#catapult engineering

[k12academics]

Programs led by an engineer, scientist and/or scholarInstructor with assistant to child ratio is 6:1 or less for lots of individual attentionGifted children are given the space and means to excelProject-based approach to applied science and engineering educationChildren get to own the science, own the engineering!Consistently voted one of the top five STEM camps in Greater BostonMassachusetts Institute of Technology (MIT) listed engineering camp for kids

[oldschoolfrp]

Siege weapons and miscellaneous siege equipment, from the Dungeons & Dragons Master Players' Book (the "M" in BECMI D&D) by Frank Mentzer, TSR, 1985

[jd2kewl]

Couldn’t help myself! 😆🤘🏻⚔️

[illegiblehandwriting1]

ill go to bed now but i leave you with this last thought: does the knight academy have merch. like waterskins and everyday tunics (rather than the uniform) and little plates n stuff, maybe get a pajama line going and some hats and bits and bobbins

like hey, we'll provide you broke teenagers with clothes n toothbrushes n stuff but they're gonna have our logo on it. like yeah we're already the secondary attraction on our tiny civilization, second only to the goddess statue but hey free advertising for any of the little kids or whoever that want to join and stuff.

yknow what fuck it The Bros can have knight academy waterskins

yo imagine impa in a knight academy shirt

imagine OLD IMPA in a knight academy shirt

[themilkman897]

More pics of the catapult I made

[nineoftoads]

found the little prototype of the janky catapult pompom launcher I made for my circuits lab project. (the actual physical catapults sucked but luckily they weren't the focus of the class).

[nanamisgirly]

fould we possibly get more womanizer sugu :3

this looks more like a fic than a head canon...oooops. I hope you will enjoy it !!! MWAHHHH :333 part.1 part.3

cw chubby reader, masturbation, jealous geto, reader fingers herself in front of geto while being in couple.

womanizer!geto thinks he's about to catapult that engineering major boy out of the solar system. right. now.

geto is sitting across the room, arms slung over the back of the couch, fists clenched so tight the veins in his forearms pop. his eyes are glued burning to where that poor nerd's hands are gripping your waist, pushing you back against the edge of the kitchen counter during some half-assed apartment party. 

the guy's mouth is low against your ear, whispering something pathetic (he's sure of it) that makes you blush and push at his chest. but apparently not enough for him to back up completely. 

womanizer!geto repeats the same sentences like a mantra “he doesn't know her. he doesn't stand a chance. it's not some pinterest-date plan he probably has in his mind that are going to make her flinch. he doesn't know how she is when her stress hits a fever pitch or when she cries over bad grades. he doesn't even know she chews her pens' cap until they're useless. he. doesn't. stand. a. chance.”

“you let him touch you like that in public?” womanizer!geto leans against the doorframe, smirking lazily, letting his voice drip with mock-casual venom—watching you read some dense academic paper, hoodie two sizes too big. he couldn't restrain himself from asking once you both got home.

you don't even look up as you say, “excuse me?” suguru shrugs, arms crossed, eyes half-lidded, heavy with something darker than amusement. “the way the prop-on-him-self-boy was holding your waist earlier. pretty bold move by the way. thought you were shy.”

you blink, slowly lowering the paper. “i am shy.” he chuckles under his breath—low and unkind. “could've fooled me. guess you get real friendly when someone finally shows you attention, huh?” your lips part in shock, jaw going slack at the nerve—the venom hiding in his fake nonchalance.

“what the fuck is that supposed to mean?” he doesn't bother answer, he just keeps looking at you—daring you to do something of it, mouth still curled in a smirk that doesn't reach his eyes. you hold his stare, mouth tight, throat dry. “if you have a problem with who i'm seeing, suguru, be a man and say it.” his jaw ticks at your words, “i don't—”

“good," your voice cuts him off, "then no problem, right?” he nods once, and pushes off the doorframe, leaving you sitting there, heat crawling up your chest and hands trembling in your lap. 

what you miss to see is the way his fists clench the second he turns away. of course womanizer!geto had no problem, why would he? because his mind was spiraling at the girl he had earlier that night, lips wrapped around his cock while his mind conjured the shape of your mouth instead? because his body refused to come unless he imagined your big soft body squirming against his? 

the next week womanizer!geto is sure he's going to catapult the engineering boy out of this fucking solar system. he's halfway through some miserable cafeteria lunch when he hears your friends whispering too loud few tables away. “her boyfriend said she came twice” one of them giggles. another leans in, dramatic “she told me he gave her a massage and it turned into, like…a whole thing. .” and the final bow, “she even said he was the best she ever had.” suguru's hands curl into fists under the table, knuckles popping loud enough to make heads turn.

even gojo stops yapping mid-sentence, blinking at him, but geto doesn't hear a single word. his ears are ringing too loud, blood pounding behind them like a drum. all he can think about is you, your possibly messy moans, your pretty face, your fat thighs locking someone else's waist.

it rots him from the inside out.

womanizer!geto goes home right after that and jerks off twice. back-to back. once angrily, under cold water, cursing your name like a prayer. and again, this time slower… worse…because now the image in his head is you under that stupid stem boy. your soft hips rocked by clumsy fingers, your plush thighs spread wide for a cock that doesn't deserve you. geto shouldn't be hard for that. shouldn't want to watch it like some deranged freak.

but here he is—balls aching, cock leaking in his palm—jerking himself through gritted teeth, groaning low in his chest as he imagines your soft belly rippling under the weight of another man's body. he cums with a guttural snarl, forehead slamming the cold tile, imagining your tits bouncing, your glasses sliding down your nose as you whimper for someone who isn't him.

womanizer!geto tries to fuck someone else the next night—some hot girl, tight waist, full lips, half-dressed and panting all over him. but his cock seems stubborn. dead weight in his jeans. not even a twitch. she moans against his neck, grinding her hips against him on the couch, whispering that she wants to ride him all night—

but all he can do is thinking about you. 

you, in your stretched-out pajama shorts. you, soft and plush everywhere, a little roll of tummy peeking when your tanktop rides up. you, mouth parted around your pencil when you're focused.

and the next time you're all alone with womanizer!geto in your living room, a late night study session for the upcoming test, he doesn't even try to act normal at the sight of your thick dimpled thighs tucked under you. you're rambling about something, showing him your notes—unaware of the way his eyes devour you. you look so sweet. fuck, he bets you taste so sweet.

he's staring at the half-faded bruise blooming across your collarbone when your voice pulls him back, “suguru…?”

“do you moan for him?” it slips out. you freeze at the sudden question. “wha—”

“your little stem boy,” he says, eyes dark. “when he fucks you. do you moan for him?” the silence is brutal. you open your mouth, close it again, cheeks burning, “that's none of your business.” 

he smirks, leans in like a viper. “you sound like you could.” mock sympathy is dripping from every word. and nastier, “if he had a better dick than, what, three inches hard? maybe you would." his eyes glint, "be honest, nerd. he never makes you come, does he?”

the slap cracks across the room, hard enough your hand stings. hard enough to whip his head to the side. his cheek blooms red, but all he does is breathe hard—cock aching, swelling mean against his zipper. your heart is pounding, shame and rage boiling under your skin as you shove your notebook off your lap and storm toward your room.

womanizer!geto probably isn't thinking with his brain anymore as he follows you to your room. he stands in your doorframe just like he did two weeks ago, except this time, his eyes are pure fire—a mix of anger and hunger.

his eyes piercing yours, challenging you. his jaw is clenched so tight it looks painful and you should scream at him to leave your room, should shove him out. . and you're about to—but when your eyes fall down to the heavy, swollen bulge in his jeans, you loose all your rationality.

“get on the bed.” the words split the air, hot and final. you blink at him, confused and furious…soaked. your eyes following his every movements as he goes to sit on your desk chair, drops into with all the lazy arrogance in the world. his hand drapes over his thigh, just inches from the thick imprint stretching his pants.

“i won't repeat myself.” the mockery is thick on his tongue. “you can hate me later. you can even hate me forever if that's what you want. but right now?” his voice drops. “right now, you're gonna listen.” something deep inside you twists—dizzying. and before you realize what you're doing, you clim onto your own bed—like some pathetic, brainless thing. you glare at him, trying to save whatever pride you have left.

geto leans back further into the chair, his fingers thumbing the thick ridge of his cock. he tips his chin. “show me.” your stomach flips. “show you…what?” you whisper, already knowing—already burning. 

“don't play dump, nerdy. you're too smart for that.” his voice is syrup-thick, fingers taping against the desperate strain against his rough denim. “show me how wet you got after slapping me like a brat.” your throat closes. “no,” you breathe out, a pitiful little sound of defiance but your thighs are betraying you, pressing tighter together. geto grins, “you're already soaking through those dumb little shorts, might as well let me see the mess you made."

womanizer!geto watches like a predator trapping his prey. his chest rises, slow and deep, extremely controlled compared to the raging war breaking inside you. his hand squeezes his cock through his jeans. he licks his lips, hungry. “touch yourself for me, pretty thing. show me how desperate you are for me instead of that useless fucking loser you keep calling your boyfriend. go on. be good.”

your traitorous hand slips under your waistband. the second your fingers brush the sticky heat between your thighs, your breath shatters from your lungs. your fingers tremble as you press harder, rubbing desperate little circles into your clit. you're trying to be quiet, to pretend you have a shred of dignity left—but the wet sounds are obscene and unmistakable. 

geto's groan rips through the room—raw an broken, a sound like he's been punched. “tell me, pretty girl," he rasps, “is it dripping already? just from me talking to you?” your whimper is an answer enough, high and shameful, your cheeks burn under his gaze. ”get your shorts off," he commands, voice shredded. "and the panties too. now."

your hands shake so badly it takes two tries to peel your shorts down your thick thighs. your panties stick wetly, peeling away from your messy pussy with a filthy noise. the cold air hits you, your cunt gleaming under the soft light. geto leans forward in the chair, forearms braced on his knees, his stare burning between your legs like he's trying to sear it into his skull.

you try to remain a bit more decent, and close your legs shut together. “nuh-uh." he tsks. "what you doin', pretty? keep them open for me. don't be shy. lemme see all that messy pussy you were hiding.” tears are prickling behind your eyes from how exposed you feel as your legs fall open. geto's pupils blow wide. “fuck,” he mutters, dragging a rough hand over his face. “you're leaking. that's such a mess. and all i did was talk.”

you can't speak—can't think—your whole body is shaking as you rub yourself faster, chasing some kind of release, slick noises filling the room. every tiny touch feels too much and not enough at the same time.

geto is fighting everything in him not to move from the chair, watching like a man starved, squeezing his cock hard enough to hurt. “go on, pretty.” he croons darkly "put a finger in." your fingers fumble, slipping through the wetness before finally pushing inside. your walls flutter around your own digit, too tight, too needy. he lets out a brutal, bitten-off moan, grinding his hips against his palm—matching your pace.

“stop biting your lip,” he growls, “wanna hear you, pretty.” your moans breaks free—small and shameful at first, then louder when you start fucking yourself. “that's it,” his eyes are locked between your legs, “nice and slow, sweet girl. let me see how desperate you can get for me.” it's humiliating, disgusting, how fast you're falling apart, how quickly your hips are starting to chase your own fingers, trying to fuck yourself deeper.

sweat drips down his temple, cock throbbing and leaking so much in his boxer. he shifts again, rutting his hips shamelessly against his palm—chasing friction he desperately wanted you to give him. “bet you never do this for him,” he sneers, “bet that poor stem doesn't know he packed a slutty cunt. a needy one.” you gasp, a pitiful sound.

“does he, at least, get you this wet?” his words whip across the room like a lash. “when he touches you. .” your fingers speed up frantically, thighs quivering “when he fucks you. .” his smirk is vicious as he read through you, “quiet little good girl," he drawls, stepping closer. “saving all that greedy cunt for him, hoping he'll know what to do with it.” he's on you before you can process he even got up—looming over you at the edge of the bed, huge and terrifying and perfect. one big hand cups your jaw, tilting your flushed face up to meet his. his thumb smears sweat and tears across your cheek. ”pretty thing," he hisses, voice shaking with how hard he's holding back. “all soft and sweet. spread out so nice for me.” 

if you dare glanced down, you could've seen the soaked patch growing bigger. “i should be disgusted,” he whispers, “should leave your desperate little fat ass begging. sobbing for it.” he presses in closer, nose brushing yours, breath hot and heavy. “you're close, aren't you? fucking yourself stupid in front of me. can't even help it.” his forehead tips against yours. “come for me, sweetie." he murmurs, almost lovingly this time. "make a mess all over that pretty cunt. prove he's nothing.”  the filthy command punches the air out of your lungs.

you cry out, loud and shameless, thighs shaking violently as your orgasm crashes over you—drenching your hand and the sheets, rinding it out belly trembling and hips bucking helplessly.

geto watches it all—breathing ragged, knuckles white against the bedspread—but he never touches you. instead, he leans down and presses a filthy, tender kiss to your sweaty forehead. his cock still twitching violently in his pants, he's never been this hard his whole life. not even when he got onto threesome with twins.

and then—still hard, still starving for you—he stands.

he leaves you there, panting, twitching, soaking the sheets. your hand sticky, your cunt fluttering around nothing. your mind a ruined mess of him and only him.

he doesn't look back.

the door clicks softly shut behind him.

you lie there, empty—knowing no one else would ever make you feel so filthy, so wanted, so his.

ᖰ⌯'▾'⌯ᖳ

[fear-is-truth]

the air smells like dry-erase markers and b.o from 6th period phys ed. mr huff’s voice droned on about the industrial revolution, about steam engines or maybe the luddites as you’re half-asleep with your chin in your palm, staring at the clock like you can will it forward. three seats back, rodrick heffley is hunched over his desk, tongue poking out in concentration — not on the lesson, but on the little paper triangle he’s folding between his fingers. he stretches a rubber band between his thumb and forefinger, aimed like a catapult, and hesitates.

then — snap. the note flies across the room.

and nails mr. huff in the side of the head. “mr. heffley,” he grits out, stony faced. “while i appreciate your attempt at… creative communication, please aim away from my face next time.”

“this was, evidently, not meant for me,” he continues calmly, unfolding the paper with dramatic slowness. he scans it once. his bushy eyebrows rose, then he clears his throat, “but since it did assault me mid-lecture, i think it’s only fair to read it aloud.”

rodrick’s face went red as a tomato.

“quote — ‘do you wanna go to pram with me. from rodrick. p.s. in case you dunno, i’m the founder and drummer of the band loded diper’ — end quote.” the whole classroom goes wild. someone hollers, “say yes!” you turn in your seat, stunned, eyes landing on rodrick, who is slouched so far down in his seat he might slide into another dimension.

you kind of want to laugh, but that felt a bit too mean. instead, you raise your eyebrows and mouth, pram?

he gives a helpless shrug. you smile. and nod yes.

the class goes even louder. rodrick is smiling like a total idiot. mr. huff sighs. “congratulations. now, please. back to the industrial revolution before someone proposes marriage.”

[incorrectbatfam]

Damian & Duke Bonding? There are not enough of those in the world. Maybe this planet would be a better place if there was.

Duke: I'm heading out.

Bruce: Where?

Duke: Just hanging out at the museum with my friends.

Bruce: Good, then you can take Damian.

Duke: What? Why?

Damian: I have a paper due on Friday.

Duke: Ugh, fine.

Bruce: And remember, Duke, you're older so it's your responsibility to keep him safe.

Duke: Whatever.

[at the museum entrance]

Duke: You know the deal. Just stay out of my way.

Damian: Not to worry, I don't need anyone to supervise me.

Damian: *snatches his ticket and walks away*

Duke: That's a relief.

[dinosaur exhibit]

Duke: ...Yeah, then the principal said—

Duke: *sees Damian climbing a T-Rex skeleton*

Duke: Hey, look over there!

His friends: *look the other way*

Duke: *flips over the dinosaur and grabs Damian*

Duke: *puts Damian down and runs back to his friends*

Duke: Whoops, thought I saw something. Guess I was mistaken.

[solar system exhibit]

Dre, snickering: Uranus. Get it?

Riko: Oh yeah. Hilarious.

Duke: *sees Damian dangling upside-down from a planet on the ceiling*

Duke: I'm getting a phone call, one sec.

Duke: *grabs a ladder and meets Damian*

Damian: Can I help you?

Duke: *sighs and slings Damian over his shoulder*

[biodiversity exhibit]

Izzy: ...So I told my brother that, but still...

Damian: *leans over a railing*

Duke: *slips away and pulls Damian back before he falls*

Duke: You're lucky that shark's not real.

Duke: *goes back to his friends*

Damian: I would have simply adopted it.

[engineering exhibit]

Dax: Guys, check it out.

Dax: *launches a baseball catapult*

Duke: *catches the ball before it hits Damian*

[bathrooms]

Duke: *leaves the bathroom*

Duke: *sees Damian entering an exhibit under construction*

Duke: This kid just can't quit.

Duke: *tackles Damian away from a falling beam*

Duke, annoyed: You're welcome.

Damian: Tt.

[food court]

Duke: I'll take a ham sandwich and a cookie.

Steph, the cashier: Here you go.

Duke: *sits down by his friends*

Steph: Next!

Damian: I will have a vegan burger, apple juice, and cookie.

Steph: Sorry, kiddo, we just sold our last cookie.

Damian, disappointed: Oh, alright. I'll just take the burger and juice.

Duke, to his friends: I'll be right back.

Duke: *hands Damian the cookie*

Duke: How's the paper coming?

Damian: I believe I've gathered what I needed.

Duke, ruffling Damian's hair: Cool, just stay out of any more trouble.

Damian: Tt.

Duke: *goes back to his table*

Damian: *pulls out his notebook*

Damian, writing: Of the many things at the Gotham Museum, the one that stood out the most is my big brother...

[frostbitebakery]

LOUD.

part one two three four five six seven eight nine

“You’ve got something there,” Quin says, gesturing vaguely at his own shoulder.

“I’m aware,” Obi-Wan signs. “It’s some sort of monkey lizard fungus.”

The monkey lizard fungus giggles into his shoulder.

Quin nods grimly. “I heard the only cure is to placate it with sweets and hope for the best.”

Anakin precariously leans over, heels accidentally digging into still bruised ribs.

Obi-Wan bites his lips behind the collar but of course Quin immediately detects his movements turning stiff.

Quin holds out an arm, flexing his bicep with wiggling eyebrows. It has the desired effect and Anakin jumps from Obi-Wan, swinging around the elbow before hooking his knees over Quin’s arm.

“He’s heavier than he looks,” Quin strains out.

They walk to one of the mess halls that’s open around the clock and mainly offers food and beverages to those clinging with teeth to their sanity during exam season.

One of the cramming Padawans looks up from their dozen holo books displaying graphs, and squints at them. “Master Vos, there’s something growing out of your arm?”

“Monkey lizard fungus,” Obi-Wan signs, hiding a smile behind his collar at the Padawan nodding to themselves as if that makes perfect sense.

“What’s with them?” Anakin asks, looking at the sleep deprived tableau and hoisting himself up and swinging one leg over Quin’s shoulder.

“This is your future,” Quin says gravely and Obi-Wan is catapulted to melting stone fire Darkness “You were supposed to be my Master!” yellow familiar eyes from a smoking alive corpse and the grief is ripping him apart “—see once you take your first assignments. The only places you’ll be is either here or the Archives.”

It’s been years since he last had a vision. It’s staggering, his heart thumping in his chest like a clock ticking down the inevitable countdown. But it’s not.

He looks over to Anakin who’s already watching back with wide eyes, the fear in his hands gripping onto Quinlan. “I won’t let it come to that,” he promises, fingers thudding together heavily but he’s still shaking off the vision and Anakin’s fear is a taste in the air by now. He can’t not make promises he only hopes he can keep.

Quinlan is silent during their exchange, gloved hands keeping hold of Anakin. The calculating look in his eyes a guarantee Obi-Wan is going to get cornered later.

.

“Do you like Depa being your Master?”

Let it be said, paranoia is a common infliction amongst Shadows.

“Obi-Wan,” Anakin sighs, voice breaking with puberty and annoyance. “Depa is wizard. She’s amazing even though she’s signed me up to all these classes.”

Obi-Wan looks over all the models, plans, and concepts with added calculations. There’s a data pad displaying language modules and another proclaiming the joys of agriculture. “It’s almost all in the engineering field,” he signs.

“Which makes her so wizard. You’d never have me taking up gardening though,” Anakin adds sullenly.

Don’t yearn for things I cannot give you, Obi-Wan has thought a lot in the past few years as the Galaxy seems to slowly steep in Darkness.

“Knowing what can poison you is important,” he signs, feeling restless and helpless. The mission he’s finished two cycles ago may still reside in his bones.

“I’ll just bite back,” Anakin says, tongue sticking out as he connects wires to ports. He presses a button and the thing he’s been tinkering with since before Obi-Wan left starts to purr smoothly. “Now she can even juice cocadooms,” he says, satisfaction purring just as smoothly in his voice.

“Well done.”

“I know,” Anakin responds airily and swivels around to face Obi-Wan fully. “You’re lurking in the shadows again so let’s get this tradition over with: Depa is an awesome Master and maybe I sometimes wish you’d have chosen me but,” he adds loudly when Obi-Wan lifts his hands to protest, “I also sometimes daydream Master Tiin had chosen me because he’s got his own modded Delta-7.”

The paranoia settles down as Anakin waxes over how wicked the new wing box skins and sensor fusions are, no, truly, you should see them, Obi-Wan!

[msbyslilbimbo]

oh to be high with kenma in the rare instance he's off stream, and you guys don't last three mario kart maps before you're going at it like rabbits ://

he's always been a lousy pervert when he's high, getting hard and needy from you even remotely looking at him; its part of the reason you're playing the damn wii right now, if he focuses too hard on you, he’s done for.

but kenma's coordination always flies out the window when he's stoned, and he grunts in frustration as your koopa troopa passes his funky kong after he slipped on a banana peel, desperate to ignore your judgmental laughter.

"s okay baby," you tease, "not everyone can be as good of a gamer as me."

"i get paid to be a gamer for a living, you just got lucky with that banana."

"or maybe," you start to purr, and he grimaces and his cheeks flush as from the corner of his red eyes, he sees you're crawling towards him, your own bloodshot eyes looking at him hungrily. he swallows thickly, and his dick twitches in his joggers. "im just really good at distracting you."

"you wish."

"and you're so hard you're practically shaking at the idea of your cock down my throat."

his adams apple bobs as he gnaws on his lip, dick in fact twitching at the idea.

but he moans when you attach your lips to his neck, and he hisses softly when you bite his jugular. a hand comes up to cradle the nape of your neck, coaxing you to keep kissing him. "you sure," you say against his now bruising flesh. "cause i saw king kong fly off the map."

"funky kong," he whimpers.

"you want me to blow you or not?" you scoff against him, and he nods desperately. your hand moves to pull his dick out past the waistband of his sweats and before taking him fully, you spit on your palm and grip him gently in your fist, stroking him to full hardness. your head wasting no time in ducking to take him in your mouth, tongue swirling around his flushed tip before being able to bob your head up and down.

"f-uck," he pants, head lulling back while his entire body trembles in a chill at the first feeling of your hot mouth on his cock. his chest heaves to take in air that got stolen from him when you first wrapped your lips around him. his hands nearly drop the controller onto your head, and he quickly discards it, the plastic crashing to the floor as he flexes his hands into fists, searching desperately for a place to relax them so he doesn't pathetically push your head in search of pleasure. his jaw opens wide enough it cracks.

you hum against him, vibrations tingling through his soul and making his shoulders shake. each time you move your head, you take him deeper, getting closer to his base where the nerves light up the rarest and shoot straight to his tip that grazes the back of your throat. all his nerves are fixated on your movements, and god the way you gag around him is delicious, he feels it in his toes causing them to curl.

you reel your head back and jerk him with your tightened grip, lubed with your spit and pearled precum that your lips smeared, popping your mouth off of him like a lollipop, "aren't you gonna finish the race?" you ask, and kenma looks at you with glassy eyes.

your hand stops. he pathetically ruts his hips up for more. "since im not a distraction, go finish the race." you smirk cruelly and blink innocently, "i'll edge you until you do."

he shakes his head rapidly, clearly lost in a haze of pleasure to verbalize is distain for that idea. you thumb at his slit, "then you better get driving and focus on your last two laps baby."

he gives you a petulant pout and trembling hands grab the wii steering wheel and start up funky kong's engine again, trying to focus on the windy course despite the tightening of your throat around him. he sinks his teeth back into his lip to distract himself, trying to shroud the pleasure in the sharp pain of his teeth piercing his lip.

you were cruel.

a thumb at his frenulum sent his catapulting over the edge.

a wad of spit on his pulsing slit had him spinning wildly.

jerking him with your fist had his eyes screwing shut and smearing his overstimulated tears around long eyelashes.

it takes him nearly 20 minutes, according to the game clock, for him to finish, victory music making you hum once again after a slurp of his dick.

with new marks on his now swollen lips and knuckles tense from holding the steering wheel, beads of sweat forming at his hairline and balls tight enough to bust the second they get permission, kenma finally finishes his race, cockhead throbbing from the stimulation you'd give, then take away at the worst time, right before he came. "i won," he whimpered, voice broken from wails and raspy grunts. "c'n i cum?"

"welllll," you purr after pulling your warm mouth of of him. he groans in agony. "you were so good, didn't know if you wanted to cum in my mouth, or my pussy."

you are truly cruel.

"fuck-"

"well?" you ask, slinging your leg up and over his waist. he feels your heat through your panties, and with the subtle friction of fabric brushing against his dick, kenma cums, he cums right between you both, grunting furiously as his entire body spasms. you gasp as it splatters over your hand and thighs, kenma's quick breathing interrupting the music in the background.

you smile lean down to kiss him, swallowing his whimpers and coaxing them past his bruised lips, thighs tightening around his slender hips. "that was so hot," you giggle.

"thank you," he whispers.

you peck him once again before pulling back, mischief in your gaze. "but you didn't pick one for me, kenma."

he sniffles. you squeeze the base of his cock.

"guess we'll have to start over. i won't distract you- i promise."

you're smirking.

[hoe4hotchner]

Red to Blue | [A.H]

Pairing: F1 driver!Hotch x fem!reader | WC: 0.7k | CW: Sweat?

A/N: I’ll give you this in celebration of me finishing the Lego F1 cars I bought 🤭

The paddock buzzed with anticipation as the 2025 Formula 1 season was about to kick off under the bright Australian sun at the Albert Park Circuit in Melbourne.

The air was filled with the familiar scent of high-octane fuel and burnt rubber.

Amidst the grandeur of top teams like Ferrari and Red Bull, a renewed energy emanated from the Williams garage—a team historically rich in legacy, now attempting to reclaim its stature.

At the helm stood Aaron Hotchner, he was the newly appointed team principal of Williams. Years had passed since his celebrated tenure as a driver for Ferrari, where he had clinched multiple wins and a few world championships before an unexpected mid-season retirement.

His departure had been shrouded in speculation, but those close to him knew he sought a life beyond the circuits, a life with you.

Williams had approached him several times during his retirement, trying to reel him in, but only as you'd gotten a great job opportunity in the UK, had he agreed.

Now, with the same determination that had defined his driving career, Hotch was poised to steer Williams back to its former glory.

Beside him, you observed the meticulous dance of engineers and mechanics moving around the garage, their movements were a testament to the countless hours of preparation that the first race had foregone.

The team’s driver lineup had undergone a significant transformation: Carlos Sainz, formerly of Ferrari, brought a wealth of experience and a burning desire to prove himself even further.

It was an irony not lost on anyone—Carlos had been the one to take Hotch’s vacant Ferrari seat years ago. And Hotch had been the first to grab him for the team once made available.

Now, under Hotch’s leadership, their paths intertwined in an entirely different dynamic.

Alongside Carlos was Alex, whose resilience and adaptability had ensured him to continue in his seat at Williams. This pairing, although unusual, was a blend of seasoned expertise and tenacious spirit.

It had already begun to show promise in the early stages of the season.

As the cars lined up on the grid, the atmosphere was electric. The front row was dominated by the usual powerhouses, but Carlos had secured a P5 in qualifying, with Albon close behind in P7.

Hotch's gaze was fixed on the monitors, analyzing real-time data, his mind orchestrating potential strategies. His headset only covered one ear, as he stayed aware of his surroundings with the other.

"Nervous?" you teased, nudging him gently.

He offered a rare smile, the corners of his eyes crinkling. "Always. But it's a good kind of nervous."

The formation lap commenced, engines roaring to life. Hotch’s voice, calm and authoritative, crackled over the team radio. "Stay focused. Remember our strategy. Trust the car, and trust yourselves."

As the lights went out, the race erupted into a blur of speed and tactical maneuvers. Carlos made an aggressive start, skillfully navigating through the pack to challenge for a podium position. Albon, displaying his characteristic finesse, defended his position while seeking opportunities to advance.

Hotch’s leadership was noticeable. He seamlessly coordinated with his engineers, making split-second decisions on tire strategies and pit stops. His transition from driver to team principal had endowed him with a unique perspective; he understood the car’s language and the driver’s psyche, allowing him to bridge the gap between the cockpit and the pit wall.

Mid-race, a sudden safety car deployment and added an element of unpredictability. Hotch’s experience shone through as he swiftly called for a double-stack pit stop, a bold decision that catapulted Carlos into P3. The Williams garage erupted in cautious optimism, the possibility of a podium finish within reach for the first time in years.

As the checkered flag loomed, Carlos defended his position against Lando, crossing the line to secure third place. Albon finished strong in P6, earning valuable points for the team. The Williams garage was a whirlwind of elation, the podium finish a testament to their collective effort and Hotch’s strategic insight.

Before entering the cooldown room, Carlos approached Hotch, his race suit drenched in sweat but his face alight with triumph. "Couldn’t have done it without your call."

Hotch clasped his shoulder, pride evident in his eyes. "It was all you out there. This is just the beginning."

As the national anthem played and the podium celebrations commenced, you stood amidst the team, Hotch's arm wrapped around your frame, pulling you close to him, your heart swelling with pride.

Hotch’s journey had come full circle—from a champion driver to a visionary leader, reigniting the spirit of a storied team. And through it all, you had been by his side, sharing in the highs, the lows, and now, the resurgence of a legacy.

[weekendlusting]

A TALE OF FAME

pairing ꪆৎ charles leclerc x ahaana patel ᥫ᭡. f1 driver x bollywood actress au

chapter ꪆৎ 1

summary ꪆৎ she's everything, and he just drives.

note ꪆৎ no hate to any characters used in the story, none of what i write reflects on how they actually are. all my love, happy reading.

characteraesthetics | socials&intro | one | two | three | four | five | six |

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Ahaana Patel was an enigma wrapped in stardom. She’d emerged onto the Bollywood scene with a debut that was nothing short of explosive, pro shaking up the industry and catapulting herself into the hearts of millions. She featured in a movie of one of the most celebrated Indian directors, Karan Johar, alongside her costars Varun Dhawan and Sidharth Malhotra, and hasn't looked back since. It was a journey no one, least of all her academically fixated parents in Ahmedabad, could have foreseen. From their meticulously structured plans of engineering degrees and Ivy League aspirations to the glitzy chaos of movie premieres and magazine covers, her story was the epitome of unpredictability.

Now, twelve years later, Ahaana strode confidently through the paddock of the Chinese Formula One Grand Prix. Her steps were light, but her presence was impossible to ignore. The roar of engines, the sharp tang of gasoline, and the relentless buzz of the crowd enveloped her in a world she had come to know well over the years.

Dressed in attire that matched the casual coolness of the paddock air, a fitted white top and denim skirt. Her hair, perfectly styled despite the chaos of travel, swayed gently as she moved, her signature smile lighting up the faces of everyone she passed.

The first race of the 2024 season was underway, and the paddock was a symphony of excitement. Engineers tinkered with machines that cost more than most people earned in a lifetime, journalists scrambled for the perfect soundbite, and VIP guests mingled in their designer ensembles, trying to look like they belonged. Ahaana, however, didn’t need to try—she was a natural here.

“Ahi!”

The familiar Dutch accent cut through the cacophony, and Ahaana turned, her eyes narrowing playfully as Max Verstappen approached. Helmet in hand, the reigning world champion exuded confidence. His movements were deliberate, his gaze sharp, but the moment he saw Ahaana, his expression softened ever so slightly.

“Max,” she greeted, her voice laced with mock seriousness. “Are you ready to win, or should I start drafting my consolation speech now?”

Max rolled his eyes, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Your faith in me is touching. Truly inspiring. Maybe you should stick to Bollywood instead of doubting world champions.”

“And miss this circus?” Ahaana gestured grandly at the bustling paddock around them. “Not a chance.”

Their bond was one of playful banter and unspoken trust, forged in the early days of her association with Red Bull. At first, their interactions had been fraught with the awkwardness of two young professionals forced into photoshoots and promotional events. But as time passed, they found common ground in their shared struggles—both carried the weight of their fathers’ expectations and both were determined to carve their own paths. What began as reluctant camaraderie soon blossomed into a sibling-like relationship. Max truly saw Ahaana as a little sister, and always would.

“Where’s Kelly?” Ahaana asked, scanning the crowd for Max’s girlfriend.

“She’s around,” Max replied, shrugging. “Probably hunting you down.”

As if on cue, Kelly Piquet appeared, her presence as radiant as ever. Spotting Ahaana, she broke into a wide grin and pulled her into a warm hug. “Ahaana! I didn’t know you were coming today. Otherwise, I’d have brought P—she misses you.”

Ahaana beamed. “I miss her too. We’re calling her as soon as these boys get in their tractors.”

“Tractors?” Max echoed, feigning offense. Ahaana gave him a look that baited him to argue with her on that. Thinking better of it, Max just shrugged. Another familiar voice joined the fray.

“Well, well, well, if it isn’t Red Bull’s golden girl.”

Ahaana turned to see Lando Norris, the ever-charming McLaren driver, strolling toward them. His grin was as cheeky as ever, his orange, oh sorry papaya, jacket standing out starkly against the sea of Red Bull merch.

“Lando,” Ahaana greeted with mock disdain. “Lost your way from all the oranges. Here let me show you, its that garage with a mark that looks like a disfigured comma.”

“It’s papaya and you know it. You’re obsessed with me , aren’t you?” Lando shot back, slinging an arm around her shoulders. “Admit it—you came all the way here just to see me.”

“Oh, absolutely,” Ahaana replied, her tone dripping with sarcasm. “Couldn’t resist the charm of McLaren’s poster boy.”

Max chuckled, shaking his head. “I can’t deal with both of you.”

The banter continued until race preparations called for Max and Lando’s attention. Kelly and Ahaana waved them off, heading toward the lounge.

The race was a spectacle, with Max clinching victory and Lando following closely behind in P2. The podium celebrations were a blur of champagne showers and roaring applause, but the real festivities began that evening.

The group—Max, Kelly, Lando, Carlos Sainz, Rebecca, Carlos’s girlfriend, and Ahaana—found themselves in a luxurious nightclub, the VIP section buzzing with energy. Neon lights danced across the room, the bass of the music reverberating through their bodies.

“Did you hear?” Rebecca leaned closer to Kelly and Ahaana, her voice conspiratorial. “Apparently, Alex cheated on Charles.”

Kelly’s jaw dropped. “You’re joking!”

Ahaana raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “How do you know?”

Rebecca shrugged. “Word travels fast in the paddock. Apparently, Charles tried to break up with her, but she keeps avoiding the conversation.”

“Classic denial,” Ahaana remarked, sipping her drink.

Kelly shook her head. “Why doesn’t he just cut her off?”

“He wants a clean break,” Rebecca explained. “But Alex is… persistent.”

The conversation shifted to lighter topics as the night wore on. Lando, ever the photographer, took candid shots of the group, earning playful protests from his friends.

By 3 A.M., the nightclub was still alive with energy, but Ahaana needed a breather. She stepped out onto a balcony, the cool night air a welcome contrast to the heat inside. The city lights stretched out before her, their glow reflected in the glass of the towering buildings.

She wasn’t alone for long.

“Hey, Ferrari,” she said, spotting Charles Leclerc leaning against the railing, a glass of whiskey in hand.

Charles glanced at her, his expression a mix of surprise and curiosity. “Do I know you?”

“Not yet,” Ahaana replied, a playful smile tugging at her lips. “But you looked like you could use some company.”

Charles chuckled softly, though the melancholy in his eyes remained. “Maybe I do.”

Ahaana joined him at the railing, their gazes fixed on the cityscape. For a moment, neither spoke, the silence between them comfortable.

“Rough night?” Ahaana asked eventually.

Charles hesitated before nodding. “Something like that.”

Ahaana studied him, her expression thoughtful. “You know, brooding doesn’t suit you. You should try smiling—it might just solve all your problems.”

Charles couldn’t help but smile, albeit faintly. “Is that so?”

“Absolutely,” Ahaana replied, her tone light. “But if you’re not ready to smile yet, I’ll settle for a drink.”

Charles handed her his glass without a word. She accepted it, taking a small sip before handing it back.

“Not bad,” she remarked, her eyes twinkling with mischief.

Charles looked at her, truly looked at her for the first time. The neon lights from the club painted her features in hues of pink and blue, her hair catching the faint breeze. There was something about her—an effortless charm, a warmth that drew people in.

“What’s your name?” he asked, his voice softer now.

“Ahaana,” she replied, extending a hand.

Charles took it, his grip firm but gentle. “Charles.”

“I know,” Ahaana said with a grin. “You ready to party now, Red?”

Charles chuckled, a genuine laugh this time, and downed the rest of his drink. “Lead the way.”

And just like that, the night took on a new energy, two strangers finding unexpected companionship amidst the chaos of flashing lights and thundering music.

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ᝰ.ᐟ first part! i know this isn't much, but i plan on writing more and this is just the start. i hope you aren't freaked out by the rather rustic writing and keep reading the chapters to come!

next

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tags @seonghwaexile @bookishprophecy @justadesirebel @peterholland04 @bakingpiastries @ricciardosheart @mikefaistgf @ho3smadd

comment to be added to taglist

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© weekendlusting

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[themilkman897]

Check out this catapult I made with my friends and my dad.

It uses a harrow tine for the spring and a rachet strap to pull back and release the arm. It can and will seriously hurt you if you get in the way of the arm.

The arm started out straight but it bent when we fired it with no stopper cushion

[thefusioncelestial]

Mix 14: Model Stirrer

Ah the modeling world, constantly shoving the prettiest, most handsome, most aesthetic people in our faces. But some of those models were not born that way, some had to be made.

In a series of valleys, no longer on any maps, is a series of modeling camps. For the most part, they seem normal: helping with health, modeling techniques, building connections, and all the shebang; but there is a secret program.

The program aims to reject nobody once they get in, but still wants its prospective models to actually try to get better. Thus the mix & match program.

The bottom 10% & top 10% are brought together & merged. For the cream of the crop, they assimilate members of the bottom 10% to improve "minor" things. There are also rumors that nepo babies who got to the top via connections are given total make overs via this program.

But more often than not, the bottom 10% are merged with each other. A mutual fusion.

Here is Yorden:

A part of the bottom 10%, he is was on the fitness model track.

Problem is that he could never put enough muscle on his frame. Many of the teachers disliked his beiber cut as well. Other than that, he performed well and every other measure. Had he had any connections, he could have gotten that make over that the top 10% gets.

Next is Elijah:

Same track as Yorden. Same problem exacerbated by his tall frame. A bit of a social butterfly, and that has made him a target. Some nepo baby wants his height and social skills for themselves.

The day before they were due to get assimilated by other model students, they hatched a plan.

"Will this plan really work," Elijah asked.

"It's either this, or we are someone else's lunch," Yorden responded.

Elijah pursed his lips for a moment, but silently agreed. Elijah found out that he & Yorden was due to get absorbed by Josh. Everyone hated Josh, he was a nepo baby who had the same bad marks as them in the physique areas, and even worse grades elsewhere except in runway & photo poses. Yet, he was on the top 10% in board rankings.

"I can't believe they want us to give ourselves to him to make him halfway good, all because his grandfather is on the board," Yorden said.

"Nah, we would catapult him to the 1%, give yourself some credit," Elijah chimed.

Yorden sniggered, he liked this about Elijah; a joker and is able to see the positive in many things. That position energy brought people towards him like a magnet, but even his connections couldn't save him. This large social network made him stick out like a sore thumb.

"Anyway, this has worked before, if we merge & are good enough, we can shave off getting eaten by Josh-turd, or we can fight him off tomorrow and absorb him instead, but we got to do it together," Yorden said.

Yorden was the ideas & plan guy. Every criticism, he turned into a basis for improvement. He decisiveness & work ethic is what led to him getting targeted.

The duo sneaked into a lab, the same lab where they were to meet their fates tomorrow.

It was a combination of blue, grey, & very dim. There were operating tables with other past students strapped on them in a state of sedation. They are shocked that isn't them right now, but the knowledge of their selection was not for them to know. Elijah's friend network was able to get that info to them.

But what they wanted was in the back of the lab. Three twenty foot cylinders that could pack four guys each. This is how they planned to merge. Each guy would stand in each side cylinder, and the process would merge them into singular new person who would come out the middle cylinder.

There was a problem, they needed a third person on the outside to activate the machine. So much for Yorden's plans. But where Yorden fails, Elijah succeeds.

Had Elijah chosen a more traditional path, he could be fielding acceptance letters from many engineering & computer science programs. That potential never left him.

"Get in one the cylinders, I know how to get around this," Elijah said.

He walks to a nearby computer console and begins typing away.

Yorden begins to walk to the cylinder furthest away from the console.

"How," he asked.

Elijah turns towards Yorden and smiled a big smile. Yorden remembered: Elijah was a tech wiz. He broke into the cafeteria system once and had the gluten free, sugar free sauce dispenser spray anyone who tried to use them.

Yorden smacked his forehead, he forgot about that quality of his soon to be other half. He was soon in the cylinder, within a few moments it closed shut. Josh was a shade of red for a month.

It was cool and surprisingly airy. Made sense, don't want the fusees dead from the lack of oxygen. It was like the rest of the lab and dimly lit. But in the middle was a pitch black circle. It gave off an energy that both drew you in & made you uncomfortable. Yorden quickly shook his head to get out of the trance.

"Hurry up before I get claustrophobic," he yelled.

Elijah was almost done. He had to change the settings, from assimilation to merge. He was tempted to assimilate Yorden, but he rather not just be another Josh and all the other top 10%'ers who devoured others for their personal advancement. A quick fifteen second delay for the activation, and he was ready.

He heard Yorden.

"Just a moment," he yelled. He pressed the activation button.

The fusion cylinder suddenly roared to life after the instructions were sent. This was Elijah's que to quickly get in the cylinder closest to him.

Elijah was soon inside the cylinder after a quick sprint. It closed behind him. Elijah was a little nervous, and that made him a little bouncy, but after exhaling a deep breath he calmed down.

The insides of the cylinders turned bright as the dim lights turned on, and made the insides look like an infinite white room with a pitch black circle in the middle. Yorden reached out and noticed that the infinity was an illusion, he could feel the cylinder walls after reaching out.

A large start up & then suction noise could be heard. A swirl of light could be seen forming inside the cylinders. It was barely noticeable at first, but soon turned in a spinning light show with Elijah & Yorden in the middle of each swirling rainbow light pillar. To get out of the delirium the spinning and random color changing induced, they both looked up at the pitch black hole at the ceiling. They noticed that the color show terminated there. The suction noise ramped up.

Soon they were both floating. They were approaching the black circle, coming closer. Eventually they reached the black circle and expected to bump their heads, but instead they notice they flowed into the circle with no resistance. From their perspective, they entered a pitch black tunnel and were flying through it with their clothes attached. From the outside their bodies were slowly floating up through the circle and were being swallowed by the dark entrance.

Soon they were gone, effectually in the pipes that connected the three cylinders. As they approached the center connection, low light random color shapes began to zoom past them. Eventually they were able to make out each other's shapes. They crashed against each other with a thud, but no pain was felt.

Then they began to move downwards in an accelerated rate & began to spin.

"This is it, it was nice knowing you," Elijah said.

"We are about to get to know a lot more about each other, everything in fact," Yorden piped.

Elijah closed his eyes, no turning back.

With what little space they had between each other, they nodded towards each other.

Their bodies glowed. Elijah red, Yorden blue. Their bodies of light swirled around each other and then mixed into one purple light.

The light that carried their merged being approached a tunnel of light. It entered the center cylinder and landed with a light thud.

The central cylinder suddenly let out a lot of steam & began to shake. The system was taking the different aspects of Elijah & Yorden and sending the result to this humanoid being of purple light.

It began to stand up. And began to groan as it did.

It gained Yorden's skin tone.

It began to breathe heavily.

It started off with Yorden's frame, but soon it doubled in muscle & grew taller. Shoulders, arms, legs, neck, & chest popped with new muscle.

It had Elijah's abs, but soon his his abdominals grew in size. It's skin restricted & squeezed giving it more defined obliques.

Both of the fusees were not well endowed, but together their family jewels and rods combined on the being to be longer and girther.

It's butt double in sized like blowing two balloons.

It kept Yorden's facial features as a base and then began to morph. It had Elijah's dark hair, jawline, nose, & eyebrows. It kept Yorden's eyes only a little bigger, and kept his ears & chin. The mouth was mix.

After a few more pops and gradual changes in other areas, the merger was done. The being stood fully up.

The purple light faded away & the central cylinder opened up. It stopped shaking and steam flowed out of the bottom of the cylinder.

It walked out and as it did, it thought of its new name.

"Zachary, I am Zachary," he exclaimed.

He looked down and noticed he was wearing a combination of his fusee's clothing. He had airpods in his ear, but messing around with them revealed that they were interfaced with the lab's security systems.

The Elijah part of him remembered the layout from the maps given to him via his social network, and bucked it to the nearest bathroom. He lifted up his shirt to check out the new him:

He was overjoyed.

And the gambit worked. The timeline shifted so that Zachary was never up for assimilation.

Here he is the morning before graduation:

He'll continue to model, but maybe he will pursue that tech potential that Elijah gave up.

[kompaktcat]

Slowly been growing into it/its pronouns lately and

It/it's but how you would refer to a precision instrument. Something tightly engineered and built for purpose, and built to take a hit and keep coming. Like how you would refer to a well maintained aircraft waiting to be launched by catapult.