#this isn't even like an accessible sport | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

joelslegalwhre · 2 years ago

Note

Hey!! was just looking to request a little something, if you don't want to/don't have the time I don't mind.

So, like a Max V x Reader where reader is Toto's daughter. Reader and Toto doesn't have a good relationship because she isn't very interested in the Mercedes team and after a petty fight he kicks her out of the house, max hears them fighting (they're in the paddock) and offers to host reader and as time goes, they start to build a relationship and then everyone finds out about it. Also if it could take place under the 2021 season. 🏎️🤍

*sips on dr pepper* Alright Toto my beloved, it‘s time to be a bitch

Thank u sm for the request anon! I made some small changes to the plot but nothing major xx

Paddock Pass pt.1

pairing: max verstappen x fem!reader, dad!toto wolff x fem!reader

word count: 1.6k

summary: After Toto takes your paddock pass, Max comes to your rescue. You didn‘t think that rescue would lead to something much bigger. (Pls trust me this is good, I just suck at summaries)

warnings: angst, fighting, bad dad-daughter dynamics, fluff, mutual pining turning into more, use of Y/N one time, not really proofread (anything else? Tell me if I missed something)

Masterlist || taglist || part one || part two || part three

There wasn't a year when you hadn't attended at least half of the grand prix. And this year was no different.

Your job allowed you to work from everywhere you liked, so it was the perfect opportunity to follow your dads team around the world.

The Mercedes Formula One team was something you’d consider family.

You knew everyone by name, some of them knew you since you were only a few years old, attending your first races.

But you never cared for the strategies, the way the cars worked, or anything in that field.

You were here for the excitement of the races, the familiarity and the people. The drivers, the mechanics, the strategists or the people working for the media… they were close to your heart, and you couldn't imagine not being part of this world.

Even if you weren't the least bit interested in the details; you knew everything about the sport, you just didn't want to go into detail why the car would work better if you added this thing to whatever part of the car that your dad had explained to you so many times.

But Toto Wolff would not understand that. And he made it very clear.

In his eyes, you should be just as interested in all aspects of the sport. To be like him, you thought.

„You know what, Dad? Shocker, but not everyone shares your fucking interests and cares for them as much as you do!"

You've never talked to him like that, but you've had enough. "I know I'm not the daughter you'd like to have," you continued, „I really don't care about the aerodynamics of Lewis‘ car and how it's different to Valtteris'! I simply don't care!"

You felt hot tears burning in your eyes, but you managed to blink them away. Barely, but he didn't have to see them. "They all know that," these damn tears wouldn't stop, you thought, "Everyone except for you, Dad.

The disappointment in your voice was clear as day, "Why do you even take me with you, when you don't just accept me as I am?" Your lips were pressed in a tight line, the tears still on the verge of falling.

"You're right." Toto said in the coldest voice you might've ever heard from him, his accent thick, „I don't have to drag you with me anywhere, you're an adult after all. But I also don't have to give you access to the paddock, nor to the garage or anywhere else."

You clenched your teeth, hard. He just had to snap his fingers and your all access pass was worth nothing. You couldn't enter the paddock, couldn’t go anywhere else. And he knew, clear as day, that you couldn't just take a plane back home. You needed the money to pay your rent and couldn't just waste it on a plane ticket that was way too expensive.

But you wouldn't give in this time, no, if he wanted to punish you for telling him the truth, fine. But he couldn't just humiliate you like he did right now. You grabbed the all access pass hanging from your neck and shoved it in his hand. "Take it then." you said, your voice matching his cold tone.

Max was hearing every part of it. He'd noticed your voice just before he walked past the Mercedes facility, stopping dead in his tracks when he heard the tone of your words. The voice he had heard so many times, the kindness you always spoke with. All gone. And then Toto's. Just as horribly cold. The two of you were standing between the facilities, so he pretended to be on his phone answering someone, so he could wait in front of his own facility.

"Take it then." he heard you say in a bitter tone, and just a moment later, you walked past him. He could tell that you were upset. Hell, everyone could've. The way you almost ran out of the paddock and tried to blink away the tears - of sadness, anger, or possibly both, he couldn't tell - it was obvious. Max waited another moment, and when he saw Toto returning to the Mercedes facility, he quickly followed you.

He had to quicken his pace, due to your fast steps. Some were curiously watching where he wanted to be so quickly, but he didn't notice them, just trying to catch up to you. "Hey," he called after you, "wait for me!"

You didn't hear him, and even if you did, you wouldn't think he'd meant you. It was when he called out your name, that you finally turned around.

"Thank you." he said, taking a deep breath. He stopped right at your side. "Ehm," you looked at him in utter confusion, still trying not to be obvious of your emotions. "Can I help you, Max?"

You haven't seen him, when you walked past the Red Bull building, too focused on what to do now.

„Uhm, yeah, I mean… Can we find a-„ he looked around, “a more private place to talk?”

His gaze was filled with sincerity and softness. You needed a second to answer him. „Uhm, yes. Of course.“ you quietly said.

“Great.” Max gently took your wrist and led you to a more secluded place between two facilities. The grip he had on your wrist turned into him sliding his hand in yours. It didn‘t surprise you how the skin where he had touched you tingled, the feeling of your hand in his a feeling you could never quite explain. It was childish, but ever since he started driving for Red Bull, you had a crush on him. You obviously never told your Dad or anyone else about it, hell would've broken loose if you did.

“I was actually heading out of the paddock,“ you started, “I don't have a pass anymore.”

His lack of confusion or surprise to that made you draw your brows together, and then he simply answered, „I know.”

“So what are you-„ you started, but he interrupted you, “I know it's not the most gentlemen thing to do, but I heard all of the-“ he thought for a second, “discussion, between you and your Dad.” he ended.

That actually made you smile a little, he tried his best to be as gentle as possible and you appreciated it. „It’s okay, Max. I guess everyone kind of heard us.” you sighed, „We had a fight, and he kicked me out.” a bitter smile formed on your lips.

„Yeah, but he can't kick you out of the paddock.” Max's lips turned into a mischievous smile. “What do you mean?” He looked at your hand and his thumb caressed it for a second. „I'll give you one of mine.”

„Max,“ you started a little shocked, but he quickly shook his head, „It's really no problem at all,“ he smiled, „It would be an honor to have you in the garage.“ he winked.

His knees almost buckled at the sight of you.

He had given you one of his spare Red Bull shirts. It was a little too big for you, but you had styled it perfectly, the new pass dangling from your neck with every step you took.

You looked absolutely beautiful. And you weren't walking past his garage like you usually would, because his garage was the one you'd watch the race in. It filled him with a sort of pride he couldn't explain. Never in a million years, had he dared to believe you'd be rooting for him and his team. Little did he know, you did since meeting him for the first time.

"Hey," you greeted him with a warm smile. Max was glad that you seemed to be in a much better mood than yesterday. „Hey.“ he grinned. „Is this-„ you gestured over your outfit and pass, „Is it really okay with the team?“

You were a little nervous how they'd react to you being in the garage. Nearly everyone knew you were Toto's daughter. And although you knew most of the other teams, including the people who worked for them, you felt quite nervous. „It is.“ His voice had no trace of uncertainty in it. And when he grabbed your hand for the second time since your encounter yesterday, your stomach did a little happy flip.

„Alright, I have to go, but you can just go over there to watch the race,“ he pointed to your left, „But I guess it's no different to the Mercedes garage, so…“ he laughed. You smiled and chuckled, „It isn‘t, but thank you.“ He gave you a small nod, still smiling. „No Max, really. Thank you.“ Your voice became more serious, and you looked at him with utter gratitude.

Just when he gave your hand a light squeeze, you noticed that you must've still been holding hands. „I already told you it's no problem, I'm glad you are here.“ You couldn‘t tell the look on his face, you just knew that he was standing so very close to you that only a few centimeters separated the two of you. His gaze wandered from your eyes to your lips. His hand that caressed yours as you still watched him with such intensity, trying to figure out what he was thinking, but at the same time just taking him in. „Y/N, I-„ he started whispering, so close to your own lips, just so very close.

„Max! We need you over here!“

The voice made both you and Max look up, almost startled. He turned around to the mechanic, and nodded quickly before turning back to you.

But the moment was gone. You took a step back, letting go of his hand in the process. You smiled at him, though nervously, „Good luck, champ.“. And with that you left him standing there, your heart still aching for so much more than a simple ‚good luck‘.

I appreciate your comments and reblogs so much!

here’s my kofi if you‘d like to leave a tip 🩷

#f1 x reader #angst #max verstappen x reader #max verstappen #x reader #max verstappen x you #max verstappen x y/n #toto wolff #toto wolff x reader #mercedes #mercedes f1 #redbull f1 #formula one #f1 #fluff #formula one x reader

810 notes · View notes

venuszn · 1 year ago

Text

☆ : Seven Minutes

Summary / You and Bada Lee were exes. It’s three months later and you’re still sore about the messy breakup but you’re stubborn and being in denials comfortable embrace is better than facing your true feelings - that you’re still not over her. Bada Lee regrets how things ended and has finally mustered up the courage to show you how much you mean to her and to put you first. Three months of regret, pain and suppressed feelings has lead you both to this moment - face to face at a party with an empty bottle set on the table as it spins and spins, taunting you almost. ‘You’d rather kiss the sweaty alcohol potent guy on her right’, you try to convince yourself. But fate has other plans.

Cw / Exes to lovers, Angst (happy ending), Toxic Bada & Reader (who is in the wrong or are they both wrong ?), 7 minutes in heaven, Suggestive, Dom!Bada, MDNI.

Wc / 3.2K words.

You stand there, eyes locked with your reflection as it stares back at you judgingly. You almost can't believe yourself. There’s no way you’d go to a party that your ex is going to be at, and there's no way in hell you'd go to a party being held at said ex's apartment . . . right ? You almost can't believe that you're dressed in a lace corset top and a black mini skirt that showed off your legs. It's not like you remembered that Bada always liked it when you wore skirts - especially because of the easy access. No, you didn't remember that at all. Just like you forgot that Bada always loved it when you wore outfits that complimented your body, how she would worship your beauty and feel a sense of pride when in public with you because she knew that you were all hers. Well, that was before. That was months ago and you and Bada were old news, you were done. And all it took was one missed phone call to catalyse the ending of a year of love that the two of you shared as one.

———

It was a hot summer’s day and the aircon at the studio was broken. Which you believed to be both a blessing and a curse as you watched your girlfriend strip herself of her shirt - exposing her sports bra and glistening abs. She refused to stop dancing despite the heat of the evening sun that insisted on shooting its golden rays directly at the studio windows; you mentally cursed at it. It was getting late and you urged her to take a short break and to stay hydrated but when Bada hyper fixated on something - the thing being a section of choreography that she was desperate to perfect - it was difficult to redirect her focus.

Bada Lee loved to dance. She loved to move to the rhythm as the emotion of music translated through her body and limbs - accompanying the beat in its quest for impact. You were her number one fan. You adored Bada for her gift and you revelled in her joy for it, wishing her nothing but success. However, if granted one more wish perhaps you would wish for more of her attention.

“Bada come on, let’s go home please. It's getting late.”

No answer, except for the shuffling and stepping of her shoes as she danced.

“Bada, can we go please, everyone has gone home. Aren’t you tired ?”

Nothing.

“Bada ?”

Nothing.

You suck your teeth in frustration and make your way over to the stereo - switching it off. You spin on your heel to face her, arms crossed as you wait for her to speak.

“What are you doing ?” Bada says in a low tone, voice teeming with irritation as she eyes you through the mirror.

“I'm getting your attention - that's what I'm doing, Bada.” Exasperation leading your words.

“Attention for what ? You know I don't have time for your games right now. Turn the stereo back on.”

“Did you not hear what I said ? It's late, can we go home now ? You’ve been rehearsing all day and your choreography looks fine.

“I really don't have time for this right now,” She says your name with exhaustion. “You know that this isn't just another choreo. You know that I'm preparing for Street Woman Fighter and you also know how important that is to me.”

You almost feel the burning sting of the venom on your tongue as you shoot back, “and how important am I to you ? I've been here by your side throughout this entire process - from when you got the invitation to join the show till now - I've been supporting you. But you don't recognise any of that. You ignore me. You stay out practising till stupid o'clock and then drag yourself through the door exhausted and in a bad mood. You're wearing yourself out and for what ?”

“You know why I practise as hard as I do. I don't need you berating me and my efforts. I'm already stressed the hell out. I'm the leader for fucks sake, I’m responsible for my entire team. Whether we win or lose - that's on me and me alone so yeah, I’m staying out till late practising. I know we haven't really spent time together recently but I hoped you would be a supportive girlfriend and waited for me - understand my burden and be patient with me. I-”

You cut her off with a harsh laugh, disbelief washing over you like ice as you struggle to digest her words. “You are so unbelievably selfish.” You take a step forward.

“So selfish that you made yourself the victim here.”

Another step forward.

“So selfish that you don't even trust your teammates to do well on their own.”

Another step forward.

“So fucking selfish that you dont even realise that I have my own burdens and stresses. But here I am - quite literally waiting for you despite the fact that I have my own rehearsals to attend in the morning.” Your finger prods her chest as you stare up at her through eyes clouded with rage. “You’re not the only dancer in the world, Bada. The world doesn't revolve around you.”

You see her brows twitch before a scoff leaves her lips. She steps back, hands disheveling her fringe as she pushes it back in frustration. “I didn't ask for you to be here !”

Her words grew a fist and punched you in the gut.

“I don’t need you around me all the time. You’re allowed to do your own shit, I never said you couldn’t. Fuck, you’re driving me crazy.” She grits through her teeth.

“What's driving me crazy is the fact that I have been silent and put up with this for weeks on end. I stayed quiet and smiled with understanding when you cancelled on me for the third time that one week. I brushed off the times where you didn’t respond to my texts or missed my calls because you were rehearsing all day. I have done a lot for you which you still refuse to acknowledge. Bada, all I want from you is your attention - that's all. I just want to feel like your girlfriend again.”

Bada’s body deflates with defeat, her face in her hands as she sighs. “Alright . . . I’m sorry.” She straightens up and looks you in the eyes. “I’ll make it up to you tomorrow after your rehearsal. I’ll pick you up and we can go out after.”

Bada didn't turn up the day after. You waited for her. You rang her phone.

No response.

“We are done.” - The last words you sent to her phone.

———

Three months later and here you are - your hand gripping the door handle to the apartment of none other than your ex’s. You feel the base of the music and the vibration of laughter travel up your arm as you inhale a deep breath. This isn't a big deal. You’re over Bada Lee. You’re not even here for her, you came for Kirsten who invited you to celebrate. Sure, it was Bada’s team that won but this afterparty is to celebrate all the teams. You try to convince yourself.

“What's taking them so long with the drinks-”

You feel yourself jerk forward as the door swings open. Your throat dries up and your heart picks up speed as if attempting to jump out of your chest in hopes of escaping this encounter.

Standing before you is Bada Lee. Your eyes betray you as they scan her tall frame - the way her crop top hugs her body and her baggy pants exaggerate her silhouette. You can't help but think she looks good since you last saw her, which was three months ago. You definitely haven't been watching episodes of the show on tv. No, and even if you did it wasnt to see her finally execute the choreography that she worked hard on. You definitely didn't feel proud of her for accomplishing what she set out to do. And you most definitely didn't feel waves of jealousy crash through you when you saw the way she danced with other contestants and how they danced with her. No, you felt nothing for her. You tried to convince yourself.

“Oh. Hey.” She says in a cool tone as she gazes down at you, eyes scanning your outfit and a friendly smile resting on her lips.

“Hi.”

“We weren’t sure if you were still coming.”

“Yeah. I'm here. Where’s Kirsten ?”

“Oh, she's sitting over there. They're about to play a game or something. You're just in time.”

“Okay. I guess I'll see you around.” You move past her, beginning your beeline to Kirsten before you pause and turn around. “Um, congratulations by the way. I'm happy you won.”

“Thank you. That means a lot to me.” The light behind Bada’s eyes light up, sending a spark your way as emotions ignite within you - emotions you attempted to extinguish. You both hold each other's gaze for a moment before you haul yourself away from whatever trance you were under and quickly resume your beeline toward Kirsten.

You smile and say your hellos to the group, your words of congratulations travelling across the room as you acknowledge the teams and your friends. Soon after you find yourself sitting in a circle as the mystery game, that nobody would say the name of, was about to begin. You raised a confused brow at Kirsten, who laughed nervously and quickly downed another shot. Before you could say anything, you feel a presence insert themselves opposite you in the circle. You turn to see Bada struggling to cross her long legs in between the two guys she forcefully wiggled herself between.

“Ok ! Everyones here, let's playyyy . . .” you hear Kirsten announce.

People mimic drum rolls and you hear giggling. You glance up at Bada and see her tugging at the fabric of her pants - a tell she did when she was nervous.

“Seven Minutes in Heaven !” Kirsten exclaims with excitement before continuing, “but spin the bottle edition !”

You scrunch your brows in confusion as you turn to Kirsten. “What ? Why-”

Before you can finish Kirsten cuts you off, “Woahhh, no time for questions let the game begin. You first !” She says your name with a grin as she sets the bottle in the middle of the table and spins it for you. Your eyes flicker between the bottle and Bada. What if it landed on her ? There's no way you would go into a closet or room with her.

The bottle continues its search for a victim.

No. There's no way it would land on Bada. There's about ten more people playing right now. You’ll be fine.

The spinning continues, almost mocking the state of your stomach as your nerves rattle you.

Bada feels her palms grow damp as she watches the bottle intently.

The bottle slows.

You’d rather kiss the sweaty alcohol potent guy on her right, you try to convince yourself. But fate, otherwise known as Kirsten, has other plans.

Everybody watches as the bottle slows and comes to a stop.

Silence.

Your eyes follow the neck of the bottle only to see it pointing to the space between Bada and the guy next to her. You nearly sigh in relief before a hand reaches towards the bottle and quickly adjusts it to face Bada.

Your jaw drops.

Kirsten grins. “Woah, would you look at that ! It landed on Bada, what are the odds ?!” You have no time to collect your thoughts as you feel her pull you up and push you towards Bada - who was already up and ready.

You hear supportive words from the group and some cheers as Bada guides you away from the lounge and down the hallway.

“Um, where are we going ? What’s going on ?” You walk besides the taller girl. Very quickly you realise where you're headed.

“Bada, why are you taking me to your room ?” You stop dead in your tracks as she reaches the door. “What is going on anyway ? What’s with the game, do you really think I'll go with you into your bedroom ?”

She turns around and you see worry wired into her brows. Saying your name tenderly, Bada extends her hand out for you and she begins. “Listen, please.”

You hesitantly place your hand in hers - slowly discarding all caution.

“I know this is a lot for me to ask you given how things ended between us but I need you to trust me.”

Your eyes look into each other, an unsaid dance of sparks and flames transpire between you once more and you know within you that you trusting Bada Lee is the right choice right now.

So you nod your head, “I trust you.”

Bada’s lips twitch upwards in a small closed smile and she opens the door.

The door opens and you falter in your step.

Before you lay a path of lighted candles, guiding you deeper into the unexpected. Rose petals adorned the floor and bed as the gentle twinkling of fairy lights graced the walls and ceilings above you. You felt your heart race as you took it all in, but you were not prepared for the photographs that decorated the wall above the bed.

You turned to face Bada, who had been quiet this entire time - gauging your reaction. But before you could say anything, she spoke up.

“Before you say anything, just give me seven minutes.”

She takes out her phone and sets the countdown to seven minutes.

You stand and stare, speechless and overwhelmed with emotions but you listen.

Bada steps towards you, hands taking yours before gently rubbing her thumb over your knuckles as she maintains eye contact.

“I’m sorry.” She says.

“I’m sorry for neglecting you as my girlfriend. I’m sorry for ignoring you and not appreciating you when you were doing your best for me. I’m sorry for not doing my best for you even when I had the opportunity to. The day after we fought, I didn't ignore your call. I left my phone at the studio that morning because I was rushing to pick you up on time; I know it still doesn't sound good; I realised I left it and then had to go back and by then I saw your message and then saw that I was blocked. I didn't know what to do. I don't know why I didn't find another way to reach out but I figured that you needed space and I probably needed it too and I think that's ok. Over the months that we’ve been apart, there's not been one day that I haven't thought of you. I knew that no matter what, I wanted you back at the end of the day. We’ve already spent one year by each other's side and I want to spend many more . . .”

Bada gently guides you, bringing you closer to the wall decorated with photos of the two of you.

“I look at these photos and I feel happy. I cherish these happy moments that we shared. However, I also appreciate the bad moments - times where I have fallen short. Those moments have helped me grow and learn from my mistakes, they've helped me to love you more and more each day. Yes, we’re here partying to celebrate our wins and experience on the show. But I'm here right now to celebrate you.”

Bada finishes by wiping a stray tear from your cheek and then you hear the sound indicating that time is up.

You step back and let out a breath that you didn't know you were holding. You make your way up to the wall and a particular photo stands out to you. You laugh weakly, pointing to it. “I remember that night. I was sure you were going to get stuck on that slide but you did it anyway.”

Bada chuckles and you feel her presence directly behind you. Her warmth radiates onto you, awakening the butterflies in your stomach, adding more emotions into the cyclone that was turbulent in your mind.

Tears gloss over your eyes as you turn to face her. Her face wearing nothing but genuinity and hope as she anxiously waits for you to respond.

“You gave me seven minutes in heaven, quite literally,” you say with a weak laugh. But seven minutes is not enough for me to love you all over again - hell, I never stopped. I want forever in heaven with you, no matter how naive that may sound, I want it. But that's only if you want it, Bada.”

The taller girl doesn't miss a beat, gently taking your hand into hers as she looks at you with intent.

“I want it,” She states with finality. “I want it so bad . . . I know I want you, so I want it.”

“Then prove it.”

The words leave your lips faster than you could process them but you feel Bada’s demeanour change slightly as she gazes at you - her eyes wandering around your body and face before settling on your lips.

“You want me to prove it ? Are you sure ?”

You nod shyly, a small “yes” following after.

Bada’s lips curl up in a smirk as she steps ever closer to you.

You step back.

“How would you like me to prove it to you, hm ?” She steps forward.

“Make me feel special. Remember things about me . . .” You step back but your back hits the wall.

Bada’s smirk grows as her hands settle on either side of your head, effectively trapping you. “I think I can do that. I can make you feel a lot of things actually. And I do remember things about you . . . and your body.”

Her eyes undress you as you stand there - prey under her hungry gaze. Her fingers gently hold your jaw, angling it upwards to face her.

“I've missed these pretty lips of yours. I think I remember them, but maybe I need a reminder.” She leans in, pressing her lips to yours and igniting a fiery exchange of passion. Your lips move together as her hands grip your waist, pulling you flush against her. A small moan escapes your lips as you feel her tongue slide against yours - both losing yourselves in each other. Bada pulls away slightly, gently tugging at your bottom lip with her teeth. “Fuck, baby dont make those sounds right now. Not when you’re wearing these clothes.”

“Totally didn't wear them for you.” You tease.

Bada’s expression darkened with want as she drank in the sight before her once more, enjoying the view of your body as her hands explored along with her eyes. “Hm, I’m trying to decide whether to fuck you in these clothes or rip them off you. What do you want, princess ?”

You rubbed your thighs together at her words and licked your lips, staring into her eyes as she spoke. “Surprise me.”

Bada bit her lip before sweeping you off your feet and throwing you onto the mattress.

“Oh I will.”

Tag list / @princhii , @lil-elliesgf ! If you’d like to be tagged for future Bada fics lmk !!

Authors notes / Hiii omg sorry for the delay I had work all week then I fell sick . . . Was literally coughing up my lungs up as I wrote this but I survived ! I knew I couldn’t leave my shawty Bada behind 😣 Anyway, I hope you enjoyed my fic ! Please lmk your thoughts and feel free to send requests 💗

#badalee #bada lee x reader #bada x reader #bada imagine #bada lee swf #swf2 #bada lee smut #swf2 x reader #reader says that the world doesn’t revolve around bada but it infact does #venuszn

292 notes · View notes

scenetocause · 3 months ago

Note

would like to hear your thoughts on what girl!oscar would think of Lando in a club wearing an australia hat 😳

ha well. fic unde the cut

The first thing she notices isn't what Logan's messaging her about. Which she finds out when "omg I fucking hate those sunnies" gets an eyeroll emoji and a long typing response.

Surely you haven't got him so whipped you don't even notice when he's switching nationalities for you yet?

And no, yeah, she does. Notice it. It's not like Valtteri or whatever, becoming an honourary bogan. Lando couldn't pass for Aussie to save his fucking life, he's possibly never (at least as far as Oscar can tell) experienced "chilling out" and throwing a shrimp on the proverbial barbie would have him shrieking.

But Lando's started deliberately checking on Australian sports. He clearly has no idea what most of them are but makes an effort to natter to her about them, when they're wasting time in their driver room and both in danger of getting antsy before whatever media drivel they're scheduled into.

He's a lot smarter than people give him credit for, generally but especially when it comes to something he's concentrating on. Lando knows more about Australian politics than she does, now. Has views about wildlife conservation Oscar tries to keep up with, endorse the wildfire prevention and recovery fund the Quadrant outback drop donated to.

He even googled foods from Melbourne and discovered pigs in blankets is something they're both easily into eating a secret box of, smuggled from Tesco to the weird little flat they sometimes stay in in Woking

Think that's for Keegan not me dude

This time Logan takes no time at all to send back lmao and as if followed by never change Oscar.

She just sends back I really do hate those sunglasses, they make him look like Alonso before we were born. Lando's style is his own business but Oscar reserves the right to take the piss out of it when he deserves it. And only abuse the media team's access to Getty Images a bit when he wears something really hot into the paddock.

"Wow, harsh," the man in question declares, reading over Oscar's shoulder. "I think they're quite cool."

"You think clubbing is cool." She rolls onto her back, lets him snuggle down on top of her. They probably ought to get dressed soon, for the jet back from Ibiza. If they're late they might get sent to fucking Marseille again and as wank as it is having complaints about private jets, Oscar's not keen to repeat that.

Making a woman wait 10 hours for her post-win fuck is inhumane, no matter the mode of transport.

"Yeah." Lando sounds oddly melancholy about it, makes her tighten her arms around him and leave a space for him to carry on his sentence.

It's a few long beats before he does. "Prefer just hanging out with you, though."

They've talked about this, that they're becoming a bit insular. Don't spend as much time with their other friends, doing their separate hobbies, as they used to. It's rare Oscar wakes up without someone who loves her, understands her instantly, in the same bed.

It's not a bad thing. Or at least, it shouldn't be. People on TikTok make out like they're never apart and body language freaks on YouTube say they're tired of each other but they're not. The more time they spend together, the easier it is. The harder it is to imagine how they exist apart.

Just as well, really, if they're getting married. Makes her bundle Lando up against her, like even imagining what separating them would be like is a thought crime she needs to protect him against.

It's pretty sweet, being Oscar Piastri, this time.

"I don't want to take the plug out," Lando mumbles into her armpit. "Do you think it'll set off the scanner things?"

Probably not. Silicon isn't metallic and they're not likely to cavity search him.

"Won't you be all," she tries to gesture what he's like when he's wriggling. "On the plane."

Lando thinks about it for a second, then tucks himself into her, looking dangerously like he's about to fall asleep. "Nope. Not if you cuddle me."

"I'll take it out when we get back to the flat." She has no idea if he'll last that long or get squiggly and end up doing away with it in the tiny bathroom on the jet.

"You can put something bigger in." Lando's hand engulfs hers, where he wraps them together but Oscar can get the jist of what he's asking for. Kisses his hair, to hide how much she's squeezing her thighs together, wet and hot at just the thought.

And maybe a little bit for the engagement ring on his finger, biting hard and solid into the pulse point of Oscar's palm.

#emptyhalf fic

47 notes · View notes

singaroundelay · 2 years ago

Text

I've been thinking about this scene for days now.

By actual RL time (and not 8-ish weeks of episodes), we're a little more than half-way through the EPL season... give or take.

It's impossible to imagine with Trent being around all the time in the offices that he hasn't seen at least one Diamond Dog mounting up. Or, if he hasn't been present he's got to have heard the barking coming from the offices. (Show-wise, we got close with the monkey sounds and Trent being called a sadistic nature documentarians — otherwise the other DD scene is sans-Trent) He's had to have seen Roy storm off like he isn't going to fucking be involved and he doesn't care about any of them except we know he really does, sorry Roy.

So you have this man who has always been on the outside looking in. We know from James Lance's own head canons that Trent was bullied by his father for being other. Growing up queer (even if we don't know how long he was closeted) he always would have been seen as an other growing up. An outsider.

Then he becomes this world class journalist, and though he might have unfettered access in the sports world, he's still on the outside looking in. He's not invited into locker rooms. He's only ever here to pass judgment on everyone around him.

And then Ted happens. Then AFC Richmond happens. And through a series of events, Trent completely upends his life for this ray of sunshine known as Ted Lasso. Ted helps him see that he's not an outsider in the way that Ted's gravitational pull is able to bring people together. He had Roy at Coach. He has Jamie acting like a team player.

He has Trent seeing the best in people.

Is it any wonder why he positively glows when he's around Ted? Why he's stopped masking his true self to the point where others can see he's a total fucking dork? (But he's my our dork...)

But even as Trent starts to gain trust of those around him, he still considers himself an observer. An outsider.

Until Roy storms out and leaves Trent in the room with the Diamond Dogs.

Beard: The Diamond Dogs are a group of men committed to supporting each other by sharing their most intimate thoughts, feelings and experiences. You in or out? Trent: Oh, I'm in.

No hesitation whatsoever. He doesn't need to know any more.

Because for the first time in his life, Trent is on the inside and he's going to grab that with both hands and never, ever let go.

That smile ❤️ It's the smile of a man who, at last, is part of something and isn't on the outside looking in.

For the record, Trent now officially knows if a marriage proposal is ever in the cards — don't do it in Paris.

#ted lasso #ted lasso season 3 #ted lasso spoilers #ted lasso spoiler #trent crimm #I have a lot of feelings about Trent #meta #meta post #ted lasso meta #Trent Crimm independent #tedependent #ted lasso/trent crimm #ted/trent #trent/ted #James lance

468 notes · View notes

hadesoftheladies · 1 year ago

Text

Greed is Male Culture

This isn't a misandry post (sorry to disappoint). Neither is it an essay (yet). It's a deep reflection on what I think is the beginning of humanity's most evil systems, like the actual beginning. These are just my thoughts based on what I know, and I'm sure other people have said what I am about to. This is not a research paper (yet), but it is based on my readings regarding marxism, feminism, and industrial/colonial history (and some marginal knowledge of animal species). This is an opinion/think-piece, the beginning of some of my broader ideas.

I consider greed to be largely irrational and even (mostly) unnatural. Greed is not like hunger or fear. Greed, right now, is about excess. And I think excess is unnatural, and the desire for it even more so. Sort of like how plastic is from nature, but cannot decompose like organic matter. I think greed is a synthetic desire. Mimicking organic feelings like hunger or fear. In a world of safety, community and fulfilment, the desire for power over another is foreign. Unnatural. There are no threats. There is nothing to inspire the thought or desire of greed (especially coming from a materialist perspective). So how did the quest for power for the sake of power (and not safety, survival, or protection) come to be in human beings?

I posit that it could only (and did) arise from male-to-male peer relations.

In most animal (at least mammalian and some other) species, males do not need to be as populous as females. If you want a robust chance at a second generation of animals, you need only one male for twenty or so females. A handful of males of which females would select the best and breed with. The handful of males would have more than enough chances at partnering, and the females would have no shortage of seed if they so wanted to be pregnant.

But that's not the case. Males and females are 1:1, and sometimes, males are slightly more than females in most sexually dimorphic animal species.

So now we have some complications. Something that had been good in a previous context (males for seed) now became problematic. Now, imagine there are slightly more males than females in society. Up until this point, the value for the human male has been two things: seed and manual labor. This is the basis of his relevance to society and identity. These are the only two avenues for him to find any value as a man (not an individual). But now, he senses that he is in jeopardy. He is exceedingly replaceable! There are many men, so not only are the chances for his seed being chosen reduced, but the amount of seed he could spread is also reduced! He doesn't want to share, and he cannot stomach being replaceable or losing access to females, who are the ones who dictate whether he has a legacy or not. Whether he has offspring or not.

So now the many males have to compete. They have to be more flamboyant, robust, more beautiful than the other males so they can get picked by a female (note, they are not concerned with picking a female because any female will do). But the competition gets steeper and keeps escalating for different reasons (environmental or evolutionary) as time goes on. So now, violence, aggression, and killing have become parts of the competition. Like any sport, the rules and stakes evolve as time goes.

The choice of females is now diminished in this first stage. This is the beginning of the loss of their freedom. It is not that they are simply mating with the "prettiest" male, per se, but that they are also left with the male that survives the battle between males.

And thus the concept of "territory" arrives. Man has come to see other men as his greatest threat. Other men can annihilate him by annihilating his chances at offspring. This is not something women experience because every offspring is theirs, regardless of what seed it came from. Women can never be "erased" on a biological level, because their DNA is the blueprint of all humanity. It started with women and it will end when women end. But this is a big existential fear to men. They can be replaced. They were not the beginning. He (singular) can be erased. There are other men ready and willing to replace him.

So now man needs assurances. He needs to assert himself to other men so that the threat is mitigated. He knows other men are out to get him, because all men are now at war with each other. They evolved strength, not to protect women and children (because females in nearly every species have been the main if not sole providers and protectors), but to protect himself from other men. Really, it couldn't be to protect women and children, because female animals are able to wield similar weapons (claws, spears, stones, beaks) against threats to themselves or their young. No, men need strength to defend themselves from other men, who are out to propagate themselves. Men have become the special targets of other men.

And so, in this struggle, the competition evolves again. The stakes heighten. Man needs to assert himself to other men or he's dead meat, and he finds new ways to do so. At this point, he also realizes that women pose no threat to him in this sense. They do not seek to dominate him. He is not that relevant to her. He is replaceable. So women seize to be as important (in terms of threat) and become relegated to assets. Women do not need to assert themselves, so because they do not, man sees them as different to him. Not the same kind of animal. Not human. Women do not need to establish themselves using violence, and he equates that to women not having agency or ambition. Women now become assets. But he needs them as assurance. Remember, they are the only way he has legacy. So he must find a way to control them. To make them permanently his somehow. He asserts himself using violence, even reproductive violence and it works. Women are now part of the territory. Conquests and wars ensue. Men now view acquiring women and land as the same thing. Now in order to ensure their legacy, men know that it will not just take killing other men, but policing women. Even killing (but mainly stealing and raping) the women of other men since women are now resources and not people. Women cannot assert themselves physically the way men can. They cannot impregnate themselves. This is convenient for him to exploit.

Factions start to form. Kings, chiefs, and dictators rise up as territory and assets expand. Women die in in the crossfire, and policing them becomes more brutal. Their mistreatment from their own offspring and species has now become their biggest threat. Men are now the plunderers and predators of women. Women's resistance is a threat to his precious resources and assurances against other men and his annihilation. The increase of brutality towards women means that more women die, and there are more men than women, making competition even steeper. Now, man moves in packs. He hunts in packs. He covers more ground and acquires more territory, and so long as he is top of the hierarchy, the men beneath him pose no threat. If anything, he makes sure they benefit, for they help him better maintain that hierarchy. More men are required to fight other men and plunder their resources. Armies form. Nations form. Territory.

Now we come to the modern world. After a history of colonialism, capitalism, slavery, genocides, grotesque war. The underpinnings of all these systems are the same. Competition between males. For what? Hierarchy. Why? To assert himself to other males. To what end? His humanity.

Man, the animal, has now come to equate his personhood with supremacy. To men, dominance is a virtue, because to assert yourself, to impose your will, is to be human. Man needs something to be dominant over or he seizes to be relevant. Man needs something to subjugate, or he becomes meat to be devoured by other men. There are more men now than there ever was. The world suffers because ALL these men "need" to assert themselves, to become human to other men.

This is probably part of the reason why women aren't seen as human. Not simply because they are regarded as assets instead of persons, but because to be subjugated is to be inhuman. To be subjugated is how you become an asset. Or at least, dehumanizing you as an asset makes it easier to christen your subjugation as morally right and economically necessary. This idea is especially prevalent in politics since the 18th century. Man sees living things in two castes: dominant and submissive. Because that is how he sees himself in comparison to other men. Cattle, sheep, nature, men who take it from the back, women . . . submissive and thus inhuman. If a man can subject you, you are no longer human to him because you cannot or do not assert yourself in the way he does. You are now an asset that he can use to assert himself to other men. You are not a relevant threat. This is also possibly why pacifism is largely regarded as feminine or "pussification." Even unnatural. Men equate violence to agency since violence is when they start to become their own people.

This becomes even more plain when you look at the underpinings of man's existential thoughts throughout religion, art, and philosophy. What makes a man a man? What makes a man useful? What makes life meaningful to a man? What traits do they worship about god? Omnipotence. Omniscience. Being the owner of all things. The capacity to impose yourself and image on the world and to be able to do so forever via offspring. Ownership and property only became relevant to man when another man competed with him. Excess is useful now because it is a grand way of asserting yourself. Fame and excess are equated to legacy. Now, they are all that is worth striving for. As a boast to other men. A synthetic desire (greed) from an organic feeling (fear of threat).

Man's purpose is now to win the competition, no matter how silly the sport gets. To assert himself and be a threat. And if he is not a threat, he is irrelevant and unspectacular (to humanity). And if he is not relevant, as his ancestors once feared, . . . then what is he? He cannot become a woman who is eternally necessary and relevant to human society and history.

So what else can he be? There are only two options in the male world.

Both these options cannot do anything but ultimately destroy what humanity is left in him.

Greed only makes sense if the satisfaction (mimicking hunger) is found in other people's perception of you. Men need men to perceive them as successful, because that has been how they protected themselves from other men. And now that competition exists in all forms of society, whether economic or social, we all participate on some level with it. It's not that greed is natural to the human heart, but that it has become increasingly relevant to our societies, from how we consume to how we relate. Now, every fraction of society has to have its own model of dominant/submissive, superior/inferior, etc. Because men hate themselves, hate each other, and hate everyone else.

Anyways . . . nighty, night!

PS: This is kind of like conflict theory meets feminist analysis, and it's more of a collection of my ideas than anything else. I find it interesting to look at modern human politics and arts, at least between the 20th century and now, in this lens. If you don't like what I have to say, at least let your criticisms be constructive. I do not mind reasonable disagreement.

#radblr #feminism #history #just thinking about it #capitalism #colonialism

249 notes · View notes

itsgodepi · 1 year ago

Text

If I lose my mind | Ch. 3

Series summary: When you're buried under a mountain of problems and can’t seem to catch a break, it might feel like you need a complete reset. But did it really have to come with a one-way ticket to a new dimension? Surely, a little problem-solving would’ve done the trick. Or, one day you go to sleep as a normal person and the next you wake up as a Formula One driver. You've never been a fan but isn't it like, one of the most exclusive sports? Pairing: CL16, LH44, CS55, DR3 x fem!reader Chapter: Previous | Next Word Count: 2.7k Also on AO3

The fact that you are playing some kind of reaction game with tennis balls right next to a Formula One car, does nothing but further consolidate the theory that this is not real. You must be dreaming. Why would you find yourself in this situation otherwise? It does not make sense.

Not only had he made you change clothes yet again, dressing you up in a strange white jumpsuit filled with even more logos —your surname and country’s flag somehow branded on its hip—, he had also paraded you around the place for what felt like an hour. Cameras had followed you through it all, this time with no intention of recording from the sidelines but instead walking right in front of you as you tried to navigate the crowded place.

“Feeling alright?” Nick queries when you fail to pick the third ball in a row, his eyes scanning your figure as if you were about to drop dead right that second “We can sit down if you need to”

“No, no, it’s okay” you reassure him, willing your mind to concentrate on the game despite the way your mind is running “Let’s try again”

Nick shakes his head in disbelief, stealing one last glance at you before he looks at something behind your back. “Don’t worry, it’s time anyway. I’ll go pick up everything so you can prepare” and with that, he is gone.

Leaving you alone, like he already knows you won’t dare to run away.

He returns with his hands full not much later, one of the objects catching your attention straight away, a light blue helmet that you remember well. The helmet from yesterday, the one that man dressed in the bright orange jumpsuit had freed you from.

Nick silently helps you with everything he brought: from a pair of earphones to a strange white piece of fabric that resembles a ski mask, and finally the helmet. When you hold it in your hands, the weight and smooth texture makes a familiar feeling arise from inside of you, a sudden streak of excitement that travels like thunders through your body.

“Do I have to?” you whisper, head lowered and eyes fixed on the helmet as you try to shake that feeling., flashbacks from yesterday coming instead to play on your mind.

Nick can only laugh at that, his eyebrows furrowing “What do you mean? Of course you have to!”

And although that mocking response irks you, you don’t fight it. Your brain is so overworked with theories that you are not even fully conscious of what you do or why exactly you keep listening to him. You cannot fathom what could they possibly have prepared for you.

The helmet is easy to slide on, the new barrier drowning the noises coming from the garage even more than the headphones had. It does feel a little claustrophobic though, with the way it presses your cheeks up and restricts your field of vision. Nick places something on your shoulders while you try to get used to it, some clicks sounding at your sides before he gives your helmet a pat and guides you over to the white Formula One car. There, he exchanges a few words with the people surrounding the machine, the one closest to you turning his head to send a thumbs up your way. Nick steps aside then, letting you free access to the car.

Confused, you look up at him, a hand coming up to slide the visor of the helmet up so he can see your eyes. Are you missing something? What does he want you to do to the car? See it? You have already been ogling it from the side for half an hour.

When you take a second too long thinking, he stretches a hand out towards the car, as if inviting you to get inside. But you are quick to decline this offer “Oh, no thank you”, raising your voice a little and taking a step back to further prove your point.

Is this-? Are they expecting you to drive it or something? These people are crazy.

Nick’s grin is playful “Sure, whatever you say”, his eyes rolling at your refusal, reaching a hand out for you to hold onto as he invites you once again to step into the car.

“What for? I don’t want to” you dismiss him again, harsher this time, as cross your arms over your chest to strengthen your stance.

You have been trailing after him like a lost puppy all day, no questions asked. It is about time you stand your ground. Are they not satisfied with having you dressed like an idiot in the middle of a place you do not know? All while cameras film your every move like this is the Hunger Games.

“C’mon, we are late, stop playing games…” Nick tries again, his voice way firmer than before.

The argument attracts a lot more attention than you would have liked, the eyes of all the men previously working on the car, now set on you. Everyone seems to be as confused as Nick, low murmurs being shared around the garage as they give you strange looks. That is the case for Nick as well, like he hadn’t thought you rebelling against him was ever an option, like this is just routinary. And when you finally take the time to mull it over, you understand why this change on your attitude may be sudden. The reunion, the clothes, the helmet… It was all preparation.

How have you been so stupid?

The stare contest is only broken by the yell of a man that echoes through the garage. “Why are you still here?! Get in the car already!” he almost orders, a deep frown set on his face. You remember him, he was in the first meeting, seated right at the head of the table.

That angry tone sets everyone around you into motion, Nick’s hand finding the back of your shoulder and pushing you to get in the car. And you want to step your foot down, get his hands off you and run away from this madness. But it all goes so fast.

As soon as you get seated on the car, hands start flying all around you. They screw in the steering wheel, connect some things and help you tightening down the straps of a belt that straps you down to the seat. No way out. You look up at Nick, silently asking for help —as if he was not one of them—, eyes slowly filling up with tears.

What are you supposed to do now? There are so many people around, there is no way you are getting away from this.

While you try to make sense of this situation, even more things start happening around you. The rest of the men —they must mechanics or something— start stepping away from the car, uncovering the wheels and giving space to a man in front of you. He walks backwards outside the garage, his face turning from side to side while holding a hand up for you to wait until he deems it safe.

Still, nothing prepares you for the switch you feel inside of you when the man signals for you to come forward.

From the force with which you grip the steering wheel to the way your foot falls on the pedal, everything feels instinctive. Even the low rumbling of the car coming to life under your body feels strangely familiar and comforting. A second nature. The machine manages to roll out of the garage without trouble, as if you had been doing this your whole life and you were not terrified about what is to come. There is only one possible outcome, and it does not look good for you.

Thankfully —or maybe not so much—, your brain seems to shut down once the car passes through the garage door, the fear consuming your thoughts to such a point that you seem to go over the path in the blink of an eye. One minute you are giving one last look at Nick and the next you are being helped out of the car. The men in white had come to surround the car, one of them giving you a thumbs up and a pat to the helmet that had instantly filled you with relief. It is done, finished. You have not run into a wall, nothing bad has happened.

And, although the fact that you seem to know exactly how to control a Formula One car should by itself have sent you into panic mode, that will instead be a problem for future you to resolve.

Yet, as it seems to be a recurrent theme by now, that happiness is short and sweet. When you are helped out of that awful deathtrap of a car, your eyes are finally able to get an image of the place you have so stupidly driven to. Even though the road had been limited by tall, wired fences the whole way, it is only now that you are able to see the thousands of people seated behind them. You can only look at them in utter shock, vision still restricted by this awful helmet that doesn’t let your breath properly, as you try to wrap your head around what could be happening here and why have you been thrusted in the middle of it.

Some look back at you, their smiles widening as they hold up different flags and banners for you to see, but their attention is promptly stolen by something —or someone— behind you, cheers getting impossibly louder. You follow their gaze instinctively, brows furrowed because what more could possibly be happening.

Well, what is happening is that another Formula One car has arrived. What the hell. Your gaze uselessly follows the car, its navy blue paint a complete contrast to the white of your car ��why you would even call it yours is beside the point. Not only that, but as the people on the road move aside to let the machine pass, you feel the fear that has been bubbling inside you for hours on end now, reach a new peak. The image of at least 10 other Formula One cars lined up is finally discovered before your eyes.

The dots connect way too slowly as your eyes fly from one car to another, heart pumping blood on your ears like it is about to burst out of your chest. Had that lap been a simple warm up, a stupid way to get the cars in place for an actual race?

It is a miracle that you manage to stand upright and follow one of the men dressed in white despite the way your legs are locking up. Breath heavy as if you had run a marathon. In hopes of calming yourself down, you reach up to take off the helmet and that stupid mask, both objects being held close to your chest as if someone was going to come and steal them.

With this newfound freedom you try to gather your bearings for the nth time today. But, how can you, when your field of vision is filled with freaking Formula One cars of every color imaginable? Your chest can only tighten in fear of what is to come.

The man guides you through the mass of people gathered around the cars, a couple of them sending smiles and words of encouragement your way as if you wanted to do anything other than scream your way out of this place. Everyone is just bubbling with an energy that your body cannot match, the mix of screams and cheers sending you further down into an anxiety attack instead. You feel like a puppet, the strings pulling you around this unknown place while people record your every move with one of the hundred cameras flashing all around.

This has to be a nightmare, there is no other explanation. It cannot be the real word. How and why would you be here if it was?

Someone does steal both your helmet and mask before you are brought to a separated part of the road, the asphalt covered with a red carpet to kind of mark a VIP area. For some reason, he flies the scene after that, leaving you completely alone in the middle of a road surrounded by a million cameras and strangers dressed from head to toe in one single color like this is a fucking film.

The loneliness does not last long though, as you are yet again approached by another stranger and that recurrent phrase. “Congrats on P10!” a man dressed in a black jumpsuit comes to stand next to you, a smile being drawn on his lips as soon as your eyes meet “It’s your highest position yet, right?”

Seriously, do you seem that approachable when you are freaking out or do these people just lack emotional intelligence?

His question catches you off guard as much as the fact that he also talks to you in English, your brain scrambling to find a response that you do not have —because, well, it is your fist position ever, if that counts. You decide to mimic his grin instead, a curt nod as your answer since it looks more like an affirmation than a question.

“Feeling nervous?” he queries right after, scrunching his nose as if he could feel the nerves running like thunders under your skin.

For that you do have an answer: “A lot…”, but the reasoning behind it greatly differs from what he must be thinking about.

Strangely enough, the sweet chuckle that he lets out brings a real smile to your lips, and even more so the calming words and praises that follow. That he knows you will do well, everything will turn out alright, while he confidently assures you that you will be taking some points home today. He is sure of it. The men from the meeting had said something similar, their ‘don’t be greedy’ has stayed at the back of your mind ever since.

“You already know this but, be careful, the start is pure chaos when you are on the middle of the grid” he advices you as well, looking back at the line of Formula One cars like he can see it unfolding before his eyes.

But why is he being so nice? Who is he? Talking to you with such care while you cannot get a single word out, too freaked out to react to any of this information. Your eyes slip down on their own to the hip of his jumpsuit, the letters showing despite the fact that he is not wearing it zipped up completely like you do, but rather with the top part wrapped around his waist. There you find what probably is the United Kingdom flag —yeah, he does sound English— and what must be his name: Lewis.

“Anyway, better not to talk about it. Let’s go!” the man proposes at last, pointing with a tilt of his head to the men gathered a few meters away.

Even though any sane person in your situation would have turned down the offer and run away from all these strangers, you cannot help but follow him. The fear of being left alone in an unknown place is somehow overpowering your desire of escaping. Where would you run to anyway? With which money? And if you call the police, what would you tell them? Would you even be able to understand what they say? It is not like you had been able to read a single town sign on the way here.

Still, when you finally focus your gaze on the group of men ahead, you wonder if all this is just an extremely well-prepared hidden camera show. Because not more than a few meters away, in that group you are walking towards is the man that has been flashing through your mind all day long.

The man from yesterday, the person who held you in his arms as everything faded around you, in that exact same bright orange outfit.

Next chapter

___

Author's note: From now on the updates will take a bit longer since this is what I had already written, so you'll have to be patient with me hahaha. Thanks for all the nice comments and interactions!

Taglist: @purplephantomwolf @raye2000 @yuiiimd @drezzerk33 @leclercdream

#formula one x reader #f1 x reader #f1 fic #carlos sainz x reader #charles leclerc x reader #daniel ricciardo x reader #lewis hamilton x reader #f1 x you #formula one x you

198 notes · View notes

chrissy-kaos · 2 years ago

Text

If we're too masculine then we're disgusting freaks. They collect the most masculine of us - innocent women minding their own business trying to live a life that was denied to them - and mock us, openly discussing how nobody could ever love us, how nobody could be fooled that we're women.

If we're too feminine then we're stupid men. They find the most tone deaf quotes from trans girls, usually those who have been out for only months if they're out at all. They find these quotes of girls still learning how to be women, post them everywhere as proof that we are just pantomime caricatures of women.

If we are too strong then we are violent and dangerous. We are an unfair factor in sport, evil men just trying to steal victories from real women. We could lose our temper at any moment. We are a risk that cannot be tolerated. If we're too weak then we are to be mocked. They call us failed men who ran to womanhood because we couldn't take it. We're victims of our own masculinity. Poor feminine men to be saved... In the same way that Republicans want to save those 'poor unborn babies.'

If we lose our temper we're back to dangerous men. But if we cry, if our shoulders buckle under the weight of endless, endless, ENDLESS, ENDLESS, ABUSE. Then they mock us again. They share pictures of trans women crying and laugh over it. Of course they make sure to find the pictures where our stubble is showing, our makeup has already run. It's not the way that women are mocked for weakness; it's the way men are. They find videos where are lips are trembling. Where our voice has gone deep because we don't have the energy to keep it at its heightened octave.

If we find ourselves ugly they mock us. But if we're happy with ourselves then we're disgusting degenerates. "Autogynephilic." Medicalized. They find the tweets of newly out girls who said something improper in their tiny moment of not guarding themselves. An awkward, amateurish attempt at roleplay or dirty talk becomes a meme. A woman who likely spent years growing the courage to begin sexual exploration, probably for the first time in her life, sees herself come up every so often in their replies, their threads, their gifs. What happens to these people? Is it even possible for them to ever resume that exploration?

We're trying to trick everyone into dating us. We should be required to show visible identification on us at all times; to be trans without the people around you knowing is deceit. But also, nobody would ever date us, everyone can tell, immediately, always. Everyone knows, the terfs say GLEEFULLY. Reveling in the idea that our subconscious is constantly telling us this. Basking in the thought of our depression and anxiety eating our minds until there's nothing left.

Even the terfs never stay the same for long. One moment it's a wall of 'concerned mothers' with all the passive-aggressive venom of a white woman calling the police because she doesn't want to put a leash on her dog; make ABSOLUTELY NO MISTAKE that these are the same people. The next it's anime-avatar alt righters. The next it's puritanical Christians claiming we are the natural result of the "rainbow agenda." It's lesbians saying that we're destroying lesbianism, following right on the heels of a pastor saying that anything that isn't a man and a woman is unnatural.

Half the URLs are Mumsnet and half are Kiwifarms. How many are bots? Sock puppets? How many really are just transphobic housewives accessing Kiwifarms from their phones? How many took the full plunge? The answer to all of the above is, we don't know, but it's a whole lot more than zero.

Every time we go into a bathroom, there's a chance we'll be the next screen shot pasted over reddit. It doesn't matter whether it's the men's or women's. They are equally unsafe.

If we need a women's shelter, we flip a coin on whether the person running it has already decided she hates us, because of these people.

We cannot upload a picture to facebook without this risk.

We cannot post about our lives without this risk.

We cannot appear at our work without this risk.

We cannot exist without this risk.

Every possible action we could take will be judged. There is no outcome that isn't negative. There is nothing we can do that isn't negative. Masculinine, feminine, pretty, ugly, angry, sad, sexual, frigid, proud, ashamed, strong, weak. Pre-op, post-op, non-op. Vagina, ovaries, chromosomes, fertility: womanhood is defined as whatever we aren't in that particular context.

I don't want to think about how many people this has killed. To call it a moving goal-post is inept, it is a void, an endless mass of hatred that follows us no matter what we do. Nothing is good enough. Everything, every single thing, is just waiting to be weaponized against us.

It has killed so, so many.

It won't kill any more.

If you're trans and you're reading this you already know everything I said. We've lived through it. You already know that I've spent time as all of the above because you have too. That when I get SIX HUNDRED COMMENTS calling me a man I want to swing my fists and I want to cry and I want to curl into a ball and I want to scream and I want to end my own miserable existence. The ugly beautiful girl in the mirror is so angry and sad and prideful and ashamed and violent and passive and this constant stream of abuse has torn me apart and created so many ugly things in this mind but if there is ONE. FUCKING. THING. THAT. THEY. WILL. NOT. MAKE. ME.

It is dead.

I will live. I will survive. And I don't even care about justice anymore. These people will get away with all this. Somewhere in that mix of the trans population and the infamous 40% number is a figure of how many people they've killed, but they'd never care. I'll live because all of their jeering and mocking and gaslighting and those goddamn fucking insufferable legions of laugh reacts, they don't do a fucking thing.

That's all it comes down to in the end. It's hard and it's painful and it hurts, it just ENDLESSLY hurts to weather their blows. But my name is Alexia. I am a woman.

You can hurt me all you like, but that won't change, and you can die mad about it.

- Lindwyrm Weisseritter

663 notes · View notes

mono-chromia · 1 year ago

Text

Team Sport

A Drarry microfic//oneshot by mono-chromia

Cover illustration by my beloved @basiatlu (alternate versions can be viewed here)

Word count: 1.015

Read under the cut, or on AO3

Draco hadn't understood, but as he comes to find out, Hermione's words had made perfect sense. Harry Potter makes a sport out of sleeping; commiting to a nap the same way he does to a game of Quidditch.

'Mione had once called Harry a "hard sleeper", whatever that may be.

"A heavy sleeper?" Draco had asked, unsure if he was missing some muggle turn of phrase. It comes up when they are trying to figure out the sleeping arrangements in the shared hotel rooms for Luna and Neville's destination wedding.

"Oh, no," she says. "Well, that too, I suppose, so he won't mind if you get back late, but he sleeps hard. I can't quite explain it." Draco doesn't mention the undiscussed assumption that he and Harry are apparently to bunk up together. "You know how he always tries to carry all the plates and cutlery to the table in a single go? Even if there's sixteen people dining?" Draco nods. "It's kind of like that."

Their portkey takes them from 5 A.M. in London to 11 A.M. somewhere in the Mekong Delta region, so when they arrive in their room, Harry immediately crawls into the pristinely made hotel bed, nesting the crisp duvets and the pillows into an iceberg-like structure and sleeps. Hard. Sprawled on his belly with his clothes still on (he's wearing sweat shorts at least, not jeans, thank Merlin) but with his feet sticking out for temperature regulation. He looks like he knows what he's doing. Draco watches him fuss and clumsily toe off his socks (because what lunatic wears socks to bed? Ridiculous) and then doze off immediately, squeezing in a highly efficient, half hour kip before they are expected for their lunch arrangements.

Harry seems more affected by the jetlag than the rest of the company, so Draco finds him, not unlike a cat, sleeping in strange places and at odd moments during the entirety of their stay in Vietnam.

For instance, on a couch in the hotel lobby one early morning, while Ron and Hermione argue with the clerk over the tour reservation that Ron definitely made correctly, with his head in Luna's lap, hoodie pulled low over his eyes, and his arms hugged around his chest.

Or, on the lawn chairs by the pool in the middle of the day. Which, Draco supposes, isn't that strange a place to sleep, but Harry's commitment to the activity is once again proven when Hermione ambles over to rub sunscreen on his back and place a sunhat over his head, all without as much as a twitch.

It's really quite fascinating to watch (though no one else seems to think so) and Draco finds himself somewhat jealous, because even when he diligently works through his own list of requirements for a good sleep (freshly showered, moisturized, teeth brushed, clean sheets, glass of water on the side table, window open for airflow, access to his own pillow) he still doesn't often manage to make eight uninterrupted hours, let alone any misguided attempts at a restful nap. When Draco naps it means the situation is dire, that he is unwell, that he feels like something has crawled up his ass and died there, and it usually only exacerbates his condition instead of having the much desired effect it seems to have on Harry. That effect being that he wakes up content, mellow and sleep-soft (objectively) and exists like that for five minutes or so, before moving onto stage two of his post-nap euphoria, which includes but is not limited to; a general lust for life, toothy grins, silly jokes (objectively), and a propensity for affection towards whoever is nearest to him at any given moment.

Which means that Draco finds himself subjected to the feeling of gently excited hands on his wrists and back as they ooh-and-ahh at the view on their hike, and a chin hooked over his shoulder as Harry feigns mild interest in the book Draco is reading, before asking him to come swim.

Apparently, it also means that, when Draco is keyed up with homesickness on the third of their eight-night stay, Harry invites him into bed.

"You okay?"

Draco looks back from where he has his head stuck out the window, spooked and feeling slightly caught. He stares at Harry in his bed, making up the shape of his body under the sheets from his feet (sticking out from under the cover) to his rumpled head that's more under the pillow than on top of it. Harry's voice is thick with sleep and so, so soft.

"Oh," says Draco. "Yeah. Um. Just— a bout of insomnia."

Harry just hums, low and noncommittal, and for a moment Draco thinks that he might be sleep talking. But then Harry shifts and lifts up the duvet, wordlessly and casually extending an invite towards Draco, and waits for him to get in.

Draco would object, but maybe Harry's bed is just that much more comfortable, maybe that's why he sleeps so well, and well— truly it looks much too inviting to resist. So Draco doesn't object, and quietly pads across their room to slip into bed with Harry. The blanket is bunched up and skewed, there are more than enough pillows, yet none of them in the right spot to actually fulfill their intended purpose, but Harry isn't fussed in the least, and wastes no time snaking an arm across Draco's middle and slotting his head under Draco's chin. Harry seems to fall back asleep pretty much immediately, and Draco is suddenly surrounded by an aura of sleep-warmed sheets, skin-on-skin contact and a bouquet of powdery scented curls, clean skin and sweet spearmint breath. It would have been overwhelming if it wasn't so blissfully sedative.

A robust dose of Dreamless Sleep has nothing on the deep rise and fall of Harry's chest, the dozy twitch of his toes against Draco's leg, the blooming warmth in all the spots where their bodies are touching. Draco dreamily wishes he could bottle it. Who knew that sleeping was a team sport.

#drarry microfic #drarry #oneshot #drarry oneshot #draco malfoy #harry potter #fluff #getting together #napping #cuddling #homesickness #tooth rotting fluff #weddings #holidays #writemonowrite #drarry fanart #drarry art #hermione granger

264 notes · View notes

trashpandacraft · 1 year ago

Text

hi! ok so i'm going to talk about one of my top-five favourite things, which is: dyeing stuff! this is going to be specifically about dyeing protein fibres (animal fibres—wool, alpaca, silk, etc) in a pretty low-key way in your kitchen.

to be clear up front: this is not the most scientific, most perfectly reproducible, or most Objectively Correct way to dye things. i get a lot of fibre that i like this way, though, and i think that other people can, too.

fibre i've dyed that i think is neat:

you can also dye yarn like this:

yes, i like blue a lot. i also really like variegation and heathering, which is why most of the fibre here has patches of white—it's an intentional choice that i've made. you can make different choices.

here is what you need to dye things:

fibre, vinegar, dye, a pot, heat, and some water.

that was so you don't get overwhelmed by the impending wall of text. here is what you need to dye things (it's the same stuff!), but with way more detail:

fibre or yarn. this is the big one, obviously. i tend to dye in 100-200 gram batches, because that's approximately what fits on my stovetop easily. if you're very nervous about felting or harming your fibre, you can use stuff that's been treated to be superwash, start with yarn (which is harder to felt than fibre is), or use a felt-resistant breed like dorset or suffolk. honestly, though, i learned with merino because that's what i had, and it was fine. again, though, this guide is only for protein fibres. it will not work for things like cotton. the only exception to this is nylon, which will take on some colour, but less than a protein fibre will.

a mordant. this is a fancy way of saying a thing that makes dye stick, and for what we're doing here, it's citric acid or vinegar. your grocery store definitely has at least one of them, though if you can choose, i prefer citric acid, because i love wet wool smell but i do not always love wet wool vinegar smell.

dye. i use acid dyes, and am personally deeply loyal to dharma acid dyes, but ashford and jacquard acid dyes work the same way. if you don't want to buy dye or don't have access to it, food colouring will often work, as well, though i haven't tried this with natural food colourings and have no idea how well they'll work.

a dedicated dye pot. ok, if you're doing food dyes, you don't need this. if you're not, it's definitely best practice, though i don't know how dangerous it is not to. any large metal pot will do, but my favourite option is hotel pans, which are those huge metal pan/tray things that hold food at buffets and the like. i have a full-size one that's 15cm deep, and a half-size one that's 4cm deep. they're great because they let you lay out the fibre you're working with so you can see most of it in a single layer.

dedicated dye utensils. as before, i don't know how much of a huge deal this is. i'll be honest and admit that for several years i had a single pair of tongs that got used for all tong-requiring events, including dyeing, and i'm still alive. i suggest that you have at least a big spoon, and a big spoon and tongs are even better.

something to mix the dye in. yeah, i use empty plastic sports drink or soda bottles for this. you can be fancy and get mason jars or little squirt bottles or whatever, and if you get super into dyeing you'll want to mix up dye stocks, but that's way outside the scope of what we're doing here. i like the powerade bottles that have a little squirty mouthpiece, because it's fun to squirt dye onto things.

personal protective equipment. i think this is the part of things that freaks people out. ideally, you wear plastic gloves and a mask (yeah, like your covid masks) when you're working with dye. realistically, i almost never remember to put on gloves and just accept that my hands are going to be blue sometimes. you should wear a mask, because dye is an irritant, but the world is an imperfect place and i have wicked bad adhd and sometimes i forget. this isn't advice. i'm just being honest. you should use some kind of safety stuff. you probably won't die if you don't.

you might also want some little random bits: an old toothbrush or paintbrush, a pipe cleaner, some toothpicks, etc. this is mostly if you like speckles, or if you want very small patches of colour.

so first: there are a million ways to dye things, and i'm not convinced that any of them are objectively correct. i do what i do and it works for me. some of the things i do are the opposite of what most guides suggest, but i do them because i like the effects they create.

ok, that's all the background stuff you need. let's dye some stuff!

the number one most important thing to remember when you're dyeing is this:

you can always add more colour. you cannot take it away.

that's in fancy writing and bold because every once in a while i forget this, and every single time i end up regretting it.

here is how to dye things:

put water, citric acid (or vinegar), and fibre into a pot. add dye and heat. let cool completely. rinse the fibre in cool water, then hang to dry.

like, sure, we're going to go into way more detail, but push come to shove, if you do that, you're going to end up with dyed fibre. there are a lot of tutorials telling you that you must soak your fibre first, or you must add your citric acid this way, or hold the water at exactly this temperature, and i'm here to tell you that while any of these things can give you different results, those results aren't necessarily better.

the only way that you can totally screw this up is by accidentally felting your fibre, so before i get into the way more detail part of things, i'm going to talk about that.

how not to felt your fibre

i feel like if you've read this far, you know how things felt: wool, heat, and agitation. you may also notice that at least two of these things are required for dyeing. this can be stressful! but you don't have to be afraid of it. there's only been one time that i felted something to the point that it was unusable, and that happened because i literally fell asleep for several hours while the pot was on the stove. you can avoid doing this by simply setting an alarm—this is a good idea anyhow, because you'll want to check on your dye pot!

when you're dyeing, use the lowest heat that you can while still keeping the water at a simmer. if your stove, like mine, has one burner that's wildly unpredictable and sort of out of control, you may want to look for some sort of flame diffuser, also called a flame tamer or a simmer ring. i bought one on amazon for about fourteen dollars, and it's literally just a thick metal circle. it works fine.

you can also keep the heat low by using a pot with a thick bottom, though in my experience those are expensive, and if i had one i would be using it for soup, not wool.

avoid shocking your wool—never put room temperature wool into hot water, and never put hot wool into cold water. leave your wool in the dye bath until it's cooled completely, which for me usually means overnight.

finally, obviously you have to move the fibre around some. you'll need to peek under it in the pan, and when you're done, you have to rinse it and squish out the water. try to minimise handling, though. don't run water directly onto the fibre, don't get a wooden spoon and stir your dye pot around, don't wring the fibre dry when it's done.

you're probably never going to be perfect. i often find that i lose a gram or two of wool where fibres have grabbed onto each other, or where parts of the ends clumped up. it's not really felted, just sort of compacted, but it's not great to work with, and i'd rather lose a gram of fibre than fuss with the clumpy bits.

back to how to dye things

let's take it step by step, assuming a hundred grams of fibre.

put your pan on the stove and fill it halfway with water. add either a teaspoon of citric acid or a tablespoon of vinegar. this is going to help the dye strike, or stick to the fibre. the teaspoon/tablespoon is a guideline, but one that it's fine to exceed. adding more will help the dye strike faster, which can be useful if you're trying to create blocks of colour on your fibre. i usually err on the side of a little more than the guidelines, and just eyeball this—if you feel like the dye isn't taking well, you can add more later.

add your fibre to the pan. this is the first place you have to think about what you want the finished fibre to look like! you can put it into the pan any way you want, but i suggest trying to keep it in a relatively even layer, regardless of what that layer looks like. here are some ways to get specific effects:

if you want a gradient from one end of the fibre to the other, use a rectangular pan and lay your fibre out so that the line of it is parallel to the short sides of the pan

if you want a short, repeating gradient, use a rectangular pan and lay your fibre out so that the line of it is parallel to the long sides of the pan

if you want something that starts with very close repeats that get further apart as you go down the fibre, make an approximate spiral

if you don't want A Pattern (i usually don't) just lay things out in a single layer, more or less

here comes the next exciting part! decide if you want to let your fibre soak or not. again, doing or not doing this gives you some different effects!

soaking your fibre will mean that dye takes more evenly. if you want consistent colours, you'll want to soak.

not soaking your fibre means that the dye takes less evenly. the fibre on top will have less acid available to it, spends less time in the dye bath, and also has to actually get wet before it will start to dye. i actually love doing this, and think it affords a lot of cool opportunities to play with and layer colours.

if you're soaking, leave the fibre there until it's submerged. if not, don't.

now you're going to add dye! decision time, again.

you can add dye when the water is cold, which will give you more even dye coverage, and in my experience gives the colours more time to mix together

you can add dye when when the water is hot, which will give you less even coverage, and tends to encourage the colours to stay more delineated

probably surprising no one, i tend to heat the water first unless i'm starting with a base colour or i'm doing a two-colour gradient.

time to mix up some dye

as i mentioned earlier, i'm assuming that you're using powered acid dyes for this. if you're not, this mixing up part is technically optional—but doing it gives you way more control about how and where you place your colours, so i'm going to assume that you'll do it.

i usually mix dye in some sort of empty drink bottle. regardless of what you're using, before you add dye to anything, put some water in the bottle, wipe off the lip, put the lid on tightly, and shake the bottle vigorously. if there is any leakage at all, do not use that bottle. find a better bottle. if your bottle cap doesn't seal well or if you have an empty condiment bottle that's just a little wonky or whatever, you will get dye all over the kitchen, and your landlord will be really really mad about it, and you will regret your life choices. (if you own your kitchen, you can do whatever you want, but this isn't about you and you know it.)

so you have a bottle that seals tightly! great job. dump out the water and carefully put some dye powder into the bottle. remember earlier how i said you should be wearing a mask? this is the part where you should be wearing a mask.

i know that people are reading this and going, ok, but how much dye do i put in?

my answer is put in the amount that feels right in your heart, and don't forget the number one rule of dyeing things, which is that you can always add more colour, but you cannot take it away.

this isn't a very scientific answer. most dyes have a guideline about how much to use, expressed as a percentage of the dry weight of the fibre, which is what you use to get the whole quantity of fibre dyed evenly. for dharma dyes, it's like 1.5-2%, i think ashford is 1%, and jacquard is more like 2-4%, depending on the colour.

here is the problems with doing that in your kitchen: first, using that much dye will get you an evenly dyed piece of fibre, which—for me, at least—is basically the opposite of what i want. second, and more importantly, unless you have one of those teeny tiny scales used by jewelers and drug dealers, your kitchen scale will not weigh out such tiny quantities with any accuracy. third, if you do it like this, you really have to plan what you're doing ahead of time, because there's a point after which no more dye will bind! the fibre will be like enough thank u that's it i'm good and that'll be it, so you lose some of your ability to decide that actually, you want more green.

you can probably guess, at this point, that i don't weigh the dye. once you've done a couple batches of fibre with a given brand of dye, you'll start to get the vibes for how much you should use. if you really want a guideline, for a hundred grams of fibre, start with a quarter teaspoon of a given colour. you can add more—either more of this colour or a different one—later, as desired.

put your dye in the empty bottle, and then fill the bottle partway with hot water. the amount of water doesn't really matter here, nor does the specific temperature of the water. i usually fill about 3/4 of the way, because that way there's plenty of room for this next step, which is: wipe the lip of the bottle, recap it tightly, and then shake it up real good. the dye powder is going to dissolve into the water, and you now have a bottle of dye!

if you're going for a gradient, you might want to mix up your second colour so you can add them at (basically) the same time for more even mixing. if you're not, or if you only have one mixing bottle, you can do them one at a time.

oh my god we're finally putting dye on the fibre

are you ready? it's time!!

you have basically infinite options for how to do this, and many of them will give you different effects. here are some ideas:

pour the dye all at one side of the pan. and if you don't add anything else, your fibre will fade from the colour of the dye to the natural colour of the fibre

pour two colours, one at either side of the pan. depending on how much dye you use (and remember, you can always add more), this will give you either chunks of colour surrounded by white, or a two-colour gradient

add all the dye to unheated water and mix it gently, then let the fibre soak for a few minutes longer before turning on the heat. this will give you a fairly even colour

pour randomly all over, and you'll either end up with a tonal yarn or a heathered one, depending on how much dye you're using

add the dye to the water under the dry fibre, which will sink in and take up more dye on the bottom of the fibre than the top

if your heat wasn't on before, it should be now, and you're going to let the dye hang out in the hot but not boiling water for a while. how long? well, one of the cool things about dyeing with these dyes is that they exhaust, which means that when the dye has been sucked up by the fibre, the surrounding water will be clear. how long this takes will depend on the specific dye, how much of it you used, how much mordant you used, etc. i try to check every fifteen minutes.

reminder: if you started with room temperature water, the dye's not going to start taking until the water heats up, so don't check it after fifteen minutes and freak out that nothing has happened. it is fully normal for it to take up to an hour for the dye to exhaust. don't turn up the temperature, just give it time.

yay it worked!

at this point, you have a pot of hot water with some beautifully coloured fibre in it! but maybe it's not beautiful enough. maybe you want...more colours.

that's cool as hell and you should go for it. we mentioned two-colour gradients up there, but what if you want something else?

the answer, probably obviously, is adding more dye.

first, a caveat: while you can successfully make multicoloured gradients like this, it's more difficult than you think, and if it gets messed up—all the colours bleed into each other, say—it turns into a muddy mess. my suggestion is to stick to two (or three at most!) colour gradients until you have a much better feel for what you're doing.

let's talk about ways you can add more colour. you have two options: big colour and little colour.

big colour is going to add a lot of colour—you're going to mix up the dye and pour it just like you did before, but paying more attention to places that don't have dye yet. sometimes it's the middle of a gradient, or the white splotches from random pouring, or the half of the fibre that wasn't submerged when you started. or maybe you dyed the whole thing yellow, and now you want to add a blue gradient over top. whatever!

if you don't want to freehand pour, consider buying a couple large syringes, or a bottle with a squeezy top. these are also fun because you can easily get more colour between the laid-out fibre, or even under it.

in the pictures at the start of this post, the red-and-gold top and both yarns were dyed by adding big colour.

little colour isn't going to add big patches, but is going to add speckling, tonal depth, or smaller patches of colour. all of the blue-base fibres and the yellow-and-blue yarn were dyed like this.

if you're still reading this closely, you might have caught that i just said both yarns were dyed with big colour, and that the yellow-and-blue yarn was also dyed with little colour. these are both true! the base colours of the yarn were done to make big colour, but if you look at the full-size image, there are also a bunch of speckles. you can do whatever you want! no one can stop you!

here are some ways to add little colour:

mix up some dye, but use less water. add drops of the dye, either directly onto the fibre (more dramatic!) or in the water (tonal!)

use a toothpick to grab a little bit of dye powder and drop it into the dye bath (similar to the previous one, but a little less predictable)

put on a damn facemask. take a clean toothbrush, paintbrush, or pipecleaner, and just barely touch it to the dye powder. gently flick or tap the brush to add speckles of that colour

find a salt shaker that you're never going to use for anything but this. put citric acid, salt (to make it distribute better), and dye powder into it, and shake it up (with the holes covered, please cover the holes) to make sure they're evenly distributed. gently shake this over the fibre to add speckles, but more of them, and clustered together

put a little dye in a spray bottle and gently mist the exposed fibre, kinda glazing it with colour

another thing is that if you like a natural coloured yarn with dyed speckles, you can do any of these techniques without doing big colour first. the only thing to note when doing this is that you'll want to be very sure to spread out the fibre well, and maybe to consider dyeing one side, then very very carefully flipping it over and getting the other side.

ok, now what?

let's say that you've added all the colours that you want, and you've let your bath simmer long enough that the water is clear, or nearly clear. (if it's not, check troubleshooting, below.)

put the lid on your pan and walk away. if you don't have a lid, just walk away, but it's less dramatic.

the super frustrating part here is that the safest thing to do is wait until the water and fibre is fully cooled before you do anything else.

have i ignored this? yes

has it ever gone horribly wrong? not horribly wrong, but it's definitely caused me to lose an inch or two of roving on occasion

is it way more stressful if you don't wait? absolutely yes

honestly maybe just go to bed and deal with your fibre in the morning

so now let's say that it's morning and you slept long enough that your water and fibre are both room temperature, which often actually feels quite cool on your hands.

you have to drain your fibre. there are two ways to do this:

lift the fibre out of the water. this has the upside of not risking dumping your beautiful fibre into your sink, and not needing to maneuver a full pot of water, both of which are admirable. the downside is that wet fibre is fragile, and you'll want to be careful to support it.

dump the water out of the pan. this has the upside of minimising how much handling you're doing of the fibre, as well as (in my opinion) making rinsing easier. the downside is attempting to keep the fibre into the pot while you dump the water into the sink, and also needing to carry around a full pot of water.

secret third option: dump the fibre (and the water) into a strainer. upside: very easy, and you can keep the fibre in the strainer while you rinse, minimising both how much it needs to be handled and the weight on the fibre. downside: i never remember that this is an option until i'm already elbows-deep in acidulated water, discovering every tiny cuticle tear.

you're going to fill your dyepot with water again so that you can rinse the fibre. you want to minimise thermal shock, so keep the water temperature as close to the temperature of the fibre as you can, and don't run the water directly onto the fibre. i like to pull all the fibre to one side of the pan, and fill the pan on the other side.

side note: if you, smart person, remembered that you can use a colander, simply fill a pot with water, put the colander in the pot, and gently agitate the colander.

if you, person who is deeply relatable, did not remember you can use a colander and now have a pot with clean water and fibre, gently move your fibre in the water to encourage any excess dye and also citric acid to get out of there.

drain your fibre again, and this time, you're going to squeeze it dry. you're still trying to minimise agitation, so this isn't a 'wring it out' situation, it's a 'gently squish it between your hands and/or a hand and the side of the pot' situation.

hang your fibre to dry. remember what i was saying earlier about it being fragile? let me suggest, here, that you do not simply drape the entire length over a single hanger or something and hope for the best. if you literally have a single hanger, at least drape it back and forth a bit, but better if you can use more than one hanger, or a clothes drying rack, or that weird metal wine rack thing that came with your fridge that you've never used, or whatever.

important reminder: drip-drying things will make your floor wet! if you live somewhere very clear with no major roads or pollen nearby, you can probably dry things outside, but if you don't, you'll probably want to position the drying rack in a bath, shower, laundry area, or otherwise over something that will catch and/or absorb the water.

how long it takes for the fibre to dry is another unknowable variable. if it's warm and dry where you are, it might literally be overnight. if it's damp and cool, it can take days. the batch i posted a couple days ago literally took almost a full week to dry. spread it out as best you can, gently squeeze out the water you can, and otherwise you just have to wait.

you're done!

when it's dry, that's it, you're done! you might find that you need to pick off some little lint balls or a bit of compacted or slightly felted fibre from the tips, but other than that, you should be good to go.

like most fibre stuff, this is best maintained by handwashing in cool water. you may see a little bit of dye or colour loss the first time you wash it, which is pretty normal and nothing to worry about.

congratulations! you made it to the end of this incredibly long post, and if you followed along, you've just dyed some fibre!

troubleshooting

this isn't dyed enough! i want more colours!

add more dye! i'm not the boss of you.

this is true even after the fibre is all done and dryed. there's nothing that says you can't dye it again—you can, and i have.

some fibre seems to require more dye than others. silk, for example, dyes beautifully with acid dyes, but also needs way more dye than i expect it to.

remember that if you're dyeing something that's a wool/cotton blend, for example, the cotton isn't going to dye. the only exception is nylon, which will kinda dye, but not as dramatically. this guide will not work for plant fibres.

this is too dyed! i want fewer colours!

please refer back to the number one most important thing about dyeing, which—as you know—is: you can always add more colour, but you cannot take it away.

pull out some more fibre and try again. this has a learning curve, just like any other fibre craft.

these colours don't look like i expected!

this can be about a lot of things.

colour guides, especially if you're looking at them online, aren't always very accurate.

colour guides tend to assume that you're dyeing a single colour at the suggested dye percentage of weight, and using less than that will give paler colours.

dyes, especially if you're mixing brands, can interact with each other and behave in ways you didn't expect.

dyes can also break, which is when they split into their component colour molecules. this happens commonly with blacks and browns, food colouring, and anything that dharma trading has marked as 'advanced'. some people find this very desirable and seek it out; some people are very frustrated by it.

the ph of your water can sometimes affect your dye. i've been lucky enough that i've only lived places with lead problems, not weird ph stuff, so i haven't investigated this closely, but if you're consistently not getting the results you expect, even going for a single, solid-colour dye, look at the ph.

my dye water's not clear!

if you used a quarter teaspoon of dye and a hundred grams of fibre, and it's been, say, 45 minutes of actually hot water and your water still isn't clear, you probably didn't use enough mordant, and you should add some more citric acid or vinegar to encourage the dye to get in there and do its thing.

if you used you used more like a teaspoon of dye, or if the citric acid doesn't change anything, you used too much dye for your fibre. you can either shrug and pour it down the drain, or you can add some more fibre and dye that, too.

my rinse water's not clear!

you probably used too much dye. it's ok—just keep rinsing it, gently, until it's more or less clear.

some colours just like to run—you know how every once in a while you get a yarn and it just bleeds a little bit every time you wash it? sometimes it's just like that. i wouldn't worry about it too much.

my fibre has felty/clumpy bits!

a little bit of this is normal, especially at the ends of a fibre that felts easily (this means you, merino!)

pick off the bits that you don't like—this is generally fairly easy, and involves very minimal fibre loss. i don't bother doing it until i sit down to spin, and then just pull off bits as i come to them.

if there's a lot of felty/clumpy bits, more than you can reasonably pick out, you agitated the fibre too much. there's not much for this other than trying to card it out, which may or may not work.

sometimes this happens because your stove got weirdly aggressive and boiled your fibre. especially for wool that's prone to felting, the bubbling and jostling can be enough to encourage more clinginess than you'd like.

i want my dyeing to be reproducible!

this is kinda doable. it's a handmade thing, so it's always going to have some natural variance, but you can do it.

buy a jeweler's scale that measures in fractions of a gram.

start measuring your dye and acid, and take detailed notes about what you do.

follow those notes in the future, and you'll be probably 90% of the way there.

i want to dye with natural dyes!

i fully support this and have played around with it a little bit myself, but absolutely do not know enough about it to advise you.

the internet is very large and full of many people who are much smarter than i am, and i feel confident that at least one of them is desperate to tell you all about how to do natural dyeing.

i am, at this point, not that person.

i want to dye plant fibres!

i am begging you to find another guide, because this one will not work.

you didn't answer my question!

that's what my inbox is for

i have to reiterate that i'm just a person with real specific interests who started dyeing things because i couldn't find or afford the kinds of colourways that i wanted.

i am not a professional

i will do my best to answer questions, but sometimes the answer is 'just fuck around until you find out'

plant fi—

shhhhh

the end

thank you for reading this incredibly long post! i might make another one in the near future, either so i can show pictures or because i took out an entire section about how to choose colours and pick a colour scheme and work with colours, and i kinda want to talk more about that, but this is no joke almost six thousand words long, so i thought, you know. maybe not tonight.

anyhow, i hope that this was useful to someone! thank you for letting me talk about one of my very favourite things.

316 notes · View notes