#who am i to argue. with google search people also ask

[jdmara]

i’m always saying this

[all-my-love-for-harry]

Something Steady

pairing; jake seresin x fanboy's little sister!reader

summary; after a rough year, you move in with your half-brother, Mickey, just trying to stay afloat. The last thing you expect is to fall for Jake Seresin—the one guy Mickey told you to avoid. But healing is messy, and somehow, so is falling in love.

word count; 17.5k (i am so sorry)

warnings; drug use, angst, mention of past SA (nothing graphic), overprotective!fanboy, age gap (reader is twenty-three and jake is thirty-four) violence (mickey pushes jake), emotional breakdowns, sexual themes, no usage of y/n, reader is kind of a little shit but she's hurting, mickey is kinda mean sorry, let me know if i missed something

a/n; i feel like a permanent warning on my stories should be that i have no knowledge of the military as i'm not even american, i came here for the hot shirtless pilots so every reference is based on vibes and confusing google searches lol also, the pictures are for aesthetic porpuses, there's not really a description of the reader. one more thing, sorry if the flirting is a little cringe, i'm not really good at that stuff lol

masterlist

Mickey García paced the length of his living room, phone pressed to his ear, his thumb running a nervous path along the edge of his watch. He’d called three times. On the fourth, you finally picked up with a sigh that was more theatrical than annoyed.

“What, Mickey?”

“You got the ticket, right?” he asked, ignoring the tone, trying not to get drawn into the usual power play. You were good at that—had been since you were little. Deflect, charm, push buttons. It worked on everyone.

Except him.

“I told you, I don’t want to move to San Diego,” you said, the irritation sharp now. “You can’t actually make me do this.”

Mickey stopped pacing. He took a breath and looked out the window, watching the sun bleed into the horizon. “You don’t get it,” he said, low. “I’m not asking.”

You laughed. “Jesus, you sound like Mom. Is this about the party thing again? I told you, I was just tired. And maybe a little high, not a big deal.”

“You haven’t answered Mom’s calls in weeks,” he snapped, sharper than intended. “You’re skipping class, hanging with people you won’t even name. You don’t even sound like yourself anymore.”

There was a pause. Just enough of one to let something slip. But you caught it, clinging to pride like a safety vest. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not.” Mickey’s voice went quiet. “And I’m done pretending like you are. You land tomorrow. I’ll be there.”

“You’re such a control freak,” you muttered, but your voice wavered in the way that always betrayed you.

He didn’t say goodbye. Just ended the call, phone still clutched in his hand as he stared into the gathering dark. He didn’t know what the hell had happened in the last year—something had cracked in you, that much was clear. You partied harder than before. Acted like nothing touched you. You’d always been spoiled, a little entitled from living in your dad’s mansion with your endless wardrobe and perfect, expensive smile. Mickey had rolled his eyes at your drama more times than he could count. But now… he wasn’t rolling his eyes anymore. He was scared.

You’re gonna hate me for this, he thought, but I’d rather you hate me here, alive, than whatever the hell you’re turning into alone.

An hour later, the Hard Deck was buzzing. Neon lights danced off the bar top, and a salty breeze swept through the open doors. Jake was already there, leaning against the bar like he belonged to it, beer in hand, eyes always scanning, always calculating. Phoenix sat nearby, tossing peanuts into her mouth with idle precision. Rooster and Payback argued over who actually won the last round of pool while Coyote racked up the next game.

Mickey walked in slower than usual. His mind was still in Boston.

Jake spotted him first. “Fanboy,” he drawled, lifting his bottle in greeting. “Damn, man. You look like you just got chewed out by a nun.”

Mickey gave a half-smile and joined the group, dragging a stool toward the bar. “Something like that.”

Phoenix raised a brow. “Everything okay?”

Mickey hesitated. The words hovered for a beat too long. He hadn’t planned to say anything—there was no reason for them to know yet. But his guard was down. His chest still tight from the call.

“My sister’s coming to stay with me for a while,” he said, the sentence dropping between them like a brick.

Everyone blinked. Rooster leaned in. “Wait, you have a sister?”

Jake let out a low whistle. “You kept that quiet. Is she older or younger?”

“Younger,” Mickey replied before he could stop himself.

“Hot?” Jake smirked, tone light and cocky. Typical.

Mickey’s head turned fast, and the look in his eyes wasn’t playful. It wasn’t even annoyed. It was ice.

Jake’s smirk faltered.

“Stay away from her, Seresin.”

That tone—cold, serious, final—landed with a thud. Jake leaned back a little. Even Phoenix paused, her peanut halfway to her mouth.

“Damn, alright,” Jake said, hands raised. “Message received.”

Rooster let out a low chuckle, trying to ease the tension. “You didn’t even tell us you had a sister, man. What gives?”

Mickey ran a hand over the back of his neck. He didn’t want to get into it. He didn’t want their pity or their concern. And more than anything, he didn’t want them asking questions he couldn’t answer.

“It’s complicated,” he muttered. “She’s... going through some stuff. My mom doesn’t know how to handle it, and I don’t trust her dad to give a shit. So she’s coming here. I’ll keep an eye on her. That’s all.”

He didn’t mention how he'd begged your mom to let you stay with him before thinking about just shoving you into rehab. How she’d resisted until she didn’t know what else to do. He didn’t say how he'd watched you slowly start to unravel, hiding behind clothes and money and empty nights filled with nothing good.

Jake didn’t say anything for a while. Then he knocked back the rest of his beer and clapped Mickey on the shoulder. “Well,” he said, with a slow grin that didn’t reach his eyes, “guess we’ll find out how good you are at being a big brother.”

Mickey gave him a look that said don’t test me—and Jake, surprisingly, didn’t.

San Diego International Airport was humid and crowded, and Mickey was already regretting wearing a jacket.

He stood just past the baggage claim with a coffee in one hand and his phone in the other, refreshing the flight tracker app like it would somehow make you land faster. The terminal buzzed around him, full of sleepy tourists and business types yapping on Bluetooth. He scanned the crowd again, pulse quickening in that familiar way he hated — not fear, exactly, but that mix of dread and responsibility that had been simmering in his chest since he booked your ticket.

And then he saw you.

You were hard to miss — sleek sunglasses, an oversized cashmere hoodie that probably cost more than his rent, and a Louis Vuitton duffel slung over your shoulder like a gym bag. You walked like you didn’t need help from anyone and you dared the world to suggest otherwise.

He waved you over. “Hey.”

You didn’t hug him. Just rolled your eyes behind your sunglasses and shifted your bag on your shoulder. “Jesus, I thought California was supposed to be sunny.”

“It is. You’re just cursed,” Mickey said flatly, grabbing your suitcase.

“I could’ve booked a hotel, you know. You didn’t need to play bodyguard.”

Mickey gritted his teeth, choosing silence. You were already in a mood, and it had only been thirty seconds.

He didn’t say what he really wanted to — You would’ve never shown up if I hadn’t dragged you. You think you’re fine, but you’ve been unraveling for months. Instead, he just led the way to the parking garage, ignoring the dramatic sigh you let out when you saw his car wasn’t valet-level luxury.

The drive was quiet. Not peaceful. Just… loaded.

You stared out the window, legs tucked under you like you were back in your old penthouse, not riding shotgun in your brother’s slightly beat-up SUV. Mickey drummed his fingers on the steering wheel the whole ride, half expecting you to bolt at the next red light.

You didn’t. But you sure as hell didn’t make it easy.

“So,” you said finally, tone bored, “am I supposed to get a schedule or something? Like do I check in with you at night so you can make sure I haven’t OD’d?”

He inhaled sharply through his nose, jaw ticking. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“That.”

You turned to him with a smirk that didn’t reach your eyes. “You mean call it like it is?”

“I mean pretend like this is a joke,” he snapped. “You may not like it, but you’re here now. So maybe don’t treat me like the asshole for giving a shit.”

That shut you up for a moment.

Mickey’s apartment wasn’t much — two-bedroom, sparsely decorated, tidy but lived in. A stack of mail sat on the counter. His keys hit the hook by the door with a practiced flick. He watched you step in and look around like you’d just walked into a gas station bathroom.

“This is how you’re living?”

“Yup,” Mickey said, tossing your suitcase toward the hallway. “It’s not Daddy’s Malibu compound, but it’s clean, and you’ll survive.”

You looked around again, arms crossed, unimpressed. “It smells like takeout and old socks.”

“Then it’ll feel like home in no time.”

He was trying, and you knew it. That was maybe the worst part — watching him pretend like this could work, like he could handle you when no one else ever had.

You sat down on the couch with a huff, pulling your hoodie sleeves over your hands. “Fine. But I’m not doing dishes.”

Mickey rolled his eyes and headed for the kitchen. “Just don’t set the place on fire, and we’ll call it even.”

The shower had helped — a little. You stood in the hallway in one of Mickey’s oversized t-shirts, damp hair sticking to your neck, socks slipping on the hardwood floor. The apartment was quiet, save for the hum of the fridge and the occasional groan of old pipes. He was in his room, probably scrolling through Navy emails or pretending he wasn’t regretting this whole thing.

You weren’t tired, not really. Not in the way that meant sleep. So you wandered.

The place was cleaner than you expected. Sparse. Functional. The furniture was mismatched in a way that suggested Mickey had only recently started giving a shit about what went where. Still, it had a heartbeat. There were little signs of him everywhere — an old Nirvana poster thumbtacked above the TV, half-melted candles on the bookshelf, a note on the fridge in your mom’s handwriting that just said Buy bananas. It was stupid, but something about that note made your chest ache.

You turned toward the hallway and spotted it — the bookshelf tucked near the second bedroom. It was more like a catchall; some framed certificates, old cracked mugs, a couple of medals in dusty display boxes. And tucked between two thick folders of flight documents, there was a small leather photo album. One of those that looked like it belonged to someone’s mother, not a thirty-year-old naval aviator.

You pulled it out gently, fingertips grazing the cover. It smelled faintly like dust and the vanilla air freshener Mickey probably thought you wouldn’t notice.

The first picture was of you.

You couldn’t have been more than five — tiny and grinning, missing your two front teeth, wearing an expensive sundress no kid should be wearing, and sitting in Mickey’s lap on the front porch of your childhood home. He was maybe fourteen in the picture, already lanky and long-limbed, arms wrapped awkwardly around you like he wasn’t sure how to hold something so breakable.

You kept flipping. Birthday parties. Beach trips. Some photo booth strip from a summer carnival you barely remembered — but there you were, cheeks painted with glitter, holding a cotton candy half your size while Mickey made a face at the camera beside you.

You sat down on the floor, back against the wall, legs pulled to your chest.

That little girl — she hadn’t been afraid of anything. She hadn’t known what it meant to drink just to feel okay. She hadn’t woken up with her ears ringing from the bass of a frat house and a headache that wasn’t just from the music. She hadn’t learned yet how to smile while disassociating. She hadn’t touched anything stronger than candy, let alone molly, or whatever someone offered her at the last party just to get her out of her own head.

Back then, happy didn’t come in capsules. It came from the sun on your skin and the sound of Mickey teasing you and the sugar rush from a cherry Slurpee. You didn’t need to pretend. You didn’t need to disappear to feel okay.

Now?

Now, the only time you felt close to that girl — truly close — was thirty minutes into a hit of MDMA, body warm, brain finally quiet, like someone had dimmed the lights on your thoughts. That was the only time you could breathe and mean it. The only time you could smile and not feel like it was cracking your face open.

You shut the album, heart thudding too loudly in your chest.

This place was supposed to be safe. Mickey meant well. But safety didn’t fix the part of you that already felt too far gone. It didn’t undo the night that stole everything. It didn’t erase the months after, when you tried to tell someone — anyone — and realized how easy it was for people not to believe you when you had a reputation for being too much, too dramatic, too spoiled.

But here you were. In a second bedroom filled with clean sheets and too many memories. Living under the same roof as your big brother.

[...]

The lunchtime buzz in the mess hall was the usual mix of shouting, metal trays clattering, and the unmistakable stink of over-steamed broccoli. Mickey sat at the end of the long table with a fork in hand and zero appetite, mind somewhere far from the overcooked chicken breast on his tray. His leg bounced under the table like it was keeping time with a song no one else could hear.

Rooster noticed first.

“You good, Fanboy?” he asked, popping a grape into his mouth. “You’ve been in a mood all week. Thought you were gonna take Payback’s head off during drills this morning.”

“That was one time,” Mickey muttered.

“That was today,” Payback shot back, deadpan, leaning on his elbows. “And you yelled at me for sneezing.”

“You sneezed in my ear during a dive turn. That’s how people die, man.”

Jake, seated across from them, grinned behind his fork. “I don’t know, García. You’re twitchier than usual. Something going on at home?”

Mickey’s jaw clenched. Goddamn it. He hadn’t meant to open any doors. Not here. Not with them.

Phoenix raised an eyebrow as she picked at her mashed potatoes. “You’ve been off, dude. And we’ve all been pretending not to notice out of the kindness of our hearts.”

“But now we’re bored,” Rooster added helpfully.

Mickey sighed and scrubbed a hand over his face. “It’s just… complicated, okay? Family stuff.”

Jake leaned forward, sensing blood in the water. “Ohhh, is this about the sister you forgot to mention for, what, the entire time we’ve known you?”

“You never asked,” Mickey deflected.

Jake raised both brows. “You literally never gave us a hint that she existed. Not a single mention.”

Phoenix smirked. “And judging by the way you snapped the other night when Jake so much as breathed near the topic, I’m guessing this isn’t your average sibling dynamic.”

Mickey groaned, leaning back in his chair. He’d hoped they'd forget. No such luck.

“She’s staying with me,” he muttered.

The table went quiet.

Payback blinked. “Wait, like— living with you?”

“Yeah.”

“For how long?” Phoenix asked, voice lighter now, intrigued.

“Don’t know yet. A while.”

Jake bit back a grin. “Let me guess. Hot. Younger. Attitude problem?”

Mickey’s eyes snapped up, sharp. “Don’t.”

Rooster chuckled. “Man, relax. We’re just asking.”

“You don’t get it,” Mickey said, stabbing a piece of chicken with unnecessary force. “She’s not... like us. She didn’t grow up around this. She’s not military. She’s spoiled, she’s stubborn, and she’s been through some shit, okay? She’s complicated. I’m trying to keep her out of trouble.”

“You think we’re gonna drag her into trouble?” Phoenix asked, feigning offense.

“I think you’re nosy,” Mickey shot back. “Especially you,” he added, glaring at Jake.

Jake gave him a lopsided smile. “I’m wounded.”

“You’re on a damn watchlist, Seresin.”

“Jealousy's a bad look on you, García.”

“Alright, alright,” Rooster cut in, chuckling. “Look, we’re not gonna ambush her or anything. But maybe introducing her wouldn’t kill you. She’s new in town, right? Let her meet some people who aren’t you.”

“Yeah,” Payback added, “let her decide who she wants to be around.”

Mickey opened his mouth to protest but paused. You had been quiet that morning. Quieter than usual. Maybe it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world for you to be around people who weren’t just his anxious, hovering self.

“I’ll think about it,” he muttered.

Jake leaned back in his seat, looking far too smug. “Tell her I’m charming in person.”

Mickey pointed his fork at him. “You show up at my place, I’ll break your nose.”

Jake winked. “Promises, promises.”

Mickey didn’t expect the apartment to be dark.

It wasn’t late — barely past six — but the lights were all off and the place was dead quiet when he unlocked the door. No music, no TV, not even the faint hum of a podcast playing from the bathroom like usual. He felt a flicker of unease as he stepped inside, keys clinking into the dish by the door.

“Hey,” he called out. “You home?”

Silence.

He dropped his bag and moved toward the hallway, his footsteps loud against the floor. A strange scent hit him — not quite smoke, not quite perfume, something almost chemical buried beneath the faint sweetness of the candle he’d left burning earlier. His stomach dropped.

He said your name once. Then he saw you.

You were lying flat on the living room floor, arms splayed out, palms up like you were waiting for stigmata. The glow of the streetlights outside spilled across your face, casting your features in soft gold. For one terrifying second, he thought you were dead.

“Jesus Christ—!” He dropped to his knees beside you, heart in his throat, hand going straight to your shoulder. “Hey—hey, talk to me—wake up—”

You blinked.

Then you giggled.

A stupid, airy, bright little sound like nothing in the world had ever gone wrong. “Mickeeeeey,” you sang, eyes glassy and wide, lips curved in a dreamy smile. “You’re home.”

He sat back on his heels, blinking like he couldn’t believe it. “What the fuck? I thought you were— I thought—”

“I was listening to music,” you said like it explained everything. “This song came on and I was like, wow, I am made of stardust.”

He stared at you. Speechless. You were beaming, cheeks flushed, limbs loose like all the tension in your body had evaporated. He knew that look. He’d seen it in college dorm rooms, in house parties, in bathrooms with doors half-closed and too much laughter inside.

“What did you take?” he asked, low and tight.

You blinked slowly. “Nothing bad. Just a little pick-me-up. It’s not like I’m strung out on the couch watching Family Guy reruns and eating cat food, relax.”

“Not funny.”

“I thought it was.”

He got up and started pacing. He needed to move or he was going to scream. “You can’t keep doing this.”

“I’m fine. You need to chill out. You’re always—tense,” you said, stretching the word out with a flourish. “Like your whole body is one big angry muscle.”

Mickey exhaled through his nose and stopped pacing long enough to look at you again. You looked happy. Genuinely happy. It scared the shit out of him.

He ran a hand down his face. “You’ve been here a week.”

“And I haven’t broken anything,” you replied cheerfully. “Or dyed the dog pink or gotten arrested. That’s progress.”

“We don’t have a dog.”

“Exactly.”

He rubbed the back of his neck. He wasn’t cut out for this. He didn’t know how to help without making things worse. You weren’t the same kid he used to swing around the backyard or sneak candy to when Mom wasn’t looking. You were... this. Floating. Untouchable. Somewhere halfway between laughter and collapse.

“I think,” he said slowly, “you need to meet some people.”

You tilted your head. “Are you trying to set me up?”

He rolled his eyes. “No. I just—my team. My friends. They’ve been asking about you.”

You squinted at him, smile still lingering. “You told your fighter pilot friends about me?”

“By accident. Kind of. Look, they’re good people. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to, but I think it’d be good for you to meet someone that isn’t me. Just… get out of the apartment. Be around people who aren’t ghosts.”

Your face shifted. Not a lot. Just a flicker, like a cloud passing over the moon.

“I don’t want pity.”

“It’s not pity.”

“Or babysitters.”

“It’s not that either.”

You went quiet for a moment, eyes on the ceiling. Then: “Are any of them hot?”

Mickey groaned. “Don’t make me regret this.”

You grinned lazily. “No promises.”

[...]

The crash was never as sweet as the climb.

You sat on the edge of the bed Mickey had so graciously given you, chin in your hand, staring at your reflection in the vanity mirror like it owed you something. Your eyes were bloodshot, skin duller now, lips pressed together in a tight line as you tried to will yourself into giving a damn about your appearance.

Your hair was a mess. Your head ached. And now that the chemical high had worn off, everything felt heavier — like the air around you had thickened and your body was moving through soup. Your fingers dug through the tangled mess of your makeup bag, retrieving an old tube of mascara and a half-used highlighter stick like armor.

You didn’t care about meeting Mickey’s team. You didn’t care about much of anything. But pissing him off a little? That still had its charm.

There was a knock on your door — a quick, two-beat rhythm like he didn’t want to actually come in unless he had to.

“You alive?” Mickey called through the wood.

“Unfortunately,” you muttered, swiping concealer under your eyes.

The door creaked open anyway. He leaned against the frame, arms crossed, looking at you like he was trying to solve a math problem with too many missing variables.

“You don’t have to go if you don’t want to.”

You rolled your eyes. “You say that like it’s a real option.”

“It is.”

“No, it’s not. You’d just get weird and sulky and guilt me into going anyway.”

Mickey sighed. “Why do you always assume I have an agenda?”

“Because you do,” you said, standing to grab your boots. “And you suck at hiding it.”

He watched you lace them up. Your movements were jerky, uncoordinated — the residual molly still whispering through your veins, soft enough now that all it left behind was a low-grade crash and an irritable ache behind your eyes.

“You’re coming down,” he said quietly.

You shot him a look. “Congratulations, Sherlock. Want a merit badge?”

He didn’t rise to the bait. Just stood there, steady and exasperated. “You can’t keep doing this.”

You stood too, smoothing your skirt, fixing your top in the mirror. “And yet, here I am. Upright. Breathing. What a miracle.”

Mickey didn’t say anything. The quiet between you expanded like fog.

You turned to him after a beat, chin tilted high. “So… which of your little pilot friends am I supposed to impress tonight?”

He blinked. “None of them. You’re just coming to hang out. Be normal.”

“Define normal.”

“No flirting. No games. Don’t embarrass me.”

“Oh, that’s cute,” you said, grabbing your jacket from the hook. “You think I care about your reputation.”

Mickey rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I’m serious. This isn’t Boston. These people matter to me.”

Your hand froze on the zipper. For a second, something like guilt flickered in your chest — short-lived, quickly buried.

“I’m not going to wreck your life,” you said, quieter this time. “I just want a drink and maybe someone to talk to who doesn’t treat me like I’m about to shatter.”

“You want someone who doesn’t care.”

You looked at him. And for a heartbeat, didn’t deny it.

He exhaled. “Just… behave, alright?”

You grinned again, slow and deliberate. “I’ll be on my best.”

He narrowed his eyes. “You don’t have a best.”

“Exactly.”

It was the golden hour — the kind of California sunset that made even the dust in the parking lot look cinematic. Mickey stepped out of the car with the tight, protective posture of someone already bracing for a migraine.

You followed with the slow, deliberate grace of someone used to being noticed. Your outfit wasn’t over the top — not exactly — but it hugged you right in all the places that made older women frown and men take longer sips of their beer.

The second the door opened, the familiar mix of music, laughter, and bar chatter hit you like a wave. You took a breath, slid your sunglasses up to rest on your head, and plastered on a small, unreadable smile.

Mickey scanned the bar quickly, eyes finding the Daggers crowded around their usual table near the back corner — beers in hand, casual and relaxed, half-tuned into the end of a college football game on the screen above.

Jake was the first to notice.

His eyes flicked toward the entrance — and then stopped. Froze, really. The bottle in his hand lingered at his lips as his gaze trailed from the top of your head to the tips of your boots and back again, slow and unhurried. His smirk formed instantly, a kind of reflex — easy, smooth, dangerous.

“Well, well,” he muttered, just loud enough for the table to hear. “That’s not who I thought García was bringing.”

Coyote turned, did a double take, then gave a low whistle. “No way that’s your sister.”

Mickey didn’t answer. His jaw was already set like concrete.

“Holy shit,” Payback said, eyebrows raised. “You were hiding that from us?”

Phoenix blinked, surprised, her drink halfway to her mouth. “Wait—she’s your sister?”

Bob, ever polite, tried not to stare too long — which made him even more obvious.

Bradley chuckled. “I see now why you kept her a secret. Damn.”

Mickey led you toward the table with a kind of reluctant march, shoulders tight, expression somewhere between this was a mistake and God, please behave.

You, of course, were glowing. You lived for this kind of attention — the looks, the tension, the static in the air that followed you like heat lightning.

“Everyone,” Mickey said tightly, “this is my sister.”

You gave them a honeyed smile. “Half-sister, technically.”

Jake leaned back in his chair, arms draped casually along the backrest, eyes never leaving you. “So you’re the girl we’ve been warned about.”

“Oh?” you said, head tilting. “What exactly did Mickey say?”

“That you’re off-limits,” Jake replied, voice smooth as bourbon. “But I’m very bad at following instructions.”

Mickey’s eyes went straight to murder. “Seresin.”

Jake held his hands up in mock surrender. “Just making conversation.”

Coyote leaned toward Phoenix and whispered, “This is gonna be fun.”

You pulled out the empty chair next to Bob and sat down like you’d been part of the group for years. “So,” you said, crossing one leg over the other, “which one of you actually flies the planes, and which ones are just here to look hot in sunglasses?”

The table laughed — except for Mickey, who sat down beside you, looking like he wanted to crawl under it.

Jake’s grin widened. “Well, sweetheart, lucky for you, I do both.”

Mickey looked directly at Phoenix, desperate. “If I die tonight, you know who to blame.”

Phoenix sipped her drink. “Honestly? You had this coming.”

It didn’t take long.

One drink in, and you were already bored of group conversation. The Daggers were nice — charming, even — but they all talked in shorthand. Inside jokes, old stories, the kind of ease that came from years in cockpits and bars together. You didn’t mind. You knew how to entertain yourself.

Especially when you had someone like him around.

You caught Jake’s eye across the table, your smile slow and unmistakably deliberate. The kind that asked a question without saying a word.

He raised an eyebrow — just one — and tipped his beer slightly toward the door leading to the deck.

You answered by standing.

Outside, the sun was low and golden, casting everything in a soft haze. The ocean breeze lifted your hair as you leaned against the worn wooden railing. Jake followed a second later, steps slow, almost amused.

“I figured you’d come find me eventually,” you said without turning.

“You figured right,” he said, leaning beside you, arms resting on the rail, just enough space between your shoulders to be maddening.

“Let me guess.” You glanced at him. “This is your usual move?”

“Not quite. Usually they come find me.”

You huffed a laugh, eyes flicking back to the horizon. “God, you’re cocky.”

He tilted his head. “And you like it.”

You didn’t answer right away, letting the silence stretch just long enough to feel like you were winning. Then, with a sideways glance: “I think Mickey might actually explode.”

“He looks like he’s holding in a sneeze and a stroke at the same time,” Jake agreed, chuckling.

You smiled. “Serves him right for dragging me here like a stray cat.”

Jake gave you a once-over, slower this time. Not crude — more curious, like he was trying to figure out what, exactly, your angle was. “So what’s your story, princess?”

You arched a brow. “Princess?”

“You reek of money, attitude, and boredom.”

“Are you flirting with me or writing my biography?”

He laughed — full and unguarded. “Can’t it be both?”

You shrugged. “You tell me.”

For a moment, he didn’t say anything. Just looked at you like he wanted to read every page of the mess you were pretending not to be.

“You know,” he said finally, “Mickey warned me to stay away from you.”

You smirked, turning to face him fully. “Then you should probably run.”

He stepped closer — not quite touching, but close enough to make the air feel warmer between you. “Too late for that.”

From inside, you could feel eyes watching. Maybe Phoenix, maybe your brother. But out here, in the fading light and quiet laughter of strangers, you didn’t care.

You grinned, all teeth and mischief. “Careful, Hangman. I break things.”

He smiled right back, slow and easy. “Good thing I’ve never been fragile.”

The deck door creaked open with a bang, and the breeze carried in the familiar weight of someone annoyed on purpose.

You didn’t even need to turn around.

“Jesus Christ,” you muttered under your breath, just loud enough for Jake to hear, “here comes the bodyguard.”

Jake chuckled, low and unbothered, sipping from his bottle as he leaned casually against the rail beside you. “That’s my cue.”

Mickey’s footsteps were heavy, his frown practically audible as he stopped a few feet away, arms crossed in full older-brother stance. “Seriously?” he said, voice sharp and incredulous. “We’ve been here ten minutes.”

You didn’t move. Just tilted your chin, met his glare with a pointed arch of your brow. “You need to calm your tits, Mickey.”

Jake snorted, nearly choking on his drink.

Mickey’s mouth fell open slightly, his annoyance flickering into disbelief. “Are you—Did you seriously just—”

“Yes,” you said, slowly and clearly, “I did. You’re at, like, an eleven and I need you at a five.”

“She’s not wrong.” Jake cleared his throat, straightening.

Mickey shot him a glare. “Not helping.”

“Wasn’t trying to.”

You finally turned to face your brother fully, your expression drier than the San Diego air. “We’re standing. We’re talking. You didn’t walk out here to find me grinding on him under a neon sign.”

Jake wiggled his brows. “Not yet, anyway.”

You grinned. “Down, cowboy.”

Mickey looked between the two of you, frustration visibly warring with his desire not to have a coronary.

“You told me you’d behave,” he said to you.

“I am behaving,” you insisted. “You’re just not used to seeing me sober-ish and flirty.”

Jake leaned back on his elbows, amused. “So this is the toned-down version?”

You gave him a dazzling, innocent smile. “Depends. You got a pool table around here?”

Jake whistled low under his breath. “Damn, Mickey. You said she was trouble, but you didn’t say she was fun.”

Mickey’s face did that thing it always did right before he short-circuited — the twitch of his jaw, the tightening of his eyes. You stepped forward and gently patted his chest, as if he were a stressed-out golden retriever.

“Relax,” you said with faux sympathy. “I promise I won’t ruin your image. Unless you want me to.”

“You are the worst.”

“I’m the prettiest.”

Jake grinned, completely sold now. “This is gonna be a good summer.”

Mickey groaned and turned around, muttering something in Spanish as he headed back inside — leaving you and Jake in your quiet bubble once more, the sun casting long shadows across the deck, and the smell of beer and salt air wrapped thick in the space between you.

You looked at Jake. “So, where were we?”

He smirked. “I think you were about to show me your pool skills.”

[...]

The ride back to Mickey’s place was quiet.

Not awkward, exactly — just… still. The kind of silence that didn’t demand to be filled, not right away. The radio hummed low, some indie playlist Mickey probably didn’t remember putting on, and the city passed outside the window in soft blurs of neon and streetlight.

You sat curled against the door, one leg tucked up under you, cheek resting on your hand as you stared out into the night.

Your mind was still at the Hard Deck.

Still replaying the way Jake Seresin had looked at you — all heat and humor, like he couldn’t decide whether to flirt or take a bite. The way his voice had curled low when he teased you, that smooth drawl that made everything sound like a promise you weren’t sure he’d keep.

God, he was hot. Not just “bar guy hot” — real hot. The kind that filled out a t-shirt just right, who probably smelled like jet fuel and aftershave and trouble you couldn’t wait to touch.

You sighed before you could stop yourself.

Mickey didn’t look over, but you saw the way his hands tensed a little on the wheel.

“You should be careful with him,” he said suddenly, like he’d been chewing on it all the way from the parking lot.

You blinked, then turned toward him slowly. “With who?”

He didn’t answer right away, just flicked the turn signal and took the next exit like he was stalling. Then: “Jake.”

You stared at him for a beat. “Wow. Subtle.”

He glanced at you sideways. “I mean it.”

You rolled your eyes and let your head fall back against the seat. “You don’t think he’s too old for me, do you?” you teased lightly, trying to deflect — but your smile didn’t quite reach your eyes.

Mickey sighed. “I think you’ve got a history of going for the kind of guys who know exactly what to say to get under your skin, and I think Jake’s smarter than most.”

You didn’t respond.

“I know you think I’m just being overprotective—”

“You are being overprotective.”

“—but I’ve seen how guys like him work. I train with him. I fly with him. And I’m telling you, he’s not looking for anything complicated.”

“And you think I’m complicated?” you asked, voice a little sharper than before.

“I think you’re not in a place where you need another person who’s just gonna blow through your life and leave smoke behind.”

You stared at the windshield, jaw tight. He didn’t mean it to hurt. But it still did.

“I’m not asking for your permission,” you said quietly.

“I know,” he said just as softly. “I’m just asking you not to get hurt again.” You didn’t answer. The car rolled into the lot, headlights cutting across the pavement.

And suddenly, you weren’t thinking about Jake’s smirk or his arms or the way he leaned a little too close. You were thinking about Boston. About the after. The way one bad night turned into a dozen blurry ones. How easily the lines blurred between fun and escape, between warm and numb.

You were thinking about how much you hated feeling seen.

Mickey parked, killed the engine, and sat back. You opened the door without a word, stepping out into the night air.

You didn’t say goodnight.

And he didn’t expect you to.

The next morning, the apartment was too quiet.

It hit you the moment you stepped out of Mickey’s too-neat guest room and into the stillness of his little kitchen, barefoot and disoriented. Morning light filtered through the half-closed blinds, casting sharp, uneven lines across the tile floor. Somewhere outside, a neighbor's dog barked. A car alarm chirped once. Then nothing.

The silence made your skin crawl.

Mickey was already gone — early base shift, he'd said the night before with that same clipped voice he used when he didn’t want to be pressed further. The TV remote sat untouched on the coffee table. The fridge hummed softly, indifferent to your restlessness.

You wandered back to your room.

At first, it was just to grab your phone. But your fingers itched before you even reached for it — a familiar, gnawing heat low in your stomach and crawling up your spine.

You sat on the edge of the bed, opened your suitcase, and began digging.

Pills. Maybe you’d stashed something in a side pocket. Maybe one last tab. Just something to take the edge off.

Your fingers flew faster, rifling through layers of expensive clothes you didn’t even like, travel-sized makeup bags, crumpled receipts from airports you barely remembered. Your heart kicked up, not from fear — not yet — but from hope. Desperate, stupid hope.

But there was nothing.

You checked the lining. You checked your purse. You even got on your knees and stuck your hand under the bed like maybe it had just… fallen out.

Still nothing.

You sat back hard, spine hitting the edge of the mattress. The silence was louder now, almost mocking.

“Fuck,” you whispered into the room.

The craving wasn’t overwhelming yet — but it was coming. You could feel it curling around the base of your skull, tightening just a little. It always started like this: a whisper of discomfort. A flicker of boredom. Then the sudden, jarring awareness that your body wanted something it couldn’t have.

You glanced at your phone.

Couldn’t exactly search "MDMA dealer in San Diego" and get Yelp reviews. You didn’t know anyone here. Not well enough, anyway. And you sure as hell weren’t about to ask any of Mickey’s uptight military buddies.

Your thumb hovered over your contacts. You had a guy back home in Boston. Always reliable. Always delivered. But flying anything across state lines was stupid, and Mickey was already suspicious. He’d see right through you.

You dropped the phone on the bed, hard, and exhaled through your teeth.

The problem wasn’t that you needed it every day.

The problem was that the days without it felt wrong.

Empty. Like the colors were off, the volume turned down, and your own skin didn’t fit right.

You rubbed your hands over your face, groaning. This was going to suck.

You needed to figure something out. But not now. Not yet. Maybe a shower. Maybe some food. Maybe—

You blinked, staring at the wall.

Maybe something to distract you.

You lay back against the bed, arms spread, staring at the ceiling like it might offer you answers. It didn’t. Just white paint and one lazy ceiling fan spinning too slow to matter.

The craving was louder now. Sharper.

It gnawed at the edges of your thoughts, tugged on your nerves like a frayed thread. Not full-blown panic — not yet — but you could feel your body buzzing with the lack. A low, jittery hum beneath your skin. It made everything feel too still. Too quiet. Like you might peel out of your own bones if you didn’t do something.

Anything.

You closed your eyes, tried to breathe.

That didn’t help either.

Instead, Jake’s face flashed behind your eyelids. That smirk. The way he’d leaned back against the railing last night like he had all the time in the world to wait for you to come to him. The way his voice dragged across words like doll and trouble and made them sound filthy.

You swallowed hard, your thighs pressing together.

Maybe you couldn’t score right now — but there were other ways to shut your brain up. Other ways to flood your system with something sharp and hot and head-spinning.

Jake Seresin wasn’t just hot. He was magnetic. Confident in that cocky, half-charming, half-infuriating way that made women roll their eyes even as they edged closer. And he knew it. You could tell by the way he looked at you — like he already had your number, like he’d read every dirty thought you’d tried not to have and was just waiting for you to make the first move.

God, what he could probably do with those hands. With that mouth.

You shifted again, frustration prickling beneath your skin. The room felt stuffy. The air too thick. You sat up and yanked off your hoodie like it was suffocating you, tossing it to the floor in one dramatic motion.

You didn’t want to want him. You weren’t here to hook up with some cocky Navy pilot just because you were bored and spinning out. But then again…

What the hell else was there to do?

You got to your feet, pacing now. The silence of the apartment closed in tighter. No texts. No plans. No high. No anything.

You chewed the inside of your cheek, staring at your reflection in the mirror on the back of the door. Your hair was a mess. Last night’s makeup smudged just enough to give you that effortless, undone look — the kind that screamed: Yes, I’m trouble, and I’m already bored.

You tilted your head. A slow, dangerous smile curled at your lips.

If Mickey didn’t want you talking to Jake, maybe that was exactly who you should be talking to.

Not because you cared what your brother thought.

And not because Jake might actually be worth your time.

But because it would feel good — even for a little while — to be the one in control again.

To take something for yourself, since no one else had let you choose a damn thing in over a year.

You picked your phone up from the bed, your thumb hovering over the screen.

You didn’t have Jake’s number.

Yet.

Mickey came home just after seven.

You were already on the couch, legs curled under you, pretending to scroll through your phone while some muted reality show flashed across the screen. You barely looked up when he came through the door, dropped his keys into the dish by the fridge, and kicked off his boots with a tired grunt.

He didn’t say much — just offered a distracted hey as he passed behind the couch. You caught a faint whiff of his laundry detergent and the sweat of a long day on base.

“Dinner?” he asked, disappearing into the kitchen.

“I’m not hungry.”

“You should eat.”

“I said I’m not hungry, Mom.”

He muttered something under his breath and let it drop. The fridge opened, then closed. A cabinet slammed. The microwave beeped twice. You waited, watching the seconds tick by on the oven clock.

When he finally sank onto the armchair with a plastic bowl of leftover rice and something that vaguely smelled like chicken, you knew your window had opened.

He set his phone on the end table.

Unlocked.

Idiot.

“Long day?” you asked sweetly, tilting your head.

He nodded, mouth full. “Fucking exhausting.”

You smiled — just a little — and leaned back into the cushions. “You should shower. Relax a little.”

Mickey squinted at you, suspicious.

“What?”

“Nothing,” you said innocently. “You look like you could use it.”

He narrowed his eyes but didn’t argue. A minute later, he was headed toward the bathroom, peeling off his shirt as he went. The sound of water running came soon after.

Mickey’s phone buzzed on the end table.

You didn’t move right away.

The apartment was quiet again — that same heavy stillness you’d woken up to — only now it felt less like a trap and more like a challenge. You listened to the water running behind the bathroom door, counted the seconds between footsteps. He was rinsing his hair. You had time.

You slid your hand over the side of the couch and picked up the phone.

Still unlocked.

You didn’t even have to guess the passcode — not when Mickey was dumb enough to use your birthday. Same four digits he’d been using since you were both kids. You typed it in, and the screen opened without a fight.

Messages. Contacts. Scroll.

There he was: Jake 🤡.

You rolled your eyes at the name but couldn’t help the little spark of excitement that lit in your chest. You tapped the contact, stared at the number, and copied it into your own phone without a second thought. You didn’t need to dig through their conversations. You already knew enough.

Jake Seresin was cocky, smooth, and undeniably hot — the kind of man who flirted like it was a second language and smirked like he’d already undressed you in his head. If Mickey didn’t want you anywhere near him, well… that just made it all the more tempting.

You opened a new message, pasted in the number, and let your fingers hover over the keyboard for a second. A slow grin curled on your lips.

Then, you started typing:

guess who stole your number, flyboy?

You stared at it for half a second longer, then hit send.

No regrets.

You tossed Mickey’s phone back onto the table with an innocent little thud just as the bathroom door creaked open. Steam spilled out behind him.

He looked at you warily. “You’re still sitting there?”

“Where else would I be?” you said, all sugar and sunshine. “Just having a quiet night in.”

He gave you a look but didn’t say anything.

Your own phone vibrated in your hand.

You didn’t check it — not yet. But the smile that played on your lips was impossible to hide.

Whatever came next?

You were ready for it.

Or at least, you thought you were.

Your phone buzzed again in your hand.

You didn’t even pretend not to look this time.

Unknown Number: Stole my number, huh? Should I be flattered or concerned?

Three dots blinked beneath the message before you could type a response.

And here I was thinking Fanboy's little sister would be all sugar and good manners. Didn’t peg you for a thief, sweetheart.

You smirked, heart tapping a little faster. Another message popped in right behind the last:

Let me guess... bored in San Diego and looking for a distraction? Careful. I’m not exactly the safe kind.

Short pause. Then:

But I am flattered. And curious. What exactly do you want to forget tonight, trouble?

The message sat there like a challenge — not crude, not overly bold — but threaded with just enough heat to make your breath catch. Just enough interest to let you know you’d hooked him. But it wasn’t desperate. It was Jake Seresin through and through: smooth, self-assured, respectful… with a hint of danger curling at the edges.

The ball was in your court now.

And he knew you’d serve it back.

The Hard Deck was already buzzing when you walked in.

Late enough that the sunlight had gone soft and golden through the high windows, early enough that the crowd was still easy to scan. You spotted him almost immediately — leaning against the bar, back half-turned, a beer bottle resting casually in one hand like it belonged there. His posture was easy, relaxed, but you caught the way his eyes flicked up the second you stepped through the door.

Bingo.

You didn’t slow down.

You knew what you looked like — tight black tank top, denim skirt that hit mid-thigh, your hair pinned up in that careless, sexy kind of way that looked like it had taken no effort but absolutely had. Lip gloss shining, confidence dialed high. No Mickey to chaperone. Just you and your cravings, and Jake Seresin standing like a sin waiting to happen. Phoenix spotted you first.

Her brows lifted in surprise — not unkind, just curious — and then flicked quickly toward Jake. Bob followed her gaze, his expression unreadable behind his glasses.

You didn’t look at them.

You walked right up to Jake, your heels clicking softly across the wooden floor, and stopped just close enough to skim the edge of his personal space. His mouth tugged into a slow, amused smile.

“Well, well,” he drawled, giving you a once-over that burned without lingering. “Look who came all the way down here just to flirt with danger.”

You tilted your head, eyes glittering. “What can I say? I’ve got a thing for danger... especially when it answers my texts.”

Jake chuckled, low in his throat. “Fanboy know you’re out here stirring up trouble?”

You leaned in a little, letting your arm brush his as you propped your elbows on the bar. “What Mickey doesn’t know won’t kill him.”

“Careful,” he said, voice dipping, “you’re starting to sound like a bad idea.”

“Maybe I am,” you said sweetly, lips curling. “Maybe I’m just really good at pretending otherwise.”

His brow twitched, like he wasn’t sure if he should be impressed or worried. “You always come on this strong, or am I just special?”

You smiled with your teeth this time. “You’re very pretty, Jake. I like pretty things. Don’t take it too personally.”

He studied you for a beat, the beer forgotten in his hand. The way you smiled — wide, reckless, like you weren’t afraid of anything — it didn’t read as naive. If anything, you looked like someone chasing a high, someone trying to outrun something invisible. But Jake wasn’t the type to go digging through people’s shadows. He just assumed this was your way of poking the bear.

And hell, maybe it was.

Still, something about the intensity in your eyes made him shift slightly.

“You want a drink?” he asked eventually, more gentle than flirty.

“I want whatever gets me to the fun part faster,” you replied, licking a bit of gloss from your bottom lip.

Phoenix turned slightly in her seat, watching from the corner of her eye. Bob said nothing, but you could feel his attention too.

Jake exhaled through his nose — half amused, half uncertain — and finally gestured to the bartender.

“All right, sweetheart. One drink,” he said. “But don’t expect me to carry you out if you start swinging at a jukebox.”

You grinned, that adrenaline prickle crawling up your spine again — not quite as sharp as a pill under the tongue, but close. Close enough.

“Deal,” you said, and tapped his bottle with your fingernail.

The night was warm, heavy with salt air and the low hum of laughter still trailing from inside the Hard Deck. The stars were faint behind the haze of city glow, and the parking lot lights cast long, golden shadows against the pavement.

Your back hit the side of Jake’s truck with a soft thud.

His mouth was on yours before you could finish laughing — all teeth and heat and hands that gripped your waist like he’d been starving. He kissed like he flew: confident, calculated, a little reckless. Your fingers tangled in the front of his shirt, pulling him closer, pressing flush against him like maybe he could drown out everything you didn’t want to feel.

And for a minute, he did.

Jake let out a low groan when you nipped at his lip, like the sound had been trapped behind his teeth all night. His hands slid down to your thighs, lifting just slightly, and you laughed against his mouth.

“Well,” you whispered, breathless, “that didn’t take long.”

Jake chuckled against your skin, lips brushing your jaw, your neck. “I warned you,” he muttered.

“Good,” you whispered, your voice sultry, teasing. “Let's go to your place, or we can do it here.” You reached for his belt.

Jake froze.

The shift was subtle, but instant. His hands stilled. His lips hovered, no longer moving. And then, carefully — too carefully — he stepped back.

You blinked at him, confused. Your chest was rising and falling like you’d just run a mile.

“What—?”

“Don’t,” he said softly, lifting his hand, not quite touching you anymore. “Just… don’t.”

Your eyes narrowed. “Don’t what?”

Jake exhaled, like the weight of what he was about to say had been sitting on him for a while. “You’re gorgeous. And I like you. God help me, I really like you.” His voice was tight, jaw clenched. “But I can’t do this. Not like this. Not in my truck outside a damn bar. Not when you’re Mickey’s little sister.”

“Oh, now you care?” you snapped, your tone turning sharp. “You didn’t seem to have a problem with it five seconds ago when your tongue was halfway down my throat.”

“Yeah, well,” Jake muttered, running a hand through his hair, stepping another inch back, “five seconds ago I wasn’t picturing Mickey finding out and trying to take my head off with a wrench.”

You scoffed, crossing your arms over your chest. “Is that what this is? You scared of my brother?”

“I respect your brother,” Jake corrected. “And I’m not going to disrespect him by hooking up with you in the goddamn parking lot.”

You looked at him like he’d slapped you.

“Oh, I see,” you said slowly, voice ice-cold. “So I’m a hookup now?”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Then what did you mean, Seresin?” you shot back. “Because from where I’m standing, it kinda sounds like you’re saying you’re into me but not enough to actually do anything about it.”

Jake opened his mouth. Closed it. Looked like he might try again — but he didn’t.

Your lips curled, bitter and bright.

“Whatever,” you muttered. “I’ve had better makeouts anyway.”

You pushed past him, heels clicking on the pavement, your pulse thudding hot behind your ribs. You didn’t look back — not when he called your name, not when he didn’t.

You were already burning.

And you knew where to find something that would put the fire out.

The Uber pulled up outside your brother’s apartment, but you never got out. You just clicked “change destination,” slid across the back seat like you’d done it a hundred times before, and fed the driver the name of a club Mickey would never set foot in — too loud, too flashy, too full of the very people he didn’t trust you to be around.

Your fingers hovered over your phone screen for a second.

You turned it off.

Let it vanish into your bag like it didn’t exist, like you didn’t exist — at least not the version of you Mickey wanted so badly to believe was still there.

By the time you stepped into the pulsing darkness of the club, the bass had already stitched itself into your bones. Red and blue lights spun across the walls like a kaleidoscope of chaos, and the air smelled like sweat and sweet liquor and something artificial you could never quite name but always recognized.

You moved like you belonged.

Past the crowd at the entrance, past the line at the bar. Eyes followed you, some curious, some hungry. But you weren’t here for that. Not tonight.

You scanned the bodies.

You knew the signs — you’d learned them the hard way. The guy leaning on the railing above the dance floor, hoodie pulled low over his eyes despite the heat. The girl in fishnets by the bathroom who hadn’t stopped twitching. The cluster of people too calm in a place designed for chaos.

You found him tucked into a booth behind the DJ setup. Skinny, pale, with rings on every finger and pupils like dinner plates.

You slid in beside him.

“Boston girl,” you said smoothly, just loud enough for him to hear. “Looking to get nostalgic.”

He looked you over once — top to heels — and smirked. “Molly?”

Your smile was slow, almost grateful. “You got it.”

He pulled a little zip bag from his pocket, already palming one capsule into your hand like it was nothing.

You tucked it into your purse, fingers brushing the cool plastic like it was a secret no one could touch.

“You new in town?” he asked, already eyeing you like he wanted more than your cash.

“Something like that,” you said, standing.

The music hit you like a wave as you turned back toward the floor. Your pulse was already racing. Not from the drug — not yet — but from the promise of it. From knowing that in twenty minutes, everything would melt. The ache in your chest. The heat under your skin. The bitter taste of Jake’s rejection still clinging to your tongue.

You’d feel better soon.

You always did.

The apartment was quiet.

Too quiet.

Mickey stood in the center of the living room, phone clutched tight in his hand, staring at the still-closed door to your bedroom.

He'd already knocked — twice. No answer.

Now he pushed it open, dread curling low in his stomach, half-expecting to find you face-down in bed, headphones on, refusing to engage with the world like usual.

The bed was empty.

The window was shut. No note. No texts.

No you.

He cursed under his breath, already dialing. First your number — straight to voicemail.

"Goddamnit."

Then again. Then again.

By the fourth call, his voice was shaking.

He dialed Phoenix next.

"Yeah?"

"Is she with you?" he barked, not even bothering to say your name.

Phoenix sounded confused. "What? No—wait, who? Your sister?"

"Yes. She’s not here. She’s not picking up."

There was a pause. Then: “She was at the Hard Deck earlier.”

Mickey stopped cold. “What?” His heart dropped straight through the floor, not bothering to let Nat finish.

He hung up without another word, grabbing his keys from the counter so fast he nearly knocked over the lamp.

She could be anywhere. With anyone. With Jake.

His fists clenched.

He didn’t care how good a pilot Jake was or how many pull-ups he could do in a row — if he’d laid a finger on you—

The lock clicked behind him.

The door creaked open.

You stepped inside like nothing was wrong — purse swinging, cheeks still a little flushed from the night, eyeliner smudged just enough to look deliberate. Your hair was a mess. Your heels clicked softly against the hardwood. And you froze the moment you saw Mickey standing in the middle of the room, jaw tight, eyes blazing.

"Where the hell were you?" he snapped.

"Out," you said breezily, slipping off your shoes like you hadn’t just given him a heart attack.

"Don't," he warned, voice low. “Don’t play this game with me.”

You crossed your arms, rolling your eyes. “I’m not playing anything, Mickey.”

“You turned off your phone. You didn’t leave a note. I thought you were dead in a fucking alley!”

“I’m not,” you said simply. “Clearly.”

“I swear to God, if you were with Jake—"

You laughed — a sharp, humorless sound. “Relax. You’ve got nothing to worry about,” you bit out, brushing past him toward the kitchen. “Jake doesn’t want me.”

Mickey blinked, thrown for a moment.

You kept talking, your voice light, almost sing-song. “Turns out your precious wingman has a conscience. Or maybe he just thought I was too much. Either way, he slammed the brakes before anything fun happened.”

Mickey stared at you, stunned.

There was something brittle beneath your words. Something off. But he didn’t know how to name it. Didn’t know how to reach you.

So instead, he just said, “Good. Because if he had touched you—"

“Jesus,” you muttered, yanking open the fridge like it had personally offended you. “What are you gonna do, Mick? Ground me?”

“No,” he said. “But I’m two seconds away from locking you in this goddamn apartment until you stop acting like the whole world’s your playground.”

You slammed the fridge shut. “Then maybe I’ll just leave again.”

And for a second — a real second — he didn’t know if you meant it.

The silence was sharp.

You looked at each other, two sides of the same storm. Then you turned on your heel and disappeared into your room, door slamming behind you.

Mickey stood there for a long time after.

Not mad.

Just scared.

Your door slammed harder than you intended. The echo of it cracked through the silence, followed by the sound of your own uneven breathing.

The click of the lock was automatic. A reflex. You didn’t want to talk. Didn’t want to see the hurt flickering behind Mickey’s anger. You didn’t want to feel anything at all.

You stood in the middle of the room, still dressed from the night — glitter smeared along your collarbone, lashes barely hanging on, heels abandoned by the foot of the bed. Your purse hit the mattress, and from it, the little plastic bag slipped free.

There it was.

One capsule left. Just one.

You sat down slowly, like the weight of the day had finally caught up. Your fingers curled around the bag, staring through it like you might find something else inside. Something other than a cheap promise of escape. Something you hadn’t already taken a dozen times before.

But it was just molly. Just powder.

Just the only thing that still gave you a few hours of peace.

Your fingers tightened around it.

You didn’t even mean to cry.

It started soft — a prickling behind your eyes. Then came the sting. The burn. The tightness in your throat. You pressed your palm to your mouth like you could shove it down, but your shoulders started to shake anyway.

“I don’t wanna be like this,” you whispered into the dark.

The room didn’t care. It sat there in silence — still and clean and unfamiliar. No party. No music. No soft laughter or sweaty dance floors. Just you and a twin-sized bed and a framed photo of Mickey with his squad on the wall. And the echo of your guilt ricocheting through your chest like shrapnel.

You lay back, the capsule still clutched in your hand, blinking up at the ceiling.

You didn’t mean to think about it.

But you saw it again anyway.

That night. That party. The moment everything shifted.

The laugh you forced, the way your skin crawled, the flashes of hands you never invited, voices you couldn’t focus on, your own pulse like a scream in your ears. You blinked hard, willing the memory away, biting the inside of your cheek to chase something real, something present, something now.

Mickey didn’t know.

He thought you were doing it for attention.

You almost laughed at that — but it caught somewhere in your chest, jagged and sour. You didn’t want to make him mad. You didn’t want to keep worrying him. He was trying. You could see it. He’d brought you here, changed his whole life just to watch over you. And you? You kept fucking up.

You turned onto your side, curled up around the stupid plastic bag like it was something holy.

“I don’t wanna be a mess,” you whispered again. “I just… don’t know how not to be.”

Your tears soaked the edge of the pillow. You didn’t bother to wipe them away.

You didn’t take the molly.

Not yet.

But you didn’t put it away, either.

You just held it in your fist until your fingers ached and your breathing finally slowed, and the silence swallowed you whole.

[...]

The light seeped through the blinds in thin, golden stripes across the room, landing on your cheek like a soft, slow reminder that the world had kept spinning while you slept. Your eyes fluttered open, crusted and raw, and your throat was tight from all the crying — that ugly kind of crying that comes from the pit of your stomach, the kind you don’t admit to later.

Your head throbbed dully. Not quite a hangover, not quite a high. Just… aftermath.

You were still in last night’s clothes, one arm tangled under the pillow, the other curled protectively around the little plastic bag you never ended up using. It lay limp and warm in your fist, like a secret you weren’t ready to give up yet.

You stared at the ceiling for a long time, unmoving. You felt… hollow. Not broken. Not dramatic. Just the echo of yourself, stretched too thin.

Eventually, you reached for your phone on the nightstand, blinking hard as the screen lit up.

3 missed calls — Mickey

1 new message — Jake Seresin

Your stomach fluttered — unhelpfully. You sat up slowly, thumb hovering for a second before you tapped into the message.

Jake Seresin:

Sorry about last night. I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. You got under my skin, not gonna lie.

If you’re still talking to me, I’d like to make it up to you. Breakfast? Just you and me.

You stared at it.

The words didn’t make sense right away. You read them again. And again.

Jake. Apologizing.

The same Jake your brother warned you to stay the hell away from. The one who looked at you like he wanted to tear your clothes off, then pulled back like you were something fragile. Like he was the one who had something to lose.

Breakfast.

You should’ve rolled your eyes. Should’ve scoffed and deleted it.

But you didn’t.

Your lips curled — not quite a smile. Just the beginning of one. A tug at the corner of your mouth, a twitch of something almost light.

You didn’t reply. Not yet.

Instead, you got up.

Peeling off your wrinkled clothes, splashing water on your face, brushing through your tangled hair. You looked in the mirror and didn’t recognize the girl who’d sobbed herself to sleep with drugs in her hand — but she was still in there. Still lingering around the edges.

Still holding on.

Still trying.

Maybe she deserved pancakes.

You were halfway through tying your boots when Mickey emerged from his bedroom, shirtless, towel draped over one shoulder and wet hair curling at the ends. He blinked blearily at you standing by the door, dressed — brushed, jacket in hand — like someone who’d been up for hours.

His brows pulled together.

“You’re going out?”

You didn’t look up as you tightened the laces. “Yeah.”

He ran a hand down his face, squinting at the clock on the microwave. “It’s not even nine.”

You stood, grabbing your phone and sliding it into your bag. “I didn’t realize I needed clearance to leave.”

“That’s not what I said.”

You finally met his eyes, your expression unreadable — calm, if a little cool. “I’m not going to burn the place down. Or run away. Or whatever scenario you’re playing in your head.”

Mickey opened his mouth, then shut it. He sighed. “I just—Christ, I don’t want to fight with you.”

“Then don’t.”

He studied you carefully. You weren’t dressed like you were going clubbing. Weren’t trembling or twitchy like the other night. No signs of a hangover. Just jeans, a jacket, mascara, and a soft tinge of pink on your cheeks.

You looked… normal.

Better than normal, even.

“Where are you going?” he asked, gently this time.

You paused with your hand on the doorknob. “Breakfast.”

A beat.

“Alone?”

You smiled, slow and infuriatingly evasive. “You said you didn’t want to fight.”

“Right,” he muttered, running a hand through his still-damp curls. “You’re not a prisoner. I get it.”

“Glad we agree.”

You slipped out the door before he could say anything else.

But Mickey stood there a moment longer, staring at the closed door, heart thumping with unease.

He trusted you.

He wanted to trust you.

But something in your voice — that lilt of confidence — didn’t sound like nothing.

And he’d known you long enough to recognize the glint in your eye when you were up to something.

jake's pov -

Jake sat at a table near the window, fingers curled around a steaming mug of coffee he hadn’t really touched. The café was small — charming, even. Brick walls, worn wood floors, low music humming from the speakers. A place you chose, not him. That alone said something. Not the kind of spot for someone looking to seduce or impress.

He checked his watch. Ten minutes early.

Typical.

He wasn’t nervous — not exactly. But something about this whole thing had his leg bouncing under the table, and he couldn’t shake the memory of your mouth on his, your fingers tugging at his collar, the way you’d looked at him like you wanted to ruin him just to see if he’d let you.

He almost had.

He would’ve.

Jake rubbed a hand over his jaw, exhaling sharply through his nose.

What the hell are you doing, Seresin?

You weren’t just a pretty face in a crowded bar. You weren’t just another girl looking for attention. You were Mickey’s little sister — the same Mickey who once tackled a guy at a dive bar for making a rude comment about Phoenix.

And Jake had tried. God, he’d tried.

But then you walked into the Hard Deck like you owned the whole damn place, tossed your hair over your shoulder, and gave him that smile — the kind that was born to cause problems. And he hadn’t stood a chance.

That kiss had been a bad idea. The best kind. Messy, hungry, and full of something neither of you had named yet. And then the way you whispered it — Let’s go to your place — like a dare, like you knew he’d cave.

And he almost had.

But then he saw Mickey’s face in the back of his mind, and guilt sucker-punched the want right out of him. Not for long, but long enough.

Jake sighed and leaned back in the chair, lifting the mug to his lips just to give his hands something to do. Bitter, lukewarm coffee.

He glanced toward the door.

You weren’t the first woman to tempt him into trouble — but you were the first who made it feel like it might be worth the consequences.

And that scared the shit out of him.

He didn’t know what your deal was yet. There was something behind your eyes. Something sharp and sweet and sad all at once. You didn’t flirt like someone playing a game. You flirted like someone trying to survive.

It made him want to know more.

It made him want to keep you from whatever the hell you were running from — even if he had no business trying.

His phone buzzed on the table. A message from Phoenix: You really about to have breakfast with Fanboy’s sister? You got a death wish or just a kink for chaos?

Jake smirked, typing back with one hand: Wouldn’t you like to know.

And that’s when he saw you.

Through the window. Head tilted, sunglasses slipping down your nose. Hair pulled back with zero effort and still looking like something out of a music video. You paused outside the door, smoothing down your jacket and pulling out your lip gloss, like you hadn’t made him sweat just 48 hours ago.

He was done for.

Again.

The bell above the café door chimed, and Jake forced himself not to sit up straighter. You stepped inside like the morning belonged to you, like the air adjusted itself around your presence. Casual, confident, smug in a way that wasn’t entirely performative. Or maybe it was. He couldn’t tell — and that intrigued him more than he’d like to admit.

Your sunglasses slid up to rest on your head, revealing those sharp eyes that scanned the room like you were bored already, even though the corner of your mouth twitched the moment you saw him.

You made your way to the table, tugging your jacket off one shoulder in that unconsciously flirtatious way he was starting to suspect was very conscious.

“You waited,” you said, dropping into the chair across from him like this wasn’t a potential landmine wrapped in brunch plans.

Jake smirked, lifting his mug. “Well, I was raised right.”

“Debatable.”

“Fair,” he admitted, setting the cup down. “But I did apologize.”

You tilted your head, eyes narrowing slightly. “You did. That’s a first.”

He chuckled under his breath. “What can I say? You bring out the manners in me.”

“I’d rather bring out something else.” Your voice was low, lazy. Testing him.

Jake’s smile faltered — not in disapproval, but because his pulse had just quickened, and he hated that you noticed. You always noticed.

“Thought we were doing pancakes, not phone sex,” he drawled, folding his hands on the table.

“Can’t a girl multitask?” You leaned forward just enough for him to smell whatever perfume you were wearing — something warm, almost sweet, laced with a hint of trouble.

Jake swallowed hard.

“You’re dangerous.”

You raised a brow. “Now you sound like my brother.”

“God, don’t say that. This moment was almost enjoyable.”

You laughed — real and bright — and for a moment, Jake forgot about all the reasons this was supposed to be a bad idea. You looked better than you did at night. That glow in your skin wasn’t club lighting; it was daylight and fresh coffee and something softer than your usual shield of sarcasm.

“Thanks for texting,” you said finally, a little quieter, fiddling with the sugar packet in front of you.

Jake tilted his head. “Didn’t think you’d show.”

“I didn’t think you’d actually want me to.”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

You shrugged, but it was evasive. “You pulled away last time. Guys don’t usually do that unless they’re embarrassed. Or bored. Or liars.”

Jake frowned, leaning in just slightly. “I pulled away because I’ve still got a few morals left. Because Mickey would kill me if he found out. Because I’m not trying to mess you up more than you already are.”

The last part slipped out. Too honest. Too fast.

Your expression didn’t shift much, but something in your eyes darkened.

Just a flicker.

“I’m not a charity case,” you said smoothly, but your tone lost some of its heat.

“I never said you were.”

A beat of silence stretched between you, thick but not suffocating.

Jake sighed, leaning back and signaling the waitress with two fingers. “Let’s eat. I’ve got a feeling I’m gonna need something sweet to survive this.”

You smirked again. “I hear you already survived my brother’s fists. You’ll be fine.”

“Yet somehow,” he said, smiling right back, “you’re scarier than he is.”

And just like that, the tension thinned. The thread between you taut, but not fraying. A truce — temporary or not, neither of you cared to define it. Not yet.

The waitress had just walked away with their order — two coffees, one black, one swimming in cream and sugar, and a split stack of pancakes — when you spoke again. Your voice was different this time. Quieter. Less like you were trying to win something.

“I’m sorry, by the way,” you said, not looking at him.

Jake blinked. “For what?”

You didn’t answer immediately. You traced the rim of your water glass with your finger, as if trying to line up the words just right. “Last night. I… wasn’t in a great place. And I thought maybe if I just distracted myself — if I pushed hard enough — I could make everything shut up for a little while.”

Your gaze flicked up to meet his. Steady. Unflinching. “It wasn’t fair to do that to you.”

Jake didn’t say anything at first. He hadn’t expected it — the apology, the clarity, the self-awareness so rarely seen beneath your usual armor of charm and sharp wit. It threw him.

“You didn’t do anything I didn’t want,” he said slowly, watching you. “But… I appreciate you saying that.”

You nodded. “I know what it looks like. I flirt, I push, I act like I don’t care. But I do. And I know I shouldn’t use people to feel better. I’m trying not to be that girl.”

Something about the way you said it — not ashamed, but tired — made his chest tighten.

You were still wearing lip gloss and still sitting like you knew you were the hottest person in the room, but your walls had slipped just enough for him to see the ache behind your eyes. Not for attention. Not for drama. But for quiet.

For peace.

Jake leaned back in his seat and let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding.

“Okay,” he said.

You blinked. “Okay?”

He nodded. “Okay. We start fresh. No expectations, no guilt. Just… pancakes.”

You smiled, soft and surprised. “You’re kind of decent sometimes.”

Jake grinned. “Don’t spread that around. I’ve got a reputation to protect.”

A silence settled between you again, but it wasn’t heavy this time. It felt like the first moment neither of you was performing.

Not hiding.

Just breathing.

And Jake knew — this was why he didn’t walk away.

Not because of the thrill, or Mickey’s warning, or the chase.

But because for the first time in a long time, someone looked right at him, not past him, and still sat across the table anyway.

By the time the pancakes arrived, the mood had lightened. You were halfway through yours, picking the blueberries off the top and popping them into your mouth one by one, when Jake finally asked the question that had been simmering in the back of his mind.

“So,” he said, slicing through his stack with exaggerated concentration. “Mickey.”

You snorted. “That’s a hell of a way to ruin pancakes.”

Jake smirked. “I just mean — he’s got this whole overprotective-big-brother thing going on, and don’t get me wrong, it’s impressive, but… you’re not a kid.”

You glanced at him, expression unreadable.

Jake went on, carefully. “You don’t act like a little sister. You act like someone who’s been running her own show for a while now. So why is he acting like you need a full-time bodyguard?”

You set your fork down. Not hard — just deliberately. You didn’t seem offended. More… thoughtful.

“Because Mickey only sees what he wants to see,” you said after a moment. “He sees the bratty little girl who had everything handed to her and complained when the ribbon wasn’t the color she wanted.”

Jake raised a brow. “Was it pink?”

You almost smiled. “It was lavender.”

He laughed, then sobered a little as he leaned in. “He cares, you know.”

“I know,” you said, quieter now. “But caring doesn’t mean understanding.”

Jake didn’t push. He let the silence sit between you for a moment, giving you space. You filled it anyway.

“He thinks I’m some spoiled mess who’s just acting out for attention. And maybe part of me is. I mean, I was a mess this year. Still am, sometimes.” You poked at a corner of your pancake. “It’s been… rough.”

Jake watched you. Not judging. Just listening.

“Rough how?” he asked gently.

Your mouth twisted like you were considering how much to give. Then, a shrug.

Jake watched as you swirled a blueberry through a pool of syrup, your expression unreadable. He decided to try again — gently. “So… your dad.”

Your eyes flicked up, a little wary now.

Jake raised a hand in surrender. “You don’t have to answer. I just… Mickey never talks about him. Like, ever.”

A beat passed. Then, with a sigh, you leaned back in your chair.

“He doesn’t like him,” you said simply. “Mickey’s never liked him. My dad’s… intense. Controlling, yeah, probably. Old-school to the bone. But he loves us. And I love him.”

There was a softness to your voice, like you were defending someone others didn’t understand.

“I know he expects too much, and I know he doesn’t always say things the right way. But he gave me everything. He raised me to be strong — to never settle. Mickey thinks I’m brainwashed. He doesn’t get that it’s not all black and white.”

Jake nodded slowly, taking that in. “So Mickey resents him.”

“He resents me, too, sometimes,” you said, almost too casually. “I got the life he didn’t want. Fancy schools, private cars, champagne brunches. And all I ever wanted was to be at the beach with my brother, making sandcastles.”

There it was — a flash of something raw. Unpolished. Honest.

“Have you ever talked to anyone about all that?” he asked.

You blinked. “Like…?”

“Like a therapist. Someone trained to untangle all the shit your family dumped on you.”

You scoffed. “What, and be told I have daddy issues? No thanks.”

Jake smiled softly. “You said it’s been a rough year. You ever think maybe it doesn’t have to keep being rough?”

You didn’t answer at first. Just stared at him, brows drawn, like no one had ever said it to you that way before.

Then, “Why do you care?”

Jake paused. That was a loaded question, and you both knew it.

He could give you a dozen answers. Because he liked you. Because you challenged him. Because behind the gloss and sarcasm and perfect posture, he saw a girl who didn’t really want to fall apart — she just didn’t know how else to hold on.

Instead, he said, “Because someone should.”

You looked at him for a long time, mouth parted slightly like you were going to say something. But the words never came. Not then.

You just picked up your fork again, stabbed a piece of pancake, and said, “Fine. Next time you make out with me, lead with that line.”

Jake grinned. “See? Progress.”

Jake watched you across the table as you leaned forward to snag the last blueberry off your plate, mumbling something about how it was the best part. You looked more relaxed now — still guarded, still carefully composed — but there was a softness around the edges that hadn’t been there when you first walked in.

And he saw it now. Saw you.

Not just the girl with the smirk and the perfect lipstick and the don’t-touch-me confidence. But the version underneath it — the one who’d been hurt and hadn’t figured out how to talk about it yet. The one who’d spent so long trying to live up to expectations that she didn’t know who she was when everything fell apart.

And he got it. God, he got it.

He had sisters. Three of them. Different personalities, different lives — but he knew their tells. Knew what it looked like when something was off, when a smile was a little too bright or the silence was just a little too long. If one of them had been spiraling the way you were, trying to distract yourself with parties or pills or people — he’d burn the world down to pull them out.

And Mickey… he wasn’t wrong for being protective. But he wasn’t seeing it clearly either. He still looked at you and saw a spoiled little sister with too much eyeliner and not enough boundaries. But Jake — Jake was starting to see the cracks forming beneath the surface. The weight of something that had nothing to do with privilege, and everything to do with pain.

You were two seconds away from a cry for help — except you were so good at pretending you didn’t need saving that most people wouldn’t even notice.

But he did.

He saw you.

And now that he did, he wasn’t sure he could unsee it.

Not sure he wanted to.

The ride back to Mickey’s place was quiet in the easy kind of way, with the windows cracked open just enough to let in the golden breeze of late afternoon. You rested your head against the passenger window, lashes casting soft shadows on your cheeks, a peaceful expression replacing the sharpness you usually wore like armor. Jake kept one hand on the wheel and the other resting loosely in his lap, resisting the urge to reach for yours. Not because he didn’t want to — he just didn’t want to break the stillness you seemed to need.

When he pulled up to the curb, you didn’t immediately move. You just sat there, eyes forward, lips pursed in thought. Then you turned to him, gaze searching his face like you were trying to memorize it.

“Thanks,” you said softly, voice still a little hoarse from the morning’s crying. “For breakfast. And for not being a dick about last night.”

Jake smiled faintly. “You’re welcome. And for the record, I was dangerously close to being a dick. But… I’m glad I wasn’t.”

You smirked. “It wouldn’t have worked anyway. I’d still be thinking about you.”

That pulled a laugh from him — quiet, low, genuine. “Jesus, you’re dangerous.”

“Maybe,” you said as you pushed the door open. “But I’m working on it.”

Jake watched you walk toward the building, his smile fading into something softer, more contemplative. He didn’t know exactly what was coming next for you — but he had a feeling you were finally heading toward it with your eyes open.

your pov -

You had barely stepped inside when Mickey’s voice cut through the living room like a warning shot.

“That better not have been Seresin’s truck.”

You let out a groan and dropped your bag on the kitchen counter, peeling off your jacket like the conversation wasn’t already circling like a hawk overhead. “Good afternoon to you too, Mickey.”

He was already standing by the couch, arms crossed, jaw tight. “Don’t play with me. I know what his truck looks like. Tell me you weren’t with him.”

You arched a brow and turned to the fridge. “You’re making it sound like I came back with a neck tattoo and a police escort.”

“I told you to stay away from him,” Mickey said, stepping closer. His voice was lower now, but sharp around the edges. “He’s too old for you. And he’s—”

“A grown man who listens better than you do?” you shot back, spinning to face him, eyes blazing.

Mickey blinked. That stopped him cold.

You took a breath. “I had breakfast with Jake. We talked. And it helped. That’s all.” He opened his mouth to argue, but you lifted a hand to stop him. “And before you start lecturing me, just—listen. I’ve decided to go to therapy.”

He froze. “What?”

You nodded. “I don’t want to keep feeling like this. Like I’m unraveling all the time. I’m gonna try to get better.” You crossed your arms, but your tone was calm — not defensive, not flippant. Just… real. “Not for you. Not for Dad. For me.”

There was a long beat of silence. Mickey’s face shifted — confusion first, then something softer, like hope dressed in disbelief.

“Okay,” he said quietly. “Okay.”

You turned away again, heading for your room, the heaviness still in your chest but lifted just enough to let in a breath.

Maybe it wasn’t a full step forward.

But it was something.

[...]

It had been three months.

Three months of early morning therapy sessions twice a week, of slowly learning how to speak without flinching at your own thoughts. You’d stopped picking at your cuticles. Started showering without guilt. Some days you even forgot to check how many hours you’d gone without crying. It wasn’t linear — it never was — but you were steady now. Lighter.

Mickey had started looking at you differently. Less like a ticking time bomb, more like a person. Sometimes, after dinner, he’d say something like “I’m proud of you” without looking at you directly, as if the words burned his tongue a little on the way out. You’d roll your eyes, but secretly you’d store them up like gold.

And then there was Jake.

Your relationship with him had shifted in that quiet, subtle way things do when two people stop pretending. You didn’t flirt like you used to — not to stir chaos or chase a thrill. Now, when you teased him, it was slow, soft, like a habit you weren’t ready to break.

He let you.

He didn’t push, didn’t chase. But he never backed away either.

You saw him most weekends now — at the Hard Deck, at bonfires with the Daggers, or when he and the rest brought takeout after long training days. He always made sure to save you the last fry or bring you your drink exactly the way you liked it. He never made a big deal out of it, but it was the kind of thing you noticed. The kind of thing you used to dream of having and didn’t think you deserved anymore.

But the pill was still there.

Tucked in a tiny ziplock bag inside your old makeup pouch, hidden behind a row of unused lipsticks. You hadn’t touched it. You hadn’t needed it — not in the way you used to. But you hadn’t flushed it either.

It was a safety net, or maybe a threat. A ghost of a promise you hadn’t yet made peace with.

Some nights, when the silence got too loud, you’d unzip the pouch and just… look at it. Like it might talk back. Like it might still offer you something that no longer lived in your body.

You were healing. Slowly. Not perfectly.

And Jake — Jake was still there.

Today, you were headed to a beach hangout with the squad. Phoenix had texted you that it was low-key and Mickey had rolled his eyes the whole way out the door like he knew damn well Jake would offer to drive you. Which, of course, he did.

And now, Jake’s truck rumbled beside the curb, his elbow perched on the open window, aviators pushed up into his hair as he waved you over like you were the main event.

“You always this slow or just trying to make an entrance?” he smirked.

You grinned, flipping him off as you climbed in. “I like to keep my fans waiting.”

Jake laughed — full and easy. It vibrated through you in a way that wasn’t quite dangerous anymore.

Just warm.

The salty tang of the ocean mixed with the sharp scent of sunscreen as you and Jake stepped onto the warm sand, the sun dipping lazily toward the horizon. The beach was alive with the easy chatter of the Daggers sprawled on blankets and beach chairs, coolers open and laughter riding the sea breeze.

Mickey was there, arms folded, wearing his usual scowl that softened only when you caught his eye. Rooster was tossing a frisbee, while Phoenix and Payback were in a heated debate over who should be on charge of the playlist. Coyote and Bob were setting up a small grill, the promise of burgers wafting through the air.

And then, just like an unexpected encore, Maverick and Penny arrived, their presence causing a ripple of smiles and nods. Penny, with her bright eyes and easy laugh, pulled you into a quick hug, whispering, “Glad you made it.”

Jake’s grip found your hand as you wandered toward the water’s edge, the sand cool between your toes. “Look at you,” he said softly. “All calm and collected.”

You nudged him playfully. “Careful, or I’ll start thinking you like me.”

He laughed, the sound deep and sure. “I already do.”

The day unfolded in waves—impromptu games of volleyball, shared stories around the grill, and the gentle ease of being surrounded by people who felt like family. Mickey’s protective gaze lingered longer than usual, but you caught Jake’s knowing glance and squeezed his hand, silently telling him everything was okay.

Mickey stood a few feet away, arms crossed tightly over his chest, a careful mask drawn over his usual scowl. His eyes never left you and Jake as they laughed together, the sunlight catching in your hair and the ease between you both so strikingly different from the guarded version of you he’d known for months.

On one hand, there was relief — a quiet, aching relief that you were smiling like this again, really smiling, not just the brittle kind that masked pain. He could see it in the way your eyes sparkled when Jake teased you, the way you leaned into him without hesitation. For the first time in a long time, you looked like you belonged somewhere. Like you were safe.

But in the other hand, there was a stubborn knot of worry twisting tighter with every passing minute. Jake — the man Mickey had warned you against, the guy he’d kept at arm’s length for so long — he had a way of pushing boundaries. A way of stirring things up, and Mickey wasn’t sure if that would help or hurt the fragile progress you’d made.

What if Jake saw you as nothing more than a game? What if the cracks Mickey knew were still deep inside you got worse because of some careless mistake? The thought was unbearable.

Yet, watching you now, so alive and laughing, Mickey couldn’t bring himself to speak up. Not when this moment was so rare and so real.

He took a breath, fighting the impulse to call you back, to remind you to be careful — to protect you, even from yourself.

Instead, he let the waves crash at his feet and hoped that maybe, just maybe, this time things could be different.

You wandered away from the main group, toes sinking into the cool, damp sand where the waves curled toward the shore. The orange glow of sunset stretched across the water like melted gold, and behind you, the murmur of laughter and music from the bonfire faded into background noise. You heard someone win a round of cornhole, someone else yelling about a burger being undercooked.

Jake followed without needing to be asked. His steps were quieter now, more careful. He fell into stride beside you, close enough that your arms brushed, his eyes flicking sideways every few seconds like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to say something, or if this was one of those moments where the silence mattered more.

“You okay?” he asked finally.

You nodded. “Yeah. Just… taking it in.”

“You seemed quiet for a second.”

You glanced up at him, then back at the water. “Quiet doesn’t always mean bad.”

“I know,” he said. “Just means you’re thinking.”

“Too much.”

“Wanna tell me about it?”

You hesitated, biting your lip. The truth was, your head had been spinning all day—not from the anxiety that used to cloud every moment, but from something new. Or maybe something old returning, something you weren’t sure you deserved: peace. Happiness. Him.

“It’s weird,” you murmured. “I’ve spent so long trying not to feel anything… that now that I’m starting to feel again, I don’t know what to do with it. Some of it’s good. Some of it’s terrifying.”

Jake didn’t say anything right away. He just nodded, like he understood more than you expected him to.

“You know, I’ve been around a lot of people who fake it,” he said softly. “Smile wide, act like everything’s fine. But it’s different with you. You don’t fake anything.”

You scoffed lightly. “You don’t know me that well.”

“No,” he agreed. “But I want to.”

That made your stomach twist. Not from fear, for once — but from how badly you wanted that too.

You stopped walking, facing the water. He stood next to you, close but not crowding, hands in the pockets of his jacket.

“I don’t want to screw this up,” you said. It came out so quiet you weren’t sure he heard.

Jake turned his head toward you. “You won’t.”

“I’m still a mess.”

“So am I,” he said simply. “But I like being around you. That’s not going anywhere.”

You glanced up at him, at the soft lines around his mouth, the easy confidence in his stance, the steady look in his eyes. He was a hurricane when you met him — sharp and full of swagger. But now, he felt like the eye of the storm.

Safe. Warm.

You weren’t expecting to see him again so soon.

It was barely noon and you’d just shuffled into the kitchen with sleep still in your eyes, wearing one of Mickey’s old hoodies and clutching a mug of lukewarm coffee like it was a lifeline. The apartment was quiet — your brother already gone for the day, base schedule pinned to the fridge like he was daring you to forget it.

You heard the buzz of your phone on the counter and squinted at the screen.

Jake Seresin I hope you’re free tonight, because I have a plan. And before you ask — no, it doesn’t involve the Hard Deck or tequila.

You stared at the message for a second, then typed back.

You Color me intrigued. What kind of plan? Jake Seresin A real one. I want to cook for you. At my place. Just us. What do you say?

You bit your lip, a slow smile blooming before you could stop it. A homecooked meal? From Jake “Hangman” Seresin? That had no business making your stomach flip the way it did, but here you were — pressing your cold coffee against your cheek to cool yourself down.

You Pick me up at 7. Jake Seresin Done. Wear something comfy. You’ll want to stay a while.

You stared at that last message longer than you should’ve, heart thudding just a little harder.

Later, as the sun started to dip and you brushed on a little mascara in the mirror, Mickey poked his head into the hallway, eyes squinting with suspicion.

“You’re going out?” he asked.

You didn’t look at him, just kept applying gloss like it was war paint. “Yeah. Nat invited me to dinner. Just the two of us.”

“Since when do you and Nat hang out alone?”

You turned, flashing him a lazy smirk. “Since we've had enough testosterone lingering in the air of the Hard Deck.”

He groaned. “That’s rude.” He narrowed his eyes but let it go with a huff. “Just… don’t be stupid, okay?”

“Always such a vote of confidence, Mickey.”

“Seriously. You’ve been doing better. Don’t do anything dumb tonight.”

You offered a mock-salute. “Yes, Captain Buzzkill.”

He left for his room muttering under his breath, and ten minutes later, you were sliding into Jake’s truck.

He looked up from the driver’s seat, taking one look at you and smiling that smile — the one that always felt like it reached beneath your ribs and stayed there.

“Hey, gorgeous.”

“Hi,” you breathed, tugging your hoodie sleeves down over your palms to hide the way your fingers trembled. It wasn’t fear. It was… hope.

The drive was easy. No music, just the open window and warm evening air rolling in, your hair whipping softly around your face. Jake kept glancing at you like he couldn’t quite believe you were there.

When he opened the front door to his place, the scent hit you first — garlic, something roasted, and a faint citrus that felt like summer.

“You cooked?” you asked, half-teasing.

“I cook,” he said, almost offended. “I can do more than microwave.”

“You’re gonna make someone a good husband one day.”

“Someone?” he echoed, stepping close. “Thought I was cooking for someone tonight.”

You looked up at him. “You are.”

And just like that, whatever this thing was between you — delicate and messy and impossible — tilted forward, slow and certain.

Jake’s kitchen was surprisingly neat. Not spotless, but lived-in — a dishtowel slung over the oven handle, a few spice jars scattered near the stove, an open bottle of wine breathing on the counter. The dining table was small but set thoughtfully, two plates already served, candles flickering low in mismatched holders.

“You didn’t have to go all out,” you said, stepping further in, taking it all in with quiet amusement.

He grinned as he reached for your jacket. “You deserve someone going all out for you.”

Your heart clenched a little — a tiny, unfamiliar ache. You swallowed it down as he handed you a glass of wine and motioned for you to sit.

Dinner was pasta — garlic butter shrimp over fresh linguine with roasted veggies on the side — and it was actually really good. Jake didn’t even gloat. Much.

“Okay, I’m impressed,” you admitted around a bite. “Like, this is date-three-level cooking. You skipped ahead.”

Jake raised a brow as he twirled his fork. “Bold of you to assume this isn’t date three. In my mind, we’ve had at least three emotional dates by now.”

You laughed, nudging his foot under the table. “That’s not how it works.”

“Sure it is. Emotional whiplash, unresolved tension, a beach hangout, plus one steamy kiss? We’re practically in a Hallmark movie.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help the smile pulling at your lips. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And yet, you’re still here.”

That smile lingered through the rest of the meal. The conversation slipped between soft jokes and genuine moments — you told him about your failed attempts at baking, and he confessed he once lit his sleeve on fire trying to flambé something he couldn’t even pronounce.

After dinner, Jake cleared the plates, but wouldn’t let you help. “My house, my rules,” he said, bumping your hip lightly as he passed.

You ended up on the couch, knees tucked beneath you, sipping the last of your wine while Jake sank down beside you with a low sigh.

For a few minutes, the quiet settled. His hand found your ankle, thumb brushing in small circles. A movie played in the background, muted, but you weren’t really watching it.

You turned toward him slowly. “Jake?”

He looked over, his expression soft. “Yeah?”

“I really like you.”

It came out quieter than you meant it to — a little unsteady, like you weren’t quite sure how to say it without sounding like you were asking for too much.

His eyes didn’t leave yours. “I like you too.”

Relief flooded your chest, warm and unfamiliar.

“But…” he added gently, rubbing his hand along his jaw. “I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a little… conflicted.”

You blinked. “Because of Mickey.”

Jake nodded slowly. “He’s not just a teammate. He’s… well, he’s Fanboy. The guy I trust with my six in the air. He’s loud, obnoxious, sometimes annoyingly smart — and also fiercely loyal.”

You looked down at your wine glass.

“But then there’s you,” Jake continued. “And I like being around you. I like you, full stop. And I haven’t felt this way about anyone in… hell, maybe ever.”

He reached out, gently tilting your chin so your eyes met his again.

“I don’t want to lie about it. I don’t want to sneak around. But I also don’t want to stop seeing you just because of him.”

You exhaled, slow and careful. “I get it. He’ll lose his mind.”

“He might,” Jake said with a lopsided grin. “But maybe he’ll also realize that you’re not a little girl anymore. And that I’m not trying to play games.”

“You sure?” you teased softly. “Because this feels dangerously close to a game of emotional chicken.”

Jake chuckled. “I’m in it for the long haul, sweetheart. I’ll deal with your brother when it’s time.”

“And in the meantime?”

He leaned in, brushing his lips against your cheek before pulling back just enough to meet your gaze again.

“In the meantime, I’m sitting here with the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen, trying not to kiss her again.”

click to continue reading

[jo-com]

Charles jealous and possessive please 🔥 Smut. Thank you so much ❤️

₊˚⊹♡ ➛ le mien

Charles Leclerc x Fem!reader

Summary: Part 2 of Mine

Genre: DARK fic.

Word: 2.03k words

TW: baby trapping, p and c penetration, possessiveness, jealousy, branding, manipulation, obsessive behavior, bit angsty, corruption, brainwashing, wrap it before you tap it folks and overall messed up shit. This is not proofread and there are some grammatical error also google translated french. if uncomfortable minors do not interact!!

─────── ─ ♡₊˚ 🦢・₊✧ ─ ───────

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Y/username Happy 4th Anniversary Mon amour!

Charles_Leclerc i love you so much darling!

Y/username i love you more💋💋💋

Carlossainz55 Stay strong guys!

User1 Cutest Couple ever���

User2 JUST GET MARRIED ALREADY

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Y/bff The cutest fr

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…

Despite all the love you share on social media, nothing can compare to the real truth that exists beyond the internet.

People don't see the things he does behind closed doors—all those emotional abuse, obsessive behavior, and possessiveness. Never, even once, do people know that it's happening between the two of you.

All they know is the sweet words you guys share in each other's posts and the way you act whenever there are people around you two—all sweet and loving like one of those fairy tale romances you read. But behind all that, they don't see how hurt you are mentally. It was happening constantly, and you were so used to it that you became numb and just succumbed to the growing pain you feel inside. 

To the point where you act like his puppet—doing everything that pleases him, and acting the way he wants you to.

You never once complained, thinking that it was just how love goes.

You were a fool. A fool blinded by "love".

...

"Hey y/n/n, are you alright? Me and mom have been worried about you; you haven't been going to our usual family gathering." your sister asked over the phone.

It was true; you haven't been going to those gatherings for a while now, only because Charles said, "It's not safe to go outside," and of course, like the sweet girlfriend doll you were, you followed his words.

You stared blankly, your mind wandering off. You tend to get lost in thoughts nowadays, and you're not sure why. Maybe it's from the stress you've been feeling, but you just brushed it off like it was nothing.

"Yeah, I am good. I've just been busy lately, you know? Keeping the house safe and everything," you chuckled dryly. 

"You know I can tell when there's something wrong, right? So just tell me."

Before you could answer, Charles walked into the room. With one hand holding Leo, he was snuggled up nice and cozy in his embrace. His eyes roamed around the room searching for you; his gaze then fell prey on your meek figure—you sat there holding the phone in one hand while the other rested on the softly fabricated couch. You looked angelic, as if untouched by any form of evil. 

Then again, Charles wasn't just any form of evil; he was the reincarnation of the devil himself, and he wanted nothing more than to corrupt your innocence.

With a soft smile, Charles walked to where you sat, sitting beside you and settling leo down on his lap. 

"Who are you talking to poupée (doll)?" he asked nonchalantly.

"Oh, just my sister; we were just catching up on things." You muttered, your voice quivering slightly; you don't know whether you were scared or just have some sore throat that made your voice crack.

Charles looked at you in disbelief, his eyes narrowing with skepticism, and simply turned his attention back at Leo. "Hang up the phone," he said bluntly, not even sparing you a glance.

"But baby, we were just talking." You tried to argue with him, telling him that you just wanted to chat with your sister, but as usual, he blocked your words of plea and glared at you—he always does that, looking at you as if he were judging your whole soul.

His eyes have always been your weakness; they both scare and pleasure you at the same time. Charles knows that, and he uses it to his advantage every time.

The atmosphere in the room was heavy; you could feel it weighing down and crushing your spirit.

Sighing defeatedly, you had no choice but to end the call with your sister and not further complicate things.

"Hey, uhm, sis, I'll just call you back, okay? Something just came up."

You didn't even let your sister respond before hanging up the call. Charles hummed contentedly and patted the seat next to him. At that very moment, you felt angry with him, but you knew that you couldn't do anything about it, so you sucked it up and sat beside him. Leaning close to his embrace.

"Bonne fille, ma chérie (good girl, my darling)," he mumbbled softly, kissing the roof of your head.

...

Charles gripped your waist tightly, his jaws clenched, and hands balled up to a fist. He half-ass smiled at the man, trying to compose himself—fighting back the urges to beat the shit out of the guy in front of them.

He saw the way he looked at you; his eyes scanned each and every part of your body like you were some kind of art on display. fucking disgusting. 

You, on the other hand, held on to him, almost ripping the fabric of his clothes with your tight grip. You paid no mind to the guy he was talking to and just stared at the bustling room; in there, people were having fun, dancing, and drinking with others. 

At that moment, you didn't care about Charles or who he was conversing with; all you wanted was to spring free from his embrace and just party wild with others. Was that too much to ask for?

For him, it was. If it was legal, he wanted nothing more than to lock you up and live the rest of your lives together. So, having that idea was just wishful thinking—it never hurts to dream, though. 

"I'll see you around, yeah?" The man asked, earning a subtle nod from Charles as an acknowledgment.

"Quel putain de cinglé (what a fucking weirdo)," he mumbled under his breath, his accent making the words sound more spiteful and venomous.

You didn't hear him say that. You were too busy to admire people's enjoyment and bask in the laughter and smiles that surround you. How could people be as care free like that? The ache on your heart only grows fonder. Oh, how you wish you could do the same. 

With your head up in the clouds, you didn't seem to notice the angry monegasque that stood beside you, cursing you in any language he knew. The next thing you felt was a harsh sting that rested on your jaw.

"What the fuck is wrong with you? I've been trying to talk to you! What are you even looking at? Are you cheating on me, Chienne (Bitch)?" he yelled, not even caring anymore if people heard him.

Your breath hitches, eyes widening, and heart racing fast.

His hands were now on your jaws, gripping them with sheer strength. You didn't know what was going on or why this was  happening to you. You were always so nice and never did anything to cause harm, so why?

All those questions in your mind made your vision go blurry and your head spin, causing you to black out on the spot.

...

You woke up the next day with a pounding headache and only bits of memories of what happened that night. "Ouch," you winced, massaging your head to try and ease the pain. 

As if on cue, Charles walked in with medicine on his left hand and a glass of water on the right. 

His face lit up, seeing that you were now awake. He softly smiled and walked towards your shared bed. The matress dipped down as he sat next to your sitting body.

"Are you feeling better, mon amour?" he asked. His hand was about to stroke your cheeks, but out of reflex, your body flinched at his sudden movement. 

That made Charles frown. You know how bipolar his mood has been; that's why you've been extra careful not to ruin it. You were expecting him to be mad, but what happened was the opposite. He only sighed deeply and lowered his head. 

"I am sorry, Mon cœur." Your being shocked was an understatement; in fact, you were flabergasted at his words. You never knew that hearing him say that would make you want to tear up.

"Hey, baby, it's okay. I know you didn't mean for it to happen," you assured him, and rubbed circles around his arm. 

And just like that, Charles once again got you wrapped around his finger. You were way too easy to convince and so naive that you'd fall for anything he said.

He slowly lift up his head and gave you a light smile.

You then melted at his expression, it was silly of you to think that a face like that could ever harm you. he would never do that.

...

"Fuck, Charlie, put it in already, please," you begged, your eyes watering from the overstimulation. His hands gripped your waist tighter—muscles flexing in the process. 

"You're so needy for my cock, mon amour," he breathes out. 

The two of you have been at it for half an hour now, both out of breath and with marks made by one another. Your bodies were sticky with each other's bodily fluids, but you guys paid no mind to that. Only focusing on reaching the pleasure you both wanted so badly.

Without wasting a second, Charles huridly inserted his dick into your aching core. Your eyes widened from the sudden sensation between your thighs; you could feel how he was stretching you, and the need for him to satisfy you only increased. 

"Move, please" you said, your voice quivering and hands scratching his back to let out some of the pain.

Your legs instantly rested on his lower hip, wanting to keep him as close to you as possible. You don't know why you're acting like that, but you suddenly got the urge to mount him and fuck him till dawn. 

"Shit baby, you're always so tight," he chuckled, his left hand settled in the headboard while his right hand played with the nub of your tits.

His hips clashed with yours, making the two of you a moaning mess. Charles then dove down to your breast and licked it, biting and teasing them. He made sure to leave plenty of marks. 

"Oh god, i..i am about to come," you gasped, your toes curling from the rush of adrenaline coursing through you. 

"Just come for me, baby," he said, continuously pounding into you, your flesh crashing at each other and making a loud, smacking sound.

His hand then snaked up to hold onto your ankles, lifting it up. Shifting his dick into a deeper position.

With the new found position, your vision started to go blur; now only seeing nothing but stars. Your mind then turns hazy, and hands gripping tightly on the duvet sheet that scattered on the bed.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck" was the only thing you said before collapsing on the matress, your body convulsing with pleasure as your juices slowly fall down your flush tighs.

"Damn, all that for me, ma chérie?" Charles laughed, licking his lower lip at how ravishing you look; fucked out and cockdumb for him.

He continued to rut his hips to your overstimulated cunt. "Fuck, Je veux mettre un bébé en toi (i want to put a baby inside you)" he mumbled, not minding your state and carried on fucking you into an oblivion.

"I'ma fill you with my cum, make you a mama and the fill you up again....fuck" he rambled, his hips never stoping, not until he reach his high.

And after a few more thrust, he finally came inside of you— his eyes rolling in the back of his head with satisfaction. He continued to rut into you; not wanting to spill his cum and then coating your walls with his white seed.

You were sure to get pregnant by that and after that, you two are going to be tied forever, just like he planned.

...

yeah that was pure filth, hope you guys like it though! My requests are always open.

[librarycards]

based on someone elses recent ask (and apologies if you've answered something like this before): do you have any tips for exercising and picking up the skill of being able to parse and make sense of academic language, especially for those of us who can't be in a formal academic setting? thx!!!

yes! the most important way to get yourself ready to parse academic texts is practicing close-reading & critical reading of any kind. you can do this with novels, nonfiction, popular articles/news, poems, and so on.

try printing out or having a paper version with you. read once without annotating. read again with a highlighter/pencil, and make it your goal to find the thesis and sub-arguments of the text. if you're looking at a creative work, substitute thesis for primary themes and motifs. then look for supporting evidence, imagery, and/or other details in the text that help further that argument.

on your next read-through, focus not only on the text but on what surrounds the text: where is this printed, who published it, who is the author, what are their credentials? when was it published, in what country, under what sociopolitical conditions? take some notes on how this may have influenced the text itself, particularly if you're reading an article funded by a specific entity/entities. if an article has citations/external links, check those out too. this is a good exercise in media literacy more broadly, but it will also help you better understand the argument a text is making.

all of this can happen before you open up an academic article, or an article you consider to have challenging, dense, or otherwise unfamiliar language. you do this for the same reason you train shorter distances before running a marathon - you get your body used to something so that when the time comes, you can go all-out. when you get to the dense peer-reviewed article, use this same three-step method, but take the piece one or two sentences at a time. try decoding and rephrasing a text sentence-by-sentence; if a word is used in an unfamiliar way, take a break and use google scholar to find other texts using that word. for example, if an economics paper is using the word "materialism," it's useful to find other (likely marxist) economists using and discussing the word, because it will mean something distinctly different from its colloquial usage of "having a lot of stuff."

I also recommend using command+F in longer papers especially, as well as reading the abstract and conclusion before reading the middle of the paper. you do this for the same reason that it's good to read a book in your native language before trying it in your L2, 3, 4, etc.: you already know the shape of the story, and now get to focus your energy on filling in the blanks. search (especially in humanities texts) for terms like "i argue," "drawing on" (for the texts it's in conversation with), "first," (this can get you to a roadmap of the text/arguments, usually at the end of the introduction), and, of course, "in sum/in conclusion". in a scientific or social scientific text especially, words like "evidence," "results," "limitations," and "implications" can also get you to vital information.

my last piece of advice is this: don't expect an academic text -- or any text, tbh -- to be a one-and-done thing. there are papers i first read as a teen, then read in undergrad, then read in grad school, and now cite in my scholarly work, that i am still returning to, asking questions of, being confused about, and googling terms in. learning is a process that we have the honor of engaging in with scholarship old and new, and often, the writing style in which work is presented is actually vital to that learning process. give yourself over to the unfamiliar language and take your time, annotate liberally (leftistly), and prepare to read other works "around" the one you're interested in to get a fuller picture of what you're reading. and if you can, do it with other people!!!!

A few texts we did this with in high school that were helpful in my learning:

Virginia Woolf - A Room of One's Own

Toni Morrison - Beloved

Frederick Douglass - What to the Slave is the Fourth of July

Dion, Berscheid, and Walster - What is Beautiful Is Good

Jonathan Swift - A Modest Proposal

Chinua Achebe - Things Fall Apart

[d-parade]

What I stand for: My transmedicalist opinions revisited in 2025

(I talk about my personal experiences here too. Warning since it’s quite detailed and maybe triggering?)

When people view my blog, they might think I’m a centrist, or even right-wing. They might believe I’m ignorant to trans experiences and the community, and so they dismiss my voice as another ‘hater’ and ‘conservative bootlicker’ with internalised transphobia.

But what they don’t consider is who I am beyond this blog. Sure, it’s because I don’t share my views outside of transmedicalism, but I think it’s unfair to judge someone so harshly when you only see one side of them on the internet.

I’m a socialist and quite far left. I engage in discussing politics in my free time, LGBT things being part of it.

Because I’m naturally opinionated, I have a strong desire to research extensively into everything and cover all bases before coming to my own conclusion.

Transmedicalism, or my own version of it, is what I have determined to be my belief after all this research and my own personal experiences. I don’t care whether transmedicalism is seen as conservative bootlicking or the ‘edgy’ phase for self-hurting trans people. It is simply the label that fits my opinions the best, regardless of what others think. And I’ve had it for 5 years.

To be clear, I do not oppose the existence of queerness. I have a very good friend who is non-binary, and many more identifying under ‘trans’ labels, and I strongly support their right of expression without persecution. I’ve seen how happy they are, and I know how my expression of self makes me happy.

However, BECAUSE gender is a social construct, it is much more influenced by dozens of external factors. I’ve spoken with and read the experiences of dozens of transmen/ transmascs and transwomen/ transfemme, who have found grievances in their gender due to how they were/ are perceived.

Lonely incels with no healthy relationships might begin to blame their gender and desire to be feminine so that they can get the attention they need. Girls in traditional households might despise being seen as a woman subconsciously. All of these are purely social issues.

The strongly disproportionate amount of YOUNG gay transmen and lesbian transwomen is something we also shouldn’t brush off. It is my personal opinion, but attraction towards the opposite sex, seeing them as more beautiful, contributes to the desire to be like them as a bandage to their insecurities.

You might argue that what I described is only the loud minority and I’m nitpicking, but a quick google search will bring you to Reddit posts asking the same questions.

“Why are so many transgirls on 4chan?”

“What’s with the straight girl fujoshi to gay transmasc pipeline?”

It’s something that these communities of people accept and even joke about constantly. And while they have their own explanations for them, of course, I disagree.

It is precisely because of what I have seen over my long-term exposure to the trans community, that makes me so confident in my stance.

Because I have not once related to them.

I have mild discomfort in being seen as a ‘woman’, but am terrified, horrified and disgusted of being understood as my sex. Always have, and always will be.

Now what I believe is that being genderqueer should be clearly separated from being transsexual. While I do not know the true reasons for sex dysphoria and hope it is a topic which will be researched more in the future, one thing is evident to me: It is much different from social gender.

Growing up, I liked to look pretty. I played with dolls and kitchen sets because they were fun, started ballet, and happily took on a ‘feminine’ gender role. I even had ear piercings which I liked, and mostly wore dresses. I was also tomboyish to an extent and played with toy cars and marbles because my family was non traditional.

I didn’t mind being a ‘girl’.

But the moment my sex was brought up, it was chaos. As a child, I struggled to tell people I had to pee sometimes because it meant they would know my sex. The word for my anatomy always felt awkward and heavy on my tongue despite my parents teaching and normalising the usage of correct medical terms early on.

While my siblings (one sister one brother) were comfortable with their sex, I was not, despite growing up the exact same way.

Imagine as an 8 year old you failed ballet classes even though you enjoyed them because your body in that outfit felt wrong, and going to classes became torture. You didn’t know how to explain yourself because it sounded so bizarre, idiosyncratic and delusional, so you cried helpless.

Imagine you as a 10 year old kid on an overseas school trip. The moment laundry was announced, you would rush to pick up your undergarments so that no one would know you wore them, even though everyone around you was a girl and didn’t give a shit.

Imagine on that same trip, you refuse to shower for 3 weeks straight because it meant you had to go to the woman’s shower.

Imagine puberty. Imagine hurting yourself.

Imagine, at your grown ass adult age, you still refuse to go to medical appointments because you had to answer certain sex-related questions.

So many painful scenarios that I cannot talk about them without wanting to throw up. Even my sexuality as a heterosexual (male attraction to women) was affected and muted, causing high distress and confusion.

I spent so long revealing my experiences not to make it a dysphoria olympics, but to show that it is quite distinctly a sex-related issue, even if it has ties to how society perceives me.

Transsexual people such as myself are affected strongly by sex dysphoria, and it is really only through medical intervention will our issue be solved.

Genderqueer people on the other hand, suffer a problem of expression. Yes, transsexual people also have problems with that, but the dissimilitude is VERY important and has to be made explicitly so that there is greater understanding of our problems, and understanding our different needs from the rest of society.

“But what’s wrong with the current system (in America at least), where it is provided to everyone regardless of how they identify?”

Over-saturation. It’s not that I want to completely gatekeep hormones and surgery, I think it should be an available ‘option’, like surgery or tattoos. But shouldn’t those with sex dysphoria be given utmost priority?

Again this isn’t a suffering olympics, but I strongly believe that there should be better and much more efficient resource allocation. This is less about hormones, and more about surgery (more invasive, expensive and time consuming procedures).

When transsexualism is medicalised, it falls under healthcare, something which is currently not seen in many countries such as where I live. Medicalisation also opens more doors to research and training of professional which leads to increased long-term understanding/ care of transsexuals (more efficient evaluation for example).

As for how evaluation should be carried out, you should be briefly monitored from your first appointment with a specialist for at least 6 months and regularly ask questions related to sex rather than gender.

I do agree that my medicalisation route might be idealistic, and many countries with a similar framework (Japan) is ineffective because it is too strict. But if genuine effort was put into actual research and medicalisation, it is a route with far more net positives in my opinion. Is there any harm in trying to work towards an ideal?

I also acknowledge it has ‘classist’ undertones because it might only give rich people access to experimental transition. But isn’t this the exact same for plastic surgery and optional beauty centred surgeries, built on the social construct of beauty? Furthermore, many genderqueers don’t even want to transition, or see it as a ‘maybe’ thing. In fact there’s an increasingly small amount of them who want to have medical intervention. You just have to pay a cost to access a luxury that you frankly do not need even if it improves your quality of life. Like vacations, good food, and many other things in life.

What I’m talking about here is providing the basic level of care and respect to different groups of people. And for transsexuals, transition healthcare is an additional requirement amongst the right to express yourself freely.

Genderqueers experience more social dysphoria and social-induced physical dysphoria (if any at all), thus their healthcare should focus more on effective therapy with an open mind.

And yes I have read the statistics of reduced depression and suicidal ideation amongst trans youths with the US model. However, those youths DO undergo stricter guidelines, which hence naturally filters out those who want to do it for experimentation/ self expression as it requires more effort compared to the easy informed consent you get as adults, and picks out those with sex dysphoria.

Reemphasising, my idea of transmedicalism focuses on benefitting transsexuals in the very long run. I don’t necessarily work off of the idea of informed consent only, and believe that to a certain extent, professionals would know what’s better for you.

TL;DR Genderqueer people have the right to express themselves freely, but should be seen as distinct from transsexuals. While the option of medical transition should be available to everyone, only guarded by costs, priority and subsidies should be offered to transsexuals.

Of course, I’m very open to discussion and always have been, as long as you remain respectful while challenging my ideas.

[boiohboii]

Our wedding menu (Lando Norris x reader)

When your friend leaves you to entertain yourself you decide to try something really new.

or

in which you wanted to have fun and a really handsome, curly haired british boy is your victim.

N.B: just a silly little drabble inspired by this video, hope you guys like it! WARNINGS: not proof read, spelling mistakes maybe? Also, don't do that in public, this is just for fun really. Let me know what you guys think!

masterlist

When people are bored they watch a movie, read a book or maybe go outside and look around. But you weren't feeling like doing any of those things, your friend has left you to go on a date and honestly you can't blame her, the guy was extremely handsome and so so polite, which is why you are currently sitting in a cafe doing what you do best- people watching.

There was an old couple sharing their lunch and smiling (they are what anyone dreams of, in Monaco with each other after however many years of marriages), there was an employee on the phone behind the counter probably arguing with someone by the movements in her hands and the chewing of her own lips, and there was a group of guys (fuck off, why are they so handsome) who you are pretty sure are famous- if the guys, girls and old rich people coming up every few minutes asking for photos and autographs weren't enough of a sign the billboards you've seen scattered around Monaco in your short visit of 4 out of these 9 guys (that's a big ass friend group) were confirmation of them being models at least (which adds up to these looks).

Now you weren't much of a jokester in front of strange people, especially not a group of 9 handsome guys, but hey life is all about trying new things which is why you decided it'd be fun to try and see what their reactions would be.

Standing up you rushed out of the cafe, was it a good idea? No. Did you have enough social energy to pull this off? No. Do you have enough confidence to talk to one handsome dude who is in the middle of his handsome friends? Also no. But none of that stopped you from going to the burger truck a few blocks down asking for 2 double cheeseburgers and 2 chocolate frosties. After taking your receipt you stood in line, waiting for your order.

"I love their variety so much! Everything is available"

"Yes! I am so happy that they have no meat options"

Oh shit. What if he's vegan!

Leaving your place in the line you went back to the cashier and ordered the most appealing name from their non meat menu.

After finally having your food in hand you went back the same way stopping in front of a flower shop, what flowers should you get? would he even accept the flowers? What if he's allergic to flowers?

Opening up Google you searched for the flowers that don't cause allergies, seeing roses on top of the list you decided to get a small bouquet of 4 roses before placing it carefully in your bag (in another zipper away from the food).

Entering the cafe for the 2nd time today you took a look around, extremely happy that the barista kept her word and made sure that all of the tables are taken and the only chair empty is besides the curly haired boy laughing at something his friends have said.

"Hi, I'm sorry to interupt but can I sit here?"

You asked as you looked around the table, upon seeing all of them looking at each other you explained further "it's just that there's no other chairs available, as soon as there is one I'll be gone, promise"

"Oh yes, of course, you can stay as long as you want"

The guy with green? or is it blue? eyes replied, while everyone else gestured for you to take a seat.

"Thank you," as you placed your bag you asked the one question that would decide if you should move on with whatever it was you were going to do "oh, sorry, do you have a girlfriend? I don't want to overstep or make any misunderstandings" you asked the victim of your plan, upon shaking his head you took a seat.

Sitting down you decided to start your plan, fishing the necklace out of the small zipper you turned to the boy sitting beside you holding the necklace between both of you

"Can you please do this for me? I can't reach"

All chatter around the table stopped, you can feel 9 pairs of eyes on you as you gave the boy a small, apologetic smile.

"Oh, uhh- yeah of course," ohhh, he's british, damn you might actually fall in love "let me just figure out how it works."

As he clasped the necklace together you thanked him, moving onto your next step which consisted of you bending down to get your mirror and your lipstick out of the bag, staying in your position you moved the bag a bit to the right before adjusting yourself a bit so that what you're doing would be noticed. Not bringing your mirror onto the table but still visible enough for the 9 guys to see you applying a new layer of lipstick, you can hear them questioning what you are doing and it just made you want to get up and run back to your hotel room.

You already started, no going back now.

Being satisfied with how the lipstick looked you placed it back in the bag before sitting properly, smiling at the blue eyed guy in front of you.

Waiting a bit so that the guy besides you isn't speaking to someone before you move onto the main plan.

Upon seeing him get his phone out you decided to go ahead, it's now or never

"We had a date, no?" you whispered to him as to not get the attention of his friends, at least not this soon.

The man blinked at you before looking around him, wanting to make sure you are talking to him "I'm sorry?"

Before he could even question you any further he saw roses within his eyesight

"These are for you," you pushed the bouquet into his frozen hands "hope it smells as good as you"

Red started covering his face, looking around at his friends, who quietened down as soon as they saw the red roses, searching for an explanation.

When you kept looking at him with that smile he let out a small thanks before smelling the flowers.

Okay, nice, so far so good, why is he so flustered oh my god, he's the cutest.

"Oh, I also bought burgers"

"I'm sorry, what is this about?"

"I also bought drinks, one is oreo and one is hershey, well it was supposed to be hershey kisses but they ran out so let me just," leaning over to him, you kissed his cheek "there you go, now you can take the hershey one"

The other 8 boys howled in laughter at the wide eyed, red faced boy staring at the drink in front of him on the table. He bite his lips, trying to prevent a smile from breaking out onto his face.

You decided to get your phone out and wait a bit before you moved on further with the plan, the group going back to their conversations while the brit besides you kept taking glances at you, thinking you wouldn't notice, but you did and you also noticed that he is not touching his burger, only drinking the frosty.

Dipping your hand into your bag you got out the other burger "that's a non meat burger, bought it just in case."

"Oh," he took the food from your hands, nodding his head in thanks "you didn't have to."

Giving him a full smile you went back to your phone, waiting for him to eat a bit of his sandwhich so you could make the next move. The way he gets flustered and shy makes you want to ask him out on an actual date, he is so fucking pretty.

"Do you like it?"

Nodding, he smiled at you as he gave you a thumbs up as he can't answer while chewing.

"I'm really glad, I was thinking about adding it to our wedding menu," the dark haired man sitting on the other side of the british boy choked onto his drink, looking at their group of friends wanting to make sure that he heard correctly "not as a main dish, more like a snack really."

The boy besides you shrugged, thinking about how a burger truck would look in a wedding.

"Mate, you better not forget my invite if you're gonna have burgers at your wedding."

[felinto-girl]

Multilingual chaos (or the "English is not my first language" rant)

Do you know what it’s like to pour your heart and soul into a story, only to realize you’ve accidentally made your character “moan softly into the desert”? Do you?? BECAUSE I DO.

Welcome to the chaotic world of writing fanfiction in a language that isn’t yours.

Why do I do this to myself, you ask?

Because the fandom is in English. The readers are in English. The fanart is in English. The memes. The tags. The smut.

All. In. English.

So naturally, I, a brave little linguistic disaster, dive headfirst into the deep end with nothing but Google Translate and misplaced confidence.

Writing dialogue? Hah! You want “casual and natural,” but what comes out is a fever dream. “I do not think this is a splendid idea, my dude.” No one talks like this. Not even Jane Austen.

Have you ever trusted Google Translate with an emotional line of dialogue, and it just… decided to write its own subplot?

I was writing this angst fest, right? It was supposed to be about heartbreak, slow-burn longing, and childhood trauma. But somewhere between “he is killing people” and “he searched for him in every reality,” Google decided, you know what this story needs? A stepbrother. And a stepfather. And a cat. Suddenly my OTP’s tragic reunion was being hijacked by an entire side family that did not exist two drafts ago. I was like: who are these people?? Why are they arguing in the background of my pain-filled climax scene?

And I swear to you, for about four hours, I let it happen. I let Google Translate’s fever dream take over because I couldn’t tell if maybe it was brilliant. Maybe Lorenzo the Cat (I just named him) had symbolic meaning. Maybe the stepfather represented generational trauma. Maybe the stepbrother was also in love with the villain???

Reader, I snapped out of it eventually. I deleted most of it. But the cat stayed. I did kill it (it was symbolic, okay?), but it stayed. Google Translate wrote a cat into my fic and I let it live just long enough to die dramatically.

So yes. Writing in another language is like walking through a minefield blindfolded while holding a thesaurus that’s also on fire. You think you’re writing “he reached for the glass of water with shaking hands,” but you actually wrote “he embraced the liquid cup of anxiety gently, like his long-lost cousin.” And you don’t even know until someone comments “wtf is a liquid cup of anxiety.”

That’s when you need a beta. The real MVP. The unsung hero. The kind, grammar-loving soul who gently tells you, “Hey, you accidentally wrote ‘his orgasm sounded like a symphony of frogs’ and I think you meant ‘groan.’”. Ah yes, the beta. The glorious, patient, beautiful soul who takes my semi-coherent mess and makes it look like I was raised on the Queen’s English. If you have a beta, treasure them. Kiss their feet. Send them cookies. Name your plants after them. If you don’t have a beta… well. Hello darkness, my old friend.

Without a beta, it’s chaos. With a beta, it’s still chaos, but now it has punctuation.

Without a beta, you’re on your own in the wilderness. You’re proofreading alone at 2 a.m., wondering if “he came” sounds too sexual when you just meant “he arrived,” and fighting the urge to add a note saying “English is not my first language, please be nice, I’m emotionally fragile and I just killed a cat for symbolism.”

Sometimes I stare at English like it's a drunk raccoon trying to solve a Rubik’s cube. Why is it read/read and lead/lead and tear/tear?? Why do I have to use whom when I barely use who in my own language? (And lets be honest... what's the difference there???) And why does spellcheck keep telling me “anyways” isn’t a word even though I’ve seen it in every fanfic ever?

And don’t even get me started on spelling differences. Is it "color" or "colour"? "Behavior" or "behaviour"? Am I writing fanfiction or applying for citizenship?? Pick a side, English, I’m tired.

But despite the mistakes, the weird Google additions, the haunted spellcheck, and the fact that I STILL don’t know when to use whom. Despite the typos, the weird grammar, the occasional unintentionally sexy food metaphors, and the eternal beta-hunting quest, I do it. I write. In another language. And people read it. And sometimes, they even like it.

Which is kinda magical, if you ask me.

Because fandom is home. And fanfiction is art. Even when it’s chaos. Even when it’s multilingual chaos with ghost cats and accidental incest vibes (thank you again, Google Translate).

So here's to all of us out here doing our best, writing in English when it's not our first language, confusing “desert” and “dessert,” and bravely clicking "post" anyway.

We’re out here making magic.

Just... You know... occasionally with a surprise stepbrother.

[shakespearean-dream]

last of the big five yall!!!!

happy late fourth of july! remember to keep boycotting, speak out and listen to palestinians, the people of congo, native americans, queer/trans people and women currently being oppressed this independence day because america fucking sucks!!! 🇺🇸🇺🇸🦅🦅🦅🔥🔥🔥

here are a couple good places to donate! please remember to do your own research and take care of each other, it’s getting scary out here.

ohhhh nimdok, where to start with you….

i have been dreading doing him because he pisses me off so bad but i actually had some decent fun with him :D. designing him and branching out farther away from his canon self was nice, but im not touching his backstory or personality really, that stays about the same for me in my head.

speaking of whichhh! like benny, i understand how the game makers had a short amount of time to fit an entire character arc of an old man undoing his deeply internalized racism/xenophobia/ableism in a singular short scenario, but unlike benny i actually somehow like his better?? nimdok had a lot more to get over (well not saying being a dickhead murderer isn’t a lot but 😭) and i enjoyed seeing him actually help out the people he would’ve previously turned in. it still feels a little hollow/unrealistic because again, he’s been like this his whole life, but considering how much AM takes him away from the group to (most likely) psychologically torture him for his actions he’s probably had a bit of a revelation.

doing his scenario was unfortunately funny at times because of the strange way we had to go about redeeming him with the golem guy😭giving him a smooch caught me off guard but ykw? i’ll take it for being able to kill mengele like immediately afterward. also speaking of whichhhh…

i would go into more detail about nimdok and mengeles relationship to give it some depth because god i love me some queers, but that is??? a real fucking guy???? a real life monster???? im less than comfortable picturing the fucker in my mind, much less giving him depth with a character who i also don’t like. like why ship ur essentially OC with a REAL LIFE N/AZI??? just another one of the reasons harlan elision creeps me out. (if that just pissed you off google search him s/a-ing 2 people, marrying a 19 year old when he was in his 40s and defending a child r/apist i really don’t feel like arguing with you. the guy was a horrible fucking person and he makes me sick, i just like this franchise.)

i cannot cough up anymore thoughts about this fella pls forgive me; these past couple days have been rough on my 3 brain cells. AM will for sure be next and after that fully rendered/decked out full bodies are in order!! so look out for that:]]]] i may also start posting some art fight things since i was just complaining about the lag a post or so ago☺️ jk ily artfight. team seafoam lets goo

ok i love u guys!!! if u have any requests for me drop a comment or an ask, and thank you so much for the continued support on my art❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️ lots of links on this post but one more quick reminder to take a look at my commission page if you’d like!!! yolanda is still in the shop because they cannot figure out what’s wrong with her :(

have a good night friends 🫶

[cazzyf1]

Wolfgang von Trips article on his racing holiday with friends

December 13, 1956 was a very special day for Wolfgang Graf Berghe von Trips: Count Trips checked in with Peter Collins in Genoa on the "Conte Grande" of the shipping company "Italia", on which the renowned British racing driver and the unknown "newcomer" from Old Germany spent a total of 11 days before they were able to disembark in Buenos Aires. The two preferred the almost two-week sea voyage to a flight of over 13,000 km, and so the Rhinelander Wolfgang Graf Berghe von Trips and the Englishman Peter Collins experienced the turn of the year on the high seas.

After his successful entry into the big world of racing, Count Trips inevitably became a "frequent traveller". Almost three years after his first big trip, he wrote the following article for a magazine.

His 16mm films, shot on a Bolex during his many trips around the world, are now in the Trips Communications Center and are shown there from time to time.

Translated from German to English via Google Translate

Travelling is an art that you inevitably and thoroughly learn as a racing driver, because you spend days and weeks in airplanes, on ships or in cars. We usually travel together, and it is so nice when you fly alone, let's say, from Frankfurt, then bump into some Italians in Zurich and a few hours later in Lisbon you are greeted with a loud hello from Brooks, Salvadori, Moss and all the other Englishmen who are using the same plane fly on to Caracas for the race. It may sound strange, but for me there is something incredibly romantic about these long-distance flights. The feeling of floating somewhere between continents at a height of several thousand meters tears you away from the usual world and breaks the circle of everyday thoughts. Nowhere else can you get to know your racing colleagues and friends so well, because at the race track and also in the evening in the hotel, everyone is busy with themselves, and the tension of the upcoming race never allows this relaxation to arise.

I would like to tell you about one such trip. It was some time ago, and one of the main characters in the report, my friend Peter Collins, is no longer with us. He died the racing driver's death that some people consider particularly senseless. I don't want to argue with anyone about the question, but I am sure for example, I am not at all sure whether it is much more sensible to risk your life on a vertical mountain face for the ambition of being the first to get there when you get there! But I wanted to tell you about that trip to South America, which we did not take by plane, but by ship. My travel companion Collins was a wonderful storyteller. We sat on deck for hours in the evening as the equator came closer and it was began to get warmer. A small group of ship's officers, mechanics and passengers always gathered around him when he talked about all the races he had already driven in. About legendary cars, about other racing drivers, about the pitfalls of the individual tracks, and also about intrigues and battles behind the scenes.

We were anchored in Montevideo for two days because part of the cargo - our ship was a medium-sized English passenger steamer, which also had some cargo in its belly - had to be unloaded here. We looked around the city and the surrounding area. When the anchor was due to be lifted at four o'clock in the afternoon on the second day, two passengers were missing. They were Collins and a young Brazilian woman who had boarded in Rio. The huge ship's horn blew. We searched the whole ship to see if the two of them were perhaps on board somewhere. I went to the captain and asked him to wait a moment. Nothing happened. It was horrible. Would he stay behind? How would he get on without luggage and money? I also felt completely alone because I had no idea what to do in Buenos Aires, not even which hotel to go to. After half an hour the ship finally set sail. Everyone was lined up at the railing. An old English lady had interesting stories to tell from her long life about people who had suddenly disappeared without a trace and what dangers one encountered in these southern countries. Despite the general excitement, I had my camera with me just in case, and when we were about twenty meters from the quay, I was able to film my good friend Peter as he appeared at a full trot, pulling his girl behind him, between cranes and cars in the crowd that is always there when a ship arrives or departs. There he stood, and good advice was hard to come by. A weight was lifted from my heart and probably onto Peter's feet, because he must have had a real fright when he saw the amount of water that separated him from the ship. Next we were able to observe a typical South American behavior, wild gesticulations. Suddenly Collins disappeared with a few adventurous characters, only to reappear soon afterwards in an old tugboat. A wild chase began. All the people who were off duty, the cooks with their tall white caps and the passengers of all classes were all gathered on deck to watch this maneuver. Our ship had already started to move. The pursuers tried desperately to catch up with us. Sailors had lowered a gangway, but they waited in vain. I went back to the captain with two others. When the command "Slow speed ahead" reached the engine room, the boat caught up and the two climbed on board with a sweet-sour laugh. Peter had got the time wrong, in any case he got a good telling off from our captain and was no longer able to stand on deck with the passengers.

The "Bolex" was with him on all his trips. Count Trips edited and commented on his films, which he also showed at numerous lectures to the Catholic Rural Youth. The Trips Foundation provided this material for the Chris Rea film "La Passione". The television films "Auf Heißen Reifen" and "Tod in Monza", produced in 1961 and 1962, also used the Trips films as "sources".

We had another fun evening on board, and when I woke up the next morning, we were in Buenos Aires. To describe all the impressions that this magical, and very European, city gave us would be like writing a love letter to Argentina. But we didn't have much time to walk around and look around, because the serious business of life began for us. Training for the Argentine Grand Prix at the Autodrom.

We lack something like this in Germany, and indeed in the whole of Europe. A race track, embedded in meadows, with spectators positioned on stands around the outside, from which you can see almost every point of the entire track. Since five or six different tracks can be put together from the large number of roads laid out, a beginner can let off steam here, but also an experienced driver can show off his full skills. I was the beginner, and it was actually the first time that I was allowed to drive a Grand Prix car on a real track. Apart from a few laps in Monza, which ended unpleasantly in a tree.

In true sports car style, I tried my luck and was surprised when, after braking nicely on the straight, I accelerated again at the start of the bend and my car shot straight ahead into the green despite the wheels being turned. Collins, who had been watching me, took me aside after my first attempt and explained to me that you had to go into the bend a little faster, braking, in order to make the rear of the car slide slightly to the side. If you then accelerated, just enough so that the rear was kept in motion by the slightly spinning wheels, you could go smoothly around the bend. If you accelerate while driving slowly in a bend, the rear wheels, which rotate in the same direction thanks to the limited-slip differential, drive the car straight ahead, even if the front wheels are turned. Our Ferrari did this even more than any other car in '57 and it cost me many a drop of sweat. The result of Peter's advice was that I spun around at least twice on every lap because I was going too fast or accelerating too much. The slipping of the rear axle is corrected by counter-steering. In extreme cases, you can come around a right hairpin bend with the front wheels turned completely to the left if the rear of the car has "slid" too far. The difficult thing about this maneuver is keeping the car in a steady drift, which is what we call sliding. It must have looked terrible for me because I couldn't manage to dose the gas and steering correctly, and so I made several turns out of each bend, which sometimes ended up in the meadow.

But that's the beauty of this course: you can really push yourself to the limit, because a trip into the countryside is harmless. There are no curbs, no trees, no ditch. In addition to this struggle with the steering wheel, there was now the devilish heat of 35 to 38 degrees, which was made even worse in the car by the engine. What I had learned after a few laps was offset by my waning strength and ability to concentrate. It could have been a great race. And then there was the excitement, which saps your energy before a race like this.

There was no car left for me for the race. My role as reserve driver in the pits only lasted a few customers, until Hawthorn and Collins dropped out and, as old hands, had a claim on the next car that became available. But I was still supposed to drive. Collins took over Perdisa's car, which was no longer running quite smoothly and was in fifth or sixth place. He drove until twenty laps before the end (the whole race was over 100 laps) and suddenly gave up and signalled to take over. I was ready to go straight away. Helmet on, gloves, glasses, but I didn't believe in my luck yet, as Hawthorn and Perdisa were also in the pits. When Collins stopped at the pits and jumped out of the car. Mechanics checked the oil and water in a flash, Peter grabbed me by the arm and pulled me to the car. I was in in one leap, was pushed and was already in the race. After a few laps I felt very comfortable, drove fairly evenly and was even able to hold my position. Peter stood at a hairpin bend and waved to me. As he told me later, he had only stopped to give me a chance to drive a few more laps, and to be able to observe me. He could allow himself to act on his own initiative because the car was no longer in contention for victory or championship points.

What was hardly possible in the pits - here Graf Trips with Peter Collins - due to the hectic pace, was all the more intense on the long flights: There was extensive "petrol talk" and personal contacts were strengthened.

Now we had a few days' break before the next race, the Buenos Aires 1,000-kilometer sports car race. Fangio invited the Swede Bonnier and me to visit his parents, who lived in a small country town 300 km from Buenos Aires. Besides the three of us, his sister and brother-in-law were with us in the black Mercedes 300-S coupe, in which all the holiday luggage of the two had been skilfully stowed away; they were going to stay with Fangio's parents for a few weeks. I have often seen Fangio win, and I'm sure you have seen photos of him standing on the podium in proud victory or being carried away by the enthusiastic crowd. How different he was on this trip and at home. He was happy to be able to show us the beauty of his homeland. When we could see his hometown from a hill just before sunset, he stopped and we looked out over the Argentine pampas in silence until the last rays of the sun had set. Later he showed us the shed in which he had built his first wagon, the well in front of the kitchen door, which had the best water in the whole area, and the room - for many years the only one that the Italian immigrant family could call their own.

Wolfgang Graf Berghe von Trips paved the way for the Swede Joakim Bonnier, whom he had met in Karlshuga, into the German racing scene.

While his mother was preparing dinner in the semi-darkness on the stove, we sat at the table. He told me about his first races and the hard work of his parents, who never found the time to go to a proper school in their lives. His father once took me aside and asked me - luckily I can speak a little Spanish - whether his son was in He told me how they had scolded him when he started the Rennerel and how touchingly Juan was now taking care of his elderly parents.

In Argentina, Count Trips met his great idol Juan Manuel Fangio, who welcomed him hospitably and showed him more than just the scenic "beauties" of his homeland.

The next day we visited Mar del Plata, Argentina's largest and most beautiful seaside resort, where Juan was greeted and celebrated enthusiastically as he strolled through the streets. People shouted "Bravo!", clapped, and in one bar a guest jumped to the band. He took the guitar and sang a song he had written about Fangio. We basked in his fame and were actually even more impressed by the way this man was, with what modesty but also with what genuine joy he accepted everything. When we drove back to Buenos Aires the next day, past garages, sales agencies and construction sites, all bearing the name Fangio, we were deeply impressed by the man who had always been our role model as a racing driver, and who we now also knew that we could emulate him as a person, no matter where we came from or who we were.

The thousand-kilometre sports car race the following weekend was won by Ferrari, but there has probably never been such chaos in a team as there was in this race. I was actually supposed to start a car, but I felt so bad because of the heat that I asked my co-driver (second man in a double team in difficult races) to start. One of our four cars broke down after just two laps. The driver Hawthorn took over Perdisa's car, and when the general changeover came after the prescribed number of laps, someone else took over my car. I thought I didn't have to drive at all, when suddenly another car stopped, was being refuelled and suddenly stood there alone. One of them shouted a name, but the man I was looking for was had already been on the road in my car, so they called to Hawthorn. But as he wasn't in the pits at the time and had just got out of another car, I jumped behind the wheel. I didn't know which car I was actually driving, because I hadn't seen the driver get out, and I hadn't noticed the number when I got in. There was no sign of the pits, although I tried every lap to make myself known by waving or flashing my lights. They had enough to do keeping the two cars in front up to date, and they let me drive. Because, as I later found out, I was two laps behind, in about seventh or eighth place. I drove for an hour, two hours, two and a half hours, the heat was murderous. The heavy car, the 4.1-litre 12-cylinder that was to pass its baptism of fire, was not easy to drive over the fast course on the banks of the La Plata. Blisters burned our hands and the soles of our feet burned on the hot pedals. Every lap we passed a huge outdoor swimming pool. It was like Tantalus' torture to see the people in the water. Shortly before I got the signal to take over, the engine suddenly blocked at full speed on the straight. I quickly pressed the clutch and let the car roll to a stop. The momentum reached the pits, but there was nothing we could do.

The Argentinian season had one more race in store for us. A Formula 1 race in the Autodrom, the Buenos Aires Grand Prix, which was decided in two heats. It was the first race in which I had a Formula car to myself. It will go down in racing history as the hottest race ever held. The thermometer in the city showed 43 degrees, 60 cm above the The air was 57 degrees on the race track. When we came out of our air-conditioned hotel, the heat hit us like a wall. This race was practically my debut in a Formula 1 car and I had expected so much from it. All my thoughts were so focused on it that I simply didn't want to believe it when my strength gave out after forty or fifty minutes. You mustn't give up! Nonsense! You just keep driving! One more lap. Oh God, I can't do it anymore! I'm getting heat stroke. If only I had never come to Argentina. I kept talking to myself. I tried to convince myself that I could still do it, but my limbs no longer obeyed my will and I only drove the last few laps in one gear. With the throttle set to one setting, I rolled slowly over the track and next to the track. I was so desperate that I would probably have cried if I had had the strength to do so. I watched the pits longingly on every lap to see if other drivers had given up. I didn't want to be first at any cost. Then I just felt that the inner struggle was easing and the sheer instinct for self-preservation drove me to the shore, to the pits, like a drowning man. It is a feeling that is hard to describe, to be unable to go on in the open air because of the sheer heat - it was well over 60 degrees in the car. It is not like a long-distance run where you slowly lose your strength from the exertion. It is just heat. When I got to the pits, I collapsed in the car and the mechanics pulled me out of my seat. Then all I remember is that they laid me on wet towels in a corner of the pits and covered my body with ice. It was a feeling of indescribable bliss. It must have taken me ten to fifteen minutes to come to my senses again. Then it took another quarter of an hour before I could get up. Collins, who had already driven his car to the pits before me and was replaced by Gregory, had recovered enough to drive my car to the end of the few laps of the first race. There was a one-hour break, and at dusk the second run started, which I then made it through, albeit with a trick. A German-Argentinian who had come to the race with me positioned himself in a hairpin bend and poured a small bucket of water over me every few laps when I came around the bend very slowly and slightly upright in my seat. Incidentally, after the race he invited me and Bonnier to his wonderful farm, his Estancia, as it is called in Argentina, where we met up with Riding, swimming and hunting helped them recover from the rigors of racing.

Getting around in a different way: As a well-traveled racing driver, Wolfgang von Trips was also familiar with the various transport vehicles at airports.

Adventure in Cuba

The cars and most of the drivers set off on the long journey back to Europe or the USA. Bonnier and I sat down one afternoon, checked our travel budget and realised that we really should have enough money to get to the 12-hour race in Sebring in North America, which was due to take place in about six weeks. So we decided to spend this time in South America or North America, partly with friends who had invited us and partly travelling around, seeing the country. When we said goodbye to Fangio in Buenos Aires and told him that we wanted to visit Rio, he quickly sent a telegram without saying much. And when our plane landed in Brazil, friends of Fangio, Brazilian racing drivers, were already there to pick us up and entertain us for three days. Our journey then continued to Caracas. A beautiful city, but, as we know, also the most expensive city in the world, and so my travel budget melted away. I had my ticket to Frankfurt, but we actually wanted to stay there, and it was still four weeks to Sebring. We heard about a race in Cuba, and since that was roughly on our way, we went there in the hope of finding some kind of transport and thus a few dollars. We were greeted by laughter, because almost all the traveling people had gathered there, and there were no cars. In New York, where the sports cars hired in Italy had to be shipped, there was a dockworker strike. The cars were already being brought back to Europe. Now a wild hunt began for the few cars that were already there, and America was Cinge-flying every old Ferrari and Maserati that was within reach.

A beaming Count Trips on his first great voyage of discovery in the New World.

I think I have to explain a little here, because the races and the whole sport over there in the Americas are very different from ours. In the States, apart from the races held in Indianapolis and according to the Indianapolis formula, motor sport has for some time taken on the external form of European horse racing. In other words, it has become a matter for wealthy people who buy European sports cars, sometimes drive them themselves or have talented drivers drive them. America has good cars, and even older models are looked after, improved and still run. The races have a sporting character and an elegant environment, are organized by enthusiastic fans, and the gap between sports enthusiasts and organizers, oh, is not as great as it is here. The races are arranged according to demand, i.e. according to the cars and drivers. There was no money in sports car races until now. Now, however, they are organized, except in Sebring. Sports car races with international competitors and cash prizes.

The American Richie Ginther, initially a test driver and then a stablemate of Count Trips at Ferrari.

Cuba has a similar attraction for Americans as the old Paris of days gone by had for us Europeans. People are very free there, have casinos, enormous nightclubs of all kinds, fantastic hotels and lead a very enjoyable life. The race was organized to increase tourism and to attract the dollar-rich American racing team owners, racing drivers and especially the battle-tourists from Rubirosa to Gary Cooper to the island. Good entry fees were paid. Gasoline companies fought to get the best drivers under contract for their brands. I knew an American who had an ancient five-litre Ferrari flown in from home and wanted me as a replacement driver. The giant beast promptly broke down during the first few practice laps, and I ended up starting the race as who knows how many drivers in a two-litre Ferrari that was leaking oil from the gearbox, which poured over the driver and smeared gloves and glasses. By putting a large cardboard cover over the gear lever, I prevented the damage from being so disruptive and, although I was the last to get the car across the finish line, I still managed to do so.

It was an adventure, this Cuba. Nobody really knew us apart from the other drivers. We were not in the newspapers, and therefore were not supposed to get any entry fee. men, in case we could find a car at all before the race. Since there were no other Germans, I found a way to increase the internationality of the race by taking part. We made some progress, we drove to the airfield again. We were in the newspapers and therefore worth a few dollars. There were no official factory drivers there. Everyone was their own race director, and I had requested permission from Ferrari by cable, which was granted, albeit only for a Ferrari car. Proudly, with new dollars in my pocket, I went to New York, where Peter Collins had invited me, who had meanwhile married Argentina, before Cuba. We stayed with his parents-in-law for a fortnight and romped for hours through the huge UN building, which was open to us because Collins' father-in-law, Mr. Cordier, was the second man in the UN after Hammarskjöld. Argentina, Rio, Caracas, Cuba and then New York, the various races, countless people you get to know, were such strong impressions and came one after the other. In the end I just couldn't absorb anything anymore. The last time in New York, when we were dragged from party to party and were guests of some social figures, is not as clear and pleasant in my memory as the beginning in Buenos Aires. I also had constant wardrobe worries because the only gray suit I had with me, now worn endlessly, no longer quite met the requirements. I saw Bonnier again in Sebring. He had stayed with other American racing drivers in Florida, together with Moss, and talked enthusiastically about boat trips and water skiing. Loaded with Argentinian saddlery, Cuban drums and American cowboy hats, I finally arrived home after four months of modern gypsy life. With a mere dollar in my pocket, and my poor mother had a long time to make me a human being again, as she put it.

Even runway pilots, here Mike Hawthorn and Graf Trips, depend on the reliability and punctuality of their "flying" colleagues. As is sometimes the case in the pit, it's a case of waiting, waiting, waiting...

[betterbooktitles]

The screen I spend the most time with these days is a black LCD monitor attached to a PC in an indie bookshop on Long Island. I spend whole days looking at point-of-sale software called Anthology which also keeps track of the store’s inventory. Often, it’s accurate. Occasionally, it says we have three copies of The Bell Jar that have simply disappeared from the face of the Earth. No one stole them. They were raptured, like socks that never make it out of the dryer.

If you’ve never worked a retail job, let me tell you what it’s like: you come in with a little spring in your step, caffeinated, and ready to greet your coworkers and update them on how terrible your last shift without them was. Though the memory of the previous shift’s slog might give you a little anxiety, and though a hangover can make your fuse a little short, you’re in a better mood at the start of the day than at the end. Tedious tasks like ordering and unboxing books (sci-fi movies did not prepare me for how much cardboard there would be in the future) seem manageable in the morning. Customers seem kind. The items you’re selling feel necessary to human happiness. Whatever is going on in your life is put on pause to manage store operations, and time flies. Then, by 3 PM, whether you had time for lunch or not, you wish you had done anything else with your day — or, better yet — your life. 

While the back-straining work of moving inventory around the store or walking the floor helping customers all day without a second to sit down might make you physically tired, the real work of retail is mental and forces employees to become part-machine. Retail workers have to ask the same three questions (“Rewards?” “Bag?” “Receipt?”) and reply to the same three questions (“Have it?” “Bathroom?” “Manager?!?!?”) for 8-10 of their most worthwhile waking hours. 

In bookstores, there is the added expectation that while you’re participating in this mind-numbing routine, you’re at least able to pretend to like and engage with literature. I'm not arguing that people working at Old Navy aren’t eloquent or as over-educated for their job as I am. If they aren’t teenagers, most retail employees I’ve encountered have, by virtue of talking to coworkers and customers all day, the same high emotional intelligence as the smartest people I know who chain smoke outside bars. Still, my guess is that it’s rare for a customer to see a clothing store employee folding clothes, and think “I wonder what their opinion is of the latest Ann Patchett book” or “I wonder if they read Knausgård and run a book club when they’re not helping me find jeans in my size.” People see booksellers doing the same tedious tasks as any other retail employee and assume they not only possess unlimited knowledge about the state of publishing but also have unlimited hours to read while in the store. Customers hold booksellers to an impossible intellectual standard. When they fail to live up to said standard, they’re subjected to conversations like this:

“You haven’t read the latest Kingsolver?” a customer will ask, “Why not? What about this one? Or that one? It’s so good though! I thought you would have read all of these!” 

What’s a shame is that they think they’re being kind when they half-recommend, half-admonish bookstore employees. Worse are the people who are flat-out rude. Case in point, a man came into the store at hour six of my shift, and without any preamble, treating me like I was a human Google search bar, said the name of an author, then started spelling the name. When I asked for a second to look up what I assumed he was asking for, he rolled his eyes and began spelling slowly and loudly: “PAUL. P…A…U…” 

Sadly, I’m too old to be treated that way and without thinking I raised my hand and said sternly “Don’t do that.” Now some oblivious retired banker is walking around Long Island asking himself why indie booksellers are so mean. My Midwestern niceness has disappeared, my helpful attitude is now nonexistent. I have been worn down by the people I’m paid to be kind to.

Read the rest here.

[pochqmqri]

I want to detail an insane landlord story that happened to me earlier this year. It's going to be long, so everything starts after the "read more."

From August to September, I rented a room in a house in a different part of the state for my new job. Preceding this was a few months of searching for rentals in the area, with me deciding on this specific location in the end.

I was able to tour the house beforehand, with the outgoing tenant showing me around. It was then that he warned me that the landlord, who at the time I had not met in person with, was very finicky about the temperature setting keeping it at around 74F in the summer and only about 68 in the winter. This was apparently so bad that one of the other tenants had filed a lawsuit against her over this. This was the first red flag, but I paid it no mind, mostly because the rent was relatively cheap compared to other places.

After locking in on the location, a few weeks later, the landlord asks me to pay a refundable "holding deposit," aka. a security deposit, so that she could hold my room in place without selling/showing it to other people until I moved in on August 8. The deposit was equal to a month's rent, so I paid like she asked. She said that she needed my Driver's License so that she could write a lease agreement for me to read and sign.

This was my first mistake. I should have asked for a lease before paying anything, because as it will be apparent later in the timeline, she kept kicking the can on providing me a lease, even when I reminded her multiple times.

Soon after, she texts me that the move-in date is pushed to either August 9 or 10, because the outgoing tenant whose room I'd be moving into, had changed his mind about the 8th but seemed to be still unsure. I was frustrated, and she tried to placate me by saying that if I needed a room by the 8th, she was willing to have me stay in another house temporarily for a few days.

I first found this rental off of Craigslist. By the time she mentioned owning other properties, I grew suspicious of her. I got her name through Zelle, so I Googled that as well as her email to find that she appeared to be affiliated with a shady realtor company in the state, that doesn't even have their own website, and has a lot of bad Google reviews. She wasn't some ordinary woman leasing out her house to tenants, but appeared to be a slumlord owning multiple properties.

A few days later, she tells me that she is planning to replace the roof and carpet in the house before I moved in, from August 10-20, the implication being that I wouldn't be able to move in until the 20th. This of course was infuriating. She again tried to say that I could temporarily live in the other house, for about a week in the living room and without Wi-Fi. Again, she still hadn't sent a lease yet, but continued to change the terms of our agreement after I had paid, so I felt like I was trapped.

At the end of July, she finally sends me the lease...written as an entire long format text message with broken English. On the lease, it mentioned that the move-in date was August 8 as originally agreed on, which I found a bit strange given how she brought up the renovation shit. She also wanted to make my utilities cost 25% of my rent (700$, so 175$) instead of the agreed upon flat 80$ per month. She mentioned how the contractor needed to reschedule but did not give a date yet, so it was possible that I could move-in on the earlier date as normal. She continued to give me confusing and misleading information. At this point I was done.

A few days later, I tell her that I am no longer interested in signing the lease. She tells because she was "holding the room" for me, the deposit was nonrefundable, even though she said otherwise earlier, which she tried to justify by saying that the refundability only applied when the lease ended and I moved out. After a bit of arguing, she said that the renovations were no longer happening and that I could move in as normal.

I was thinking about my rights as a tenant and what legal options I had to fight for my deposit back. The biggest issue was that, up to now, a lot of our agreements was just through text, or verbally, so it felt like it was not really binding, especially when she kept changing the terms to benefit her. I'm not a combatitive person, so I decided to forgo taking the matter to court.

During our argument, she offered to reduce the lease to just one month. I felt that it would be the most civil and quickest way to get my deposit back, so I accepted it. She again stated that the room would be available on August 9, despite the fact that the lease she showed me said it was available on the 8th, again saying that I could temporarily stay a day in her other property for a night without Wi-Fi. Thankfully, I was able to make accomodations beforehand, meaning I didn't need to deal with the hassle of moving into a place for one night and then out again the next day, so I made the 9th work.

On the day I moved in, the first thing I see when I go through the door is the landlord arguing with another tenant. In the midst of this, I move my things up to my room and sign the lease proper, which...ended up being her copypasting the lease she shittily wrote in text into an email, sending it to me, and asking me to "agree" to it. This was so fucking scuffed. Going back to the roommate, she claimed that the landlord had not only trespassed into the house without the tenant's permission, but also barged into her room without her consent. The tenant called the police, so the two went outside to give their sides of the story to the cops, as I just stayed in my room unpacking. Eventually, everyone leaves, with the landlord driving off. I did not see her in person for a few days. This apparently wasn't the first time she trespassed on the property.

I learned from that tenant (C) that the landlord has been causing a lot of trouble with the people she leases rooms to, such as the one tenant (P) who filed a lawsuit against her over the temperature issue, which has gotten so bad that one of the tenants had to buy a hotel room to stay off the property. The filing tenant seemed to be successful in his lawsuit, but as it was a pending legal matter, he wasn't allowed to stay on the property, or probably chose not to given the conditions. Another tenant (A), the outgoing one whose room I moved into, told me that he hadn't gotten his deposit back because the landlord claimed he left the bathroom uncleaned, which reminded me to take photos of everything in the house so that it could not be used against me later. Fuck, the roommate later told that one time, the cops found live chickens in the bathroom, and the landlord tried to run past them and out the door when confronted on it. I wasn't sure if that was actually a real story though.

The state has a judiciary case search database where you can search names of people to see their history of cases they filed or had filed against them, my landlord had quite a bit going back and forth over neglect and failure to pay rent.

The house was in quite, poor condition. For one, there was no trash can inside the house, meaning for a few days, my roommate and I had to use a garbage bag hanging on a cupboard doorknob. The kitchen, while mostly well stocked with utnesils and other wares, likely from tenant P who wasn't living in the house, didn't have any knives either. I had to buy several things from Walmart. The first weekend I moved in, after a short power outage in the area, one of the smoke and fire alarms kept beeping at intervals, which drove all of us in the house crazy. I had to call the manufactures, and apparently those alarms were over a decade old and needed to be recalled???

One morning, as I got up for work, I saw the landlord in the house, without prior notice, alongside a repo man, as the went up to my roommate's room while she was at work, used the key to open the door, so that the landlord could remove the mattress, which she owned. She owned the mattresses for us to use in our rooms. She tried to justify it by saying that she was only taking what belonged to her, and not touching anything else. I didn't want to be involved, so I ran off to work. When I came back, I found my roommate pissed, as she apparently left some money under the mattress that was now missing, so she called the police to report theft. I gave my side of the story, as I was a witness. My roommate would eventually file a restraining order on the landlord, preventing her from entering the house. This would lead my landlord to correspond with me through text and phone, on the house's condition and other issues. She would also begin to traumadump on us about the way she was being treated by tenants C and P, who she had been battling with in court back and forth over various matters such as unpaid rent and neglect of upkeeping.

Another morning, I woke up and saw that the kitchen was covered in ice cubes, and that the fridge and stove were unplugged for some reason. I initially thought it was my roommate who did this, so I fixed everything and went back to normal. After work, my roommate tells me she saw the same thing, and believed that our landlord must have snuck into the house the previous night to mess with our stuff. It sort of checkes out, because lately, she had been asking me multiple times if I cooked in the house, to which I said I do occasionally, but I found it weird that she asked, because I pay for utilities in my rent, I had a right to use the stove.

A few days later, I come back to work to find my landlord in the house again. Apparently the court allowed her back in, as she had a right to check on the condition of the house and do repairs. However, it seemed that, while she was under the same roof as my litigious roommate, she was not allowed to speak to her or go up to her room. My landlord even spent the night in the house, printing out legal documents for her next court date. I also learn from her that someone plans on moving into my room, and wants to do a tour. However, I finish work at 5:30PM, and he wanted to come around 3, so she asks me to leave my room unlocked before I left for work, which I was absolutely not ok with. Thankfully, she instead asked for photos to send the prospective tenant, and that settled the matter.

A few days later, I learn from my roommate that apparently my landlord was arrested at court. The trial seemed to have gone in my roommate's favor, and my landlord, frustrated, "threw papers" at her, which the cops put her in handcuffs for acting inorderly in court. The arrest happened in my final week of living at the house, so I wondered if she'd be there to do the final inspection. So I messaged her, and she seemed to be fine, even showing me photos and videos of her playing pickleball, and continuing to traumadump on me about how "badly" she was being treated. However, the day of moving out finally came, and she wasn't present, instead asking me to record a video of the room and bathroom to her.

A few days after I got settled into my new rental, my landlord returned my full deposit to me. I was so relieved to have gotten it back without any issue. I learned my lesson about what I need to do as a tenant before moving into a rental from this affair, and I'm very lucky that I basically netted zero in expenses.

I currently rent in a different place now, and it's much better to live in, with a more understanding landlord. However, there are a few other issues there, but nothing as bad as the house I just mentioned.

[acti-veg]

Hey, how do you deal with people who counter your arguments whether abt veganism or climate change with "there is scientific evidence for the opposite," as in they argue that for whatever you say there is evidence to prove otherwise... if I try to explain of course there are companies with vested interest who back those scientific initiatives, they argue the same is true for what I am saying

Evidence speaks for itself, and I don’t claim anything I don’t know I can prove. If my claim is demonstrably true and has a broad scientific consensus, nobody will be able to show me reliable evidence that disproves it.

Ask to see their sources, look at the studies, who funds them, what methods they used, search the study and see if there is already analysis and critique out there, as there often is. On tumblr especially, people post ‘sources’ that don’t even back up what they’re trying to claim. More often than not what they post states the complete opposite, it just had a misleading headline, so just reading the source is usually enough. More often than not they’ve just typed ‘why vegan bad’ into google and copied and pasted the first link.

Also, be open to being wrong. If the evidence really does contradict your opinions, you should change those opinions, there is no shame in being wrong. I have discarded claims I used to uphold because I either now have updated information, or can no longer sufficiently back it up. There are also many claims that I suspect are true, such as animal agriculture being the number one single cause of climate change, but I can’t prove it with a good enough degree of certainty so I just don’t say it, instead I say ‘one of the biggest causes’, which is certainly demonstrably true.

My more general advice would be to get practiced at reading scientific literature, assessing sources and crucially, at staying away from definitive claims if you can’t back it up. You’ll notice I say ‘we think’ or ‘research suggests’ more often than not, unless it’s something I know has a scientific consensus and is realistically not open to challenge.

Thats a good habit to get into, and so is just keeping up to date with current research as much as you’re able to. You don’t need to be reading every study, but most big ones get good coverage you can read about them from secondary sources just fine. Just know that no matter how iron-clad your claim, you’ll still have people throwing counter-sources at you, but it’s usually the same dozen or so debunked studies that you can learn to respond to quite easily.

[weepingpussywillowtree]

To the people asking why they shouldn't use chat gpt and/or calling op a bigot for "discriminating against neurodivergent people" (also, yes goblin tools uses gpt, I see some people confused about that) I am an autistic software engineer here to explain. Here are some of the main reasons people object to AI usage:

1) environmental impact. AI uses a frankly disgusting amount of power and water. It took almost 300,000 kwh to just train chat gpt 3, and enough water to fill a nuclear reactors cooling tower. Some people will argue that only the training is this resource intensive and once the model is trained the damage is already done. This is untrue, as every conversation with chat gpt you have is the equivalent of wasting a large bottle of water and leaving a light on for an hour. Even if it was true, these companies are constantly training and improving existing models, and justifying that cost to their shareholders partially with YOUR use of their tool. And yes, big tech had a water and energy problem long before LLMs, but LLMs are significantly worse and only worsening.

2) it doesn't KNOW anything. This one is more philosophical, but chat gpt is advanced text prediction and arranging. Even researchers themselves are starting to accept that they will never be able to eliminate so called "hallucinations", which is when the model makes something plausible sounding up basically. It is not a "better search engine" because it is not retrieving any factual data, it is generating the most statistically probable results based on its training data, which will sometimes produce a desired output, but sometimes produces flat out nonsense. As well, you have to do your own fact checking. On Google, you can see the source of where something came from and who wrote, and gpt robs you of that context. There is no such thing as bias free, purely factual information unless we're talking incredibly basic questions and the info from chat gpt is basically worthless if it has no sources, no context, no author, and is made up by the model.

3) theft. This one is controversial, some people will argue that if you put something publicly on the Internet you are passively consenting to its use, but if I repost someones article without credit/claiming it as my own, they can still request that that article gets taken down. But the facts are that open AI used a dataset that scraped an absolutely massive amount of Internet data to train their model without asking, and you can get chat gpt to produce chunks of that text, especially in niche topics. For example, the software I work with is relatively niche and if you use chat gpt to get answers to questions about it, it will word for word reproduce some chunks of the actual documentation, mixed in with nonsense and with no accreditation. If you are using chat gpt for homework answers, you are potentially plagiarizing word for word chunks of other people's work.

4) this is one I don't see talked about often, but it's one that I feel is important. BIAS. GPT scraped the internet. Meaning, its word salads are entirely based on people who have internet access, and even more than that, people who post or post frequently on the Internet. That's a really small portion of the whole population. So, do you really want your word salads to have that kind of bias? Especially if you are using them for work or homework?? Wouldn't you rather put your unique, diverse, voice into the world?

Ultimately, using LLMs is an ethical decision you have to make and live with, but you should do it while understanding why people object to them, and also while understanding that the model doesn't know anything, it's like an advanced magic eight ball. Don't just play the victim and refuse to listen to concerns. Or call everyone taking issue with your use a bigot.

[cathulhu-collective]

what exactly are you trying to claim with that peerblock shit? that the government is stalking you or something? also, do you know how easy screenshots are to fake? that isn’t proof of anything.

Before I answer this....would any answer in the entire would be believable to you? I highly doubt it.

I'm not going to tell my whole story. You wouldn't believe it, and to be perfectly honest I wouldn't blame you. To prove it to the point a stranger would take me seriously, I'd have to compromise myself greatly. You think those (fake? lmao) screenshots are the only thing I have I could show? Of course not.

Not worth it obviously. But I'll tell you what I am. I am a guinea pig. I was even asked whether I wanted to be one. You can safely assume I didn't understand the full nature of what I was agreeing to.

Because everyone just assumes I'm some skitzo when I talk about it, it doesn't fuckin' matter what I say to you. Due to places like r/stoogecringe people like me don't get anyone taking them seriously and thus there is no chance for any real exposure. Hence why I am not ever gonna get any "trouble" for sharing. You will assume I'm crazy. I just wanted an outlet to vent - here. But if you want to challenge me, I can more than rise to that occasion. Because I am actually not full of shit. I know exactly what I am talking about.

You probably have in mind people who talk about electronic warfare, psychotronic weapons. They do exist, easily provable with patents, but, that isn't what I'm here to talk about. That can be someone else's soap box. I've been psychologically tortured IRL several times, by real "BSCT" - programmed, tortured, tested on, in real facilities. Of course people like r/systemcringe wouldn't believe this. Frankly, I'm not asking you to believe me. If you didn't post me to the dumb website I wouldn't have gone on a tangent arguing for the reality of these/my experiences in the first place.

But I am quite sick of the people on r/systemcringe parroting this complete lie that there is no such thing as psychological programming. Trust me, you're not clever for holding an opinion like that. As I showed in my first post, brainwashing is in the actual literal dsm. Also? These are all based off of very simple principles of psychology....like classical/operant conditioning and behavioralist,skinner box style, techniques. Remember Pavlov's dogs or......?

Really.... If you simply extrapolate a little, it'd be obvious there's literally nothing far fetched about coercive control and it's actually of great interest almost unilaterally in the community of psychologists and psychiatrists outside of the clinical / therapeutic fields.

Think about it. Just use logic. There are therapeutic techniques meant to be applied to help a person recover from disorders and/or improve their quality of living. This is the normal psychology, the one everyone is very comfortable with. The techniques used are voluntary and meant to help a person.

Flip it on its head. It's so simple. Just invert it. Can you use it to help someone? Yes? Then you can use it to hurt them. Easy. Simple. R/systems cringe is only in denial of this because it is an echo chamber that cannot be questioned without ridicule, let alone an actual debate (nobody wants to be downvoted into oblivion, get real). You all think that there's no such thing as coercive control, even though it is demonstrably and easily proven wrong by a simple google search, because you don't get outside of the little bubble you've penned yourselves in. It's laughable.

Even if you believe 0% of my story, you can't reject the simple facts I've laid out. Even basic logic would get you to the right conclusion. I've stayed away from the reddit and left y'all to your own devices because it's not worth trying to convert fools, but I won't suffer them either.

The screenshots? I can't prove they are real, obviously, by giving you more. I could screen record, though, would you like that? I'm sure you'll come up with some other reason that it is fake but I'll provide it anyhow. Be sure to note the day and time. This is just a random minute....of right now. as I'm about to hit post.

In conclusion: I'll continue to answer asks, but, I really would prefer your subreddit of amateur civilian armchair psych stooges (who didn't even know OSDD 2 is a thing??) just leave me to vent.

(People of the site who are genuinely interested are more than welcome to engage)

[mineofilms]

Electio Generalis 2024

So the 2024 General Election is upon us…

We have spent the last four years, no, wait, the last eight years, no, wait, the last twelve years,

bickering and arguing over what is least bad for our country, the piss side or the poop side. If you have been following along. I know some of you have, you just cannot help yourselves when it comes to this bullshit. People just love to have opinions over which they have very little controllable input on.

This goes back to past blogs on subjects like:

• Codependency • Clichés • Delusionalism • Due Diligence • Existentialism • Hubrisism • Macguffin(s) • Narcissistic-Sociopathy • Nihilism • Pseudo (anything) • Rhetoric • Semantics

If you are not sure what these actually mean, not the made up or pseudo-meanings, but the actual conceptual meaning of these words one should look up, read, and re-look up, and re-re-read because that is where most of us either get lost or have full on fights over why this concept, word, do not match up to the action they are supposed to represent.

In this General Election we are voting for a few things besides just the next President of the United States. We have two Justices of the Supreme Court, five Judges for the Sixth District Court of Appeals, a Country Court Judge, a US Senator, a Congress-person, a State Senator, a Supervisor of Elections, a County Commissioner and six new amendments in the Florida ballot for the General Election.

Since most people tend to be very loud at who they support, a good portion of that group also do not know why they are voting for, against these things. While most will stamp their social medias with what they stand for, I am taking it step a further. I am going to share every vote I made and explain why I voted that way. I do not know how many actually research any of this stuff. I can tell you from what I see others do, not a whole lot of critical thinking went into it. Most did the usual, scroll through Google and hope for the best. Some even used AI, like ChatGPT. We really cannot trust what comes from Google anymore. Privacy Concerns, Bias in Search Results, Monopolistic Practices, Content Filtering and Censorship, Commercial Prioritization are now a common place for the company. While they are still the PC standard, one has to use good judgement with using it. The same concerns pop up for ChatGPT. ChatGPT is not a credible source of information and should not be used for academic writing without doing heavy fact-checking and advanced knowledge on engineer-prompting. ChatGPT can give inaccurate responses. ChatGPT’s responses are based on patterns, not facts and data, so it can often get things wrong. ChatGPT’s output is correlation-based, so it’s not possible to verify it against actual sources. ChatGPT’s information is limited to what it was trained on, which is mostly data from before 2021. ChatGPT in recent years has been labeled by most computer engineers as biased that leans more liberal than non-partisan. ChatGPT is a machine and doesn’t have the ability to empathize with users. However, if one knows how to prompt, fancy word for query, or ask it a question, one can circumvent some if not most of these limitations. I used it to simplify some of the wording in the amendments.

There are resources out there to simplify a lot of this but that takes time and energy. People in 2024, with their dumb-as-fuck-smartphones do not really practice due diligence when it comes to researching facts. The tendency is to believe whatever shows up on your device as fact, by default, without any further research or knowledge on the subject. Yeah, let me know how that mentality works out for you. No, I will not wait. I will be dead, before that logic actually works in one’s favor.

Now, with that said, it’s time to get real about how I’ve approached my voting decisions for this election. Instead of falling into the same traps of blind partisanship or relying on mainstream video and sound bites, I made sure to actually research each candidate, judge, and amendment on the ballot. Many would think this is a hard and long process. Yes and no, depending on your ability to navigate the internet and its many sources. For me it took less than a half of a football game where the game was flying by as both teams were run heavy, so the clock didn’t stop much. Maybe an hour and twenty minutes to make my choices. I can navigate the internet for research at a pretty high level. Just so it’s clear on my voter registration card it says NPA, ‘No Party Affiliation.’

• It does not say ‘Democrat’ on it. • It does not say, ‘Republican.’ • It also does not say ‘Independent.’ • Its NPA… • For a Reason…

I’m not here to tell you how to vote, but I am going to break down how I voted—and more importantly, WHY… Maybe you’ll agree with me, maybe you won’t. That’s fine. It does not really matter. What matters is that my choices are mine, deliberate, intentional, and informed. I didn’t just vote to fit in with the "piss" or "poop" side. I voted based on what I believe will keep the government from overstepping its boundaries into our personal freedoms while also making this country safe for all its legal citizens. For instance, when it comes to hot-button issues like abortion, I aligned with the liberals because they give more freedoms to women rather than putting limitations on them. Do I agree with everything they stand for in their argument? Absolutely not. But I chose the side that, in my view, “minds their own business” more, which is what matters to me. This logic applies to all of my votes—whether on amendments, candidates, or the system itself—it’s about minimizing government overreach and preserving individual liberties for me, personally. And no, I did not think about other people and how this effects other people. I never have been that way in my personal life. I make decisions for myself and the few in my circle. The rest can suffer for all I care. Besides; suffering is good for the soul. In Christian theology, the notion of suffering leading to spiritual growth is often emphasized. Saint Augustine, for instance, wrote about the idea that trials and tribulations can bring people closer to God. The philosopher Friedrich Nietzsche famously said, "That which does not kill us makes us stronger," In Buddhism, suffering (dukkha) is seen as an inherent part of life that, when understood, can lead to enlightenment and inner peace. So do not give me that; “I am a selfish prick,” shit. I have my reasoning and if anyone at any time wants to know why, you are free to ask. I am also free to give you the finger and smile…

And with that, let’s get into the details. Here’s a look at every vote I made and why on the State of Florida’s General Election ballot.

1) Five Judges for the Sixth District Court of Appeals:

On the ballot there are choices to either vote yes to retain or no to not retain these judges. I did a light browse over their career marks. Where they come from. What they have done to this point to be where they are. I voted YES for Paetra Brownlee, Roger Gannam, and voted NO for Joshua Mize, Jared Smith, and Keith White.

Reasoning:

I voted yes for both Paetra Brownlee, Roger Gannam because of their age, background and where appointed by Governor Ron DeSantis. I feel like both people stand for common sense beyond the politics of a given situation. Granted, even though they are partisan they have exercised less of that and more non-partisan, common sense, critical thinking and logic. I also voted no for Joshua Mize,

Jared Smith, and Keith White. My reasoning is for voting no for these Judges are two main topics: 1) Religion and 2) Interfering with women’s rights with abortion. I will only explain in brief here as abortion is a hot-take that will be later discussed in the amendments. I do not believe religion or religious values should govern people in general. It is ok to love Jesus, but don’t tell me I need to or else. That is a good way to never gain my cooperation. In-fact, I will react spitefully and intentionally the opposite of your expectation. I really do not care if one cares about God/Jesus or not but it should not be in our legislation, whatsoever, be it at the state or national levels. The second point on abortion that isn’t anyone’s business what a woman does with her body, which also includes any life growing inside of her. It is ok to shun her, call her names, look down at her but to tell her she can’t is beyond the scope of what any government should be permitted to do to anyone. It is simply no other person’s or agencies business what people do with their own bodies, PERIOD… These three judges consistently make their judgements on their religious beliefs and refuse to understand it isn’t any of theirs or the state’s business.

2) Two Justices of the Supreme Court:

On the ballot there are choices to either vote yes to retain or no to not retain these justices. Same parameters as above. I voted YES for both Renatha Francis, Meredith Sasso.

Reasoning:

I voted yes for both Renatha Francis, Meredith Sasso due to their track record while in office. They have more hits for freedom than misses and tend to align with Governor Ron DeSantis’s conservative values for the state. I just think if the current landscape doesn’t need a change, why vote for it?

3) United States Senate:

On the ballot there are choices to vote for a United States Senator. The choices were: Rick Scott – Republican, Debbie Mucarsel-Powell – Democrat, Feena Bonoan – Libertarian Party of Florida, Tuan TQ Nguyen – No Party Affiliation, Ben Everidge – No Party Affiliation. I voted for Ben Everidge.

Reasoning:

My reasoning is pretty simple. Ben Everidge is a Veteran, writer, master’s degree in Government and is not well associated to a political party. He is labeled on the ballot as NPA (No Party Affiliation). I do not care for Rick Scott as both a leader or a person. I always felt he missed way more than he hit for us, so I didn’t vote for him. I didn’t vote democrat because on the outside chance a democrat ran for office that didn’t follow how the democrats do their business doesn’t really exist. If one did and I agreed with them, I’d vote for them. None exist, no I didn’t vote for a single person that is labeled a democrat on the ballot, so no there… As much as I might agree with Libertarians more than disagree, they are still part of a system that is inherently broken. They believe the system is fine, we just need more choices. That Libertarianism is some sort of savior is part of the problem. So as long as they parade around acting like that with their mentality, I won’t vote for them. I didn’t vote for Tuan TQ Nguyen because I am not voting for a refugee from Vietnam to be equipped to run even local politics. Even if he was a Canadian refugee I wouldn’t vote for him. Not American born, raised and not living that life. I am not voting for someone that learned that life not lived it. So, that just leaves Ben Everidge.

4) Representative in Congress, District 17:

On the ballot there are choices to vote for a United States Representative in Congress for District 17. The choices were: Greg Steube – Republican and Manny Lopez – Democrat. I voted for Greg Steube – Republican

Reasoning:

As I stated above I didn’t vote for any Democrats in this election. My main reason is because there were no Democrats in this election that made me believe that another term is all they need. Yeah, no thanks… Pick up your participation ribbon at the door. I voted Republican because all other choices were Democrats all painting the Republicans as wrong, and evil. Instead of taking accountability its always pointing the finger at the other side. The Republican side does this just as much, but it is the Democrats that have had the control for four years and did nothing but hurt everyone in the process. I am picking piss or poop where I have labeled the Republican Party as Urine and the Democratic Party as literal pieces of Shit. Onto the next category of bullshit.

5) State Senate, District 27:

On the ballot there are choices to vote for the Florida State Senate for District 27. The choices were: Ben Albritton – Republican and Phillip R. Carter – Democrat. I voted for Ben Albritton – Republican

Reasoning:

As I stated a few times now, I didn’t vote for any Democrats in this election. Pretty much what I said above holds strong here.

6) Florida House of Representatives, District 75:

On the ballot there are choices to vote for the Florida House of Representatives, District 75. The choices were: Danny Nix – Republican and Tony Dunbar – Democrat. I voted for Danny Nix – Republican

Reasoning:

See reasoning responses three and four.

7) Supervisor of Elections and County Commissioner, District 5:

On the ballot there are only one choice each for Supervisor of Elections and County Commissioner, District 5.

Reasoning:

Supervisor of Elections, Leah Valenti and County Commissioner, District 5, Joseph Tiseo. Unless I wanted to dig deep to write on in that is what I chose. Since there were not any other choices on the ballot I didn’t bother to research them. I mean no one seemed to care to do the work to go up against either of them so, I guess that is that then.

8) County Court Judge, Group 1, Charlotte County:

On the ballot there are choices to vote for the Charlotte County Court Judge for Group 1. Sean Lux or Kathryn Wallace. I voted for Sean Lux.

Reasoning:

I voted for Sean Lux for a few reasons I will list here. Like myself, he’s a computer nerd, a veteran, helps local vets in our area, works with non-profits. Specializes in economic and sexual crimes. Hey, that’s enough for me to gain my vote, as far as locality goes.

The Amendments:

As mentioned above there are six new amendments to be voted on. We will go through each one here but know I am not posting the amendments word for word here. If you want to go find them then Google will actually be your bestie on that front. I did pump these through ChatGPT along with some advanced prompting to get ChatGPT to do this. Most of the time when you ask ChatGPT for guidance with politics its bias rears its ugly head. It will also play dumb and act like it cannot respond to our political queries. Oh, but it will, oh but it will. One just needs to know how to do this. Like I said earlier, due diligence is something people do not do regularly by default when using these tools.

1) Amendment 1 –  Establishing School Board Elections as Partisan:

In layman’s terms this amendment would amend the state constitution to require school district board members to be elected in a partisan election instead of the nonpartisan elections we have now.  Voting yes would make school board elections partisan, meaning parties could nominate their own candidates for the elections and require that candidates list their political affiliation on the ballot. Voting no would leave school board elections nonpartisan. I voted No…

Reasoning:

Over the past four or five years, I have seen so many videos of parents losing their minds at school board meetings because the school boards want to play politics with our kids. I do not want more politics in positions of power within the school board. I want less. I want more regular, you, me, like-minded, logical folk who are not looking to build their political resumes by pretending to be Emperor of how our local schools are run. Just about every political take that tends to suck gets forced onto the children, and the FBI labeling parents as domestic terrorists isn’t just low-class; it’s not even logically founded. It’s just a buzzword to make parents out to be crazy and the leaders, sane. Parents often find themselves in heated debates over curriculum content, including controversial subjects like Critical Race Theory, sex education, and LGBTQ+ topics. They’re fighting against book bans and censorship, arguing for academic freedom while some push to remove materials they find inappropriate. COVID-19 policies like mask mandates, school safety issues, and debates over equity and diversity programs also fuel these tensions. Ultimately, it’s a battle between parental rights and school autonomy, and it’s gotten ugly. Look, when it comes to school board elections, why would we want to drag party politics into it? Non-partisan candidates are actually focused on what matters—like, I don’t know, our kids’ education—without worrying about climbing some political ladder. They’re less likely to get distracted by national hot takes and more likely to care about what’s actually happening in local schools. You vote for a non-partisan candidate, you get someone who’s making decisions for the community, not for some party agenda. Plus, who really wants their kids’ math curriculum decided by someone playing party games? Get rid of critical race theory and gender identity politics and bring back shop class, home economics, automotive and electrical classes. Hell, put a boxing gym in a school and teach kids the “sweet science” and discipline that is boxing…

2) Amendment 2 –  Establishing a State Constitutional Right to Hunt and Fish:

Florida’s Amendment 2 seeks to “preserve forever fishing and hunting” as a public right. So far, there haven’t been any bans or restrictions on hunting and fishing in Florida. Florida is trying to make fishing and hunting as much as a protected entitled right as owning a gun. I voted yes.

Reasoning:

While there should be “some” regulation for fishing and hunting, anyone should be able to exercise this right with as little red tape from the state as possible. I live in Florida. I don’t hunt or eat fish but if I lived out in the woods this would be a necessity to survive. I just want to see that right be available to all and not abuse fishing and hunting to such a level that we need further regulation from the state to protect wildlife as much as we protect the right to fish and hunt that very same wildlife.

3) Amendment 3 –  Marijuana Laws for the State of Florida:

I am sure this will be a hot-take. This is also where I heavily used ChatGPT to analyze the amendment in full and break it down so I could both understand it and search for logical fallacies inside the amendment. Many times lawmakers will write bills with vague wording that the public doesn’t really understand and even though on the surface the definition will be obvious to us it may hold a more significant meaning in walls of a court room or law book. More over amendments tend to give up freedoms in some other way while gaining more freedoms for the specified amendment. Meaning if you want something, you have to give something up. We see this a lot in politics from both sides over the past decade. It is hysterical how often this is happening now. This could be a blog all its own. I voted NO on Amendment 3.

I began a dialog with ChatGPT. I prompted it with a question here:

“Please analyze this amendment. I am looking for logical fallacies that may be inside the document. Ultimately, I am happy with the medical marijuana laws as they are. If they are going to make changes that need to give up more personal freedoms rather than wanting to restrict, and control the flow and potency of marijuana. Ultimately, a monopoly. I want less government restrictions, not more. And using the fentanyl crisis, as the main reasoning for the added control is in poor taste. Based on this amendment and my feelings above. Should I vote for or against this amendment based on my particulars? Also explain your reasoning.” 

[Insert CONSTITUTIONAL AMENDMENT FULL 1,847 words here]

Based on the amendment text you provided and your personal concerns, here’s an analysis of some of the key elements:

• Potential Monopolization and Corporate Control:

The amendment allows “Medical Marijuana Treatment Centers” (MMTCs) and other state-licensed entities to handle the cultivation, distribution, and sale of marijuana for personal use. This framework continues the heavy involvement of regulated, often large, businesses. This may pave the way for “corporate monopolies” in the marijuana industry, which you seem to be opposed to, as it limits smaller growers from participating. Your concern for fewer restrictions and a more open, small-scale approach isn’t addressed, as “personal cultivation” for adults is not explicitly mentioned or permitted in the text. This could continue to restrict individual freedom to grow small amounts for personal use, aligning with your fear of monopolization.

• Restrictive Limits:

The amendment does set specific “possession limits” (3.0 ounces of marijuana and no more than 5 grams of concentrate), which introduces a “limit on personal freedom.” The text allows for further “legislation” to be enacted in a manner “consistent with the amendment,” meaning additional laws could further restrict or regulate how marijuana is accessed and used, potentially favoring large businesses over personal freedom.

• Fentanyl and Overregulation:

Although the text doesn’t mention fentanyl explicitly, if the “fentanyl crisis” is being used as a justification in the broader conversation to tighten marijuana control, it might be an example of a “false cause fallacy” (connecting two unrelated issues—fentanyl and marijuana). If this argument is being used in public discussions or as a primary motivator for the amendment, it could be considered disingenuous. The amendment itself is about marijuana use for adults, and trying to tie it into the fentanyl crisis could be seen as “fear-mongering” to justify tighter controls.

• Freedom vs. Control:

The “language of regulation” in the amendment emphasizes controlled distribution through licensed entities and compliance with existing federal law. This doesn’t align with your desire for “less government involvement” and more freedom to manage marijuana use independently. The repeated mention of “Department regulations” suggests that government oversight and control will remain central, which contrasts with your preference for deregulation.

• Fallacies or Inconsistencies:

a) Slippery Slope: While the amendment doesn’t explicitly state that further restrictions will come, the “open-ended phrasing” around “consistent legislation” leaves room for more government intervention, which could be a concern for you.

b) Appeal to Authority: The amendment relies heavily on licensed Medical Marijuana Treatment Centers and state agencies, assuming that they are the only entities capable of safely handling marijuana distribution. This may ignore other viable, more decentralized models for marijuana use.

• ChatGPT’s Recommendation:

Given that this amendment does not address your primary concern for “less regulation” and personal freedom to cultivate marijuana, and instead focuses on state-controlled systems that could contribute to monopolization, it seems to go against your desires. The lack of provisions for small-scale personal growth, combined with the possibility of more control and restrictions, suggests that “voting against” this amendment might align better with your principles. You are happy with the current medical marijuana laws and would prefer changes that “expand” freedom rather than create more regulation, which this amendment does not seem to provide.

And that folks is how you should use ChatGPT for political queries. You do not ask it direct questions. You phrase your questions in the prompt in terms of logic and what you personally seek. All ChatGPT did here was take the amendment in its full text and analyze it for faulty logic, double-talk, concessions taken away and given in return and semantics of the phrasing (what the phrases actually mean), not what we think they mean based on our understanding of the English language. There is English and then there is English as defined in a court of law… Vote No on 3 if you have any aspirations of growing your own marijuana in your backyard, legally without regulation.

4) Amendment 4 –  Limit Government Interference with Abortion:

“No law shall prohibit, penalize, delay, or restrict abortion before viability or when necessary to protect the patient’s health, as determined by the patient’s healthcare provider. This amendment does not change the Legislature’s constitutional authority to require notification to a parent or guardian before a minor has an abortion.” See Full Amendment Here… I voted Yes…

Reasoning:

I am sure I will get some hate on this topic. This for me all comes down to one concept. It isn’t mine, yours, or anyone’s business what any person does with their body once they are an adult. I will never knowingly vote for anything that limits personal freedoms. It doesn’t matter what the Bible says about abortion. The Bible is not the, or a, bill of rights. I personally do not like abortion but I also respect the personal right of what isn’t your business, even if and especially if I do not agree with it. Call a woman a whore. Say things like baby-killer. Believe whatever you want to believe. But what we cannot do, ever, is dictate to a woman, no, you must give birth to this child. What in the living fuck are you all talking about here? Why do you care? Why is it your business? I get the money aspects, tax payer dollars funded this and that. Hey, fine. You don’t want taxes to pay for it, fine. No worries, just don’t tell them they can’t if they can come up with the funds. Its their baby, their body, not yours, in any respect and if you are one of those people that thinks it is, this is the part where you will see pictures of yourself under the label of delusionalism, hubrisism, and Narcissistic-Sociopathy. You are not as important as your likes, follows, subscribers and dead accounts you collect on insta-book or whatever platform makes you feel like you are the most popular person at a circle jerk.

Look, I get it—this is one of those topics that stirs people up. But when it comes down to brass tacks, who on earth should be telling an adult what they can or can’t do with their body? Seriously, if it’s not your body, then it’s not your problem. I don’t care what label you throw at a woman, or which parts of some holy text you cherry-pick to justify your stance. Last time I checked, we don’t legislate morality based on someone’s personal beliefs or the Bible (the idiots guide to living a bland and shit-stain life). Don’t like abortions? Cool, don’t have one. But this amendment isn’t about you—it’s about ensuring that women have the right to make their own healthcare choices if they need to. Let’s keep things simple: their body, their choice. Keep your righteousness out of their doctor’s office. Mind your business and leave people alone…

5) Amendment 5 –  Homestead Exemption Inflation Adjustment:

Florida’s Amendment 5 seeks to require an annual adjustment for inflation for the value of current or future homestead exemptions. It would create an inflation adjustment for the second half of a property owner’s $50,000 reduction from the taxable value of their home. Voting no, Florida can raise property taxes. Yes would create an inflation adjustment for the second of those two exemptions. I voted yes…

Reasoning:

I voted yes for the simple reason that these storms lately in South West Florida have changed the way we all live. We are still getting repairs done from Hurricane Ian. Just got hit with Helene and then Milton. That if inflation is going up and we have to pay more into the system we should get more from the system. I probably have this all wrong. I always felt like these insurance companies care not for the homes and people they take money from. More times than not people have to take them to court. Its to a point now where we won’t even ask the insurance company. We’ll get an independent inspector and adjustor and take the company to court. That is all they understand. Voting in favor of Amendment 5 aligns with more with my logic that homeowners deserve some protection from skyrocketing costs—whether that’s from inflation, home repairs, or increased tax burdens. If anything, my experiences with storms and dealing with insurance companies adds a layer of context that reinforces why people may need these kinds of inflation-adjusted exemptions, even though the amendment won’t directly tackle insurance issues.

6) Amendment 6 – Repeal of Public Campaign Financing:

The Florida Constitution currently has any candidate running for a statewide office, and they’re willing to agree to certain spending limits, the government will throw some public funds your way. This helps lessor known candidates who may be good for office but lacks the financials of a person with the deepest pockets a chance to be seen by the public to address their message. This amendment scraps that. If candidates with lessor financials cannot get public funding they will never be seen and people will not know to vote for them if they agree with their ideas or not. It should be an equal playing field and let the best person for the job win it by the public’s votes. Not who is the most seen person, everywhere, including all forms of media. I voted No…

Reasoning:

Honestly, why make it harder for anyone with less money to run for office? Why remove a system that tries—however imperfectly—to level the playing field? Do we really want to hand our political system even more too rich assholes with misanthropic tendencies? If you’re like me, and you don’t want the millionaires and billionaires being the only voices we hear in campaigns. There’s a glaring logical fallacy in our society where wealth and or celebrity culture is equated with intelligence or competence, especially when it comes to politics. The assumption that just because someone is rich or famous, they are inherently more qualified or better suited for leadership, all based on their richness and them being famous. Yeah, this is flawed. Yet, here we are. Money doesn’t automatically translate to wisdom, critical thinking, or good decision-making skills. In fact, wealth often stems from privilege, inheritance, or a set of skills that may be entirely unrelated to governance. So, if two candidates are running—one wealthy and the other reliant on public funding—what mechanism truly supports the idea that the rich candidate is superior? There isn’t one. This belief likely stems from societal conditioning where success is measured by material wealth, ignoring that public funding candidates may be more in tune with the actual struggles of their peoples and neighborhoods. It’s absurd to assume that wealth alone should validate a candidate’s intelligence or capacity to lead when the measure of a good leader goes far beyond their bank account or ability to say one word out of context, over and over again. Careful, David, we’re treading on word-salad territory. Keep the public financing system in place. We need fewer rich clowns in charge, not more.

The Presidential Election:

On the ballot there are choices to vote yes to a president and their vice president. The candidates and their party affiliations are:

• Donald J. Trump and JD Vance – Republican • Kamala D. Harris and Tim Walz – Democrat • Chase Oliver and Mike ter Maat – Libertarian Party of Florida • Claudia De la Cruz and Karina Garcia – Party for Socialism and Liberation • Randall Terry and Stephen Broden – Constitutional Party of Florida • Peter Sonski and Lauren Onak – American Society of Political Scientists • Jill Stein and Rudolph Ware – Green Party I voted Republican and here’s why.

Reasoning:

While I appreciate Stein/Ware and the Green Party trying to lead. They simply would not be able to sustain how this country operates at the moment. Maybe in the 1920s this could have worked but not now and not with them in this way. I do feel like they should have a place in the Country’s policies. They ultimately could do a lot of good if used in the right places, but not at the top.

I did not vote for Peter Sonski and Lauren Onak from the American Society of Political Scientists because their affiliation suggests a cold, analytical approach to politics that lacks the essential spiritual and ethical considerations needed in governance. In a time when many are seeking genuine connection and empathy from leaders, their focus on political science as an empirical discipline seems detached from the human experience. I believe effective leadership requires more than rational analysis; it must also engage with the deeper moral implications of our choices. Therefore, I couldn’t align my vote with candidates who don’t fully embrace these values.

The Constitution is a very important document. Till it’s not… That is the world we live in. Something is super important till it’s not. The second we stop respecting that piece of paper humanity is probably over. However, I still didn’t vote for Randall Terry and Stephen Broden of the Constitutional Party of Florida. I cannot support a ground that prioritizes legalism over the evolving needs of society. While the Constitution is an important foundation, a solely literal interpretation fails to address the complexities of modern governance and the diverse needs of our communities.

I didn’t vote for Claudia De la Cruz and Karina Garcia due their strict very communists viewpoints. Even if their policies made sense I would never openly vote in communism of any kind. I also did not vote for Chase Oliver and Mike ter Maat of the Libertarian Party of Florida. Hey, they sound great on paper but their virtually broke to a point no one really took their bid seriously. If people rallied, they were few.

So I guess that brings us to Kamala D. Harris and Tim Walz of the Democratic Party. I did not vote for her. I have said so much in my blogs about how the left has polarized this country and its citizens it makes me sick to death. So much so, this blog is only being written due to it being on my “to do” list months ago. I knew I was going to write something like this for this purpose. So many think I am just another Trump supporter. I am not, really. I just accept the enemy of my enemy is my friend. I know how that works. The main reason why I didn’t vote for any the other parties is because, who are they? I honestly only vaguely heard the names on the list of candidates before looking them up. I was all in with RFK. When he dropped out my vote was set. I didn’t vote for the left for four years of hell and no real plan or action to fix anything. During her campaigning she cannot answer a simple and single question about her plans. "Bidenomics" is a failure. The green energy deal killed this country as well. The utter and complete shitshow that is the border crisis. She has been in office for four years watching it crumble and did and said nothing. No you do not get my vote for that. As Doctor Phil would say. I am not rewarding bad behavior. Her laundry list is just as long as Trump’s.

People think she is smart, but I have not seen it. I went down the rabbit hole again with ChatGPT and ask it to craft me a short paragraph that is English but uses words not knowing the contextual meaning of those words. Now, when you read or hear this, do you not hear a similar thing? Kind of sounds like Kamala Harris doesn’t it?

Here… You decide:

“Opportunity free equal should all, future our protect action urgent matter. Inclusivity strength is hate, never voices love heard not be embraced. Justice for human the, rights must always, diversity together united bring we. Kids education must quality, access healthcare profit for everyone to not. Need marginalized uplift, all embracing should ever. The press is here. I have the vocabulary. You think you just fell out of a coconut tree?”

Only the last two sentences are actual quotes from her but yeah, that woman actually thinks she can lead. So, yeah, based on all you know of me, how I operate, how I think, how I value authenticity and substance this actually was not a very difficult decision but I am sure the ones that disagree will find some hole in my logic, but so what. It is that presumption that devalues your expectation of me. You shouldn’t have any if you truly mind your own business and leave people alone. I went from ultra-extrovert to introvert in a very short period of time. I value my freedoms. I value my solitude. Why in the fuck would I vote for the government to take those freedoms away or put limitations on them or disrupt my solitude? You do not poke bears. You also don’t fuck with snakes for the same reason… 

I voted for Donald Trump for a couple of reasons but the main one is I know what I am getting from him as President of the United States. You can say what you will about his character, frat boy mentality even being a misogynist and now convicted felon. None of that effects his ability to be a leader. Sure it could, but did it four years ago and does it? There were more reasons not to vote for the others than were reasons to vote for Trump. Let that sit in for a moment. It isn’t what Trump did to win my vote but what others didn’t do to gain it. Trump literally wins by default, not because of choice. He is the least worst of the bunch. Not the best candidate, just less bad than the others. This is why I do not want to play the politics game anymore. People make assumptions all the time. Sometimes for very warranted reasons and then some reasons not so warranted. I have gone on now for 6,428 words of why I voted the way I did. It is not supposed to make sense to you. It never was supposed to. Like always I do this for myself. To gain insight on these things. I have gone on quite the spiritual and emotional journey this year. About what I want from here on out and it isn’t what liberals tend to advertise about themselves or their beliefs. I do not hate anyone, but I look at people now with a little less curiosity than I used to. I use words like:

• Codependency • Clichés • Delusionalism • Due Diligence • Existentialism • Hubrisism • Macguffin(s) • Narcissistic-Sociopathy • Nihilism • Pseudo (anything) • Rhetoric • Semantics

Because these words represent concepts I see in people’s behaviors. I see so many talk about manifestation but they really lack the understanding of how it works. Specifically in the macro world. Think about how the media bombards us with the same negative headlines over and over. It’s like when everyone in a group starts talking about how a movie is bad, and even if you haven’t seen it, you start to believe it just from hearing the chatter. That’s how these media narratives can create a negative feedback loop. A negative feedback loop is a process in which the output of a system feeds back into the system in a way that diminishes or reduces the effects of the original input, often leading to a cycle of decreasing performance or worsening conditions. Now imagine that energy being directed at a person or thing. Now we have a situation getting worse due to its own consequences, creating a cycle that’s hard to escape. The more they push the negativity, the more it sticks in our minds, and before you know it, you’re questioning someone’s character or the validity of an idea without doing your own digging. It’s a weird manifestation-loop, where the negativity gets so loud that it drowns out any positive or neutral perspectives. So next time you hear something trending negatively, ask yourself if it’s really the full story or just a catchy headline designed to keep that loop going.

First off if it makes one interested at all they should take some time and look into it. In this specific arena it can be soul sucking. It is everywhere. TV, the Internet, all the platforms and apps. It is all over what is left of terrestrial radio stations. There really isn’t a way to escape the negativity. You have to unplug completely and live in a van down by the river. Except here in South West Florida where the Hurricanes can now be yearly; your van won’t last long in a flooding river. It is hard to find good data these days that one can trust is real.

Not much has changed about my opinions since 2018; “what you consider to be offensive; your everyday man or woman for that matter, gives zero shits and fucks about your perception of what is going on in our country. Stop bashing and perhaps offer some “helpful” insight over just hating because you do not agree. More Importantly ‘stop’ insulting others because they do not agree with your perception of what is seen and inferred upon. It is alright to not agree, but to sit there, hate over anything you yourself cannot even verify if it is real or not and at what level of that real actually affects mine, yours, reality. People know what awareness is now, some still do not but you cannot save everyone let alone anyone or any one. People are aware, they are bombarded with images, videos, articles, Google Searches, College Degrees, Professors and their own experiences. They are aware. They just don’t care. They really don’t. Their actions say so, not their words, remember that shit…

I am all about the “perhaps…” Perhaps we need change. Perhaps we need more from our leaders… Perhaps we need more than we can actually handle. Perhaps…

Electio Generalis 2024 (Latin for “2024 General Election”) by David-Angelo Mineo 10/22/2024 7,084 Words

[gffa]

Sorry in advance if this is an incoherent ramble, but I have Thoughts about the Jedi and emotional regulation I want to share with you, if it's okay.

So I have ADHD and pretty strong emotional disregulation that I really, really struggle with. In my late teens/early twenties I was convinced that my emotions, all of them, were inherently destructive and harmful to others because of how intense they are.

My favorite Star Wars character is Anakin and I think you can guess why 😅. I don't really like admitting it but I understand him and relate to him sooo much.

Okay here's the relevant part: I love the Jedi Order's teachings about mindfulness and emotional control. So often I do feel ruled by my emotions! I can so easily see how embracing that leads to the dark side, and I know that staying in the light really is a constant battle against one's own darkness because I've done that! Without the psychic/telekinetic powers, obviously, but honestly it's a good thing I can't accidentally fling objects around the room if I get upset. I've often wished the Jedi Order was real and I could be part of it just so I could learn to better control my emotions.

It's why I just don't get the argument that Jedi "repress" their emotions. Where does that even come from? They have such sensible responses to such stressful situations. And unbridled unregulated emotion is NOT a good thing, as I know far too well. The Sith don't practice "emotional freedom" or whatever those people call it. With my disregulation problems I'm not "free," I'm even more shackled by it. I hate it and I want to control it- which is what the Jedi practice.

Anyway, just wanted to share my point of view on that whole debate. I also just want to say thanks for running this blog! I adore your meta posts and I love your unending Jedi positivity. You're definitely my favorite Star Wars blog. You're so good at articulating analyses that I can see for myself in the text but am terrible at putting into words lol. I'm sorry that your popularity attracts so many people who want to argue with you or be nasty. I hope you know how happy you make us fellow Jedi-supporters. 😊

Hi!  This ask was from before today’s discussion on the Force and emotions (here and here), so it’s good timing to come across it in my drafts again! You and I are in a similar boat--I relate to Anakin the most, too.  And I had a lot of years in my life without a solid grasp on my emotions, where my anger was entirely justifiable, but it was absolute misery and cost me a lot of time and relationships with people.  In the moment, it felt good to lash out with that anger, but I was consumed by it, that’s all I was so much of the time, and it really, really was not good to let my emotions run rampant that way.  So, I understand and I’m sorry that you’ve gone through that and I’m glad you seem like you’re in a better place now. While the Jedi may not be real, thankfully a lot of the same ideas totally are, like Buddhism is real, different kinds of therapy techniques are real, we absolutely can learn to regulate our emotions, even if it’s really hard.  You could probably even do a Google search for “how to learn to regulate my emotions” and find some good starting places! I can’t speak for any part of fandom, especially one I’m not part of, but I suspect that a lot of the “Jedi repress emotions” thing comes from a conflict of how mainstream media almost always supports the idea that emotions fuel powers, that if you tap into your anger or any other intense emotion, you’ll get a major power-up and you can save the day with it.  Think of almost any major display of power in a superhero movie and it’s usually because the character just had an explosion of emotion, right?  Because their control on their temper finally snapped or because they suddenly became tunnel-visioned about who they needed to save.  It’s everywhere. Star Wars, in contrast, says:

But we’re primed to think emotional regulation is suppression.  We’re primed to think that it’s not being true to ourselves, that we’re chaining a part of ourselves up.  We’re primed to think that any kind of sacrifice or concession to the greater society is suppression of the self. So, along come the Jedi who say, “Actually, emotional regulation is good.  Sometimes you do have to sacrifice things to make the world better, but the selfness love for other people is worth it.” we’re primed to think they’re suppressing themselves and living half-lived lives. But that’s not true for the worldbuilding in Star Wars.  Individualism is not king in Star Wars.  Selflness and care for others and the willingness to understand that life is impermanent and we have to let go of things are the core themes. And you’re absolutely right--one of Lucas’ themes in Star Wars is, "Most of my movies are about the fact that you're in that little place, it's the little prison in your brain—the door's open but you can't leave. But all you have to do is walk out and say, 'Hey! I'm gonna do this.'” (Sundance Q&A, 2015) and  “All of my movies are about one thing.  Which is the fact that the only prison you’re in is the prison of your mind.  And if you decide to open the door and get out, you can.  There’s nothing stopping you.“ (American Voices, 2015) The dark side is a prison in your mind, one you’re trapping yourself into.  You’re not free, your emotions are ruling you.  They control you because you can’t stop yourself from screaming or lashing out or destroying things in your rage, you can’t stop from saying hurtful things to the people you care about.  That’s not freedom, that’s being dragged along in the wake of your own unchecked feelings.  It’s a dark pit that you have to decide to climb out of. And the Jedi echo that theme:     "You said we would be trapped."     "Not by the cave you were but by your mind. Lessons, you have learned. Find courage, you did.  Hope, patience. Trust, confidence, and selflessness." --Yoda, Star Wars: The Clone Wars, “The Gathering”