#Portuguese Pavement

[toyastales]

"If the path be beautiful, let us not ask where it leads."

Anatole France

[photography-is-silence-fiction]

Lágrimas de pedra (Stone tears) © Ricardo Félix aka Photography is Silence Fiction:

[thedailymobile]

“Competing Vintages: 1930 vs 1517”

© EricBrazier.com

[fabien-euskadi]

The blazon of the city of Faro in the Portuguese cobblestone pvament. You have to admit: it's charming.

[deactivated072320241242]

—𝐰𝐞'𝐥𝐥 𝐠𝐞𝐭 𝐢𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐜𝐚𝐫, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮'𝐥𝐥 𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐧 𝐭𝐨 𝐤𝐢𝐬𝐬 𝐦𝐞—

pairing. ex! Natasha Romanoff x fem! reader

summary. in a day you simply wanted peace, two unexpected visitors showed up. for one of them, you were glad.

warnings. smut! I am NOT responsible for your content consumption! — making out, thigh riding, strap on usage, cursing, angst (w happy ending), soft dom Nat.

notes. my first language is portuguese, so I apologize for any grammar errors. feel free to give me advice, though!

divider credits: @cafekitsune ★

Natasha Romanoff was known as a cold, ruthless woman, who never cared for anyone besides herself. Most of the people didn't know this was due her past — the Red Room was always in complete secrecy, so they feared her. She was already used to it. Whenever she started something with someone, in the next day, she had an empty bed as a gift. To be completely honest, she always felt used. Men and women touched her, to leave her in the morning.

That changed when she met you.

You could say you'd changed her completely, for the best, of course. She became more open with you, learned to express herself better and was not known as the most selfish Avenger in the team anymore.

But just like people say, not everything is a bed of roses.

Instead of using that achievement to improve your relationship, she began to care a little too much about her team of superheroes. At some point, she was no longer paying attention to you.

Reports this, reports that. Missions and more missions. "I have to go somewhere with Cap." "I have to train with Tony to a mission." "I can't, I'll have to go with Clint."

When you confronted her about this, begging for her to understand and willing to help her change, she decided that it was a better option to part ways. You were devasted, and she saw it. That made her heart ache — someone actually lov— liked her enough to want to stay.

This was the one and only reason Natasha didn't forget about you. The only reason she thought about you everyday. The only reason she teared up whenever entering her car and seeing the polaroid with the heart pendant you gave her hanging on her rearview mirror, that she didn't dare to take down.

Today, you were leaving work, heavy tired steps echoing on the pavement's wooden floor as the moonlight illuminated the room. The building was already empty, the streets, darker than your thoughts.

As you started walking to the nearest bus stop, you heard quick footsteps behind you — it was already late and usually there was no people on the streets like this. You turned your head, "you gotta be kidding me".

"Hey, Y/n!" Peter exclaimed, running to catch up with you. "I didn't know you were going to be here at 11:30pm."

You rolled your eyes and took a sharp inhale, but like always, tried to be polite. This so called coworker of yours was always looking at you, following you everywhere, and asking you things, not always work-related. You always made it clear that you weren't interested in men, and he insisted on saying he could 'change your mind'.

"Hey, Peter." you replied, faking a smile and nodding. "You need me to review your documents again?"

"Oh, no. I was just wondering if you wanna go on a date with me. Did you see the restaurant that just opened over there? I could treat you to—"

"No, I don't." you cut him off, more harshly than you intended to. "Look, Peter, I'm sorry. But I don't want anything to do with you, alright? So if you want, go ahead and find somebody else."

You shook your head, not even waiting for his reply and picking up the pace again, quickly rushing to the bus stop. That's when the guy showed you a side that you just suspected, but preferred to believe he didn't have

"C'mon, Y/n." he grabbed your arm, nails digging into your skin. "You won't broke my heart, will you? You're such a gentle, beautiful, kind woman. You will give me a chance."

You cleared your throat, feeling him get closer, and thinking about a certain Red Head — how she would gently, delicately graze your skin with her fingers, so softly whispering into your ear and bringing you to her embrace—

"Back off."

"Oh, no." he laughed. Such a creep. "I won't back off. And if you don't cooperate, I'll make you give me a chance."

Your hands trembled now, silently praying to whoever was seeing this just call the cops or do something. You didn't know the guy anyway. He didn't talk to anyone at work beside you, and you never got to know him, you would never. That's when it would be a good use to have a spy girlfriend. Just the last thing you expected to happen was to hear the sound of a gun cocking behind you, and a very familiar female voice.

"She said back off."

Relief unconsciously washed upon you as your arm was released, only because of the gun, though. You knew that if if wasn't for her, who knows what could've happened there. Peter left, annoyed, but the Russian swore to herself that she'd make his life a living hell.

"... Natasha?" you whisper, turning around with a confused and even scared frown.

"Yes," she worriedly rubbed your arm, shooting you, slowly making the feeling of the disgusting hand fade away. "Are you okay?"

"I am..." you nodded subtly, leaning into her touch. "What are you doing here?"

"Well, I saw a woman being harassed. What was I supposed to do? Mind my business?" she said, obviously avoiding your question.

"You know this is not what I mean." you frowned, carefully letting go of her caress and wrapping your arms around yourself.

Natasha sighed, trying to think of a way to explain herself. 'Oh, I'm here because I miss you so much I can't even sleep anymore.'? No, it wouldn't do.

"I... followed you."

"Oh, great, so I'm being stalked twice today." you hissed, making Natasha look down with your harshness.

"No, Y/n.. I'm here for.. personal reasons. I saw you leaving work, and I noticed that guy following you. I decided to follow too, until he grabbed you and I knew I had to intervine." she explained quietly.

The fact she had said 'personal reasons' deeply hurt you, but you couldn't do anything, you had broken up after all. You nodded, and prepared yourself to walk tp the bus stop again.

"Wait," Natasha quickly stopped you, her eyebrows furrowed. "I won't let you go home like this."

This was something about the old Natasha you knew, the protective one. It was okay, you were tired, and a ride would be no harm. "Where's your getaway car?"

She smiled softly at your joke, and tilted her head. "Around the corner."

You two walked silently towards the vehicle, as she unlocked the doors with the keys and you entered the passenger seat. You threw your bag on the backseat before you could focus on the environment around you, and see the polaroid of you and Nat with the heart pendant you gave her hanging on the rearview mirror.

Natasha noticed your gaze as soon as she entered the driver seat, clearing her throat and starting the car's engine. "Couldn't bring myself to take those down."

You stayed silent, but your eyes could tell everything. I'm glad. Oh, I'm so glad.

Natasha remembered your address as if you hadn't broken up nine months ago, and when you reached your place, you too much disappointed for your own good.

"Thank you for the lift," you whispered, turning your body to be able to grab your bag from the backseat — in the exact same moment Natasha turned to unbuckle her seatbelt — your fronts touching, which made you two a little startled.

The problem was that you didn't pull away, neither of you. You slowly turned your head to meet Natasha's gaze, your face so close to hers you could feel her breath. Familiar. It was pure instinct, almost muscle memory, of the times she always kissed you goodbye when dropping you somewhere.

You didn't even notice your hand going up to hold the back of her neck, much less when she placed her hand on your thigh, and leaned in so your noses brushed. Natasha closed her eyes for a brief moment, almost savouring your closeness, your aura enveloping her once more. Then your lips barely, barely grazed, breath hitching, as she couldn't take it anymore.

The redhead pressed her lips against yours, giving them a long peck. It was surprising how much time you lasted without air. You didn't break the kiss, just darted the tip of your tongue out to lick her bottom lip, begging for entrance. She gave in, trying to pull you closer but being stopped by the goddamn control panel. As soon as you felt her tongue touching yours you realized that this was going too far. You pulled back harshly, leaving you two panting for air and a disappointed Nat.

"Do you..." you shakily breathed. "... wanna come in?"

"Mhm." Natasha hummed, turning off the engine. "Can I?"

You didn't answer, just opened the door and slipped out the car. As you entered, you could practically feel Natasha's eyes burning the place. How you didn't take down any picture of yours. How her stuff was spreading across the pavement. It gave her a sense of... hope? Of course, since she was in the same situation.

"So.. are you seeing anyone?" you asked her while kicking off your heels and leaving them by the door.

"I think you know the answer for that." the redhead practically hissed, making your head snap towards her.

"But I want you to say it." you retreated. "I want you to look at me in the eyes and tell me you didn't forget me. I want you to look at me in the eyes and tell me the reason of why you came to my town again and followed me when I left work. I want you to tell me the reason of why you kissed me just like we always did before."

"I didn't! I didn't forget you, Y/n!" Natasha snapped, looking away and tucking the loosen strands of hair of her braids behind her ears. "I didn't forget you and I never did. Alright? Happy now?"

"Is that so?" you laughed humorlessly, crossing your arms. "I thought you cared more about your superheroes buddies. Where are they now!?"

"I left them." Natasha replied, looking at you again with a mixture of anger and pain. "I left them and came back, to you, Y/n."

You froze at her words, swallowing your saliva. "... okay?"

"I came back here, because I wanted to at least a chance to explain myself. I wouldn't be able to live knowing that I hurt you, and that you think that I did it on purpose. So please, just give me a chance."

"...go on."

Natasha sighed in relief, exhaling the air she was holding. "I'm sure you know my story. You were the first one to know everything about it, about me. And I'm also sure you know you're the first one to ever love me. No one else ever loved me like you did."

You leaned against the kitchen counter, listening carefully to her words, ready to give her time and patience, like you usually did.

"... I didn't know what I was doing, Y/n. Every other relationship I had, ended in less than a week. Love is a weapon and it's letal for me, for people like me. I was, I am startled by all of this, by this fuzzy warm feeling that you always gave me, that you still do, in my thoughts.. the Avengers were my first family, and when I panicked, I tried to hang on to them. In order not to hurt you, and myself." she didn't even realize the tear rolling down her cheek, and shook her head. "That's it. I'm sorry for everything, but Y/n, you will always have a piece— you'll always have my whole heart in your hands. I'll get off your hair n—"

You couldn't. Not anymore. You rushed towards her and grabbed her face, cutting her off with a deep kiss. She was taking aback, but her hands traveled to your waist, pulling you flush against her, your fronts pressing. Nothing changed. Natasha pushed you backwards against your room's door, her tongue entering your mouth and dancing with yours. You could feel yourself getting lost in her, damn it, once more. It was like she had this spell on you — you were trapped, and didn't complain.

"Y/n," the russian uttered, hands slipping inside your shirt and giving your waist a squeeze. "I've got to have you again, at least for one last time. Please, just this once—"

Tired of her rambling, you smirked and grabbed her by the jacket, pulling her into a kiss again and dragging her into the room, slamming the door shut. Natasha took this as a 'yes', and her hands, under you shirt, went to unclasp your bra, making it fall to the ground and a groan of relief escape your throat. Before she could remove the rest of the fabric of your body, you stopped her, pushing her down to the bed.

"I always wanted to do that," you started to slowly, so slow that it almost tortured her take off your clothes, stripteasing for her.

"Shit, Y/n." she quickly started to get rid off her jacket, snd everything else she was wearing. You were careful not to trip on the pile of clothes on the floor, and walked over to her again, straddling her leg on the edge of the bed.

Natasha's hand grabbed your hips roughly, keeping you in place and it didn't take two seconds before you started to grind on her. "Nat," you breathed, arms going to circle her neck.

"Who else touched you like this while I was away?" she growled in your ear, pressing your body against hers. "Answer me,"

"No one," you whined, giving her a subtle shake of your head. "No one, Natty. J-just myself,"

"My poor girl," Nat began to roam her hands up your sides, her lips pressing kisses on your jawline, "I'm so sorry I wasn't there to help,"

"You're here now..!" you gasped, your movements faster, as she began to move her thigh to stimulate you more.

"And I don't plan on going away," Natasha murmured, tilting your head to look at her in the eyes. Even in your high, you could make sense of her words, and the weight they beared.

"Nat!" you moaned, closing your eyes shut. "I need... please.. I—I need you, inside me."

Natasha almost lost her mind with that, grabbing your hips and pinning you down to the bed. She reached her arm out for the drawer that she hoped your strap still was, and luckily, she was right. "I'm gonna fuck you like never before, Y/n." she attached the silicone cock to her hips with urgency, holding your hips in place as she ran the tip of it across your folds, making you whine in need.

"Don't tease me," you gently gripped her arms on your hips and looked at her with dreamy eyes. She couldn't resist — but your walls were so tight she had to put a little effort to enter you.

"Holy fuck, baby." she moved her hand to brush your hair behind your ear, giving you a little time to get used to the length. "So fucking tight for me,"

"I—" you breathed, interrupted when Nat started to slowly move in and out you, her red hair falling into your face. You moaned, putting her hair up in a makeshift ponytail and with your free hand, holding her neck. "God, I missed you,"

Natasha pounded faster in you with those words, your moans only getting louder by the second. She grabbed one of your legs and placed it over her shoulder, allowing her to hit your g-spot repeatedly. You thumb went to your mouth, wetting it and starting to rub her clit — she couldn't say she expected that, her soft moans saying everything.

"Cum with me," you breathlessly requested, eyes fluttering close. Natasha didn't have to be asked twice. Her hips slammed into yours, the wet sounds of her thrusting echoing the room. "Natty!"

You back arched, head thrown backwards as your orgasm hit you. Natasha's legs shook, her weight falling onto you and your arms immediately wrapping around her, keeping her close.

"Don't make me go away,"

"I could never."

[pickingupmymercedes]

Thank you, for everything (it takes a village) - Lewis Hamilton ft. Ayrton Senna

Little something for the 30th Anniversary of Senna's legacy

pairing: Senna! Reader X Lewis Hamilton

warnings: mentions of death, mourning, 30th anniversary of Senna's legacy

wordcount: +4k

song: In your arms - Birdy

a/n: People in Brasil don't say is the anniversary of his death but rather of his legacy, and it's such a beautiful way to see it. I hope Ayrton knows, wherever he is, how loved he still is.

a/n.2: Ayrton was known as Beco/Becão by his family and friends

As always, I'm open for feedback, come say hi! (Also, my written portuguese is a bit rusty, so if there's anything weird, please let me know)

______________________________________________________________

When hope went away I still held on, to the love that you gave, it’s all I’ve got of you now. I will never know you, don’t get to understand, no answers to questions. It’s too late for that. But I was in your arms, once

A pre-dawn Miami humidity clung to y/n like a second skin, even inside the automatically cooled hotel room. The city slept, but the salty air carried a raw energy that mirrored the turmoil brewing within her. Today, the 1st of May, was a day she always needed to face alone.

She laid there, staring at the ceiling, the weight growing with each passing moment. Today, the air itself seemed thick with an unspoken grief, a shared memory of loss that resonated across the globe. 30 years. Three decades since the world had watched in horror as lives changed forever, hers included.

The sheets felt too restrictive, the silence too loud. Pulling them back, she tiptoed past the rumpled form of Lewis, still fast asleep. He'd offered to come with her, to run by the beach together, but she needed this. Needed the solitude, the rhythmic pounding of her feet against the pavement to chase away the ghosts of a past she barely remembered.

Miami slept, bathed in the faint glow of pre-dawn light, but Y/N felt wide awake, her mind a whirlwind of emotions. Stepping out onto the balcony, the salty air stung her eyes. Taking a deep breath, she gazed out at the vast expanse of the ocean, the darkness slowly giving way to a canvas of vibrant oranges and pinks.

A single tear traced a path down her cheek, a silent tribute to a love stolen too soon. Every year on this day, it was as if the world held its breath, waiting for her grief to surface. This anniversary wasn't a celebration; it was a stark reminder of the void that had forever shaped her life.

The need to move, to outrun the memories that threatened to consume her, became an insistent ache. With each step, a memory flickered to life, but one always stood out the most, the one few people knew of.

She was four, piloting her tiny kart around a makeshift track at Interlagos. The familiar scent of burnt rubber and exhaust fumes flooded her senses, transporting her back to a time before tragedy struck. Y/n grinned, her hair whipping in the wind, as she pushed her little kart to its limits.

A wild turn, a sickening jolt, and the world tilted sideways. Then, strong arms scooped her up. "Tudo bem aí, filha?" (Everything okay there, darling?)  Her father's voice, warm and reassuring. He checked her over, a playful glint in his dark brown eyes. "Você tava indo bem, se assustou?" (You were doing great, did you scare yourself?)

Y/n shook her head, a defiant tear clinging to her cheek. “Eu acho que tá bom por hoje já.” (I think that’s enough for today) Ayrton ruffled her hair, a conforting glint in his eyes. “Não pai, eu quero baixar o tempo da volta”(No dad, I wanna lap faster) little y/n stood her ground, already half way back into her kart. "Vamos voltar lá e mostrar como se faz então, Senninha” (Let’s go back there and show who’s boss then, Senninha).

The memory faded, replaced by the rhythmic sound of the waves. Y/n stopped, chest heaving. Frustration gnawed at her. She would never know that feeling of hearing him cheer her on in that deep, familiar voice again. All she had were these fleeting snippets, these echoes of a life stolen too soon.

Each stride was a battle cry against the past, a desperate attempt to find some semblance of peace. She ran until the sun climbed higher, painting the sky in vibrant hues, until her lungs burned and her legs screamed for mercy. Finally, Y/n slowed to a walk, chest heaving, sweat stinging her eyes.

Collapsing onto a weathered bench, she leaned forward, hands on her knees, gasping for breath. As the initial wave of exhaustion subsided, a new clarity washed over her. The memories would always be there, a bittersweet reminder of a love lost.

But today, she would celebrate his life, his passion, his legacy that lived on, not just in her name, but in the hearts of countless who still chanted his name at races.

Returning to the hotel, Y/n showered, the steam slowly clearing the remnants of the run and the emotional turmoil. Opening the bathroom door, she found Lewis propped up on the bed, scrolling through his phone. He looked up, a concerned look in his warm brown eyes.

"Morning," he said, his voice slightly raspy. "Early run?"

She offered a tired smile. "Needed to clear my head." She sat down on the edge of the bed, pulling a towel around her damp hair. "Big day ahead"

Lewis put down his phone, his gaze intent on her. "Yeah," he agreed, his voice softer now. "You alright?"

Taking another deep breath, she met his gaze. "Yeah, I'll be okay. Just… emotional, even more so this year"

Lewis reached out and took her hand, his touch a warm anchor in the storm of her emotions. "No judgment," he said quietly. "Today isn't easy for you, I know."

Y/n leaned into his touch, finding comfort in his understanding. "Interviews all day and the dinner at night" she sighed. "They want me to relive it all – the memories, the grief. It gets exhausting sometimes."

Lewis nodded. "Maybe you could have your people reschedule some of it. There's no need to—"

She cut him off with a gentle shake of her head. "No, Lew. I can't hide from it. Today may be hard, but it's important. It's a chance to celebrate his life, to keep his memory alive." she squeezed his hand, a newfound determination strengthening her resolve. "I just…" she hesitated, her voice thick with emotion, "I wish I could remember more."

Lewis's gaze softened further. "You may not have years of childhood memories, but you carry his spirit in you. His passion, his strength, that's part of who you are."

Y/n looked out the window, at the city slowly waking up to a new day. His words held truth. She may not have clear memories of her father, but his legacy, his love, was woven into the fabric of her being.

Taking another deep breath, she met Lewis's gaze, a small smile danced in her eyes "I hope so.”

Today would be impossibly hard. As people celebrated a hero, she would mourn a loss, but they would all be facing the future nonetheless. He may have been gone, but the love he gave her remained, with her and in her.

"I remember you my way, It’s not perfect or fair, I paint you with colours, That weren’t ever there. Feels harder these days after so long, ‘Cause my memory fades"

The sterile hotel conference room felt strangely warm, the air thick with a mix of anticipation and unspoken grief. Y/n sat opposite Galvão Bueno, the legendary Brazilian motorsport commentator, his kind eyes reflecting a lifetime of witnessing triumphs and tragedies on the track.

But this wasn't just another interview. Galvão knew Ayrton. Knew him not just as a driver, but as a friend, a competitor, a kindred spirit who left a void in Brazilian hearts, and most acutely, in Y/n's.

The interview began, a dance between formality and shared history. Galvão's questions flowed, laced with a quiet respect that Y/n appreciated. "Ayrton" he began, a nostalgic smile playing on his lips "sempre teve uma maneira diferente de cativar o público” (always had a way of captivating a room"

Y/n nodded, a flicker of curiosity sparking in her eyes. "Ele tinha” (He did) she admitted "Mas para ser bem honesta, eu lembro de sempre ficar puxando ele para sair dos lugares porque ele parava para conversar com todo mundo” (But to be honest, I remember always dragging him out of every room because he would stop and talk to everyone)

A warm chuckle escaped Galvão's lips at her confession. He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Você sabia que antes de toda corrida, ele fazia um ritualzinho? Ele parava na frente do carro, fechava os olhos, e... bom, ninguém sabe direito o que ele fazia. Mas ele tocava o carro em três lugares específicos – o nariz, a roda direita dianteira, e aqui” (Did you know that before every race, he'd have this little ritual? He'd stand by his car, close his eyes, and…well, no one knew exactly what he did, but he'd touch the car in three specific places – the nose cone, the front right wheel, and then, right here) Galvão tapped his chest over his heart.

Y/n smiled, surprised that someone still remembered that sequence. But, although this was the Ayrton Senna she knew from the countless documentaries and newsreels, how he recounted that from memory was a glimpse of a private Ayrton, a man seeking solace and strength before the roar of the engines began, not something she would notice while watching a video.

"E tem mais, Senninha” (There's more, Senninha) he said, using the affectionate nickname many Brazilians called her by. "Você sabe que ele era muito supersticioso. Ele nunca usava um capacete novo pela primeira vez em um final de semana de corrida. Sempre insistia em um mais velho, mesmo que estivesse ruim para usar.” (He was fiercely superstitious, you see. He wouldn't wear a new helmet for the first time on a race weekend. Always insisted on the old one, even if it was a little worse for wear.)

Y/n couldn't help but let out a small laugh, a welcome sound that broke the tension in the room. "Parece exatamente algo que ele faria” (That sounds exactly like something he’d do) she said, a newfound appreciation blooming in her chest.

Galvão continued, weaving a tapestry of anecdotes. He spoke of Ayrton's meticulous work ethic, his relentless pursuit of perfection, and then, with a twinkle in his eye, of his playful side. "Ele sempre arrastava os reporters brasileiros para o kart em Interlagos, lá onde você aprendeu a pilotar” (He'd always drag Brazilian reporters to go-kart at Interlagos, right there where you learned how to race" he reminisced, a fond smile creasing his face. "E deixa eu te contar, seu pai sempre ganhava da gente, por muito!" (And let me tell you, your father would always beat us, by far)

Y/n listened, captivated. These were stories of a man, not just a legend. A man who found joy in competition, even outside the high-pressure world of Formula One. As the interview progressed, a kaleidoscope of Ayrton unfolded before her, a man filled with complexities and contradictions, yet undeniably her father.

Stepping out of the stifling conference room, Y/n felt a wave of exhaustion wash over her. Galvão's interview had stirred a potent cocktail of emotions within her – a heady mix of pride, nostalgia, and a gnawing sense of loss. Back in her hotel room, she found her ant Viviane unpacking a basket of goodies as she waited for her youngest niece. The scent of warm pão de queijo filled the air, a familiar comfort amidst the whirlwind of emotions.

"Você chegou, florzinha" (You’re here, little flower) the elder woman said, her voice as warm as the sun, pulling Y/n into a tight embrace. "Como foi?” (How did it go)

Y/n sank into the hug, the scent of lavender and her ant’s comforting embrace temporarily pushing aside the weight of the interview. "Foi bom” (It was good) she mumbled, pulling away slightly. “Galvão knew Dad well, that's for sure” y/n’s changed to English, hoping it’d be okay to use the language she didn’t have to think so hard to answer back in.

Both women sat by the outdoor sitting area of the room, the crash of the waves a comforting distraction as y/n ate the last bits of the cheese bread that were being served all day during the interviews on the anniversary and promotions for the new Netflix show.

"I believe everything's going well for the dinner latter tonight” the younger offered, more out of obligation than conviction. Viviane’s gaze sharpened, the lines around her eyes crinkling with a quiet understanding. She held Y/n’s gaze until she asked "But something troubles you, doesn't it?"

Y/n hesitated, her fingers fiddling with the edge of her shirt. It was a familiar pattern her family knew all too well, the switch to English, the fiddling, the lack of glint in the eyes she had inherited from Ayrton.

Taking a deep breath, y/n confessed, "It's just…all these interviews, all these stories about Dad. I feel like everyone knew a part of him I never did."

A shadow flickered across Viviane’s face, a brief echo of the grief they both still carried. She reached out, gently squeezing Y/n's hand. "My love" she began, her voice soft yet firm “Beco was a complex man. Even those closest to him couldn't fully grasp him. He was a whirlwind, a force of nature on the track, but off it…" she paused, a wistful smile gracing her lips. "He was a private man, and yes, perhaps a little distant at times. He lived for his racing, dedicating every fiber to it."

Y/n nodded, a familiar ache tightening her chest. "It's not that I blame him," she said quietly. "He was the best."

Viviane’s smile softened. "He was, my darling. But being the best came at a cost. It left little room for the mundane, the everyday things that build memories."

A flicker of a childhood memory sparked in Y/n's mind – the faint scent of her father's cologne, the warmth of his hand enveloping hers as they walked through a park. They weren't grand gestures, but they were hers, proof of a love that existed beyond trophies and championships.

The elder saw the shift in Y/n's eyes, the glimmer of a forgotten memory. "Não se compare com o Galvão ou com qualquer outro, meu amor” (Don't compare yourself to Galvão or the others, my love) she said gently. "Você é a filha dele. Você conheceu o Beco, o homem com o mesmo olhar que o seu” (You are his daughter. You knew Beco, the man with the same eyes as yours)

Y/n's gaze drifted out to the bustling Miami cityscape, a blur compared to the vivid image forming in her mind's eye – a playful smile on her father's face as he taught her how to say pão de queijo. It was a fleeting memory, but a precious one nonetheless.

The stories, though fragmented, were pieces of a larger puzzle, a picture of her father that was starting to take shape, not just as a legendary driver, but as a man capable of love, laughter, and quiet moments of joy.

As they finished their lunch, Viviane placed a comforting hand on Y/n's cheek. "Go now, my darling," she said, her voice soft yet strong. "Celebrate your father, honor his memory. But don't forget to celebrate the love you shared, the love that lives on within you."

Y/n nodded, tears welling up in her eyes, this time tears of gratitude for the woman who had been a constant source of love and support throughout her life. Leaning in, they embraced tightly. "Obrigada, tia. Por tudo" (Thank you, antie. For everything) she whispered, the words thick with emotion.

As she left the hotel room later, for another round of interviews before the official dinner, Y/n went to the window, gazing out at the ocean once again, taking a deep breath, she whispered, "Obrigada, pai. Por tudo.” (Thank you, dad. For everything). It was a simple phrase, but for her, it held the weight of a lifetime of love and an unspoken promise to keep his legacy alive.

"And these aren’t tears because you’re gone, But for all the years that we lost, All those times I missed that love, Had it just for a moment"

As the night dawned in Miami, the heat dissipated but the humidity continued to clung to the city like a second skin. Y/n bustled around the room, a flurry of nervousness. The dinner to celebrate Ayrton Senna’s legacy started in a couple of hours and although the event had been meticulously planned for weeks, and by at least 30 people, the weight of the world felt concentrated on Y/n shoulder’s, the formal host to the dinner.

Lewis emerged from the shower, a towel wrapped around his lower waist, beads of water clinging to his dark braids. He stopped short at the sight of Y/n, a smile spreading across his face as he took sight of her sat perched on the edge of the bed, a faded white t-shirt of his hanging loosely on her frame, a white towel turbaned around her wet hair.

"Planning on hitting the town like that?" he teased, a playful glint in his eyes. "Although" he added, his voice dropping a touch lower, "I do love the look."

Y/n laughed, a sound that banished the last vestiges of worry from Lewis's heart. "Not quite," she said, her smile widening. "I’m trying to figure out what to post"

He noticed her phone held open on the bed, displaying two video options. As he walked closer, his bare chest brushing against hers for a fleeting moment – a small reminder of the intimacy they shared – Y/n looked up at him, her eyes sparkling with a light he hadn't yet seen earlier in the day.

"Help me choose" she said, her voice filled with a newfound energy.

He picked her up and sat her on his laps, occupying her place by the edge of the bed, the scent of his shower gel a subtle but pleasant counterpoint to the sweet aroma of the lotion she had applied. He leaned over to see the two videos.

The first one, showed a baby Y/n, barely a year old, toddling through a sun-dappled garden, her chubby arms flailing as she chased a flurry of brightly colored butterflies. In the background, Ayrton with a gentle smile on his face, playfully swatting the butterflies away from his daughter.

The second video, showed a slightly older Y/n, around two years-old, in a swimming pool. Ayrton, submerged in the water next to her, was demonstrating how to blow bubbles. Y/n, a mischievous glint in her eyes, mimicked his actions, creating a flurry of glistening bubbles that danced around her face.

"The bubble one. Something about that mischievous gleam in your eyes always has me hooked” Lewis said, amusement dancing in his voice

Y/n laughed, a sound so genuine and unburdened that it made Lewis's heart skip a beat. "I was always a rowdy thing" she admitted, a playful glint in her own eyes.

"A charming one, at that" Lewis confirmed, reaching out to kiss her shoulder. Picking the video, Lewis handed the phone back to her. "Let the world see that side to you" Y/n grinned, tapping on the screen to schedule the post.

She got up and disappeared into the bathroom to get dressed, and a few minutes later Lewis walked into Y/n intently listening to her phone on speaker, as she fiddled with a stray curl as she spoke.

"Adriane" she soothed; her voice laced with a warmth that cut through the phone's static. "Você está indo como minha convidada, lembra?” (You're coming as my guest, remember?)

A nervous laugh tinkled on the other end. “Eles sabem disso?” (Do they know that?). Andriane, Ayrton's last girlfriend and a prominent Brazilian television personality.

Y/n bit her lip, a pang of sympathy shooting through her. "Eu sei.” (I do know) she sighed. "Eu sei que eles nunca realmente te aceitaram, mas você era diferente. Você foi a única que ele me apresentou” (I know they never really accepted you, but you were different. You were the only one he introduced to me."

A brief silence followed, then Adriane spoke, her voice softer now. "Ele queria uma família, Y/n. Uma família para você. Ele sempre falava isso, seu futuro, com ele” (He wanted a family, Y/n. A family for you. He talked about it all the time, your future, with him)

Y/n's heart clenched. Memories flickered – fleeting glimpses of her father smiling at her from across a dinner table, his eyes holding a tenderness she hadn't quite understood at the time. Perhaps, she thought, there had been more to those moments than she'd realized.

"Obrigada Adriane, por tudo. Por ter sido parte da vida dele, e por ser parte da minha, do seu jeito.” (Thank you Adriane, for everything. For being a part of his life, and for being a part of mine, in your own way) she whispered, her voice thick with emotion.

Adriane sniffled softly and then laughed “Você é tão charmosa quanto ele, Senninha” (You are as much of a charmer as he was, Senninha) a sound that banished the last traces of tension. "Vai dar tudo certo.” (Everything will be alright)

With a final exchange of goodbyes, Y/n hung up. Glancing over at Lewis, who was attempting to catch the few Portuguese words he could understand. She took a deep breath. "My family’s not gonna make this any easier" she sighed, her voice hesitant.

Lewis turned and reached for her, pulling her by the waist with a questioning look etched on his face. Y/n, feeling a flicker of anxiety, explained the conversation, but mostly of the unwavering loyalty she felt towards the woman who held such a significant piece of her father's story.

As she finished, Lewis placed a gentle hand on her cheek. "You miss him, don't you?" he asked softly, his eyes filled with understanding as you gave him a sad smile and nod.

"It doesn't matter how long it's been" Lewis continued, his voice firm yet gentle. "Grief doesn't have a deadline."

Y/n remained silent, the weight of his words settling in. He knew the anniversary was a constant reminder, a punch to the gut every year. He could only imagine the whirlwind of emotions it brought – the bittersweet memories mixed with the crushing weight of what could have been.

"It feels unfair, sometimes…" she started, her voice catching signaling she wouldn’t complete her thoughts. Lewis tightened his hold on her, pulling her closer. "It is unfair," he agreed, his voice a low rumble against her ear.

Y/n leaned into his touch, seeking solace in his words and the steady beat of his heart. The dam finally broke, and a light sob went thought her body. Tears streamed down her face, hot and silent. Lewis held her close, whispering reassurances against her hair, letting her feel without judgment.

"Every year," she whispered, her voice thick with emotion, "it's like a punch to the gut. A reminder of all the birthdays, holidays, just…everyday moments I missed with him." Her voice cracked. "Everyone has stories, memories. They remember his laugh, his jokes, his warmth. All I have are these…flashes of moments, barely enough to string together a semblance of who he was."

Lewis didn't try to fix it, to offer empty platitudes. He simply held her gaze as she spoke, a silent promise etched in his eyes. He wouldn't try to replace the memories she never had, but he would be a part of her future, a shoulder to cry on, a hand to hold.

“It's okay to mourn the future that was stolen from you” he whispered, his voice gentle, as Y/n leaned into his touch, a flicker of something akin to peace flickering in her eyes. "Do you think he would have liked me?" she asked, her voice barely a whisper.

The question hung heavy in the air. It was a question she'd probably grappled with for years, a silent fear gnawing at the edges of her grief. Lewis knew he couldn't give her a definitive answer, but he could offer her the solace of a possibility.

"There's no doubt he would have loved you fiercely." he said, his voice firm with conviction. “And he would have been so proud of the woman you've become."

Silence settled between them once more, but this time it was a comfortable silence, filled with a newfound understanding. "Thank you," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "For being here, for listening, for understanding."

Y/n turned, her eyes meeting his in the mirror, a fresh wave of tear forming in her eyelids. A faint smile tugged at the corner of her lips.

"These aren't sad tears" she explained, wiping away at her eyes "They're just…wish you were here' kind of tears… For this" Y/n gestured at the phone on the counter. "For the celebration, for being surrounded by people who loved him. I just wish he could be here too."

Her voice softened, an acceptance in her eyes. The pain and loss would always be there, a part of her story. But there was also space for joy, for celebrating his life, and for building a future for herself.

As he pulled her into a warm embrace, Lewis whispered into her ear, "He is here, Y/n. In you, in your strength, in the mischief you still carry in your eyes. Every step you take forward is partly because of his love for you."

They stood there for a moment longer, a silent conversation passing between them. Y/n pulled away, wiping the last vestiges of moisture from her cheeks.

"Alright then" she said, a playful glint back in her eyes. "Let's go celebrate Dad. And show Miami a little Brazilian hospitality."

Lewis grinned. "Lead the way" his arms wrapping her and turning her around so he could kiss her.

The 30th anniversary of his death, although grim and a meticulously planned affair, held a significance that went beyond events, interview and RSVPs. It was a celebration of a life well-lived, a father cherished, and a daughter determined to carry his legacy forward, one mischievous bubble at a time.

______________________________________________________________

TAGLIST - @saturnssunflower @xoscar03 @chocolatediplomatdreamerzonk @happy-golden-hour @vicurious28

@0710khj @thecubanator2 @neilakk @bigratbitchsworld @adriswrld

@fearfam69691 @cmleitora

[momo-de-avis]

Every tour I do this thing where, to save time, I decide not to talk about This Thing, but This Thing happens to be, for example, a massive gothic church or the portuguese pavement, just something they Can See Clearly, so they still ask me a bunch of questions and I end up wasting more time than if I had originally addressed the situation

[vishnu2004]

June 5 - Guest Lecture, Musashi University

Today, we traveled to Musashi University to listen to a guest lecture and meet University students in small groups. The University campus was small and quaint, with luscious green trees lining the smooth pavement linking the different buildings. The University was about an hour away, and the lecture hall we were seated in upon arrival was quite large. The professor discussed the value and importance of identity in several contexts, including our cultural background, personal experiences, and relative power. This lecture felt especially relevant given all the different backgrounds and cultures in the room. After the lecture, we spoke in small groups with some of the Japanese students, all of whom were extremely kind and generally eager to talk with us. We finished off the official day with a delicious chicken steak lunch from an on-campus food truck before doing a quick walking tour around campus. In the afternoon, I went to Ginza to explore the clothes and colognes.

Academic Reflection

Since there was no reading for today’s excursion, my academic reflection will focus on my conversation with the Japanese students as they related to the prompts provided by the professor. Three students were paired with Chelsea, Kai, and me. They were all extremely kind and interesting people; one girl had four different backgrounds, and therefore, spoke four different languages: English, Japanese, Spanish, and Portuguese!

I found several similarities with the one girl with various backgrounds. For one, she also liked Kendrick Lamar, one of my favorite rap artists. Furthermore, she also put down Interstellar as her favorite movie and had read 1984, my favorite book. We didn’t feel as though the assigned climate change prompt would spark deep conversation with the Japanese students, so instead, we talked about our future plans and goals. One of the girls talked about how she wants to eventually leave Tokyo and perhaps explore a different city like Osaka or leave the country entirely. Another was relatively quiet, but said that she’s very interested in sports like rock climbing and would consider playing professionally in the future.

All in all, we found that the perceived barriers between us and them were just that: perceived. When we got to talking, we found more similarities than differences with the Japanese students, which was shocking to me considering the sheer distance between us. Of course, there were differences. They enjoyed Japanese shows and artists we had never heard of. Their favorite foods were things we had tried just a few days ago. But in the end, we all found a shared sense of humanity amongst people who would, at face value, be totally different.

[era-eu]

PSA

as more and more tourists come and visit Portugal, i beg of you: pls be mindful of the weather and the terrain.

The calçada portuguesa (Portuguese sidewalk/pavement) is everywhere and is slippery as fuck, even for us. Most roads have holes or are uneven.

Late spring and summer time are lovely but very hot. I'm tired of seeing y'all burnt to a crisp, red as a lobster and almost passing out from dehydration or heat exhaustion.

And for the love of all things holy, LISBON IS FULL OF HILLS. YOU WILL HAVE TO WALK UP HILLS ALL THE FUCKING TIME.

Bring appropriate clothes and shoes (even if they don't look super pretty in photos), plan your trip properly, buy water bottles and apply sunscreen every few hours.

also don't stop in the middle of the road/sidewalk just to take pictures or to look at your map. We, normal people, need to get to work on time.

[photography-is-silence-fiction]

Triângulos (Triangles) © Ricardo Félix aka Photography is Silence Fiction:

[thedailymobile]

“Tile After Tile”

[just-fandoms-blog]

hii I love your page and squidbob content and by the way I just checked the site you said to watch sb episodes and they're there but some eps from season 13 aren't there you know if they're gonna add it or not?and pls can you share links for these episodes yellow pavement and abandom twists pls honey if you can

Thank you so much!! 🥹 I'm so happy you like my page!

As for the sites they at some point add the rest of the episodes but I have no idea when they update them

Abandon twits i have full only in brazilian portuguese but can't find it in english

And yellow pavement I don't have at all in entirity as of yet and I'm eagerly waiting for it to be uploaded

[poorlytunedukulele]

Destinytober - Neon Metropolis

October 10, 2947, 19:17; The Last City, Earth

Azra has trouble finding the restaurant.  It’s on a densely-packed street where the shop fronts and stalls spill over onto the pavement.  Everywhere are neon-lit signs, flashing messages in English and Chinese and Portuguese. Azra has managed to get along with just her English and Portuguese all these years (even if her dialect seems to be some lost European variant rather than the Brazilian Portuguese spoke in the City). The Chinese characters were gibberish to her without her Ghost’s translation.

People’s faces are bathed in unnatural shades of red and green and pink, light spilling out of shops like sunbeams on the street.  The shadows in contrast are impossible to see through.  The air is heavy with the smells of cooking spices and perfumes- and still, after all these months, the tang of burning plastic and soot.  Some parts of the City have rebounded fast after the Red War, but the scars still haven’t had time to heal fully.

Azra only finds the place because of the neon sign: a two-frame animation of a wok flipping some vegetables that flickers back and forth.  She’s fifteen minutes late by the time she pushes through the crowd and slides into the empty seat near Suraya Hawthorne.  “Sorry, I got lost,” she apologizes.

“You.  Getting lost.”  Hawthorne’s voice is thick with a teasing disbelief.  She looks well enough, clean and loose-limbed with ease.  Azra’s freshened up as best she can, but it’s just not worth the effort to scrub every speck of dirt from her gear when tomorrow she’ll be out in the thick of it again.  She hopes she’s not too scrappy-looking for company.

“Not all of the maps are up-to-date with all the reconstruction and this isn’t even technically a building,” she complains.  The restaurant is listed on the Net, but without an address.  Azra now realized that’s because it doesn’t have an address. It’s a stand squeezed in the alleyway between two other shops, just an L-shaped bar and a kitchen of sorts shoved underneath an awning.

The patron of the stand bustles over to her and Azra gives a polite (if apprehensive) nod.  She never knows what to do at places like this.  There’s nothing posted on the walls.  Is there a physical menu?  Should she have looked it up ahead of time?  Is this one of those places where they only have like two things?

Before she can open her mouth, Hawthorne leans over the bar and starts chatting up the server.  It’s astonishing how quickly the businesswoman morphs from the stern, bustling figure into a smiling and conversational host. They talk back and forth for a while, about the rebuilding, about the difficulties of getting good cuts of pork, how they’re out of fresh parsley and have to use dried until the grocer can be properly bribed.  The woman eventually hustles away again, promising to set them up with ‘the good stuff’ without bothering to take their order.

Hawthorne looks back at Azra and almost laughs.  “Look at you, all tongue-tied.  Really out of your element here, aren’t you?”

No kidding.  This street seems built for sensory overload, all flashing lights and people shouting back and forth at each other.  The cold white LED lights from the stand are already starting to give Azra a headache.  “I’ve never been much of a City person,” she demurs.

“Do you even talk to normal people?”  Hawthorne’s tone is friendly.  Azra still blinks for a second, taken aback.  

She’s probably not meaning to be insulting, Spark silently comments.  Not her fault the word ‘normal’ leaves an unpleasant taste in Azra’s mouth.

“Yes,” Azra says, feeling defensive now.  “I’ve just never been good with small talk.”

“Devrim seems to beg to differ,” Hawthorne says.

“Tea talk is different,” Azra insists.

She thinks Hawthorne agrees with that point, at least.  There’s no more time for conversation- the food arrives.  The server takes another minute to trade more words with Suraya before the arrival of another customer sends her hurrying off.

Azra has already begun the process of shoveling food into her mouth.  Truthful to Hawthorne’s recommendation, the stir-fry is very good.  There is some kind of peanut sauce on it- with the garlic it mixes to make a broad savory base.  The peas and carrots add a nice sweetness.

Hawthorne leans on her elbow, taking it in.  It seems there is no end to her amusement this evening.  “Do you always eat like someone’s about to take your food away from you?”

“It’s good,” Azra says, muffled by a mouthful of rice.  She takes time to chew and swallow before she speaks again.  “These days I’m lucky if I even have time to eat, much less something hot and fresh.”

“Glad I decided to invite you out, I guess,” Hawthorne comments.  She takes Azra’s cue and begins eating her own stir-fry, albeit at a much more reasonable pace.  “You know, for someone who proclaims a dislike of the City, you sure do seem a fan of the benefits of civilization.”

“I can enjoy it in short doses,” Azra says.  Especially if she can find some time to cool down, take a walk somewhere more open or find a quiet room to clean her weapons.  Right now she’s running high on adrenaline and endorphins.  It’ll only last so long before she crashes.  

Spark interjects to explain. “At the beginning of the Red War, we spent about five days here.  That broke the record by about two and a half days.”

“Really,” Hawthorne says, sounding genuinely surprised.  “You’ve never stayed in the City for three days straight.  In your entire life?”

“There’s not a whole lot to do here,” Azra says.

“What do you mean,” Hawthorne complains.  “People don’t just sit around when they’re not working.  There’s tons of stuff to do!”

“Like what?” Azra challenges.

“Eating?” Hawthorne says, gesturing to Azra’s bowl.  “Don’t tell me you’re making City-class Ramen in a pot over your campfire.”

“Maybe once or twice,” Azra says.  Cayde had made a few good efforts, but he wasn’t much of a cook and Tevis had refused to help on moral grounds.  “Besides, eating happens at maximum like three times a day.  Not exactly a big timesink.”

“Not when you inhale it like that,” Hawthorne comments.  “What about shopping?”

“I don’t need more stuff,” Azra says. “What would I even do with it?”

“Do you even own anything to wear that isn’t armor?”

 -

“You don’t have a dress or a suit, do you,” Andal asked, sounding vaguely disappointed.

“Andal,” Shiro chided. “She’s three, and she’s not City-bound. I would bet fifty Glimmer that she doesn’t even own clothes.”

“I own clothes,” Azra said defensively.  What, did he think she wore her gear on top of bare skin?

“Base layers don’t count,” Shiro teased.  He turned back to Andal.  “Think. Have you literally ever seen her not wearing armor?”

Andal looked down at his own clothing, then back up at Azra (who, to her own chagrin, was dressed in her Strike gear).  “Azra,” he said, sounding aghast.  “What do you sleep in?”

“Uh,” Azra said. “This?”  What else would she wear?

 -

“I used to,” Azra says. “Still, it doesn’t take three days to go clothes shopping.”

Hawthorne is getting too invested in this debate.  “Go to a museum.  Or the movies.”  She pauses, then only semi-jokingly asks, “You have seen a movie before, yes?”

“You don’t need to be in the City to see a movie,” Azra shoots back.

“Like, not streamed on a tablet.  On a big screen.”

“Yes,” Azra says. “Get a projector set up, bunch of like, hammocks-“

“In a theater,” Hawthorne says.  “You’ve never been to a movie theater?   Not in ninety years?”

“Eighty-nine,” Azra corrects automatically.  “And fifty-seven of those don’t count.”

“We need to go,” Hawthorne says.  “Right now.” She sets down her chopsticks like she’s about to get up and walk off.

Azra is appalled. “What gives you the idea that you can stick me inside a dark room packed with other people and blast loud music at me and I’ll have a good time?”

Hawthorne sits thinking for a heartbeat.  “Huh. I guess I never thought of it like that before.”  She picks up her chopsticks again and pokes at a chunk of carrot.

Azra shoves another bite of food in her mouth.

“Back when I was a kid, it was always so exciting,” Hawthorne says.  “I’d go as often as I could.  It was a chance to pretend I was somewhere else, you know?  Imagine a life beyond the City.  Marc would take me out sometimes.”

Azra is reminded that the same things can mean wildly different things to different people. Like these neon lights- they make Azra vaguely nervous, a little uncomfortable, but surely to some of the people bustling by they are exciting?  Beautiful, even?

“What kind of movies do they show here?” Spark asked.  He was good at that, picking up conversation when Azra let it hang.

Hawthorne leaned back a bit, reminiscing.  “Oh, everything, but I always liked action.  Different theaters have different selections of the classics.  I must have watched Fistfull of Dollars a hundred times.”

Azra snorted.  “Oh, I remember that one.  Cayde went around drawling and squinting at everyone for a whole week afterwards.”

Hawthorne’s eyebrows twitch as she seems to conjure a funny mental image.

It seems natural for Azra to keep talking.  She does. “We’d get a projector and some speakers- and a bunch of hammocks, like I said, or a pile of pillows, or the futon.” Azra can picture it like it was yesterday- the dampness of settling dew, the night air, the fireflies.  “Tevis would always fall asleep like fifteen minutes after the movie started, no matter what it was.  And Shiro and Andal would get in these ridiculous arguments until Andal’s Ghost would pause the movie and make them shut up.”

“What was your favorite?” Hawthorne asks.

Azra thinks.  “It wasn’t a movie, exactly,” she says.  “But there was these, like, documentaries. Master Vanna said they were about Earth’s biosphere before the Golden Age.  Whenever something really cool came up I’d make a note and try to track it down later and see if it was still there.”  Sometimes they weren’t, but more often than not they were.  “Did you know in Old Japan that there’s these giant salamanders?  They get like six feet long.”

“Sounds amazing,” Hawthorne says.

“You wanna go?” Azra asks impulsively.  “Right now?” It’s daytime in Japan.

“I’ve never been east of the Cosmodrome,” Hawthorne comments.  “Is it safe?”

“The Fallen don’t care about anything outside the major cities,” Azra says.  “Even then, it’s broad daylight.  They’re not going to be poking around outdoors.”

Hawthorne still seems to hesitate for a second.  Then she puts down her chopsticks.  “To hell with it,” she decided.  “Let’s go. Right now.”

“At least finish your food first,” Azra says, aghast.  

AO3 linky!

[demolition-tools]

Jackhammer: The Ultimate Pneumatic Tool for Heavy-Duty Jobs

Introduction Jackhammers, also known as pneumatic breakers, are essential tools in the construction and demolition industries. Designed to break through tough materials like concrete, pavement, and asphalt, jackhammers are a common sight in road construction, renovation, and demolition projects. Rama Mining Tools (RMT) is a renowned manufacturer, exporter, and supplier of high-quality pneumatic breakers. Offering a range of products suited for light, medium, and heavy-duty jobs, RMT ensures that each jackhammer is designed with power, safety, durability, and affordability in mind. In addition to their jackhammers, RMT also offers Paving Breakers designed for roadwork and heavy-duty tasks.

What is a Jackhammer? A jackhammer is a powerful tool that uses compressed air to drive a hammering mechanism that breaks apart hard surfaces. Also called a Martillo neumático in Spanish or Perfurador Pneumáticos in Portuguese, miner tools are primarily used for breaking up concrete, pavement, and other hard materials. The air-driven mechanism delivers high-impact blows, making them highly efficient for heavy-duty tasks. Depending on the job, the Breaker Machine 50kg Price and Breaker Machine 25kg Price can vary, with lighter machines typically being more affordable while still providing excellent performance.

Types of Jackhammers by Weight Class Pneumatic jackhammers are available in various weight classes depending on the job at hand. Rama Mining Tools offers pneumatic breakers in the following classes:

Light-duty (35 lb class): Ideal for smaller jobs like light demolition or surface work.

Medium-duty (50–70 lb class): A versatile option for medium-scale tasks, providing a balance between power and maneuverability.

Heavy-duty (90 lb class): Built for the most demanding jobs, such as breaking through reinforced concrete or thick pavement, typically used in major construction projects and roadwork.

In terms of Hammer Sizes and Weights in kg, these tools range from lighter, more portable options to heavy-duty tools, ensuring that users have the right equipment for their specific tasks.

Applications of Jackhammers The versatility of pneumatic jackhammers makes them suitable for a wide range of applications:

Demolition: Perfect for tearing down old structures or breaking through walls and floors.

Road construction and repair: Essential for removing sections of roads or highways to prepare for new layers of asphalt or concrete.

Bridgework and street repair: Often used in bridge construction and repairs, as well as general street maintenance.

Renovation and heavy-duty construction: Ideal for remodeling projects, especially when it involves concrete or other tough materials.

Pneumatic Jackhammers: The Power Behind Air-Driven Tools A pneumatic jackhammer operates by using compressed air to drive the hammering motion. Unlike electric or hydraulic models, pneumatic jackhammers offer several advantages:

Greater power: Air-driven tools provide higher impact force, making them more effective for tough materials.

Durability: With fewer moving parts, pneumatic jackhammers are often more durable and require less maintenance than electric models.

Safety: They are less likely to overheat, providing an added safety benefit for operators working long hours.

Key Features of Rama Mining Tools Jackhammers

Operator Safety: RMT jackhammers are designed with the safety of the operator in mind. The tools are engineered to reduce vibrations and minimize fatigue, ensuring a safer working environment for professionals.

Maximum Power and Efficiency: Mining tools are built to deliver the highest impact energy, making quick work of even the toughest surfaces like concrete and pavement.

Durability: Made with high-quality materials, RMT’s pneumatic breakers are designed to withstand the rigors of constant use in demanding conditions, whether it's road construction or demolition.

Serviceability: RMT jackhammers are easy to maintain and service, allowing users to keep their tools in top condition without long downtimes for repairs.

Affordable Price: Despite their powerful performance and durability, RMT jackhammers are competitively priced, offering great value for businesses without compromising on quality.

Different Shank Sizes for Versatility Rama Mining Tools’ pneumatic breakers come with varying shank sizes, typically ranging from 25 mm to 32 mm (1 inch to 1¼ inches). The size of the shank affects the performance of the jackhammer:

Smaller shanks (25 mm): Suitable for more precise or lighter tasks.

Larger shanks (32 mm): Ideal for heavy-duty applications where maximum impact is needed.

Choosing the Right Jackhammer for Your Job Selecting the correct jackhammer for your job depends on the nature and scope of the project:

Light-duty jobs: For smaller tasks, such as breaking light pavement or thin concrete, a lighter 35 lb jackhammer will suffice.

Medium-duty tasks: For more demanding work like moderate demolition or street repairs, a 50-70 lb class tool offers the right balance of power and manageability.

Heavy-duty work: Large-scale construction projects, roadworks, and major demolition jobs require the power of a 90 lb class jackhammer, which can break through even the thickest surfaces.

Why Rama Mining Tools Jackhammers Stand Out Rama Mining Tools has earned a reputation as a leading manufacturer of pneumatic jackhammers &exporter of pneumatic jackhammers from India. Here's why their products are trusted worldwide:

High-quality construction: Each jackhammer is built with top-tier materials to ensure durability and longevity.

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[atlaslisboa]

Portuguese pavement makers fear death of centuries-old tradition | Reuters

[aequoranimae]

18-19 june

We touched down in Brussels and I had seen nothing from my window since the mountains of Turkey and the great Black Sea had softened into the unending fields of Eastern Europe—there was a thick layer of cloud lying low over Belgium, and it was raining. The quietness of the airport only added to the sense that our plane had left summer somewhere in Austria, for it only took a minute's wait and a cursory glance from the border officer to send me through into the waiting city. My memories of Europe are heavy with Heathrow and Fiumicino where the queues stretched the length of terminals and the security staff were always barking orders and snatching up bags for inspection. The place was so understaffed that a middle-aged Francophone woman decided I was the appropriate person to show something stuck to the back of a boarding pass and ask where her baggage could be found. I haltingly replied to her query that yes, I could speak a little French, though my high-school knowledge of the language probably wasn't the main barrier to my finding the information she sought. Peut-etre l'homme la-bas, I mumbled, pointing in the direction of the manned oversized luggage counter, the only member of airport staff in view. Hopefully she found her bag drop.

I followed the signs to the bus and stepped beyond the airport walls where I was met at once with a faceful of cigarette smoke. In Australia the air on the city pavements is sickly sweet and smells like fruit lollies, here it smells like tobacco. When I finally alighted the airport service bus in the centre of town I found those same scents outside every office building, where workers stood smoking, sheltering in doorways from the downpour. It was raining a lot and unlike the more accustomed locals passing me by I had no umbrella or raincoat, so I got wet. I stood with my little suitcase in a metro car, damp and sweaty, until the speaker announced first in Dutch, then in French, the station Comte de Flandre (already I show my Francophone bias). I'm staying in a large hostel just on the north side of the canal, a fifteen or twenty minute walk from the very heart of Brussels. It's an enormous brick building with probably hundreds of rooms, and the staff are very kind.

I still had the late afternoon and evening at my disposal, so I walked out to find what was going on. In hindsight, I really ought to have done something about the rain issue, but I just refused the concept of buying an umbrella for one day of a month-long trip and thus was soaked (nor would I even entertain the idea of a cheap plastic poncho like so many obvious tourists fumbling about, I have too much vanity). First I came across a small bakery specialising in pasteis de nata (Portuguese custard tarts), so I bought one and continued on, ending up in the square of the Eglise Sainte-Catherine. This old gothic church is like those I remember from the Netherlands—I took shelter inside its walls with the prayer-makers for a little while, but the rain was going nowhere. So I kept walking, following the glimpses of ornate stonework and gothic spires that I caught at the ends of alleyways. Eventually I came upon Brussels' Grand Place.

Standing in the centre of this tiled square looking around, one can almost believe nothing in the city has changed since the 19th century. Almost everywhere else huge housing developments and postwar office buildings are merged into the same streets as the beautiful and ancient. In the Grand Place all four sides are lined with those towering gothic things with a thousand statues and tiny spires, sometimes gilded with gold borders. At this time of the afternoon the square was heaving with tourists, even in the miserable weather, I felt even more defiant as I walked on through the puddles in my canvas shoes. Every second shop here was a cheap Belgian chocolate shop or a chain selling bastardised waffles to the unsuspecting—well, I knew better, and even if I was very wet and very hungry, I was pleased with myself. I saw the Galeries Royales Saint Hubert and a few more churches, but by this time I was feeling very chilly. I found a trendy food hall where I could pick up a bowl of pasta and overhear my first couple of obnoxious Australian tourists before dragging my feet onto the metro back across town.

As I lay in my bunk bed that night I was hit all at once by a torrent of horrors—in local time I had been awake since around three in the morning, and had only slept for a few hours before that. My brain was exhausted yet haywire, and the panic only subsided when I could no longer stay awake on a physical level, and I passed out where I lay. It was five-thirty in the morning when I woke from this coma, though I stayed in bed for a few hours more until the light had fully crept in. It was still grey outside but no longer raining, which was fortunate given my hooded jumper was still hanging sodden in my room. I walked down the street to a local boulangerie, very traditional with racks of freshly baked croissants up the ceiling. My favourite is the escargot, which I ate on my way into town, wandering with only vague direction through the streets. At this hour there were almost no tourists, only that very European thing of rubbish bags piled loose on the pavement and vans delivering produce to restaurants down too-narrow alleys. I walked through the Grand Place again and it was almost empty.

One thing I like about Europe is that they sit down for their coffees. By nature, of course, the takeaway coffee appeals to me, since I can retreat to my own corner and don't have that sense of inconveniencing the entire world by taking up a table. But I felt quite comfortable when I sat down at a popular little spot I found in the district of Stalingrad (I cannot possibly account for the name, and in fact I find the mystery makes it all the more amusing). My cafe mocha came as a rich milky coffee over real chocolate with the customary ginger biscuit on the side. I was entertained while I drank by the coffee shop's resident dog—it was this enormous, hulking bulldog with the widest-set shoulders I have ever seen. When I first approached the cafe I watched it struggle one stocky leg at a time up the steps. The young man behind the counter told me his name was Marcel; his picture was even included at the back of the menu.

I was on the steps of the Royal Museums of Fine Arts when the doors opened at ten, too excited for words. You must understand this was why I came to Brussels to begin with, all for one room in the gallery of the old masters. I seemed to be the only person who had already bought their ticket online so I sailed right through and raced frantic through all the pictures of Christ and the Dutch merchants—just as I was losing confidence and began attempts to load a map on my phone (in my haste, I had not picked up a paper copy in the forum), I saw a glimpse of it through a doorway at the end of the hall.

Marat assassine is my favourite of all paintings, I have loved it since I first studied the French Revolution in high school. Its composition is beautiful, it is painted like a classical martyrdom. Jaques-Louis David completed this work the same year his dear friend Marat died; rather than paint Marat as he was when he lived, he makes him a saint in death. Marat is not viewed so fondly in history today, which is part of why I like this work. It is not quite the same as idealised portraits of particular kings and tyrants. David's Marat may have made the sacrifice of a saint but his powers were not ordained by God. His labours are the ink stains on his fingers, his other hand still clutching the pen as he reclines, his revolutionary spirit still living.

The other highlight of the old masters works was the paintings of Pieter Bruegel the Elder. These remarkable pictures covered all sorts of scenes—religious ones, but in a monstrous reality where all things are gorey and strange. That he painted in the 16th century is truly astounding, his works seemed more fitting for the surrealist Margritte gallery next door. In his The Fall of the Rebel Angels there is a depravity and horror that no typical scenes of hell and its fire and brimstone can muster. What was once holy has been twisted beyond recognition.

After a wander through the museum showing the works of Rene Margritte (which are very interesting, but I find surrealism difficult to swallow), I stepped back into the street to find the sun had come out for the first time since I arrived. I stopped by an Italian deli to collect a baguette and a cannoli which I ate in the Square du Petit Sablon, a small garden with a fountain and many fine statues representing the old guilds of Brussels. There were not too many people about and the sun was shining truly then at midday, warming that old stone part of the city. Unlike the streets below at the base of the hill, this part of town seemed mostly untouched. Across the street was the grand Church of Our Lady of the Sablon, another gothic church, this time with beautiful stained glass windows whose colours caught the light of that unexpected sunshine. The path back down the hill was lined on either side with shops of antiques and fine art

I was tired by now, but determined, and so I made it back to the Grand Place by half past one to enter the Hotel de Ville, the owner of that particularly good spire which extends above the Brussels city skyline. I was quite shocked (and a little unsteadied) to find that it was almost completely empty, which seemed unusual since the square below was packed. Perhaps they just didn't know you could actually go inside. The interior rooms were very grand, a bit like a palace, and indeed they were filled with portraits of royals and lords, and the windows had stained glass emblems that depicted the shields of noble families. There were also symbols of justice and trade and Brussels as a city, administrated from within these gilded halls. I walked entirely alone through these rooms feeling a bit awkward. Every wall in the building that wasn't weighed down with paintings was covered instead with a tapestry depicting some Biblical scene. The last room was my favourite—its frescos were only painted in 1893, and they were an insight into what the Hotel de Ville represented historically. The inscription read PAX CIVITATIS, peace of the city or the people, and this peace was the rich burghers go about trading dressed up in their fine clothes, while the poor toil away with nothing but sad brown rags. An interesting concept of peace.

It was only mid-afternoon but I was exhausted, so I returned to the hostel and took to my bed for several hours. Our dorm room has gathered a few more occupants: I know one is Dutch, one is American, and one is French-Canadian, but there are two more who remain a mystery. They all seem like very nice people. Eventually I emerged to go find some dinner, but I didn't last long after eating and went back to rest again. That sun was still shining until ten o'clock at night, and then it did feel like summer, even though the air was still cool.