#raindrop Martin

[raindropsystemchaos]

Hi!

☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️I’m Martin Blackwood! I’m called Martin, Marto, Mart— I’m cool with whatever nickname, I’m a fictive from TMA! Feel free to ask me stuff about Source, I don’t mind too much, if you’re someone from Source I’m happy to chat with you at any time! Just— don’t flirt with me? Kinda dating a handful of people and I’m not really looking to expand that to outside this. Thank youuuuuu ☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️

[leilanihours]

🖇️ 46 + kate martin ugh that prompt is so UGH

# I WISH THAT YOU WOULD STAY IN MY MEMORIES

pairing: kate martin x ex-gf!reader

word count: 762

warnings: angst, mentions of ghosting, reader lowkey being unfair?

prompt: "i had finally forgotten about you. i had finally started to live again. and now you decide to come back."

⭑ from lani: i suck at writing angst but im on my period so here we are

celly masterlist !

main masterlist !

"ARE YOU EXPECTING someone?" your girlfriend, olivia, asks as you hear knocks at your front door. it's nearing midnight, exhaustion slowly overpowering your body.

"uh, no, are you?" you ponder, thinking of who the hell would be insane enough to show up to someone's house in the middle of the night while it's raining.

"nope," she answers, "want me to get it?"

"i got it, baby," you say softly, "wanna go make us some more popcorn?"

as she nods, you each get up from your spots on the couch. you pad over to the front door, slightly cracking it open only to be met with the last person you would've expected.

"kate?" your eyebrows are furrowed as you blink at the girl in front of you - one you hadn't seen in almost a year.

"hi, y/n," she breathes out.

"uh," you start, momentarily turning your head back to where your girlfriend was waiting for you in the living room. she notices who's at the door and nods for you to step out, "what are you doing here?"

"can we talk?" she asks, her eyes never leaving yours.

they aren't as bright as you remembered, but they still stared into yours with such deep emotion. you close the front door behind you with a laugh as you walk onto your front porch.

"you wanna talk now? after ten months?" you say incredulously, trying to stay calm.

"y/n, i'm sorry," she apologizes as she shoves her hands into the pockets of her sweatpants.

"do you even know what you're sorry for?" you ask with a sad shrug of your shoulders.

"i-"

"i'm assuming you don't," you interrupt, tears already stinging your eyes, "because you didn't reach out to me once after senior year. not once."

"i wanted to, y/n, you have to know that," she offers, her breath staggering.

"then why didn't you? i like to think that i deserved some sort of explanation."

"you did- you do. which is why i'm here," she confesses.

"oh really? because i think you're here to get closure. to ease your guilt. am i right?"

"no, i promise that's not what this is-"

"kate," you sigh, "you broke my heart last year. you broke me last year. when i wanted to support you and your dreams, you ghosted me, pushed me away. i wouldn't talk to anyone for weeks because of you, kate, weeks."

your chest heaved as you began spewing out all the emotions you had bottled up since the breakup. you were consumed with anger, betrayal, hurt, and you hadn't dealt with it properly until now.

"y/n," she pleads, tears brimming her eyes.

"no," you deny, "i had finally forgotten about you. i had finally started to live again. and now you decide to come back to ease your conscience before the season starts. i won't let you."

"i just wanna talk," she begs, reaching out for your hand before you step back from her, "please. i know i fucked up, i know i shouldn't have-"

"but you did, kate," you interrupt again, truly not wanting to hear some bullshit apology or sorry excuse of an explanation, "nothing will change that you did."

there's a beat of silence - nothing but the sound of sniffles filled the air.

you observe the blonde before you, her head pointed to the floor as her golden locks hide her face stained with tears. glancing behind her, you notice the rain had begun pouring harder, matching your emotions perfectly.

the rough patter of the raindrops falling onto the concrete mimics the pound of your heart aching in your chest as you feel all your old wounds reopening.

taking a deep breath, you begin to make your way back inside. you're halfway through the door thinking kate has accepted defeat until you hear her speak up.

"i'm sorry, y/n," she repeats, "if i could take it all back, i would do it in a heartbeat."

you bite your lip as you register her words, debating hearing her out before you are coaxed back to reality by your girlfriend calling your name.

"i'm sorry, too, kate," you whisper through staggered breaths, "i'm sorry you that wasted your time here."

and with that, you shut your front door, resting your head on the wood as you try to hold in your sobs and steady your heart rate.

you force yourself to come to terms with the fact that you had just closed a traumatic chapter of your life for good, hoping that you hadn't just made a mistake.

— leilani signing off ! 📁

[xdacted]

Of Strangers and Rain Delays

Paring: Reader x Lance Stroll

Warnings: slight angst, fluff, meet-cute, pure fluff, first-meetings

Word Count: 2,383

Status: Complete

___________________

With another crack of thunder, Lance spares a glance at the wide window paneling of the Montreal airport. The skies are so dark it’s nearly black, thick clouds hanging over the runways, raindrops smacking against the pavement. The wind billows on, threatening to lift the tarmac that lines small carts zipping across the barely visible rows of lights, emitting a weak hue consumed by the onslaught of rain. 

He can’t stop himself from rolling his eyes. 

Somehow, he knew this would happen. 

From the moment he’d received word that their private airfield was closed, to the moment that his team was ushered to a quiet, empty terminal. He knew that the rain would keep him stranded in Canada. He had no real reason to worry, when Aston Martin constructed his travel plans, they always did so with the weather in mind. 

He looked over at his P.R. manager. She sat across from him, her legs crossed over one another, staring down at a tablet. The glow of the screen cast a shadow over her concerned face, moving when her fingers worried at the skin of her lips. 

“Something the matter, Charlotte?”

She flicked her eyes up at him, “Nothing that isn’t already my job, Lance.”

He snorts. 

There were very few people who would have the backbone to speak to him so freely. It wasn’t that Lance thought of himself as above them, but the world seemed hellbent on making it so that was all anyone ever said. What they said to him couldn’t be worse than what he had said to himself. 

There was a reason why he pushed himself into the car, forcing his freshly broken wrists to work just as hard as they had before. Everyone was watching him, everyone was judging him. He could feel their eyes, burning right through him. It stung. 

But he was used to it. 

From the very moment he’d gotten his seat, it was all Lance has ever heard. 

Just a rich kid running with daddy’s money. That’s all he was to them. 

Lance looked back down at her phone, a lump suddenly in his throat, “Did they say how long we’re going to be here?”

“I’m not sure,” She looked over to her left, her assistant - Mary - hunched over a computer, “Did they say?”

“We won’t have the clear for hours,” Mary muttered, her heavy bangs falling into her eyes, “Sorry.”

“‘S okay,” He clicked his phone off, pushing it into his pocket. 

“Think I’ll go walk around,” He began to stand, catching the way that Charolette’s eyes widened, “ You can’t expect me to sit like this for hours.”

She let out a heavy sigh. 

“Lance -”

He knows. He knows what it is. 

“I won’t be far,” He tries to offer her a smile, “I’ll get you something to drink, you want something, right?”

She hesitated, she knew that he was aware. Regardless of what people liked to say, Lance wasn’t an idiot. 

“I do,” She puts her hands over her tablet, leaning back in her chair, “Diet Coke, please?”

“You got it.”

_________

He can’t shake the look on Charolette’s face. It circles his mind as he walks down the long stretch of the airport hallway. The walls are painted a soothing tan, with bright lights overhead. He reaches over to skim his fingers along the dips within the paint. 

It isn’t until he approaches the end of the hallway that he begins to hear chatter. It grows louder as he gets closer, and eventually, he’s standing right in the middle of the bustling terminals. He had no idea that they’d managed to hide him so well. 

It wasn’t like he was Charles or anything, he didn’t have fans clamoring over themselves just to see him, but there were certainly weirdos. It had been a while since he’d seen one, surprised that he would’ve been allowed to go this far without seeing one of Aston Martain’s staff rounding the corner with him. 

He shrugs it away. 

People are much too preoccupied with themselves to notice him. He can hear people shouting at flight attendants from across the wide space, bags thrown around the floor. So much rain wasn’t typical for this time of year, but Mother Nature was simply an unstoppable force. 

It isn’t before long that he spots a small cart of drinks with a bright orange umbrella in the air. He sidesteps people, offering small, ‘excuse me’s. He didn’t want to draw attention to himself, not after last weekend. 

He wasn’t the most popular of drivers at the moment. 

Charlotte tried to hide his phone from him after the race, saying he needed to focus on recovery. Lance saw right through her and refused to leave without it. With a slight quiver in her lip, she pressed it into his palm. 

“Don’t look,” She said, her hand tight around his, “It won’t do you any good, Lance.”

“What haven’t I already heard, Charlotte,” He slipped his hand away from hers, stuffing his phone into his pocket. He would have plenty of time to look on the plane home. 

He did. 

Lance scrolled on Instagram and Twitter, trying to bite back the anger that rose from within him again. That video - that stupid video - of him with Henry. The camera shook as he just left the frame, only the sight of his green racing suit racing out. There was the rattle of the large toolbox beside him, and the movement of Henry’s body. 

Shit.

It was everywhere. 

And so were the comments. 

They called him spoiled, a monster, a cheater, a loser - everything under the sun was thrown at him, and he just kept scrolling. 

Reading word after word, until his eyes began to burn. Lance deserved worse than this. He was a professional, Henry was his trainer, and he shoved him. 

Like a dick. 

Lance sucks in a deep breath when he gets to the cart, surprised to see no line. He digs into his pocket, “I’ll take a Diet Coke and two waters, please.”

The cashier nods along, ringing him up with a polite smile. He reads Lance his total, opening a plastic bag to place the drinks in, “Thank you, have a good day, sir.”

“Thanks,” Lance mutters, reaching for the bag, “You too.”

As he turns to walk away, he notices a kid, no older than 9 or 10, running around with an Aston Martin sweatshirt on. The green is bright against the dull furnishings of the airport. Lance can’t fight the smile that makes its way on his face or the embarrassment that begins to bloom in his gut. 

The seats scattered around the terminals are packed, filled to the brim with stranded passengers. Pieces of luggage are scattered about the floor, little kids jump over them in an attempt to entertain themselves, people are engaged in rapid conversation, and some are slumped over the small armrests, asleep. 

It was nice, to fade into the background. 

He loved the fans, but Lance has always been a quiet person. His personal time is sacred, his downtime is sacred. He had his obligations on race weekends, signing hats and shirts blindly, but here, he was just a guy trying to get drinks.

He turns back towards the exit, the walkway seems to get more crowded. Lance lets out a sigh before he can stop himself. If he goes now, he’ll be discovered. 

Fuck. 

Looking around him, there are no spaces not taken by bodies. He tries to round a corner, keeping the bag tight to his chest. 

He spots an empty seat, well, one without a human in it. 

 It’s only a few steps away from him, he’s there before he can turn around. 

There’s a girl, headphones around her head, hoodie pulled over them. Her glasses reflect the screen of her laptop, positioned on her crossed legs. She’s invested in something, a hand cupping her chin. 

Lance debates walking away, but she notices him before he can. 

She looks up at him, pulling one of the slides of her headphones back, eyes widening slightly.  

“Yes?”

“Sorry,” He says, jostling the bag in his hand, “Is someone sitting there?”

She looks over, and immediately reaches to grab her backpack, “No, no, sorry.”

He waves a dismissive hand at her, “It’s ok.”

He settles beside her, sliding down in the seat. The noise of the space fills his head, he doesn’t have to think any thoughts of his own. Minutes tick by, the bag resting against his legs. His phone buzzes. 

Charlotte.

“Where did you go?”

“I just needed a break, sorry.”

The three bubbles dance across the bottom of his screen before disappearing and reappearing. 

“It’s ok. Come back when you’re ready, kid.”

He smiles. The lump in his throat back again. Lance knows that he’s made her job harder, he knows that as she scrolls on that tablet of hers she is trying to manage the damage he’s caused. She has been nothing but supportive, a guiding hand during interviews, and he does nothing but make her life harder. 

He sighs. 

Lance tries to forget himself. He takes in the room once more, eyes trailing over the streaks of rain, over the fluorescent lights, the people. He tries to forget the last race week. He looks over at the girl beside him, catching sight of her screen. 

It’s a movie, he’s unsure if he’s seen before. The two characters on screen stalk around each other, weapons at the ready, blood dripping down their temple. Looks intense. 

He begins to pull his gaze away when he catches sight of shimmering Formula One helmet stickers. The glossy sticker glitters in the light, dark forest green mimicking the design of his helmet, with ‘Stroll 18’ written beneath it in bolded letters. His isn't the only one there, Max and Fernando among the few, but it’s the only one he cares to see. 

When he looks back at her, she already staring at him. 

There’s clear embarrassment across her face, a dark blush across her cheeks. 

She pulls her headphones off as she begins to speak, “I - I’m sorry. I don’t mean to make you uncomfortable -”

“It’s okay,” He stops her before she can continue, a smirk pulling at his features, “You didn’t know I was going to be here.”

A beat of silence passes before he adds, “Or did you?”

She gapes at him, “Of course not! That’s so weird. Don’t even joke like that.”

“Sorry,” He mutters, trying to hide his smile with his hand. 

“No, you’re not,” She lets out a small giggle, and Lance can’t help but want to hear it again. 

With her hood pulled down, he can see her more clearly. She’s beautiful. 

The lines of her face, the curve of her lips, the slope of her nose. Even with her face glowing, her smile is all he can see.

“You’re right,” He shrugs, tucking his arms into his sides, “I’m not.”

“That’s rude,” She’s quick to answer back, movie paused. 

“I’ve been told I’m rude,” The words slip from him. 

The look on her face changes, the slight drop of her lips. She just stares at him, but it doesn’t burn. 

“Maybe you are,” She says finally, looking down at the ground before back up to him, “Doesn’t mean you’re a bad guy.”

Her words pierce him. 

The lump in his throat is thicker than before, he nearly feels like he’s choking on it. It means more than she could ever know, a stranger’s opinion. He doesn’t even know her name. He wonders for a second if she can hear his heart pounding, ears burning. 

“Thanks,” He forces out.

“‘Course,” She smiles. 

It feels like the sun on Lance’s skin.  

“Are - Are you a fan?” He tries to change the subject.

“Yeah,” She mutters pulling her laptop to her chest, “Sorry about the - the stickers…”

“It’s ok,” He laughs, trying to rub away the tightness in his chest, “It’s nice to meet a fan.”

She smiles, picking at the sleeves of her sweater, “Well, I never thought I’d be able to meet any driver.”

“Why’s that?”

She looks at him and rolls her eyes, “Are you kidding? The cost of a grand prix is more than I make in a month.”

She fixes herself on the seat, tucking her leg around the chair, “Can’t afford it.”

He hums. 

There’s a certain guilt that builds up within him. There was always that saying, ‘Cash is King.’ He has known so many talented drivers forced to leave the sport because it demanded more than they had. The prices got far too high and the rewards were far too little. He knows more than most give him credit for that he’s privileged, his father’s money has allowed him to fail more than some ever get the chance to. 

“So then,” he continues, “Where are you headed to?”

“Mr. Stroll,” She stares up at him through her glasses, “Do you know that you’re not supposed to share that information with strangers?”

The laugh that is pulled from him is far louder than he means for it to be. It draws the annoyed glances of a few people around them, but it makes him double over. She laughs too, failing to smother it with her hand. 

It isn’t funny, but it’s perfect. 

“So you get to know everything about me, but I know nothing about you?”

“You’re famous,” She mutters, pressing a hand to her chest, “I’m just a fan.”

Lance shrugs. He didn’t want her to be just a fan, but maybe that’s just the rain talking.

“Still. I think it’s only fair,” She opens her mouth but Lance adds, “And anyway, I’m just a guy.”

Her mouth clicks shut. She stares at him again for a second, that same look returning to her eyes. It’s almost as if she can see right through him, but he doesn't mind. 

“Then,” She puts her hand out, “How about this…”

She introduces herself, telling him her name before saying, “It’s nice to meet you, stranger.”

Lance looks down at her waiting hand. Her smile is dazzling. It’s bright against the dark murkiness of the rain, it balances him. 

Lance breathes out. 

“I’m Lance, nice to meet you too, stranger.”

_________________________

A/N:This work has been cross-posted on Wattpad and AO3. All are under the name XDACTED. Thank you for reading and feel free to request fics about any of the drivers <3

I also feel the need to remind some people that these are FICTITIOUS pls remember that

[racingliners]

5 + sebchal 🫶🏻🫶🏻

Hi!!! Sorry this took all day, I don't know how to write short things. Hope you enjoy! 💚

sebchal + "I guess you are right" - send me a prompt!

Charles had changed his mind no less than fifty times about whether or not he should have simply flown to Switzerland instead of driving all the way up from Monaco. He’d already spent a good sleepless night before he left weighing up the pros and cons – flying would definitely have gotten the whole thing over with whatever the outcome, but driving through the French countryside and most of Switzerland gave Charles the most time to try and prepare a speech.

(The quickest way would have been to drive to Milan and then go North, but Charles wanted all the extra seconds the universe could spare him).

He’d spent the night at a hotel in Geneva that he couldn’t remember anything about other than the luxury setting and soft sheets, Charles still wasn’t able to think about much other than his destination.

He and Seb still exchanged Christmas cards, and Charles cherished every single one, which was why he thankfully didn’t have to ask Mia to ask Britta for Sebastian’s address. Something that would have added an extra layer of embarrassment to what Charles was about to do, maybe to the point of talking himself out of it, but he was glad that the irrational part of his mind was still winning out as he threw his weekend bag into the boot of his car (not his custom Ferrari, but a rental white Audi. He wanted to be as inconspicuous as possible).

Charles had expected the weather to be nicer for the second week of August, but instead the air was cool and the sky a barely there grey as he set off on the next leg of his journey.

He didn’t realise that he was in love with Sebastian until their last race as teammates, and every day since he’d kept his feelings buried so deep down there would be moments Charles would almost forget they were there. But then he’d see an Aston Martin drive past him, or a butterfly hovering on a flower and they would come back to the surface almost ten time stronger.

And now that Sebastian only had nine races left in his F1 career, for better or worse Charles decided he had to go to Switzerland to finally tell him how he felt.

The sky darkened the further into Switzerland Charles drove, and by the time he was 20 kilometres past Bern thick heavy raindrops started to batter the windscreen. He briefly considered pulling over at a service station but there was a small fire in his chest telling him to keep going, to keep driving.

Even in the pouring rain, Switzerland was beautiful. The deep green forests, the towering mountains that put the ones in Monaco to shame, the deep blue lakes that looked so much like Sebastian’s eyes it was borderline unnerving. Charles knew from the handful of pictures Seb had shown him over the years why Seb called the country home. There was a split second where Charles felt like he might be able to call it home too, but he gripped his hands tighter round the steering wheel to snap himself out of it.

As the pit of his stomach kept telling him, there was no guarantee Sebastian would now or ever love Charles back.

He allowed himself ten minutes at a service station just outside Lucerne for an espresso and a pep talk. After all, how hard would it really be to tell an ex-teammate that Charles was so in love with him he felt like bursting into flames if they were stood too close together.

Back in the driver’s seat, Charles gently brushed his hands down his navy button up shirt before resting them in his lap, allowing himself one deep breath before starting the car again, and driving away.

The closer he got to Sebastian’s house the more his throat seemed to tighten, to the point where he almost couldn’t breathe when Charles finally turned off the motorway and the satnav told him he would be at his destination in five short kilometres.

At some point the intensity of the rain had decreased to a light drizzle, Charles barely noticed it as he stepped out of the car but that might have been because he was fixated on the very unassuming front door to Sebastian’s house.

It was a dark wood with black metal fixtures screwed into it, and a tiny square glass window near the top. Charles was tall enough to look through it but he couldn’t see anything, as the rain started to fall heavier once more.

His whole mouth felt dry to the point he wasn’t sure if he would be able to get a word out let alone a sentence, and he realised that he’d left his coat in the car but he couldn’t turn and get it now when he was so close. Instead Charles slowly curled his right hand into a fist, and he knocked his knuckles against the wood three times.

All Charles could hear was the sound of the rain hitting the ground.

What was he thinking?! He should have called first, or at least texted Seb back in Lucerne to see if he was at home. For all Charles’ luck Sebastian was back in Heppenheim visiting his family and friends, or on holiday somewhere with someone that wasn’t Charles.

Why did he drive all this way in the hope that Sebastian already loved him in return?

Charles forced down a large gulp and bit down on his lip as he took two small steps away from the door. He didn’t want to leave, but maybe he had to. Maybe he would be better off letting his dreams of Sebastian go, maybe it would be easier this way.

He had just moved his left foot to turn himself round when the door opened.

“Charles?” And there Seb was, his gorgeous blue eyes wide as he looked Charles up and down in complete disbelief.

“Seb.” Charles said his name with a sigh of relief and a bright smile. He was right there, barely two metres away. If Charles tried hard enough he could probably smell Seb’s aftershave alongside the rain.

“What are you doing here?” “I love you.”

They both said at the exact same time, their faces fell mirroring each other perfectly.

“I’m sorry.” Charles said quickly. “I didn’t… I couldn’t keep it in anymore. I had to tell you before you left.”

Seb’s eyes glanced past Charles at the Audi with its French licence plate, and quickly put two and two together.

“You…” The hand that had been rested against the door frame fell to Seb’s side. He was wearing a light grey crewneck that Charles was sure he’d seen Seb wear on multiple factory visits to Maranello paired with dark jeans and navy socks. “You drove all the way here?”

“I know it’s stupid.” Charles wasn’t sure if he was speaking about his feelings or his life choices. “I couldn’t tell you over the phone, I wanted to see you before Spa because if I don’t tell you now I don’t think I ever will. Because in time I’ll be able to live with not winning the title this year but I not if I say goodbye to you without you knowing how I feel.” The words tumbled out of his mouth almost as fast as the rain was falling from the sky. Charles briefly panted to regain his breath while his heart continued to hammer against his ribcage. He was soaked through now, but he didn’t care. He already knew that Seb turning him down would be worse. Clothes could dry but broken hearts were always harder to fix.

Sebastian blinked slowly, not once had his eyes left Charles’ face since he clocked the rental car parked in his driveway. His eyes were still wide, they looked like an ocean Charles would happily down in.

It was only when Charles realised that Seb still hadn’t said anything at all, that he opened his moth to start forming an apology, only to be cut off by Sebastian lurching forwards to cup his warm hands around Charles’ jaw as he tilted his head down to kiss him.

It was a fairly chaste kiss, but it was more than enough.

“You need to get inside.” Seb said quickly after he pulled away, his eyes darted all over Charles sodden clothes. “You should have worn a coat!”

Charles’ head now felt so light he had to grip onto Seb’s forearms out of fear he was about to float away.

“I guess you are right.” He said with a lazy smile, and he let Sebastian pull him inside the warm house. “I have a bag in the car-” Charles said as Sebastian shut the door behind them.

“Later.” Seb said firmly, pulling Charles in for a longer, deeper kiss.

[anthrofreshtodeath]

Long time no see! 😂

How about "slowly intertwining fingers while the other is driving" ?

It's been awhile! This one is kind of angst-lite.

___

Jane wants only to drive. She wants to rev the engine of her cruiser; she longs for the satisfaction that cutting and weaving through traffic gives her. It’s asshole behavior, she knows - but she’s an asshole. She relishes being an asshole, especially when she’s angry and especially when she’s been handcuffed, when someone bridles her rage and forces her to swallow it down. 

Hope Martin and Paddy Doyle are quite good at that. 

So are the guards at the maximum security prison she’s just left with Hope and Maura in tow, because they quite literally would have cuffed her if she’d leapt over the table to throttle Paddy like she’d wanted to. But Paddy, and Hope, know that fact intimately. And that’s why Hope waited to be forced to talk to Paddy. And why Paddy shut up about Hope. They knew the only safe place for them to see one another and still get Jane and Maura the information they needed was to do it in prison. 

Because, like they surmised, Jane wants to kill the both of them. She wants to kill both of them with her bare hands and she wants to whip through the streets of Boston like a maniac and she can do neither.

Standstill traffic on the bridge back into the city.

It’s a one sentence horror-story to every Bostonian, really. But even more so to Jane today. Hope, coward that she is, has stayed completely silent in the backseat on the way into town, despite all the revelatory, criminal shit she shared in the interrogation room. Maura, saint that she is, also remains quiet, peering out the window of the passenger side while rain starts pelting it, sending periodic glances Jane’s way.

And Jane’s embarrassed by it, though she’d never say so out loud. It’s fucking embarrassing to have all this fire and nowhere to put it. To be so angry and to be so close to two confessed lawbreakers who repeatedly lied to and used their relationship with Maura to manipulate her and do nothing? Jane’s foot might punch a hole through the floor of the Crown Vic. All she can really do is shove her left leg against the driver’s side door, her knee up to the window, and squeeze the wheel until her knuckles blanche. Which means, on top of all the hellish shit she just endured, Maura now has to watch. She’s gotta make room for Jane’s mood. That makes Jane madder, more ashamed.

It reaches an apex when Maura resettles, apparently tired of counting raindrops, and releases a calming breath when her shoulders press against the padding of her seat - she lets the hand that had rested against her own face fall into her lap, and sneaks the other over to Jane’s on the console. 

Jane’s brows furrow and she considers yanking herself away. More than wanting to wound, Maura shouldn’t have to do this. Hold onto her weakness like this, pacify this. But Jane stays, because Maura’s fingers wrap slowly around her own, and the touch is warm and sweet and hot all at once as the cold from the outside threatens to seep in. 

So, Jane accepts the calming of the beast. Until, that is, Maura says something.

“I know you’ll never make me walk through those doors,” she says darkly to Jane, eyes stormy and assured. “You’ll never be the reason I go back.”

And then Jane realizes… their hands. Hope leans, is angled so that her gaze lines up right with their union. Maura speaks, her voice carrying toward the middle of the cab, so that Hope can hear. Jane understands that it isn’t placation at all - it’s a point. My relationship will never be as ugly and twisted as yours. Your relationship is and forever will be beneath mine. Maura has simply used Jane to make it.

Jane finds she likes being used much more than she likes being pitied. Even if she still wants to slap the bubble light on and burn through all the cars in front of them.

[bakersimmer]

Martin had accepted Laila's insecurities as a part of her personality. He sometimes wondered about the reasons behind her worries, her yearning for reassurance and recognition. But, he had also sensed Laila's reluctance to share the origins of these needs. So, instead of forcing her to talk, he had hoped she would open up when she felt ready. However, as time passed, Martin began to realize the flaw in his approach. The woman he had fallen in love with seemed to be fading, replaced by a version of her he didn't recognize. Her quirks, once endearing in their own way, now manifested as tendencies that were slowly smothering their love.

Martin: Maybe we both need to calm down before we say anything else. Laila: (Nods and sighs) I need some air. I'm going for a walk. Martin: Sure.

The door closed gently behind Laila, leaving Martin alone in the quiet of their home. Just moments earlier, the very room he stood in had been a battleground where words were wielded as weapons.

Outside, the weather started to mirror Laila's internal turmoil more and more with each passing minute. Raindrops cascaded down, mingling with her tears as she walked away. Anger and fear entwined within her, creating a bitter storm of emotions. She couldn't escape the suffocating certainty that betrayal was an inevitable part of love. The fear of abandonment, a fear that had plagued her since childhood, gnawed at her heart. Despite her longing for trust, she found herself projecting her father's sins onto Martin, convinced that he, too, would wound her in the same way. Every part of her wanted to believe that history wouldn't replay itself, that love could conquer the shadows of her past. Yet, the scars etched into her heart cast an unshakable doubt.

previous / beginning / next

[thecomet-and-themeteor]

I FUCKING FINISHED IT, Y'ALL

[hmshermitcraft]

I haven't watched Limited Life as much as the other life series (was getting more into Rain World), but I have seen stuff about Mean Gills so here's some Gill boys for the theme

Martin was having a shit week.

In the early hours of the morning, the ship and crew had been attacked and sunk, leaving him all alone in the ocean, clinging onto a wood scrap. It took all day for him to get washed up on a island, forcing him to hide from and cold night in the rocky cliffs. The next day was equally bad: the few trees that he could cut were terrible for building - he found that out when it collapsed on him the next night. He now resides back in the cliffs, away from the tides and with firewood for days.

Beneath his grumbles about his bad luck and the start of a smoke signal, he does have some curiosity about the wildlife

mainly, what was leaving fish? And why?

On the small outcrops he can reach without swimming, freshly killed fish and pearls get washed up. He sometimes sees a flash of large scales just out of his peripheral vision, but its gone when he swivels to get a clearer look. While he's happy for the fish (at least he won't starve), it's still a mystery to him.

____________

Scott hasn't seen any life on land

Sure, he had seen lots of squawking air things and the greenery above the currents, but other than that, he had little belief in the idea that anything could live solely on land.

Until he met a strange sight.

They were wrapped in wet browns and loose whites, with specks of green wrapped within the details. Their equally hidden tail seemed split and flat, and their blond hair glistened between the rays as they scurried along the greens without even a glance at the ocean.

Scott was perplexed. What were they? Had they been cursed? Are they a mer? Were they ok? Way were they upright on their tail? What was that shinny claw against their waist? He had been leaving fish and sometimes pearls to see if it sparked a recognition, but nothing...

They did sound grateful for the fish however - maybe he could try again next sunrise and see if that did anything.

~🪶

It takes another day for Martyn to construct a rudimentary lean-to, and of course after that it starts raining. The think layer of leaves does nothing to keep the rain out. He's miserable, he's wet, and he has no idea how he'll be able to start a fire in this weather. So not only is he cold, soon he's going to be hungry. This sucks.

Scott's continued observing the strange land creature each day. They appear to be the same as him besides the missing tail. It's curious to watch how they survive without it. Their split tail seems useful in some ways. They're able to climb over rocks, reaching spots Scott couldn't dream of. Mostly because Scott doesn't need to - everything he needs is in the water.

One day, a storm is passing through. The surface of the ocean is covered in ripples from the raindrops. It's always mesmerising to watch, Scott loves lying in the shallows and spending the storm there. He doesn't today, though. Because the creature hasn't taken his fish.

Scott knows the creature needs to eat. They eat strangely too, Scott's been watching! Instead of running away from the hot amber air, they create it on purpose. And then they put the fish over it until it changes colour. Then they eat it.

But today they haven't taken any fish. Scott is fond enough of his creature that he refuses to let that slide. With the creature being so high up, there's very little Scott can do to reach them.

So he starts throwing fish.

Martyn gets hit by the third one. He jumps to his feet, completely destroying his lean-to and banging his head in the process. After an adequate amount of moaning (whatever attacked could've just finished him off at that point and he would've been grateful) he starts trying to figure out what happened.

He finds a fish. In land, not washed up on the shore. Then he finds another one. And another.

And to top it all off, a fourth lands two steps away from him. Maybe he's started hallucinating? But the fish feel real. Maybe, if he's able to get a fire close enough to a cliff face, he could at least try and smoke them? He's not sure how that works, actually.

He looks out at the water to find the source of the fish. There's a face. There's a face in the water. With bright, inhuman eyes and hair that blends with the water around him. Then that face sprouts an arm that waves at him. And when he grins, Martyn sees rows of sharp teeth.

Then the face is gone.

Martyn is definitely hallucinating. Otherwise, he's fucked.

[thecatspasta]

*evil cackling*

Yea this piece was a "How many birds can I hit with this stone" kinda moment

So lets go through them.

To start: @jonmartinweek (Comfy jumpers, Somewhere else) (sorry for the two separate prompts in one peice)

Next we have the jmart prompts from a while back

All kinda edited.

Basically, it's Jmart, somewhere else, sitting out front, Martin is reading his poetry to Jon (who's in one of his sweaters)

See. I can get so many things off my to-do list with this one thing I finished at 3am

(credits for pallets under cut)

Martin's colors: "Raindrop Conclusion" by @/fivepointpalettes Jon's colors: "He Was Eaten By Shadows And Just After Cashing A Paycheck Too (That's A Shame)" by @/fivepointpalettes Backgrounds: https://www.tumblr.com/dantethecircusrat/660399741722640384/ooh-whats-this-pallets-i-spent-entire-night?source=share

[dudeshusband]

these sum me up i think

[poems-from-the-void]

Note for Martin Seligman

When I am in third grade, they try and there are three steps but I can only remember two at any particular time. So division is dead to me. Because maybe my brain capacity maxes out at two steps, maybe some numbers are not made for division.

When I am in twelfth grade, they try to teach me to love: the boy to whom I lie like raindrops in a river, and the teacher who is nice to me for nothing, and the doctor to whom I finally show my ribs, twisted like shrapnel.

And dear God, they see something here, but I remember scribbling searching for step three where it couldn’t exist sheets of paper spinning out to spiral down on the floor.

[karuvapatta]

Dear readers: I hope you have abandoned all hope of this thing fitting in anywhere within the canon timeline. And also of Jon getting a break anytime soon.

....I'm doing my best to wrap it up I swear ;-;

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6

***

The night doesn’t get any more pleasant from there.

Jon spends several long hours in an Emergency Room, gets a CT scan to exclude cranial fracture, a blood test that tells him he’s slightly anaemic, a nurse worried that he’s underweight, comments about his blood pressure and resting heart rate being elevated, some less-than-subtle inquiries about domestic abuse once they see his scars, and a stern reminder to not mix alcohol with the sleeping pills he wheedled out of his GP.

(He wonders, now, if he influenced the GP into prescribing him the pills, or was he just annoying enough that she eventually caved in. He wonders how that power even works.)

They want to keep him in for observation, but after he signs a waiver that he’s aware of the risks and leaves of his own volition, they let him go with little fuss. The ER is busy enough as it is, and Jon is stubborn.

He does pause on his way out; the waiting room is full of mostly elderly people in bad physical shape, a few drunken brawlers, some victims of unfortunate accidents, and other assorted medical emergencies. The one person that stands out to him is a middle-aged woman, sitting unnaturally still in the corner, with wide-open, haunted eyes. She’s been marked by one of the Powers; he knows this. He feels her calling out to him, a promise of a feast for the Eye, brimming with fresh terror and terrible nightmares. It’d take very little to get her to talk—

Their eyes meet. Jon swallows, an involuntary reflex; he can feel the hunger in his stomach, this terrible need to extract a tribute to his patron. And it would nourish him in ways normal food doesn’t seem to anymore. It might even make him whole.

A nurse passes by with a clipboard, and asks the woman a number of questions. Jon flees the waiting room, hating himself every step of the way. He isn’t a fucking misery vampire, to prey on innocent unsuspecting people. He isn’t.

It’s long past daybreak when he finally makes it back to his apartment. He doesn’t even bother undressing, just swallows a pill, throws himself on the bed, and waits for the nightmares to begin.

***

He wakes up around noon with a mild headache and throbbing pain in his cheek. It’s raining outside; the steady beat of raindrops against the windowpane is actually quite soothing.

Jon showers, brushes his teeth, and contemplates breakfast, but the very thought of eating food makes him nauseous. He settles for a mug of herbal tea and watches the rain for a while, holding an ice-pack to his cheek and drumming an erratic melody on the table with his other hand. He wonders if he should make that phone call. He can almost hear Tim calling him insane, Sasha’s attempts at reasoning with him, his own name repeated in Martin’s worried voice. But he can also remember what it felt like to drag the truth out of Tim’s mouth; the mark of the Powers on that unfortunate woman. The Eye’s insistent presence.

He makes that phone call.

“Archivist.”

“Elias.”

There’s a beat of tense silence on both sides of the line. Jon curses himself for not writing down his questions beforehand.

“Sorry for calling on Saturday,” Jon says. “Are you busy?”

“No need to apologize,” Elias says smoothly. “I always have time for you, Jon.”

That is a blatant lie, but Jon lets it slide.

“I hope the gala went well,” Jon says.

“You call me on a Saturday to ask about an event you didn’t want to attend and that you bailed on halfway through?” Elias asks, thankfully more amused than upset.

“Oh! Yes, sorry about that. I, uh,” he contemplates lying, but is too worn out to come up with anything halfway believable. “I felt really awkward. After the. You know.”

“Yes, and maybe sometime next decade Simon Fairchild will stop reminding me of your dramatic escape,” Elias says. “All in all, it went about as well as I could have expected. Don’t worry about it too much.”

“Right,” Jon says, knowing damn well that he is going to worry.

“But this isn’t why you called.”

“No. It isn’t.”

There’s another long, awkward silence, while Jon struggles to formulate his thoughts.

“I think I can force people to answer my questions,” Jon says. “Is that normal?”

Elias has the audacity to laugh at him. The bastard.

“I was wondering when you were going to notice,” he says. “Compelling voice is a crucial ability to fulfil your role as the Archivist. How else could you extract statements from those unwilling to share them?”

He says this as if it was the most ordinary thing in the world.

“That’s—horrifying,” Jon says. “You do realize that it’s horrifying, right?” He takes in a shuddering breath. “Can I control it?”

“Yes. Of course. Now that you are aware of them, controlling your powers should become your next priority.”

“Stop giving me damn homework, Elias! I’m trying to ask for your help!”

The words are out his mouth before he can stop them, but he doesn’t think there’s anything supernatural about it. No; just pure desperation.

Elias sighs. “As lovely as it is to hear your voice, Archivist, I’d rather have this conversation in person. Are you available?”

“What—right now?” Jon asks. “Oh, wait. Is it because you cannot read my mind over the phone?”

“…maybe,” Elias says after a pause.

He files away the information for later. For now, he says, “Yes. I’m available.”

“Splendid. Where should I meet you?”

Jon considers the question. The Institute is the most obvious answer. It’s familiar and relatively safe, and both he and Elias have been known to spend their weekends at work, so it wouldn’t even be that strange. But the thought of always meeting Elias in a place where he holds all the power annoys him to no end. A restaurant, then? But, damn, he doesn’t want to have to dress up for the sort of place that might meet Elias’s standards. Besides, his head spins slightly every time he stands up; he suspects he might end up slipping on the wet pavement and cracking it open.

“I am actually not feeling very well,” he says. “Could you meet me at my place?” Suddenly aware of how it sounds, he hastens to add: “I don’t mean—I’m not trying to suggest anything inappropriate, so please do not read too much into it.”

“Of course. I’ll be there in an hour.”

“Great,” Jon sighs. “I’m assuming you know where I live.”

“I do.”

“Then I guess I’ll see you later,” Jon says.

***

Inviting Elias over might have been stupid, but isn’t much more questionable than any of his other decisions as of late. It’s the sort of baseline stupid Jon is becoming accustomed to.

He spends the time cleaning up and fretting over his clothing. Should he dress up? Which part of the dress code covers this particular situation? He feels like he shouldn’t be meeting his boss in an old band T-shirt and sweatpants, but another, more rational part of his brain points out that he shouldn’t be inviting his boss to his house at all. His outfit is the least concerning aspect of this situation. Intellectually he understands this, but he spends a good while selecting the right combination of sweatpants, shirt, and hoodie. He can’t imagine Elias would take him seriously if he were wearing pyjamas. If he deigns to take him seriously, that is.

His nervous fretting comes to an abrupt stop once the doorbell rings. Right. One hour.

He opens the door, and is greeted with the comical sight of Elias’s tailored suit and expensive coat looking distinctly out of place in the cluttered, dark, narrow corridor of his apartment. But then Elias’s eyes zero in on Jon’s face, and Jon feels suddenly self-conscious.

“Uh. Hi. Come on in. Can I get you something to drink?”

He leads the way to the living room, but doesn’t get very far before Elias stops him.

“Jon,” he says quietly.

Now he is in Jon’s space, looking down at him with an intense, scrutinizing expression in his steel-grey eyes. He smells faintly of rain and laundry detergent, but mostly that cologne he favours, which Jon remembers well from yesterday’s gala. His fingers are on Jon’s chin, gentle but insistent, turning his face up, towards the light; he brushes away the hair from Jon’s face. For a moment it seems inevitable that he will lean down and press his lips against Jon’s; why else would he touch him in this manner?

“What happened?” he asks.

His fingers skim feather-light over the bruise on Jon’s cheek. Jon winces; it’s swollen and tender, and no doubt does little to improve his appearance. He misses the ice-pack, but it was getting too warm so he had to place it back in the freezer for the time being.

“It’s nothing,” he says, a little breathy. He’s trying not to inhale too much of Elias’s scent, in case it makes him do something above-baseline stupid. “Just a bruise. It’ll fade.”

Elias’s lips are pressed thin, his brows knitted together. His eyes flare; for a moment, Jon could swear they changed colour into something deeper, vibrant, otherworldly; that they can suddenly see much, much further than Jon’s own face.

“Timothy Stoker did this to you?” Elias asks. His voice is pitched low, in cold fury; it sends a tremor through Jon’s body, an instinctive reaction to flee. But he can’t quite move, Elias’s hand and gaze pinning him in place, as gentle as they are insistent.

“We had a fight,” Jon says. “Stay out of it. It’s none of your business.”

Elias narrows his eyes.

“What happens to myArchivist very much is my business,” he says.

“I’m not your damn property,” Jon seethes. “And I can take care of myself.”

“You called me to ask for help,” Elias reminds him coldly.

“Not with this,” Jon says. “Leave Tim alone. Leave all of them alone.”

He’s trembling; his head spins. What a pathetic sight he makes right now, bargaining for his assistants’ lives with an empty hand. It’s a wonder Elias doesn’t laugh in his face.

“Jon,” Elias says. “They haven’t the right…” he cuts off, abruptly, and lets go of Jon’s chin.

The sudden absence of his touch is enough to have Jon swaying on his feet. He gasps, black spots dancing before his eyes; luckily the wall is not far behind his back, giving him something to lean on, his sweaty hands desperately scrambling at it for something to hold.

Elias looks down at him, startled. Jon gives a weak laugh in response.

“I told you,” he says. “I’m not feeling well.”

“Yes, I can see that,” Elias says. He steps away to where he set down his briefcase and retrieves a file from it. “Here. I brought you these.”

It’s the damn statements. Jon doesn’t even need to browse through its contents to know as much; the file calls out to him through no sense he can name. As Elias places it in Jon’s hands, Jon can almost hear the background static of the tape recorder, all other thoughts and concerns receding from his restless mind. He’s blank, achingly empty, and ready to receive this new account of the Powers, to absorb the fear and lose himself in it, to feel, to experience, to know—

“No,” he says. “Why—”

“It’ll help,” Elias says. So calm, so logical.

“I don’t want this,” Jon whispers. “I never wanted this. I can’t…”

The wall slips away, or maybe he slides down, limp and helpless. Elias catches him before he can hit the ground and steers him towards the couch; Jon doesn’t fight him. He couldn’t even if he wanted to.

“Jon,” Elias says, from somewhere far away. “You need this. You know you need this. What, exactly, are you hoping to gain by intentionally starving yourself?”

“This is wrong,” Jon says. His mouth is dry; his tongue feels like it was made of sandpaper. The buzzing in his head only gets louder.

“It is what it is,” Elias says. “You can be angry about it later, if you’d like.”

Jon shoves him away. He would have more luck with a brick wall; Elias catches his hands easily, encircling Jon’s wrists in a loose grip, his thumb running soothing patterns on the delicate inner skin of them.

“No,” Jon repeats, numbly.

He still can’t bring himself to let go of the statements. He is clutching them so tightly it’s a wonder they haven’t torn yet… but, no. The thought is absurd. In the heights of madness, Jon would never damage these. He might as well take a knife to his own flesh and slice it into ribbons.

“When was the last time you read one?”

“Not sure. A week. Maybe two,” Jon shakes his head. He’s been avoiding them, he hates what they turn him into. He hates the sick thrill of anticipation, he hates the words flowing out of his mouth, he hates the buzz of static on his tongue, he hates the Eye’s heavy gaze over his shoulder, all around him, within him. He hates the nightmares. He hates himself most of all.

“Oh, Jon,” Elias says softly. Like he understands, like he cares. He moves closer, sits right next to Jon and lets go of his hand to cradle the back of his head.

And it’s nice. It’s nice to sink into his embrace, regardless of how sure Jon is he’d be safer throwing himself into shark-infested waters. Elias is warm; his chest moves at a steady, comforting rhythm. His arms around Jon feel grounding, partially shielding him from the Eye’s constant presence.

“I don’t want this,” Jon repeats, over and over, like a broken record. He isn’t making any sense. He knows he isn’t.

He smooths the paper in his hands. Elias tucks a few loose strands of hair behind his ear, so that they won’t obscure his vision.

“You didn’t hurt these people, Jon,” he says quietly. “Whatever happened to them is already done. You cannot rewrite their stories. All you can do is archive them.”

“What for?” Jon asks. “Why?”

Elias considers him for a long moment, with an inscrutable expression on his face. On anyone else, Jon might be willing to classify it as remorse; but he knows better. He knows Elias too well, and yet not at all.

“For now? Because you need it,” Elias says. “For later – I’ll tell you when you’re ready.”

He needs it. That’s the simple truth of it. Right now, Jon can start reading, or he can die. It’s stupid, it’s absurd; and yet it’s true.

“Statement of…”

[creatures-of-joy]

12th april 2024 !!

stuff seen today ! (biased list because i like to include stuff that i dont see all the time , sorry greylag geese and mallards,,,etc. i still love you though)

2x marsh harrier (male and female :D)

white stork (never seen before !! recently they were sighted near where i live and i was just like. no fucking way. BUT I SAW ONE !!)

sand martin (i saw soooooo many they're really awesome but i couldnt count because they were flying so fast hehe)

lapwing (only saw like 3 but they were really noisy hehe)

pochard (didnt expect to see any this time of year so that was pretty epic :3)

grey heron :] (this one was really active lol,, saw it roamin around and dive down 3 times but i didnt see it come up with anything :[ poor beastie )

lesser black-backed gull (big !! there were quite a few of these which is pretty cool) mallard duckling !!!(only saw one but thats the first ive seen this year so yayayayay :3)

huuuge swan nest with a few eggs (i could only see 2 eggs,, cute) great crested grebes (cute as usual :3)

red kite :D (itwas literally hovering in place without moving at all!! ive never seen that before with red kites it was pretty surreal hehe ,, also heard one calling in the distance ,, anyway :3 super awesome :3 )

buzzard!! (verrryyy high up , heard it calling with its adorable mewling noise)

deer!! (im not good at identifying deer but i overheard another guy saying he saw some water deer!! awesome. they were cuute and came reallyclose to the hide)

some robins chasing eachother because they're cool and awesome i loove robins (very cute)

stuff I Heard but i didn't seeee:

BITTERN!! (I've seen one before a few years ago but I never heard it boom ,, this was super awesome they're one of my favourite birds :3)

goldfinch (cute raindrop noise)

blackcap (tut tut tut tut)

chiffchaff (chiff chiff chiff chaff chiff chaff chaff etc . these are so so noisy and you can hear them everywhere i love them so much)

greenfinch (jubujubujubujubu dweeeeeez, I'm bad at spotting these but i hear them all the timeeee)

green woodpecker (always laughing at me hehehe)

cetti's warbler (they make such a cool noise)

pheasant (god this fucker is loud <3)

joy afterthoughts:

think i have some stuff i wanna talk about more in a follow up post hehe,, anyway today was very awesome,, the marsh harrier is my favourite bird of prey and I've only seen one before !! so getting to see two of them fly in and out of the reeds like that was awesome,, AND THEN A WHITE STORK SHOWED UP??? WHICH IS INSANE BECAUSE AUWHFJJ THEY'RE NOT NATIVE TO THIS COUNTRY and a bunch have been seen recently and their population is increasing and YEAH!! anyway it was like i imagined it.super cool. yeah. i hope i fill this blog up with more stuff over time . bye ! (also no egrets where i went today, which is suuuch a shame)

[blackswaneuroparedux]

To achieve anything, you must be prepared to dabble on the boundary of disaster.

- Stirling Moss

To many, he’ll be known as the greatest Formula 1 driver to never win a championship, and while true, that statement does something of a disservice to the many incredible feats he chalked up in his life. His 16 wins in F1 were just the tip of the iceberg.

Single-seaters. Endurance racing. Road racing. Touring cars. Moss competed in them all, clocking up as many as 62 races in a single year. As an all-round talent, Moss was unbeatable.

Of the 366 races he finished he won most of them. 222, to be precise.

Although Moss’ F1 achievements are numerous enough to fill one very long article with them, it was arguably in the realm of sports cars in which he left his most significant mark.

It’s tricky to pick out one of Sir Stirling’s 16 F1 wins to feature over the rest, but his 1961 Monaco Grand Prix victory seals the deal for us for several reasons. His underpowered Lotus-Climax 18 shouldn’t have been anywhere near the pointy end of the grid, yet he bagged pole position, going on to win the race ahead of the Ferrari 156s which would go on to dominate the season. To cap it all off, the victory was given an extra dash of heroism by Moss’ decision to remove his car’s side panels to keep himself cool.

Away from the well-known racing exploits, Moss also dabbled in speed records. Along with a couple of endurance-based efforts in a Jaguar XK120 he also drove MG’s EX181 at the Bonneville Salt Flats in 1957.

The streamliner - nicknamed the ‘Roaring Raindrop’ - was powered by a supercharged 1.5-litre inline-four producing nearly 300bhp. Moss claimed five ‘Class F’ records in the vehicle, with a fastest flying kilometre average speed of 245.64mph.

Sir Stirling won the Nurburgring 1000km three times on the bounce - 1958, 1959 and 1960. With a fourth victory to his name in 1956, he’s won at the race - now known as the 6 Hours of Nürburgring - more than any other driver. In typical Moss fashion, he did so using a variety of cars - a Maserati 300S, an Aston Martin DBR1 and a Maserati Birdcage.

Moss’ top-flight motorsport career was cut short following a colossal crash at a non-championship race at Goodwood in 1962, which put him in a coma for a month. So severe was the collision, the Lotus’ steering wheel was infamously left bent out of shape from the impact of Sir Stirling’s head.

Not only did Moss recover from partial paralysis, he even managed to get back in a racing car the next year. And he was still fast; his test session laps in a Lotus 19 were said to be at a competitive pace. Regardless, Moss felt he’d lost his instinctive racing edge, and chose to end his motorsport career.

Still in his early 30s, he had packed an incredible amount into a short space of time. And that isn’t where his motorsport journey ended, either - he’d remain a prominent figure in the racing world for decades until illness would eventually force him to retire from public life in 2018. He died with Susie, his beloved wife, at his bedside in 2020, aged 90 years old.

[edupunkn00b]

Where the Air is Sweet, Chapter 9

Photo by Rachel Martin on Unsplash

Prev - Ch. 9 - Next - Masterpost - [ AO3 ]

WC: 1216 - Rated: G - CW: non-sexual nudity and lots of fluff

Patton gets caught in the rain. -

Patton’s sopping shirt clung to his back and he tightened his arms around broken umbrella he clutched to his chest. What had looked like a soft rain from inside the cozy warmth of the teacher’s lounge had quickly proven to be a torrential storm, the steady shower pouring down and more than earning its name.

He'd missed his bus home by only a few minutes, which meant either standing in the rain for a half an hour to wait for the next one or walking in the rain for only slightly longer and being home. Patton chose the latter.

He should have chosen to wait. If he had, at least his feet would only be soaked and not sore, as well.

Waiting at a crosswalk, he shivered as fat raindrops dribbled from his hair and under the collar of his soaked shirt, stealing even more of his skin’s heat. Finally the signal changed and he sprinted across the street. The steps to home were in his sight and he ran the final half block.

The door opened before he’d even taken out his key.

“Pat!” Logan cried, flinging open the door and tugging him inside before closing the door behind him. “Oh, duckie, you’re soaked!”

Water puddled around him where he stood, now shivering non-stop. Logan snatched a towel from next to the sink and Patton stepped back to slip off his shoes, expecting Logan to start to mop up the soggy mess he’d made on the floor.

Instead, Logan draped the soft towel over Patton's head, gently squeezing his water-logged hair. “Here,” he murmured once his hair had stopped dripping rivulets of cold water down his face and neck. He led Patton into the kitchen and stood him close to the oven. When Logan opened the door, the oven’s heat and the aroma of fresh lasagna poured over him

“Let me get a bigger towel for you,” Logan said as he swapped the now wet towel for another fresh one from the drawer. “I’ll be right back, duckie.”

Flushed from both the pet name and the warmth of the toasty kitchen, Patton nodded. “Thanks, Lo.”

Logan hurried off, leaving Patton to edge a little closer to the oven. He continued to shiver, flexing his numbed fingers against the kitchen towel, and pulled it  tighter over his shoulders. The cold had seeped into his very bones as he’d walked and only now that he was home he he let himself notice just how uncomfortable he’d been. He stared down at his fingers, another tremor running over his body.

“Pat?” Logan had returned, a giant fluffy towel in his hands, a second towel and a set of soft pajamas folded neatly on the counter next to him. “I turned up the heat in the bedroom but the kitchen is most certainly the warmest room in the apartment.” He glanced at the pajamas, then back at Patton as another shiver overtook him. “If you’d like to change in here, I can go and—”

“W—wait—” Patton was fumbling with the top button of his shirt, fingertips too numb to push it through. “Would you… Will you stay and help me?”

Blinking in surprise, Logan looked between Patton’s eyes and his trembling fingers. “Of course, Pat,” he finally said. Wrapping the bigger towel over his shoulders, Logan smiled and tucked Patton’s hands in the fluffy warmth. Logan’s hands felt like fire against his frigid skin. “Holding the towel might help.” he smiled, then worked at the first button.

Patton watched as Logan slowly got the top two buttons undone, the wet material proving a challenge. Half-way down, Logan looked up again, eyes questioning. Patton nodded. “Go ahead.”

Logan’s warm breath ghosted over his newly bared skin as he hesitated for a spare second, then continued, unbuttoning the rest of Patton’s shirt. One at a time, he slipped both hands under the towel, stripping the clingy cotton off his shoulders without leaving him bare and cold.

After he’d freed Patton from his shirt, Logan paused, staring down at the shiny paw print design on his belt buckle.

“Remember how we used to swap clothes in the second grade?” Patton suddenly asked.

Eyes sparkling, Logan let out a little laugh, shaking his head. “I haven’t thought about that for years!”

Glancing down at his belt, he then met Logan’s eyes, holding his gaze. Logan nodded once, then began to work the wet leather from the buckle. “I can hardly believe we thought we could convince our teacher we were twins that way,” he said once he’d completely unfastened it and unbuttoned the top button of his pants.

Giggling, Patton shrugged. “We got the whole class to play along that day we had a substitute.”

“Gaslighting a professional,” Logan muttered, but Patton caught the little grin as he worked off his khakis. They fought every inch, the soaked material sticking to his cold thighs and Patton relished each little brush of Logan’s warm fingers against his skin.

Looking up from where he worked first one foot, then the other from the sopping wet material, Logan chuckled again. “A bit of bad karma for you now?”

With his wet clothes nearly completely peeled away, Patton tugged the towel a little closer around his body, slowly, slowly, slowly warming. He laughed, another shiver running down his legs. “I think I paid the price a few times over with a couple of my kiddos last year.”

“You told me about the time Barb hid all the glue sticks.” Logan chuckled as he pulled the second towel from the counter and patted Patton’s feet dry. 

He fell quiet as Logan worked his way up. His tremors had finally stopped and as Logan dried his skin, warmth, real warmth began to soak in and he let out a slow sigh.

As he'd worked, a lock of Logan’s hair had fallen over his eyes, and Patton giggled when he reached out and brushed it back.

Testing the lingering dampness of his curls, Logan smiled as he gently scrunched them with a dry section of the towel. “Would you like your pajamas now?” They both laughed when Patton’s stomach growled. Loudly. “And perhaps some dinner?”

~

After they ate, Logan insisted Patton relax in his armchair with an extra blanket and a cup of hot cocoa while he cleaned up. “You can wash up tomorrow night,” he laughed from the other side of the counter. With just the two of them, clean up was fast and soon Logan joined him in the living room.

Laughing, Patton wiggled all the way to one side of his seat. “If I told you I was still cold, would you sit with me?”

“I doubt I would actually fit,” he murmured, and sat on the armrest next to him instead.

Moving quickly, Patton looped his arms around Logan’s middle and pulled him onto his lap. “You fit here,” he laughed.

“I… I suppose I do,” he said, smile growing.

“Quack, quack,” Patton chuckled, pulling Logan close.

Logan’s brow crinkled in confusion. “Quack?” 

“Mm-hm,” he nodded. “Quack, quack,” Patton said again. He rubbed his cheek against Logan’s arm and grinned. “You called me ‘duckie’ before." Warm and sated, with Logan's low laugh buzzing against his chest and his arms, Patton sighed contentedly.

"I kinda like it.”

[tiny-wooden-robot-fics]

A Break in the Rain

Rating: G Media: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan Pairing: Levi Ackerman x Original Female Character Characters: Levi Ackerman, Amelia Martin (Original Female Character of Color), Erwin Smith Additional tags: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafes, Fluff, Levi and Erwin are good friends but Levi won't admit it

Summary:

"Do you plan to stand there at the door all day, or can I make you something to drink?”

It takes her a moment to realize that the low, almost-sullen voice is directed at her. She turns in the direction of it, finding its owner is a slip of a man standing behind the counter. His serious gray eyes are observing her, and though his expression isn't exactly unfriendly, his mouth is turned down in a slight frown.

"I'm sorry," she offers, dropping Rosa's umbrella in the bucket by the door. There is only one other umbrella there, and Lia surmises it must belong to the blonde gentleman sitting in the corner of the cafe. "I was just checking the hours."

"I know," the man behind the counter replies. "I saw you."

Part 1 of Rhythm of the Rain

Read it on AO3

“Lia, it looks like it’s going to pour soon,” the nursery owner remarks, her eyes on the sky. “Did you bring an umbrella with you?” 

“I didn’t, but I’ll be fine.”

Rosa frowns, narrowing her eyes. “And catch your death of a cold because it started raining on you halfway through your walk home?” She shakes her head. “Wait here. I have an extra one. You can bring it back to me tomorrow.” Without waiting for a response, the older woman vanishes into the doorway connecting the nursery with her home. Lia can hear her muttering to herself in the back room as she rummages through her belongings, looking for the spare umbrella. 

A few minutes later, Rosa returns with the umbrella. It’s a huge, domed thing made of pvc material. “Here you go,” she announces proudly as she hands the umbrella over. “I would be surprised if even a single raindrop managed to reach you while you’re carrying this.” 

Skeptically, Lia raises an eyebrow. “Are you sure I can borrow this? You won’t need it?” 

“Where am I going to go?” Rosa motions to the room around her. “I’ll be closing up soon, and I don’t even have to go outside to go home.” She smiles fondly at Lia. “You can bring it back to me if you want. Or you can keep it - it’s part of a set I bought on the shopping network a few years ago.”

“In that case, I’ll bring it back for sure.” She pauses. “No reason to permanently split a family up.” 

“That’s an odd way of putting it, but I suppose you’re right,” Rosa muses. She glances out the plate glass window. “You’d better hurry if you want to get ahead of the rain - looks like it’s going to pour any minute now.” 

--

As Rosa predicted, the rain starts ten minutes after Lia leaves the nursery. She is halfway between the nursery and home when the downpour truly begins - wind-driven sideways rain that not even Rosa’s domed umbrella can protect her from. 

She ducks into a cafe. Her intention is to wait the storm out, or at least wait until the violence of the wind and rain subsides a bit. The cafe is a dry haven, decorated in warm shades of green and brown that instantly make her feel at ease.

The place is almost completely empty. Remembering that it’s late in the day, Lia turns suddenly to check for a sign with the cafe’s hours. She finds it in block letters stenciled on the glass entrance door, breathing a sigh of relief when she notes the closing time as 9:00 pm. That’s still a few hours from now, she thinks to herself. I don’t know that any of the other cafes around here stay open as late.  

She’s grateful for it, and it puts her fears of being booted out into the storm once more to rest. 

“Do you plan to stand there at the door all day, or can I make you something to drink?”

It takes her a moment to realize that the low, almost-sullen voice is directed at her. She turns in the direction of it, finding its owner is a slip of a man standing behind the counter. His serious gray eyes are observing her, and though his expression isn’t exactly unfriendly, his mouth is turned down in a slight frown. 

“I’m sorry,” she offers, dropping Rosa’s umbrella in the bucket by the door. There is only one other umbrella there, and Lia surmises it must belong to the blonde gentleman sitting in the corner of the cafe. “I was just checking the hours.”

“I know,” the man behind the counter replies. “I saw you.”

Lia isn’t sure what to say to that. She moves closer to the counter, her eyes on the chalkboard menu behind it. The items are written in block letters, almost as neat and symmetrical as the ones on the front door. She smiles. “Someone has really nice handwriting.” 

“Oi. You hear that? She thinks your handwriting is nice.” This time, his words are directed at the blonde man sitting in the corner. 

The man looks up, flashing Lia a polite smile. “Thank you,” he calls. “Hearing you say that is worth the hassle it took for me to get it done.” 

“Hassle?” She repeats, confused. “Was it a hassle?”

“Don’t listen to him,” the man behind the counter interjects, before the other can respond. “What would you like to drink?”

“Oh,” Lia exclaims softly, returning her gaze to the chalkboard. “I’m usually the sort of person who drinks the same thing all the time, but I’m curious about some of these menu items that I’ve never heard of before. What’s a London Fog Latte?” 

To her surprise, the man behind the counter actually smiles, and Lia can’t help but to notice how it completely transforms his face. Even wearing a scowl, he’s handsome. A smile makes him stunning, and she’s momentarily caught off-guard by it. 

“It’s one of the best things you’ll ever drink,” he tells her. It doesn’t sound like a sales pitch - he actually seems convinced that what he’s saying is true. 

What the hell, she thinks. He doesn’t seem like the sort of man who gets excited about much. If he thinks it’s good, maybe I ought to give it a try. “Alright,” she says aloud. “I’ll have a London Fog Latte, please.” 

--

He brings it to her a few minutes later, setting it down on the table she’s sitting at. She’s chosen a small round table right next to the plate glass window at the front of the cafe. It allows her to watch the rain falling and the people on the sidewalks hurrying to their destinations. 

Lia looks down at the soft clink of the mug and saucer making contact with the table’s surface. The drink is housed in a delicate white mug, sitting atop a matching saucer. There is a tiny set of wings on both, done in pretty silver paint. “Thank you,” she smiles, noting the shape of a cloud that’s been made into the foam of her latte. “The cloud is very fitting - for the drink and the day.”

He looks through the window and up at the sky. “Doesn’t look like the rain is gonna stop anytime soon,” he remarks. 

“That’s unfortunate,” Lia sighs. 

He looks back at her. “Do you have far to go?” 

“Only a few more blocks,” she replies. “I think if I can stay here for a bit and warm up and get dry, I’ll be okay for the rest of the journey.” 

“Stay as long as you need to,” he says with a shrug. “Enjoy your drink.”

--

As promised, the drink is delicious. Lia savors it to the last drop, feeling disappointed when she finishes it. In the time that she’s been sitting and enjoying her latte, not a single soul has come into the cafe. It is only the three of them still: the preoccupied blonde man in the corner with the nice handwriting, the handsome, somewhat-sullen man working there, and her.

She cradles the cup and saucer in her hands and walks up to the counter. “Excuse me,” she calls, and both men look up. Her eyes are on the one behind the counter, and he moves from the stool he’s been reading on to approach her. 

“Well?” He raises his dark eyebrows at her. “How was it?” 

“It was fantastic, just as you said it would be,” she admits with a smile. “So good that I’d like to order another.” 

This seems to surprise him. “I’m glad you liked it.” He takes the cup and saucer from her, setting them aside and reaching for a clean set. “I’ll bring it right over to you.” 

“Oh, should I pay for it now or when you’re done making it?” 

He shakes his head, now fully focused on crafting her drink. “This one’s on me.” He looks briefly up at her, flashing her another smile that transforms his face. “If it wasn’t for you, I’d have to close up shop.” 

The blonde man in the corner snorts quietly. Lia isn’t sure if it’s a reaction to what he’s said or something else.

“O-oh,” Lia manages. “Thank you so much.” She turns away, then turns back a split second later. “I’m Amelia, by the way,” she offers with a smile of her own. “Amelia Martin… but you can call me Lia for short. Everyone does.”

“Nice to meet you, Lia,” he nods. “I’m Levi. Levi Ackerman.” 

“Otherwise known as Captain Levi,” the blonde man in the corner pipes. 

Lia has been so focused on the shop owner that she nearly forgot the other man was there. At his interjection, she inclines her head to the side curiously. “Captain?” 

“Nobody asked you.” Levi hurls the words in the direction of the man in the corner, though he never takes his eyes off of what he’s doing.

For the first time, the blonde man in the corner stands, and Lia is a little taken aback at how tall he is. “Someday you’ll have to get him to tell you why,” he says, the corners of his eyes crinkling in mirth. “But it doesn’t seem like today is that day.”

Still a little confused, Lia smiles politely. “I see. Well, I wouldn’t mind having an excuse to frequent this place.”

“Oh? My drinks aren’t reason enough?” 

She laughs. “Well, that would be the main reason.” 

“Don’t let him intimidate you,” the blonde man laughs with her. “I’m Erwin, by the way. Erwin Smith.” 

“Erwin Smith with the nice handwriting,” Lia adds. “It’s nice to meet you.” 

“Likewise.” Erwin watches Levi for a moment. “Levi here would probably never admit it, but he’d be delighted if you came back often. The shop isn’t as popular as I think it should be, but he takes a lot of pride in his drinks and they’re better than the stuff you can buy at chain coffee shops.” 

Levi pauses what he’s doing to cast an irritated glance at Erwin. “You gonna speak for me forever?” 

“Sorry,” Erwin laughs. He holds his hands up in a gesture of mock surrender. 

“If you’re sorry, go home.” 

“It’s still raining,” Erwin protests. “You’d send me out in the cold rain?” 

“Without hesitation.” 

Their exchange makes Lia smile. “You two must be very good friends,” she observes softly. 

“We are, though he won’t admit it,” Erwin whispers to her. “Ask him who he calls when the shop gets too busy for him to handle alone.” With those last words, he smirks in Levi’s direction and goes back to his corner. 

“Asshole,” Levi mutters, but Lia gets the feeling it’s said out of a sort of affection. 

Lia watches him for a moment, then turns her attention back to the rain pelting the window. “I should be happy that it’s raining this way,” she murmurs, not really talking to him but not completely talking to herself. “It means the flowers will be healthy.”

“Flowers?” Levi motions to the bar where three stools are. Understanding his meaning, Lia nods and meets him there, settling herself in the middle stool just as he sets her new drink on the bar.

“I work at a nursery,” she explains. “It isn’t just where the owner sells plants and flowers - she has some that she grows there, too.”

“I see.” Levi rests his elbows on the bar across from her. “Do you like what you do?”

“I do,” she replies without hesitation. “There’s something really nice about being in a place where you can constantly watch things growing. I think it’s a good reminder of how resilient life can be.” 

This time, it’s Levi who inclines his head quizzically. “Resilient, huh?”

“Resilient,” Lia repeats. “Things that grow outside are always exposed to the elements, good or bad - whether it’s sunlight that’s too harsh or extreme heat or relentless rainfall, they hold fast in their environment and endure it. Even if it damages them, there’s always a chance they can bounce back. Resilient, wouldn’t you say?”

“Guess I never thought of it that way before, but you’re right.” 

She doesn’t know why, but the admission feels a little like praise. It warms her from the inside out, and she hides her smile behind the rim of her mug.

--

The rain stops at 8:47 pm. 

Erwin Smith with the nice handwriting is long gone; he made his way out into the downpour at seven-thirty, and since then it’s just been the two of them - Levi Ackerman the mysterious man Erwin called Captain with a talent for making beverages, and Amelia Martin, the nursery worker. 

“Thank you for letting me stay here,” Lia tells him as she watches him wipe down all the countertops. She’d offered to help but he’d declined, saying he would feel bad making a paying customer help him clean up his shop. 

“But every drink you fixed for me after the first one was on the house,” Lia had protested. “You made me food too, and didn’t charge me for it. I feel bad - the least I can do is help clean up.” He hadn’t budged though, and so Lia had contented herself to watch and keep him company at the very least.

Levi shrugs, turning to look at her. “I didn’t wanna close up shop early,” he points out. He pauses for a moment, and then speaks again. “But it was nice to have company.” His gaze drifts to the window. “It’s dark out,” he observes, his eyes flickering back to her again. “How far did you say you had to go?” 

“Just a few blocks,” Lia answers. “I’ve walked it this late before,” she adds, unsure why she feels the need to explain herself. Perhaps it’s because after spending a few hours with Levi, she feels like she knows him well enough to know he would worry. “The way is straight and well-lit, and my building has good security.” 

He doesn’t look convinced. 

Lia inhales deeply and lets the breath out. “If you’re worried,” she starts, half in disbelief about what she’s getting ready to say, “I could text you when I’m safely home. Just because you look like you’ll worry if you don’t know that I’ve made it.” 

Levi looks at her for a moment, then sets his rag down. Lia’s heart sinks a little when he walks away, but the damage is mitigated when she sees him rip a piece of paper from the notebook at the register and scribble something on it. When he comes back, he holds the slip of paper out to her. “That’s my number,” he tells her. “I want to know the minute you’re home safe.” 

“And what about you?” Lia asks. “How will I know when you get home safe?” 

He scoffs. “You don’t need to worry about me.” Before she can form a rebuttal, he goes on. “But if you’re worried,” he continues, his eyes on the counter, “then maybe I’ll call you when I’m home to let you know I made it safely.” 

She can’t see his face, but the tips of his ears are red. It makes her smile. “Yes,” she tells him softly. “I think I’d like that.” 

~Fin~

Part 2: Bloom