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p1tstop · 2 years

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START YOUR ENGINES!

Another dramatic year has come to and end. Time to analyze the great posts and shitposts, to celebrate the friends found and tags blocked, to honour the milfs & dilfs we gained and the sideblogs we lost along the way. Created @ p1tstop 51 weeks ago on this hellsite and since then there have been tears, laughs, moans, breakdowns, groans, retirements and comebacks. Throughout it all though I wasn't alone because of the hilarious racers (yOU! reading this) that were sharing the same bumpy ride with me to the checkered flag. I say we've all won, just by making it this far. Party.

P1TSTOP IN NUMBERS - Liked over 30k posts - Over 10k items on the blog - Following 240 brilliant besties - Reached an astounding 1.5k followers (!!!?!) + Divorced 1 Formula </3

Came into the year not expecting anything; I was sad, lost & alone. Ended up finding a home in one of my first loves: F1! Something I was only allowed to indulge in Sunday morns that I could now access all day all ways. From waking up at 3am for testing in Bahrain, live shitposting the entirety of DTS S3 when it came out, learning about the tomfoolerY of Formula E, reveling in the newly created Extreme E, Jamie becoming a 2x W Series champion & everything in between - it's just been a dream. There have been edits, fancams, moodboards, drabbles, memes, rants, tags & tournaments. I’ve fallen for mutuals, fallen out of love with drivers - I even started calling Nico mommy & looking at milk differently… It has been insane, in the best way.

F1blr is what you make it and that all comes down to the people around you. I'm not lying when I say I've met some of the nicest, most caring people I've ever met in my lil life right here, in the past year. What the fuck seriously. You're all such babes. Gonna cry and get all cheesy (I know, typical) just thinking of how talented, smart & cute you all are! So here we go, a last lil shoutout to the urls that have become much more than a silly name! & to anyone I haven't tagged or forgot or anyone just reading this, I fucking adore you. I choose you! You’re so damn special.

TO MY LOVES @oversteerey @sunshine-ricciardo @valtteri-thiccass @7xwc @fabian-vettel @sebeestian @theizzyryder @lewierre @formulakay @goldenhourhimbo @vettelle @laptimedeleted @lewishamlton @mickstart @ferrqri @still-we-rise @ferrarcin @babssionate @jedivszombie @schwarzevulkan @mercedesgrussell @recidivae @leatherandcherryblossoms

TO MY BELOVED CONTENT CREATORS @ctolisso @queerbenched @oscar-piastri @jbutton @liam-lawson @callumsmick @44lh @callumsmick @brawn-gp @maranello @greenliketheskyf1pics @kosite @callumilott @motopg @albonoo @elfynevans

TO MY NICHE INTEREST BESTIES @slvrarrws @astronomical-light @des-iderate @heureux4430 @alasarys @breannastewarts @lizcambabe @gerri-roman @nemesick

Here’s a quick look at some of my coup de coeurs of the past twelve months! Soon on display (& coming to a city near you) in my hall of fame!

TAGS #jontent #susie100 #cathcore #patoganda #confettipodium #weeklyvibecheck #therearetwowolffsinsideyou <- i sure hope so

POSTS first p1tstop post! happy v day! bby susie & lewis revelation! daddy who? moodboard suzanne & torger gif once upon a time... cyriel first susie gif! unbothered mommy! kiss me i just won a 5th olympic gold sir lewis @ the met <33 obgyn!toto fdngknga i survived dimbo tournament tshirt cyril 3 <3 tattoo reveal first dumb edit! daniel portrait ! many moods of miss nico my 3 fancams dedicated to blonde milfs town & country lewis and toto profile put these in the louvre & so many nico posts but i'll spare you x

If you've made it here, all I really want to say is thank you. Big hug! Ily <3 Cath xo

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dickwheelie · 4 years

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okay so the other day this gorgeous comic by @tijela crossed my dash and I couldn’t stop thinking about a sequel to it where Jon and Martin actually get to go on their date. so. this is that. set sometime nebulously in season 3. also there is ace jontent (jon content) because against my better judgment I absolutely refuse to shut up about jon being ace. anyway I love you (yes, you) enjoyyyyy

___________

It’s only two minutes after nine in the morning when Jon appears in the doorway of Martin’s cubicle, holding two steaming mugs in his hands. Martin pauses in the act of taking off his coat, eyes wide, and for a moment all they do is stare at each other.

“I—brought you tea,” says Jon at last, as though it’s something he does for Martin every morning. He makes a strange kind of abortive movement with his arm, half-offering one of the mugs. What is happening, thinks Martin. And why is it happening before I’ve even switched my laptop on.

He decides to roll with it. “Thanks,” he says, keeping his voice carefully neutral, as he sits down at his desk and takes one of the mugs. Jon’s hand shakes almost imperceptibly as he passes it over. Martin takes a sip. It isn’t very good. He smiles at Jon anyway. “Ta,” he says again.

Jon doesn’t appear as though he heard him. His brow is furrowed, distractedly, and Martin notices that he doesn’t even drink from his own mug before setting it down on the edge of Martin’s desk. A twinge of anxiety lances through him. “Alright, Jon?”

Jon’s eyes snap to his, and his expression softens. “Yes. Um. Well. Not entirely.”

“Oh?”

“I’m sorry,” Jon says, and he looks it, tired and frayed at the edges as he always does these days, but there’s a softness in his eyes and regret in his lines of his face. “About what happened yesterday—I am so, so sorry, Martin. I let my guard down and I shouldn’t have . . . compelled you—”

Martin shakes his head. “It’s alright.” He’d just as soon put the whole thing behind him; being rejected is embarrassing enough on its own, never mind the rest of it. “You . . . you didn’t mean to.”

“That doesn’t make it okay,” Jon says, insistent.

“I—yeah. I know,” Martin sighs. It’s too early for this.

“And . . . I. Um. I would, actually.”

Martin pauses with the mug halfway to his mouth, and blinks up at Jon. “You would . . . what?”

“I . . . I would be happy to go out with you.”

Jon’s posture is ramrod straight, as it so rarely is, as though this is a speech he’s been rehearsing for.

“Oh! Um.” As the words sink in, Martin feels heat rise to his cheeks. He puts the mug down. “Really?”

Jon nods, once. “Yes.” Some of the confidence leaves his voice. “I-If you still want to, that is. Of course I—I understand if you’ve changed your mind.”

“No, I—or I mean, yeah, I’m . . . I’d love to, yeah.” At least it’s good to know that they’re both being articulate.

“Oh.” Jon looks genuinely relieved. “Good, then.”

Martin’s about to say something resembling a thank you, when Jon barrels onward.

“I was thinking we could get dinner.” Then, almost apologetically: “Is that alright?”

Martin would laugh if the whole thing wasn’t making him blush. “O-Okay. Yeah. Sure. Sounds good. When are you . . . ?”

“Tomorrow is Friday, yes?”

“Yeah,” Martin says, and he bites the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling.

“Then . . . tomorrow night? A-After work? Or—” Jon winces slightly, slowing down. “I-It doesn’t have to be right after work. Would seven o’clock be alright?”

“Yeah. Yeah, that’s . . . that’s good for me.”

“Okay.” And Jon smiles, just the tiniest bit. “Okay, yes. Seven on Friday. For dinner. I’ll send you the details.”

“Sure.” Martin allows himself a grin, around the rim of the mug, and flashes Jon what he hopes is an appealing glance. “See you then, Jon.”

“Yes. Alright.” Jon stands there, staring at him for a second more, then turns around on his heel and disappears down the hallway.

It takes half an hour before Martin can actually focus enough to start work. It takes another full hour after that for Martin to notice that Jon forgot to take his mug of tea with him.

***

Jon taps his water glass pensively as he waits for Martin to arrive. The restaurant he’s invited Martin to is an Italian place in central London that Jon has never stepped foot in before today, but it seems romantic enough, with candles at every table and soft music playing in the background and lighting that makes reading the menu a chore, even with his reading glasses on. The table for two he’s reserved is minuscule, which he supposes must be a good thing. For . . . some reason.

He’s nervous. Which is ridiculous, given his life, but there it is. It feels less like a first date than it should; he knows Martin so well, and cares for him, and trusts him, but still, there’s that nagging anxiety. He just really doesn’t want to mess this up more than he already has.

Jon isn’t sure what he’s expecting Martin to look like when he arrives at the restaurant. He knows he’ll look nice, of course; Martin always looks nice, with his ties tucked neatly into his soft-looking sweaters, with his hair, and his smile . . . Jon gives himself a shake and stares daggers at the drink menu. He, himself, has worn one of the nicest outfits he owns, which he imagines is doing little to combat the bags under his eyes and the numerous scars. Still, he’s made an attempt with his hair, and traded in his usual square frames for horn-rimmed spectacles that, he’s been told, look nice on him.

When Martin shows up, though, fashionably late where Jon had been a quarter of an hour early for their reservation, he puts Jon to shame. He’s wearing a pale blue suit, with a lightly-patterned button-up that Jon can’t quite make out in the restaurant’s dim light, his hair nicely coiffed, his earrings catching the light and sparkling with every step. He approaches the small table where Jon can only sit and stare, already mumbling an apology for making Jon wait, and even after everything that’s happened Jon’s still incapable of filtering himself, so he says, “You look lovely.”

Martin beams at him as he pulls out the chair across from Jon and sits down. Inwardly, Jon winces; he should probably have offered to pull it out for him, shouldn’t he. “Thanks, Jon,” Martin says, happily. He gives Jon a once-over, but in an admiring way, which is not an experience Jon has had in a very, very long time. “You don’t look so bad, yourself.”

“Ah,” Jon says, “thank you,” and he dives back into the menu before Martin can notice that he’s blushing.

They make small talk as best they can, avoiding any topics relating to fears, until a waiter comes by. Neither of them want wine, as it turns out, Martin because of the tannins and Jon because he wants to maintain every bit of control he has to not say or do anything stupid that could ruin all of this.

As they wait for their food, Martin looks askance at Jon’s right hand, squinting curiously. Jon glances down, and his stomach sinks; he’d forgotten he was wearing it. It’s his ace ring, the simple black band he wears outside of work, when he can remember where he’s left it last. He’d put it on earlier in a fit of unearned confidence when he’d seen how his hair looked, and now he’s paying the price.

“Is that—?”

“Yes,” Jon sighs, twisting it around on his finger instinctively. “My ace ring.”

“Didn’t know you had one. I’ve never seen you wear it around the office.” Martin’s voice is soft and uninquisitive, offering Jon the option to drop the topic.

Jon doesn’t take it, because again, he lost his filter sometime in the nineties and he’s never gotten it back. “Yes, well, it’s a bit . . . unprofessional, isn’t it.”

Martin shrugs, his earrings swinging with the motion. “I mean, not really. Tim and I have pride stickers on our laptops and stuff. And—now I think of it, you do too, Jon.” Martin huffs a laugh, but the way he looks at Jon, he can tell it isn’t at his expense. “I don’t get why this is any different.”

“I—you—” Jon flounders for a moment before giving up. “You make a compelling argument. But—I don’t know. The ring feels . . . different.” His voice weakens slightly, along with his resolve. “Somehow.”

“More personal,” Martin says, softly.

“Yes.” Jon’s chest grows warm. “Yes, that’s . . . that’s exactly it.”

“I get it. I mean, I’m not ace, but—I get it.” Martin runs his thumb along the rim of his water glass. “Took me a long time to get that trans sticker up on my laptop.”

Jon nods. There’s a beat of silence, and then Martin leans forward in his chair slightly. They’re already in pretty close quarters, and in the candlelight, Jon can almost count Martin’s freckles.

Martin inches his hand toward Jon’s. “Can I . . . ?”

Jon really hopes his blush isn’t visible, but his luck has never been the best. “Um . . . yes. I-If you want to.”

Slowly, like he’s trying not to scare him off, Martin takes Jon’s hand in his, dwarfing it in his broad palm and wide fingers. The contrast, Jon thinks for a strange moment, is beautiful.

Almost immediately, Martin startles. “Jeez, Jon, your hand is so cold,” he says, and he takes both of Jon’s hands between his, rubbing warmth back into them. Jon’s hands, in fact, had been rather cold, though he hadn’t noticed until now, and they’re certainly not cold anymore, along with Jon’s face and chest, which are rapidly warming up by extension.

He manages to get out, “Ah—sorry. I, um, have bad circulation.”

“Don’t apologize,” Martin says, almost absentmindedly, still staring down at their hands. “You haven’t done anything wrong.”

Jon wants to protest, and probably ruin the mood by bringing up topics that shouldn’t be discussed on a date, but at that moment Martin looks back up at him, meeting his eyes with a smile that makes him look even lovelier. “I like it,” says Martin, out of nowhere. Jon blinks at him. “Your ring.” He holds up Jon’s hand for him, demonstratively. “It looks right on you. It fits. You know?”

“Ah. Thank you,” Jon says. It doesn’t feel like the right thing to say, but he can’t find any other words, at the moment. He feels . . . he’s not sure what he’s feeling. His chest feels a bit full, but not necessarily in a bad way.

Martin is casually glancing around the restaurant, as though he isn’t actively taking Jon apart piece by smitten piece. “This place is posh,” he says. “You come here often?”

“All the time,” Jon says, mustering up some humor. “I’m only in the head archivist business for the salary.”

That makes Martin laugh, at least. “Thanks for asking me out, by the way,” he says.

“Oh,” Jon says, and his hands are still warmly pressed between Martin’s own, and he can see now that Martin’s shirt is dotted with tiny sunflowers, and for a moment he has no idea why Martin is the one thanking him. “Well, you, ah . . . sort of beat me to it.”

Martin laughs. “I mean, sort of.”

“It’s the thought that counts, anyway,” Jon says, borderline nonsensically, grasping at well-worn words and phrases, because it’s all starting to sink in now that he’s on a date with Martin, and it’s going well.

It’s at that moment that their food arrives, and Martin has to let go of his hands, but the warmth remains for a good long while afterwards.

The rest of the date is, as much as Jon has come to both loathe and cherish the word over the past two years, uneventful. Nothing is ruined, not even a tablecloth, and Martin seems genuinely, actually happy in Jon’s company, and Jon feels calmer and safer than he’s felt in a long, long time. They walk back to the Tube station hand in hand, and even in the chill autumn air, Jon feels absolutely warmed down to his bones.

#tma #the magnus archives #jonmartin #martin blackwood #jonathan sims #gwyneth writes #oh this is longgg #it's 2k if ur wondering if u wanna read this now or wait till later #i didn't mean for it to be this longggggg #but here it issssss

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