.

moodboard of our ballerina girl 🫶🩰

interested in what you read? check out ‘𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐓𝐎 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐓’ heart to heart is a gritty, devastating, and ultimately healing medical drama about a cold, brilliant chief pediatric surgeon and a younger, timid intern who falls into his orbit—all bound together by a sick, abandoned baby girl who needs saving as much as they do. expect age gap, single dad, forbidden workplace romance, found family, medical realism, and angsty, dominant smut that pushes every boundary. this is a story of healing and destruction: trauma, touch, and the raw lengths people will go to for love, with every kiss, every loss, and every reunion written in blood and sunlight. at its core, it’s about three broken souls who find home in each other, even as the world tries to tear them apart.

[bradleysass]

foot - @rosekillermicrofic - wc: 720

The dungeons were already insufferable, but Evan Rosier was particularly sensitive to the smell of underbrewed Amortentia and underwashed Slytherin robes. He sat stiffly at his table in Potions, sleeves rolled up, a perfect stack of chopped valerian root on one side and a pristine, annotated copy of Advanced Potion-Making on the other.

Next to him was the problem.

Barty Crouch Jr. slouched with the grace of a defiant cat. His tie was askew, ink on the edge of his collar, and he hadn’t even pretended to open his textbook. Instead, he was balancing a spoon on his nose.

Evan’s quill scratched against parchment.

“Are you going to help, or just embarrass yourself?”

The spoon clattered to the desk. “Bit of both, hopefully,” Barty replied cheerfully, flicking the spoon toward Evan, who caught it midair without looking.

“I’m serious, Crouch.”

“So am I. I think if I can get the spoon to bounce off Mulciber’s elbow, it’ll land directly in Avery’s cauldron. Chain reaction. Boom. Class ends early. You and I go take a walk by the lake. Romantic, isn’t it?”

Evan closed his eyes and inhaled through his nose.

When he opened them, Barty was now poking at the powdered asphodel with a wand and muttering something that was definitely not in the curriculum.

“Barty.”

“Hm?”

“If you don’t shut up, Crouch,” Evan said, low and venomous, “you are going to find my foot in your foot.”

Barty blinked. “In my foot?”

“Yes. I will kick you so hard that our feet become one. You’ll be known as the boy with two toes and no sense of self-preservation.”

A beat. Then Barty smiled, wide and devastating. “Kinky.”

Evan dropped the pestle and turned to face him fully, voice cool as frostbite. “You are a plague, and I am not dying in the dungeons because of your inability to focus for more than—what time is it—four minutes and seventeen seconds.”

Barty dramatically clutched his chest. “You’ve been timing how long I’ve annoyed you? Evan, I didn’t know you cared.”

“I care about not failing,” Evan snapped. “Which is what we’ll both do if you add anything else to this cauldron without reading the instructions.”

Barty tilted his head, considering the potion. “Well, I may have already added the ginger root.”

Evan lunged. “You what?”

The cauldron emitted a low gurgle, then belched out a cloud of magenta smoke.

From across the room, Slughorn sniffed the air with concern. “Hmm? What’s that smell? Mr. Rosier? Mr. Crouch?”

Evan stood straight, flicked the smoke away with an elegant wave of his wand, and said with deadly calm, “We’re fine, Professor.”

Slughorn squinted suspiciously, but returned to his demonstration.

Evan turned to Barty and muttered, “You’re not walking out of here without a limp.”

“Promises, promises,” Barty said, grinning.

They returned to the potion. Evan salvaged what he could, grinding moonstone with surgical precision while muttering incantations under his breath. Barty leaned in, watching him with a smirk.

“You’ve got really pretty hands.”

Evan didn’t look up. “You’ve got a death wish.”

“You think I’m pretty too, don’t you?”

“No.”

“Liar.”

Evan’s eyes flicked to him, sharp and glowing. “If you were any prettier, I’d be too distracted to save our potion from destruction, which, funnily enough, is what you’re trying to do.”

Barty beamed. “So you admit I’m distracting.”

“You’re disruptive.”

“Same thing.”

The potion stabilized. Barely. Evan wiped his hands on a cloth with excessive restraint.

As the class wrapped up and students began bottling their work, Barty leaned close enough for his breath to brush Evan’s neck.

“Walk with me after class.”

Evan scoffed. “Why? So you can recount all the ways you nearly got us killed in a forty-five-minute double period?”

“No,” Barty said simply, “so you’ll yell at me in private instead of in front of Slughorn. It’s less fun when he glares.”

“I wasn’t yelling.”

“You were threatening to fuse our bones. Hot, but also slightly concerning.”

Evan shoved the cork into their vial and stood. “You are going to drive me mad.”

“I hope so,” Barty replied, snatching the vial out of his hands and sauntering off to Slughorn’s desk with a wink.

Evan watched him go, arms crossed and expression unreadable. Then he grabbed his books and followed.

Because of course he did.

[themimicsvault]

TarotWeaver, a Tarot TTRPG

Take your fate into your own hands.

Back TarotWeaver on Kickstarter.

A year ago I had the pleasure of running into two incredible artists at Sonoma State University while taking a drawing class. At the time I was mulling over the idea of a tarot based roleplaying game, but knew that to do the project justice I would want to create a tarot deck for the game. I knew writing the game would already be a mountain of work, lo and behold Arie and Sara had reimagined the major arcana for their final project.

It felt like fate had put us in each other’s path at that moment.

Over the following year we collaborated to create a unique game taking inspiration from Over the Garden Wall, Adventure Time, Cairn, Into the Odd, Whitehack, Everway, and the OSR. While Arie and Sara worked tirelessly to create 78 amazing images in their reimagining of the Rider-Waite deck, I set out to create a lightweight and fun game.

I had two design sensibilities going into the project. The game could only use tarot cards for all of its mechanics. Something that turned out far easier said than done. The second was the entirety of the rules and an introductory adventure had to fit into 48 3.5”x5.5” pages. With some napkin math that meant only 720 square inches of space to write. For comparison, Mausritter has roughly 960 square inches of printable space at 24 5.5”x8.5”.

It’s difficult to pin down how excited I am for this project to come to life and hope to share it all with you soon.

Cheers and happy holidays.