#hedge cutting services

[lena-in-a-red-dress]

Musician Age Gap AU Pt 14

True to Lena's plan, while the paparazzi on site hounds them for information on Kara, the rest of the world is too taken by the new song to speculate much on who Lena's *current* beau is.

Kara proves to be little more than an escort, following Lena from event to interview to even a hospital to visit the childrens ward. Even so, Kara doesn't mind. She has no thirst for the spotlight at her age, and is content to let Lena be front and center.

At the hospital, however, as she's lurking out of sight from the press cameras (legitimate press, looking for staged candids for the hospital's future use), Kara feels a tug on the hem of her shirt. Looking down, a frail little girl trailing a tattered blanket stares up at her.

"Can you read me a story?"

Without hesitation, Kara reaches for the girl's hand, and they manage to find a relatively isolated corner to huddle in. With a skinny children's book in her hand and the little girl tucked against her side, Kara reads aloud in a low voice, doing her best not to draw attention to herself.

Her efforts are for naught. When she glances up towards the final pages of the book, Lena's gaze is locked upon her, her gaze warm with something indecipherable. Upon being caught staring, she smiles, and cocks an eyebrow to check in. Kara nods, and Lena, satisfied, returns to the gaggle of kids crowded in around her for photos.

Lena is wrangled into a standing meeting with her mother once the children are returned to their nurses and caretakers, leaving Kara to linger on the periphery. To her surprise, Jess is the first to approach.

"Hi!" Jess chirps softly. "Lena has a few friends in town, and they want to take her out tonight before we fly out tomorrow."

Kara's eyebrows lift. "Okay...."

Jess leans in conspiratorially. "My guess is she'll invite you, but by out I mean clubs, bottle service, etc."

At that, realization dawns. "Ah. Thanks for the warning."

She won't mind declining, or spending an evening alone, especially in Paris. As eager to spend as much time with Lena as possible, she's loathe to infringe on Lena's time with friends--

"I don't suppose you brought anything.... appropriate?" Jess continues. "For the club, I mean."

Kara blinks, then barks a laugh. "Hah, no."

Jess nods, grinning. "Thought as much. I can pick up a few options for you, if you'd like..."

After a moment's consideration, Kara nods, smile growing on her face. "I'd appreciate that, thank you."

"Oh, it's no trouble at all! It'll be in your room by the time you get back this evening--"

"Jess?" Kara cuts in, a thought occuring to her. "Could you also pick up some workout gear for me? And maybe... keep all of it a surprise?"

The young woman brightens. "Sure-- do you prefer looser clothes, or more form fitting."

"Tight on the bottom, loose on top, if you can mange it?"

Jess makes a note on her phone, nodding. "Got it." She winks. "We'll put the rack directly in your suite."

"Thank you, Jess, truly."

"Oh," Jess grins, "it's my pleasure."

----

Lena approaches her shortly after, head tilted with an imminent check-in. "Doing okay?"

Kara nods. "Of course. Jess has been taking good care of me."

"Good," Lena purrs. She leans against Kara's chest, kissing her languidly. "I have a question for you."

Guessing it has something to do with the information Jess had imparted early, Kara feigns curiosity. "Uh huh?"

"I'm planning to go out with some friends tonight. Would you.... want to come?"

Kara acts out a thorough consideration of the prospect. In the end, she hedges. "Can I think about it?"

Lena nods. "Of course. And no worries if you'd prefer to take advantage of the time alone. I know this week has been..."

"Wonderful," Kara fills in, bringing a smile to Lena's face.

"Yes," she agrees, "but also a lot. I wouldn't blame you if you wanted to decompress."

With a nod, Kara leans in and kisses her again. "I appreciate that."

---

Lena's day continues until well into the evening, with the final interview wrapping up just before nine. Only the thought of seeing Lena in a new environment, with people who were not her mother, keeps Kara from groaning at the thought that the night was really only just beginning.

They split upon returning to the hotel penthouse, intent on refreshing with their own showers. When she steps out of the bathroom, towel wrapped around her, Kara makes her way to the rolling rack of clothes standing next to the closet.

She bypasses the workout clothes, noting only that Jess had fulfilled her request to a tee. The other half of the rack takes more consideration. Hanger after hanger displays dress after dress, all short, all glitzy. Lifting one of the hangars, Kara holds it against herself in front of the mirror, studiously regarding the figure staring back at her.

This is going to be interesting, she thinks to herself. Then she grins. No, this is going to be *fun*.

An hour later, Kara's putting on her shoes when she hears a soft knock on the door joining her suite with Lena's. "It's open," she calls.

"Hey," Lena issues quietly as she edges into the room. "Just checking in, have you made a decision about..."

Lena's words fall away as Kara rises from the edge of the bed, pulling herself up to her full height-- plus another four inch heels now strapped to her feet. Her hair is loose around her shoulders in waves that glint in the light, and her dress is short and layered with gold fringes.

Kara hasn't looked this good since college, and she feels the difference. She feels sexy, and powerful, and *thrilled* that Lena clearly sees it too.

"Oh," the younger woman breathes. Lena herself is clad in a rhinstone studded mauve dress. It comes to mid-thigh, but hugs every curve of Lena's body like a glove. Her sleek black hair is up in a high pony, the tail straight and shimmery. But her eyes are on Kara, and nothing else.

Kara slowly struts towards Lena with a sultry smile. "Does your offer still stand?"

Lena blinks, dazzled by Kara's beaded fringes. "Huh?"

Reaching out with one hand, Kara tilts Lena's chin up to meet her eyes. "Up here," she says quietly.

"Right. Sorry. Just--" Lena clears her throat. She shakes herself out of her daze. "I guess you're coming."

"If you'll have me."

Lena grins. "I'll have you right here if you'll let me..."

"I think I've been hogging you enough lately," Kara returns. "I wouldn't want to keep your friends waiting."

Even so, Kara takes Lena's hips with both hands, tugging her close enough for a kiss. Lena moans.

"Fuck 'em."

Kara chuckles. "I think that would make a bad impression."

Lena looks at her for a long moment. "You really want to meet them, don't you?"

Brow furrowing, Kara nods. "Of course." She pauses. "Is.... that okay?"

Lena's smile warms. "Yeah. It's just... new." Before Kara can ask what that means, Lena steps free, snapping her clutch shut. "Let's get out of here."

---

The club is glamorous, and clearly catering to a high end crowd. There's a cordoned area for paparazzi, allowing both photographs and unobstructive ingress to the establishment. When Kara slides out of the SUV, she's careful to immediately twitch her skirt down so as not to give the tabloids something new to talk about.

As always, she lets Lena set the pace. Lena takes her hand and leads the way into the club. Her free hand lifts towards the paparazzi as they walk the roped sidewalk to the building, in a wave or to shield her eyes or hide her face, Kara isn't sure. Before she could decide whether to do the same, the door opens to admit them, releasing a wave of music and voices from within.

When the door closes behind them, Lena takes a moment to scan the crowd. No one seems to recognize her, or, more likely, don't care. It allows Kara's gaze to catch on a tall, slender brunette at a both in the back, standing on the bench seat and waving them over.

Kara nudges Lena and points. Lena nods. "That's us!" she calls over the din. "Let's go!"

Lena tugs her through the crowd, and Kara soon finds herself watching as Lena throws her arms around the brunette. The hug is tight but brief, before Lena turns to pull Kara closer. "This is Sam!"

Sam thrusts her hand out, gripping Kara's hand firmly as she leans forward. "Kara! Nice to meet you!"

"And this is Jack!" Lena continues. "And Veronica-- who invited you?"

"Fuck you too!" Veronica returns easily. She eyes Kara up and down. "You're hot! Wanna dance?"

In an instant, Lena's arm loops through Kara's. "Sorry, taken! Bye!"

And then, Lena leads her back to the dance floor. Kara doesn't have the presence of mind to be upset at the introductions being cut short-- not with the way Lena's body soon moves against hers. Her movments aren't choreographed, but they may as well be with how quickly it melts Kara's insides.

For her own part, Kara struggles to find the beat. She eventually tries to mimic the bodies around her, but remains a half beat out of tempo until Lena gently grabs her wrists and guides Kara's hands to her hips.

It's too loud to even attempt to talk, but Lena's actions speak loudly enough. Her body moves sinuously, her hands resting atop Kara's, and with their bodies pressed together, Kara finds herself falling into step with her partner's. Soon, all that exists is the heat of Lena's body, the pulse of the heavy music, and the scent of Lena's perfume.

They dance for two songs before Lena calls a time out. They return to the booth only long enough to collect the others, before they all relocate to a second floor Kara hadn't noticed, where there's just enough air for Kara to hear herself think.

"We're gonna talk," Sam says, leaning in to murmur in her ear. "Later."

There's no malice in her voice, which prompts Kara to give an easy nod. She looks forward to knowing more about Lena's friends-- even if it means she gets a shovel talk or two.

Once they collapse in a booth, a server takes their orders for drinks and food-- for which Kara is grateful. She doubts the hunger in her belly will be sated by small bites from the bar, but it could perhaps tide her over until she and Lena returned to the hotel.

"Well," Jack says pegging Kara with a pointed look. "After that display, I think we deserve to hear how this happened." He gestures towards the pair of them, and Lena giggles.

"Kara barged into my dressing room," she delivers. Her fingers lace between Kara's under the table as she continues to relate the story of their meeting. When she finishes, Jack whistles.

"Quite the whirlwind for you then," he says to Kara. "How are you holding up?"

"Lena's been taking good care of me," Kara says with a smile. "It's been amazing to see her work."

Lena beams back at her. "You've been amazing." She shoots a look towards Jack. "Don't you dare scare her off."

"Only if you give me a dance, darling."

Lena sighs. "All right. Come on, before the food gets here."

Kara slides out of the booth for Lena to exit, and as she sidles past Lena kisses Kara's cheek. "The things I do for you."

"My hero," Kara grins. Lena isn't at all put out by the idea of dancing with her friend, and for all the warning Lena gave him, he didn't seem to be antagonistic about their relationship. She watches them go, glad that Lena has the chance to reconnect with her friends.

"Kara!" Sam calls. She waves Kara back to the table. "Come sit!"

Kara obeys, only for Veronica to slide out. "I'm going to find the restroom. You two have fun!"

Bracing herself, Kara turns to Sam-- who laughs and waves away her tension. "Relax... I'm not Lena's keeper. She's clearly into you, and you don't seem to be an asshole, so. I'm good."

"You're Sam Arias, right?" Kara asks. She hadn't been sure before in the strobing lights, but sitting so close she now recognizes the actress from some of the movies Esme likes.

Sam nods. "I'm filming in Florence right now, so I figured I'd stop by while I could. Jack has a cover shoot in Vienna, so we figured we'd make a night of it."

Warmth floods Kara's chest. She's seen how hard Lena works, and how solitary she's been since Kara met her. The fact that she has friends willing to bend their schedules to make time for her when they can speaks volumes.

"Mind if I ask you something?" Sam asks. Kara nods for her to continue. "What do you want out of this?"

Sam's not the first to wonder. The difference is that she's asked, rather than assume like Lillian has.

Kara shrugs. "Nothing Lena isn't willing to give." Sam looks at her, waiting for more. "I'm comfortable. I don't want her money, or her fame."

"Then why drop everything to go on tour with her?"

"Being with her makes me happy."

It's a simple truth, but a truth nonetheless. She can return to National City whenever she likes; Lena has placed no pressure on her to stay. But in National City, Kara's thoughts would stay with Lena, so why condemn herself to being stretched between two locations, when she has the freedom and means to simply stay?

"God, that's refreshing," Sam drawls. She takes a sip of her drink before she gives a broad smile.

"Positively saccharine," comes a dry voice from behind Kara, making her jump. She turns to find another tall brunette lurking over her shoulder. This woman's gaze, however, is far sharper than Sam's.

Sam doesn't seem all that surprised to see their visitor. "Andrea," she greets.

"Samantha."

Andrea sits on the edge of the bench, worming her way in so that Kara is forced to scooch to accommodate her.

"What's interesting," Andrea continues, "is that Lena finally found someone who has absolutely no impact on her career."

Though ostensibly that would be a good thing, the relish glinting in the woman's gaze suggests something much darker.

"Before she's chosen industry people. Singers, actors, reps and so forth. The kind of people who, if crossed, could end her career in a heartbeat. Untouchable."

Andrea leers at Kara, her smile tight and predatory. "But you... mmh."

Kara's features settle into a solemn glare, defensive. "What about me?"

"You're nothing," Andrea responds, as though it's the most obvious thing in the world. "So when you inevitably break her heart, which you absolutely will..." Andrea leans closer. "I'll be able to absolutely demolish you."

"Funny," says Lena, reaching between them to snag her drink. Her face is flushed, upper lip glistening with sweat, but her features are placid. "If only you had put that much care into our relationship *before* it ended."

Andrea blanches slightly, but her features remained solidly antagonistic. "Skimming the gutter, are you, Lena?"

"And happier than during the two years I spent with you," Lena returns smoothly. "Imagine that."

"Get lost, Rojas," Veronica drawls, approaching from the other direction. Andrea is cornered, and she knows it.

She rises stiffly. Moving to leave, she pauses at Lena's shoulders. "Lena--"

Lena scowls. "Please leave."

Andrea hesitates a moment more, but ultimately decides now was neither the time or place to push further. She leaves, and Lena watches her leave with a glower on her face, before she settles onto the bench seat next to Kara.

"Ignore whatever she said to you," Lena says stiffly.

Kara softens. "She cares about you."

"She doesn't get to," comes the sharp retort. "Not anymore."

The message is clear-- Lena does not want to discuss Andrea Rojas.

The mood lightens as Lena's friends expertly steer the conversation away from Andrea's interruption. It's not long until Lena's hackles ease, and she's once more laughing and having fun. Kara relaxes as well, accepting every one of Lena's invitations to dance.

When they leave, it's at Lena's request. Kara's surprised-- Lena's trademark energy still relatively untapped-- until Lena captures her gaze with a heady one of her own. They're on the dance floor when it happens, and Lena leans in to shout into Kara's ear.

"Wanna get out of here?!"

Kara hesitates only a moment, conscious of how Sam and Jack had crossed international borders to see Lena, before she sees Sam not too far off. The brunette's features are astute and smirking, confirming the she understands-- and approves-- exactly what Lena intends.

Before she nods, Kara turns her head to capture Lena's lips as she pulls away. She kisses Lena deeply and soundly, and when she breaks away Lena lists after her. Heavy eyes look up at her, dazed and hungry for more.

"What about your friends?"

"Sam says I've been eye-fucking you all night," Lena calls back. "I'd rather be fucking you for real." She grins. "Respectfully!"

Kara laughs, the sound lost in the music. "Uh huh," she says, mostly to herself. "Then let's go!"

Lena waves at her friends, earning cheeky grins from all three in return. Kara's surprised to see the time is already past 2am. Her blood buzzes in her veins, arousal and anticipation electrifying her nerves.

Kara enters the suv at Lena's slight push, which means when Lena climbs in she plants herself firmly in Kara's lap, hiking up her skirt to straddle Kara's thighs.

"You are so hot tonight," Lena murmurs. "I couldn't keep my eyes off you." She grins. "I wasn't the only one."

Kara blinks. She hadn't sensed anyone staring at her. Then again, she hadn't paid much attention to anyone but Lena.

"I didn't notice."

"I know," Lena purrs, leaning down. Her tongue laves across Kara's throat, before she engulfs all of her senses in a searing kiss. "So fucking hot...."

Kara glances frantically towards the front, hesitant to put on a show for anyone but Lena, but finds that the driver has already rolled up the privacy screen. Kara doubts the screen provides any amount of soundproofing, but it's enough for her to slide her hand under Lena's hitched skirt, cupping a bare ass cheek in her palm.

"Fuck," Kara groans. Her groin tightens, warming with arousal that leaks past her own thong. "Lena--"

"Let me, baby," Lena murmurs beside her ear. She suckles the column of Kara's neck, even as her hand deftly delves under Kara's dress. "I'm gonna make you feel so good..."

Expert fingers find Kara's clit and pause, pressing gently against the throbbing bud. Lena's fingers are warm, but still cooler than the heat between Kara's legs. She curses again, hips bucking ever so slightly.

"Not so fast," Lena croons. "I want you to enjoy this."

Kara's breaths are already coming hard and fast, as her higher brain functions swiftly cease to function. She grunts, pulling a smile to Lena's lips.

Long fingers slide tenderly across Kara's arousal-slicked opening, circling almost carelessly-- except Kara understands Lena knows exactly what she's doing.

"I want you to wait," Lena whispers. "Can you do that for me? Can you wait until we get to the hotel?"

Kara's teeth grind, lassoing any shred of self control she has left, even as Lena's fingers dip between her labia. She enters almost enough for Kara's walls to grip her fingers, but Lena is quick to react, withdrawing before Kara to gain any purchase.

"Answer me," Lena says.

"Y-yes," Kara stammers. "I-- I can wait-- ungh!"

A high, pitiful sound escapes from Kara's throat, wild and unexpected. She feels her cheeks tingle, and knows they would have turned a vivid red if she weren't already red from the exertion of the club.

Lena kisses her, long and slow and deep. As she does, a fingernail lightly catches on Kara's clit, making her gasp. She tastes the warm air and alcohol from Lena's breath, savoring it for a short moment before another stroke of Lena's fingers makes her huff in frustration.

"You're doing so good," Lena tells her. Her free hand strokes Kara's breast, teasing her through the dress until her nipple hardens and stands at attention. "Oh my god, Kara-- you are so beautiful..."

Kara moans plaintively. "I-- I wanna touch you... more--"

"Not yet," Lena chides. She rests their foreheads together, even as she continues her ministrations under Kara's dress. "Do you know what I'm going to do when I get you upstairs?"

Kara grunts, gasping for breath. She's on the verge of coming, and has to force her inner walls to relax lest she climax right then and there.

"I'm going lay you down on my bed," Lena continues, scissoring her fingers inside Kara and smiling sweetly when Kara squirms. "I'm going to lay you down, and then I'm going to ask you to spread your knees as far as you can. I'm going to make you stretch for me...."

Kara's thighs tense under Lena's, hungry in anticipation. Lena leans in close then, speaking low into Kara's ear.

"And then I'm going to put my mouth on you." Teeth scrape Kara's earlobe, sensitizing it for when Lena makes another pass, this time nibbling sharply. Kara throws her head back hard enough to bounce off the headrest.

"Would you like that, baby?" Lena asks, smiling languidly. "Do you want me to lick you dry? Suck on your clit until-- uh uh," comes a stern warning.

Lena withdraws her hand just before Kara climaxes. Kara gives a shuddering sigh, grateful even as she resents the sudden stillness. Her core gapes, walls flexing in search of something, anything to grip.

"You promised," Lena reminds her.

Kara nods, breathless. "S-sorry," she gasps.

"Shhhh," Lena soothes. Her hand returns, playing idly with Kara's clit. "You're doing amazing, baby."

She retracts her fingers again, less cruelly this time, and lifts them to Kara's mouth. Understanding her intent, Kara kisses Lena's slick fingertips, then parts her lips in invitation.

Lena carefully inserts her first and middle fingers, and Kara lets her tongue curl around them. The salt of her own arousal only heightens her senses further, and the pleasure in Lena's features only makes Kara want to perform perfectly, whatever Lena asks of her.

"I--I want...."

"Tell me," Lena murmurs. "Tell me what you want..."

Before Kara can find the coherence to answer, the car slows to a long stop. Lena's eyes flick up to glance out the back window. With a smile, Lena bends back down to capture Kara's lips in a soft kiss.

"You made it," she says. "We're at the hotel."

Lena wipes her damp fingers across her dress to dry them, then clasps Kara's hand and all but drags her out. If there are paparazzi waiting for them outside the building, Kara doesn't see them. She doesn't register much of anything until her dress is a pile on the floor, and Lena pushes her gently backwards. Her legs fold against the edge of the bed, and she sits with a thump.

"Lay back, baby."

Lena kneels, long ponytail spilling over one shoulder. "Let me take care of you."

And oh, does she.

Kara comes in moments, but Lena doesn't relent. She suckles Kara's clit, and licks ardently, endlessly, until Kara comes again and again.

She doesn't relent until Kara breathlessly pats somewhere near Lena's head, unsure if she actually makes contact. Nevertheless, Lena disengages and crawls over Kara, gazing down into her eyes with satisfaction and adoration.

"Worth the wait?"

Kara mutters a curse. She reaches up to snag Lena by the edge of her jaw, pulling her down to a deep, languid kiss.

"Do that again," Kara warns, "and there's no guarantee I won't explode on the spot, if that's my reward."

Lena beams.

"That was so hot. You-- Lena, I...." Suddenly, Kara's brain catches up to her. "Why are you still dressed?"

"I was a little busy..." Lena grins. Her chin is still slicked with arousal, which she wipes salaciously with her fingers.

"Fuck that," Kara growls. She fumbles for the zipper behind Lena's neck, but doesn't find one. "Off... off, off, off."

"Easy, tiger..." Lena casually reaches under her arm, and undoes the side zipper. Then Kara is treated to the sight of Lena peeling the dress up and over her head. Her boots, at least, are already off, leaving Lena utterly, delectably bare.

Lena tilts her head in a tantalyzing tease. She leans down, and the end of her ponytail tickles the hollow of Kara's throat. "How do you want me?"

"I want you so wet I could drown in you," Kara murmurs. Lena's cheeks heat in a ready flush. Carefully, Kara repositions them so that she was the one straddling Lena. She rubs the top of her thigh between Lena's legs, earning her a sweet mewling as Lena wriggles down to try and increase the pressure.

Rather than tease, Kara plants her knee in the mattress, a grounding rod for Lena to grind against.

"What do you need?" Kara asks simply.

"Drawer," Lena says breathlessly. "Under the scarf. There's a-- ngh, jeezus."

Now it's Lena's turn to be frustrated, and Kara finds that she enjoys the picture she paints. She enjoys it very much.

Kara gamely pushes off the mattress and pads over to the short dresser on the far wall. Fishing under the aforementioned scarf, she pulls out a dildo already fitted to a harness.

Lifting an eyebrow, Kara lets it dangle from her finger by one strap, shooting Lena a suspicious glance.

"Planning ahead, were we?"

Lena gives a cheesy grin. "Can never be too prepared," she teases. Her own eyebrow lifts in challenge. "Think you're up for it?"

Kara crosses back to the bed with dildo in hand. Lena returns to her back, and gazes up at Kara with eyes glazed by desire. She inhales sharply when Kara presses the shaft of the dildo between her legs.

"Tell me what you like," Kara urges, her voice low. She kisses her way up Lena's sternum, the licks the hollow of a slender throat. When she pulls back, Lena whimpers. "Tell me."

"I want you," Lena starts, her eyes hooded with want, "to hold me down, and fuck me senseless."

An all new wave of desire floods Kara, making her insides quake. She leans in close to Lena's ear, and feels her partner's breath catch.

"Challenge accepted."

[friend-crow]

A series of events:

I notice that some of the hedges at the back of my yard are dying. I'm okay with this, as they take up the back 10' of my yard, and block a lot of light from the south. I could plant other stuff there.

I notice that there is a strong hot tub smell in my back yard on summer nights.

My dad starts helping me to trim the hedges down to about 5' so there's not a giant light-blocking wall there. We plan on cutting the two that are already dead down to stumps.

The neighbor who shares a back fence with me starts giving my dad grief about us cutting the hedges, as they have "privacy concerns". I am the only one living here and am shorter than their fence, so I'm really not gonna be able to see shit even without the hedge being 12' tall, and they could always grow their own if it's that important to them.

I realize that their privacy concern is probably hot tub related.

I realize that the dead hedges are also probably hot tub related (I've never seen the hot tub, I just know it exists because of the smell).

My dad peeks over the fence and confirms that they have a giant hot tub in the corner where the hedges have died (they are up hill from my yard).

I'm not going to be able to plant anything else there if they're draining their hot tub there.

Portland environmental services prohibits this type of drainage, for multiple reasons.

I'm going to have to have an awkward talk with some neighbors who have a history of expecting to have an unreasonable degree of control over what goes on in my yard.

If that doesn't go well I'm probably gonna have to call environmental services on them.

[mostlysignssomeportents]

McKinsey pulls the strings and siphons billions out of the Puerto Rico bankruptcy, ICE kids in cages, Space Force boondoggles and more. The US government pays $3m/year for a fresh-out-of-college McKinsey "consultant."

In the first Trump administration, U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement not only used McKinsey extensively, it even hired McKinsey to write its own contract. During the bankruptcy of Puerto Rico, the firm helped ensure that the island spent at least $1.5 billion on professional services, aka consultants and lawyers, even as its internal hedge fund owned Puerto Rican bonds. It hasn’t gotten better under Biden. Earlier this year, McKinsey got a sole source contract to work for Space Force. And it sells an extremely expensive service for government; just one recent college graduate working at McKinsey is billed out at around $3 million a year.

-Cutting Government Is Easy... If You Go After McKinsey, Matt Stoller

[oddlydescriptive]

Reset, Chapter Thirteen

Series Masterlist

Thanks for being patient and supportive, guys. I am going to try to get two out on top of this, as this is technically last weeks chapter, but I am doing my best. I had some really awesome people reach out and check-in on me this week and honestly, I needed it. I put a lot of pressure on myself with every chapter- i feel like it's been so good up to this point so with each chapter I am pressuring myself to keep the quality up and sometimes it's just a lot. Your guys' support means everything to me.

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The car’s quiet except for the faint hum of the engine and the occasional rustle of paper from the back seat. Just a daytrip- a quick jaunt to London for a sim technology conference. A few presentations, more than a few handouts, a mediocre lunch service. A stop-in before Brazil. Necessary evil. For RedBull. For Redline. Just business.

Christian drives with one hand on the wheel and a tired sort of ease, eyes focused on the dark stretch of motorway that cut back toward Milton Keynes. Max sits in the passenger seat, arms crossed, cheek propped against his knuckles, watching the world smear by through the window- headlights, hedges, the vague shape of trees pressed up flat against the night.

In the back seat, you’ve turned the quiet into something else. Not noise, exactly. But motion. Intent. Working- of course you’re working- your laptop balanced between your knees, a mess of pamphlets and printouts spread across the leather seat like a dealer laying down cards. Brows drawn, your mouth slightly parted in concentration as you thumb through the stack, cross-reference a spec sheet from another, then type something with sharp, purposeful taps.

Every so often, you pause- chewing at your thumb, the nail already raw from a day’s worth of absent-minded worry- before returning to the keys with renewed precision. Max can hear it: the rhythm of you cataloguing, organizing, making sense of all of it. Like it wasn’t enough to have gone to the presentations, shaken hands, taken the obligatory photos- no, you needed to digest it. To dissect it. To turn just business into something useful before the car even hit the roundabouts.

Max doesn’t turn to look. He doesn’t need to. He can feel the energy coming off you like static- tired, but alive. Like you’d spent all day holding yourself still and were only now allowed to exhale, alone in the backseat with your chaos.

He shifts in his seat, jaw tight. It was easier when you weren’t in motion. Easier when he could convince himself you were a moment. A blip. Not someone with velocity.

Christian’s phone buzzes against the dash, screen lighting up with a name. Max’s eyes flick to the center display: Franz Tost. Christian exhales through his nose. Not annoyed. More... contemplative.

Max feels it immediately- whatever this is, it’s not for public consumption. Not immediately. Not without decision. Christian reaches for the phone, thumb hovering over the screen a beat too long. "Should I- " he mutters, mostly to himself, then glances in the rearview mirror.

Whatever he sees must make up his mind. He hits accept and toggles it to Bluetooth with a practiced flick of his thumb. "Franz," he says, slow and even. "You’re on speaker. I’ve got company."

A pause. Static. Then Franz’s voice comes through the speakers- faintly German-accented, clipped, all business. "Ah. I see." Christian doesn’t reply. Just keeps driving, one hand steady on the wheel.

"I’ve looked through the numbers," Franz says finally. "Not exactly standard."

"It’s what was offered," Christian replies.

"That’s clear. Still surprising."

Christian lets out a soft huff of breath. "It’s lean."

"Very."

Behind them, the rhythm of keystrokes falters. Then stops. Max hears the soft click of a laptop being closed. Paper shifts. Something about the silence feels intentional- weighted. Max can feel it. The way you’re listening now. Still as stone. Like even the creak of leather beneath you might give something away.

“Do you think… the dynamics of the workplace will be an issue?” Franz says, voice low, deliberate.

Christian shrugs like it’s nothing. Like they haven’t all spent months navigating politics sharp enough to draw blood. “I have yet to be concerned. Besides, if we were worried about workplace dynamics we’d start letting robots drive the cars.”

There’s a pause- thin, wire-tight. “Pipeline?” Franz asks.

Christian doesn’t even blink. “Not an option. We’ve already had this conversation.”

“And Helmut?”

Christian’s fingers shift against the leather steering wheel. “Aligned.” That one lands hard. Max feels it settle in his chest like cold water, the kind that bites deep, spreads slow. The shape of it starts forming before he can name it. Something real. Something decided. Like he can feel what’s coming before he knows it.

Franz exhales, measured. “So we’re settled, then.”

Christian glances briefly toward the passenger window, then back at the road ahead. The lights of the motorway slide past in rhythmic blurs, gold and white and rain-slick. “We’re settled,” he says.

In the backseat, you don’t move. You’re leaning forward now, just slightly- one hand braced against the center console like it might pull you closer, the other curled in your lap, knuckles pale.

You don’t say a word.

You just listen.

Christian adjusts his grip on the wheel, his tone suddenly lighter. “She’s in the car,” he says, like it’s an afterthought. “If you want to say it yourself.”

A beat of static follows. The sound of breath caught somewhere in the ether. Then Franz, as calm as ever, as clinical as a scalpel: “Welcome to Alpha Tauri.”

You freeze.

No sound. No movement. Just a single breath drawn too sharply through your nose. One hand lifts, slow and instinctive, pressing against your mouth like you can catch the words before they settle. Like you can hold them inside a moment longer, keep them suspended.

Christian smiles, not unkind. “We’ll let it sink,” he says. “I’m sure she’ll be calling you shortly.”

The line clicks off.

Silence rushes in- not gentle, not still, but dense, like a pressure front collapsing inward. It doesn’t settle so much as press, heavy against Max’s chest, coiling in the space between words that never arrive.

Christian says nothing. His hands stay steady on the wheel. Max doesn’t move. Even the road quiets. The tires hum low beneath them, more suggestion than sound, a soft whisper across wet asphalt.

It hangs there. The weight of it. The finality.

You’re on the grid.

Max is still chewing on the words when he hears it.

A sharp crack- plastic slapping leather- your laptop shoved aside with zero ceremony, skidding half off the seat before your bag catches it. Papers follow in a loose explosion, fluttering across the backseat like confetti fired from a gun. Handouts, notes, color-coded madness- gone, scattered.

And then- 

You scream.

Not a yell. Not a cheer. A full-throated, spine-snapping howl as you slam the window control. The glass barely halfway down before you’re already half out of it, one arm braced on the door frame, the other thrown back like you’re summoning gods.

“FUCK YEAH!” you roar into the night. “I’M ON THE FUCKING GRID!”

Christian twitches behind the wheel, startled. Max blinks. Then you’re laughing- wild and sharp and goddamn unstoppable- as the wind slaps your hair across your face in tangled streaks. Your voice rips through the air outside the car.

“SEE YOU IN BAHRAIN, MOTHERFUCKERS!” you shout, head tipped back like the stars are listening. “I’M ON THE GRID, ASSHOLES! YOU HEAR THAT?!”

Your joy carves itself across the motorway. A minivan swerves slightly in the next lane. A lorry honks, long and confused. Someone flashes their brights from behind. You don’t care.

You’re laughing too hard to breathe, shoulders shaking, half-out the window and fully alive, clinging to the door like the car can’t hold you anymore. Like you might just launch.

Max stares straight ahead. Jaw slack. Heart pounding. Vision tight. Christian chuckles, low and amazed. “Guess it’s sunk in.”

You make a sound- something between a gasp and a growl, half-feral, wholly triumphant. “Fucking- yes.” Then you fall back into your seat, limp with joy, breath hitching, face flushed and lit from somewhere deep. Your hair’s a wreck, your papers are gone, your voice is probably halfway to hoarse- 

But Max has never seen anyone look more alive.

He was still angled toward you- barely- just enough to see you in the mirror’s corner. And God, it was like looking directly into the sun.

He’d seen you a lot of ways. Snapping. Spitting. Glaring at him across conference tables with a heat that made engineers forget their talking points.

He’d pressed you, more than once, just to make you crack. Just to see if you would. He liked the fury. Liked knowing it was in you. Liked proving to himself you were human. Mortal. That the clean professionalism and perfect posture was just a veneer. Poking, needling, pressing on every bruise until something bled. 

And you had snapped- sometimes with anger, sometimes with ice. You’d lashed back at him, sharp and venomous, and every time he’d told himself good. That’s what she is. That’s all she is.

But this?

This was the first time he’d seen you raw with joy.

You look alive in a way that almost hurts to witness. Like if Max blinks, you might burn out entirely. Like he’s seeing something he was never meant to. Not in the wild. Not without armor.

In the driver’s seat, Christian chuckles, low and warm. “You get it all out?”

You don’t lift your head- just groan through a smile, breathless and giddy. “For now.”

Christian glances back, a casual flick of the eyes that still carries weight. It’s not mocking, not patronizing. Just... paternal. The kind of look that says you’re still a kid to me, no matter how many contracts you’ve signed or late nights you’ve spent grinding data until your hands cramped. The kind of look older men give young people when they forget, for a moment, that the person in front of them is already pulling weight like someone twice their age. “You should call your friends,” he says. “Go out. Get a beer. Raise hell.”

You blink up at the ceiling of the car, dazed and glowing. “God,” you rasp, voice still wrecked from screaming, “a beer sounds incredible.”

Then you turn your head, just slightly, and aim it at Christian with a deadpan delivery so dry it nearly evaporates in the air. “But Christian… my only friend is a thirty-seven-year-old man who’s probably eating dinner with his wife and children right now.” Your words are casual. Inevitable. Like you’ve already made peace with it.

Christian laughs- but there’s a stutter in it, like it catches halfway through.

Max doesn’t laugh at all.

The silence after your sentence lands just a little too sharp. Not cruel. Just honest. The kind of silence that fills a room when everyone realizes they knew, but didn’t think about it long enough to feel it.

Christian recovers first, though his voice is a shade softer now. “Yeah,” he says, smiling again, but less brightly. “That’s right. I forgot.” He looks forward again. “Eighty-hour weeks don’t leave much room for socializing.”

“Shocking, I know,” you mumble, dragging a hand over your face.

You don’t sound bitter. You don’t look like someone who got lucky. You look like someone who fought. Who scrapped. Who bled. Who won. For the first time all night, Max turns. Really turns. He looks at you. And doesn’t say a thing.

Because it hits him- not as thought, but as truth:

You’re not going anywhere.

You’re not fading. Not flinching. Not folding under the weight of it all like he used to tell himself you would- had to, eventually. That the system would grind you down the way it does to everyone who shows up too bright, too earnest, too unwilling to play the long game.

But you haven’t gone quiet. You haven’t disappeared. You’re not dissolving under pressure like a sugar cube in rain.

You’re here. 

And not just physically, not just taking up space in the backseat of a car you didn’t drive, but here, in the way that matters. Unshakable. Bright. Absolutely alive. Max feels it settle- not like a punch, but like something heavier. Slower. A recognition that doesn’t ask for permission.

For the first time, Max knows- really knows- that whatever he believed would happen to you, isn’t going to happen. Whatever he wanted to believe- whatever petty, bitter hope he might have nursed- that somehow this would be temporary, a half-season-long disruption, a footnote… that you would do- or not do- something to send you packing and out of Redbull, out of Formula, out of Jos’s fucking mouth… he knows better now.

You’re not going to get overwhelmed and disappear.

You’re not going to say the wrong thing in a meeting and lose your shot.

You’re not going to flame out under pressure, or back down when the paddock sharpens its teeth, or get so disillusioned you hand back your badge and walk away quietly like a shadow that never mattered.

No.

You’re going to fight. You’re going to stay. You’re not passing through.

You’re arriving.

And it’s happening right in front of him.

He watches you, sprawled in the backseat with your hair still tangled and your smile too big for your face, like you’ve cracked open and joy is leaking out in every direction. Your papers are a mess. Your laugh is too loud. Your voice is still hoarse from screaming at the motorway.

And he can’t be mad about it.

Not right now.

Because it’s hard to be bitter when you’re watching someone’s dream wrap itself around them in real time- hard to resent the way your eyes keep slipping closed like you’re trying to hold it all in, to stretch the moment before it passes.

It makes something ache in him. Nostalgia, maybe. A memory long buried.  And God- he remembers what that felt like. 

The first time the call came. When he got his call. When everything he ever wanted was suddenly, actually his- and nothing had gone wrong yet. 

When someone outside the walls of home- outside the garage, the track, the echo chamber of expectations- just said it, plain and certain: You’re good enough. No stopwatch. No lecture. No icy silence after a second-place finish. Just a voice on the other end of the line saying, You belong here. You, yes you. 

When for one, fragile moment, it wasn’t about consequences. Wasn’t about slammed doors or missed dinners. Wasn’t about endless laps in the cold, and the rain, and the dark until his fingers felt closer to shattered glass than part of his hands. Wasn’t about waking up too early and going to sleep too late, body humming with exhaustion and nerves because he couldn’t afford to mess it up again. 

When it wasn’t about making up for the weekend before. Or the one before that. It wasn’t about hearing that voice- sharp, cold, disappointed- repeating the same five words on loop: You should’ve done better. 

When all the pressure hadn’t calcified into armor. When his name hadn’t yet become a shield. Before the PR machine. Before the politics. Before the paddock turned love into leverage and every podium into proof he deserved to be there.

It didn’t matter that it took Jos all of forty-five seconds to get on the phone and start planning his promotion from Toro Rosso. 

Because that one single moment was his. And you’re standing on the edge of that moment right now, drunk on it- without even needing the beer.

And Max- 

Max feels something sharp twist in his gut. It’s not hatred. It’s not even resentment.

It’s longing.

Melancholic. Jealous, if he’s honest. Not of your talent, or your seat, or even your rise- he has his own throne, his own empire. But of the feeling. That raw, high-voltage, maybe this is really happening kind of magic that only happens once. Maybe twice, if you’re lucky.

He didn’t realize how long it’s been since he felt it. How much he misses it.

And now here you are, soaking in it like it’s sunlight, and he can’t look away.

He remembers that version of himself. Bright-eyed. Hopeful. New. A kid that joked with Carlos and followed Danny around like the ground he walked on held secrets worth learning. 

And somehow, that’s what he sees in you. Even now. Even after everything. And for the first time in a long time, Max doesn’t can’t bring himself to resent you for it. Maybe he will. Maybe tomorrow. That’s okay.

But not tonight. You can have this one. He’ll allow it. 

The car settles again. But the silence isn’t heavy now. It’s expansive. Open. Like someone cracked the seal on a room that had been airless for too long. Only the rhythmic click of the blinker breaks it when Christian changes lanes. The faint drag of tires. And every so often, your laughter- quieter now, but still alive, still glowing. It’s a small sound. Crooked. Half-choked, like it sneaks up on you before you’ve decided to let it out.

Like the disbelief keeps reappearing in your chest, uninvited, and all you can do is laugh it off.

Max doesn’t turn back again. Not directly. But every time it happens, every time that sound breaks through the quiet- low, giddy, almost disbelieving- his eyes flick to the mirror. Just once. Just long enough to catch the outline of your shoulders trembling with it. Then he shifts back to the window, like it’s nothing.

Like it doesn’t land.

It does. It lands hard. That laugh- it gets under his skin, sure, but deeper than that. Under everything. Under the detachment, under the static, under the thick layer of contempt he’s wrapped around you for months. He doesn’t know how to describe it. Only that it sounds like something he’s never been allowed to feel.

Freedom.

They drive like that for ten more minutes. No one speaks. Christian hums softly under his breath, barely audible, the sound light and tuneless. You’re still stretched across the back seat like gravity let go of you. One boot perched against the center console, your head tilted just so against the cool window, your body loose with joy.

Max doesn’t check the mirror again- eyes forward- and that’s when he clocks it. The exit they always take- the familiar loops that gives way to the roundabouts toward the factory- slides past on the left, untouched. Christian doesn’t slow. Doesn’t glance. Just keeps driving, calm and unhurried, like this is exactly the plan.

Max straightens a little. Frowns. “You missed- ”

“Got anywhere to be?” Christian asks, voice casual- too casual to be innocent. Max glances at the clock. It’s late. But not late enough to matter. Not like he’s missing anything.

There’s no warm meal waiting for him at home. No one checking the time, waiting for the plane to land, watching the door, asking him how the event went, if he learned anything useful at the presentations. He’s not getting texts. Not really. There’s always someone to talk to, sure. Always someone to entertain the idea. But no one waiting.

And that’s what it comes down to. There’s no one waiting for Max Verstappen. So he shrugs, voice even. “No.” And it’s the truth. He has nowhere to be.

No one to be there for.

Christian just nods once. Says nothing else. Doesn’t explain. Doesn’t need to.

He flicks the indicator, turns onto a narrower road without hesitation. The headlights carve through a tight lane lined with old brick, terrace house fronts with trimmed hedges, and lampposts glowing, warm. It’s not unfamiliar, exactly. It looks like any other suburban stretch near Milton Keynes. Just unexpected.

From the back seat, you must notice- slow and half-alert- blinking off your daze like it’s something you can set aside. Max can hear your diagram confetti rustle as you sit up. “Where are we going?” Christian doesn’t answer. Just keeps driving, the faintest hint of a smirk tugging at the edge of his mouth like he’s enjoying whatever surprise he has planned. And then the car slows. 

A small pub sits ahead- not some posh gastropub or dimly lit cocktail den- but a squat, weathered building tucked just off a residential bend. The paint on the wooden sign is chipped, peeled in layers down to bare grain. Warm light glows behind the glass, spilling across the wet pavement in patches that flicker against the cooler silver of streetlamps. Each time the door opens, muffled music and laughter leak into the air, caught and swallowed again when it slams shut. It’s not dingy, but it’s old- dated in the way that means history. Too lived-in to be a tourist spot, but too loved to be a complete shithole. Everything about the place looks aged and uneven- the kind of pub that’s been there longer than the people inside it. 

Christian pulls into a small space right outside. The engine goes quiet. For a moment, no one speaks. Max flicks his eyes toward the pub, then toward the rearview mirror.

“What are we doing here?” you ask, voice hesitant, caught somewhere between confusion and quiet amusement as you lean up between the front seats and look out the windshield- like maybe the side windows had tricked you- like you maybe weren’t parked in front of a neighborhood pub.

Max watches you from the corner of his eye- your gaze flicking between Christian and the battered old pub with a strange mix of suspicion and something softer. You sound like you want to laugh, but you’re not sure yet if it’s safe.

Christian doesn’t miss a beat. “We’re getting a beer.”

He says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, like it doesn’t mean anything. But Max knows it does. Small as it is, this- this- is Christian giving a damn. Maybe not loudly. Maybe not in words. But enough to drive off-course. Enough to stop here.

You just blink at first. Max can see it- how the words take a second to sink in, like your brain needs time to register the gesture for what it is. You look out at the pub again- at the weathered door, the faded signage, the people slipping out of it, hunched against the cold, heads ducked low in the kind of wet that soaks you before you feel it.

Then your mouth tugs upward. Slow. Like you’re not used to smiling for no reason.

“This place is…” your voice trails as you scan it again, and Max sees the way your shoulders twitch- something uncoiling, piece by piece, not quite sure if it’s allowed. “...perfect.”

You don’t bounce out of the car. Don’t flash your teeth or strut toward the door like a woman who owns the world.

But you do move with purpose. Like maybe the world is giving you something tonight, and you're not going to waste time questioning it. You step out into the night, trailing behind the glow leaking from the pub’s front door like you’re trying to catch up with warmth before it changes its mind.

Christian follows a beat later, stretching like an old dog before straightening his jacket. He gives the place a once-over with that strange brand of affection older men save for even older bars. Like a decent pint is something personal. 

Max stays where he is. Hands resting in his lap. Still. Watching. Hesitating.

He doesn’t know why he hesitates. He doesn’t hate pubs. He’s been to plenty. But this place… this moment… it feels like it wasn’t meant for him. Not really. Like he’s accidentally stumbled into someone else’s memory being made.

And you look so happy.

Not in the way he’s seen before- not the polished post-race smiles, not the forced cheer of sponsor events. This is different. Bare. Quietly radiant. You’re not floating just out of orbit of this world anymore. You’re walking right into it, like it finally has space for you.

Max breathes out through his nose. Slowly. Then he moves.

Deliberate. Grounded. Shoulders drawn tight under the weight of something he won’t name. He climbs out of the car, planting his feet on slick pavement, the cold nipping at any exposed bits of skin- his face, his ears, the sliver of skin where his pants are tailored just so to the tops of his shoes. His hands slide into his coat pockets, fingers curling into the seams.

Not because he’s cold. But because he doesn’t quite know what to do with them when a night starts to feel this gentle.

“This place looks like it hasn’t passed a health inspection since the ‘80s,” he mutters, mostly to himself, tone flat but not biting.

You glance over your shoulder, eyes catching his for a flicker of a second. “It’s personality.”

Christian claps him on the shoulder with a low chuckle, herding him forward. “One beer. You’ll live.”

He stares up at the weathered sign, the soft buzz of the pub’s neon barely fighting through the fog of a late autumn drizzle. That glow behind the windows- not sterile white, but amber. Warm.

“This place looks like it hasn’t passed a health inspection since the ‘80s,” he mutters, mostly to himself. Flat. Observational. No real teeth.

You glance over your shoulder, eyes catching his for a flicker of a second. Your mouth quirks. “It’s personality.” It’s teasing, it’s just two words- but it might be the first time you’ve ever said anything that borders on being friendly to him- not professional, not heated, not frustrated. Not what he makes you to be. Just… what you are. Warm. Kind. Like you’ve forgotten what a pain in your ass he is.

Christian just laughs, the sound low and amused, and claps Max on the shoulder with a firm pat that borders on a shove. “One beer. You’ll live.”

Inside, the air smells like fryer grease and varnished wood, like carpets that have soaked up too many rainy shoes and Sunday pints. A tapestry-patterned grid of carpet stretches out beneath scuffed tables and mismatched chairs. There’s a low hum of conversation, football playing on two TVs mounted high in the corners, sound just under the level of speech. One chalkboard lists drink specials in smudged white chalk; another advertises upcoming game coverage on SkySports and a Sunday poker night in barely-crooked block letters.

It’s not a shithole.

It’s just... used. The way good things are.

Max pauses just inside the doorway, his eyes scanning the room like he’s trying to map out exits. There’s a stiffness in his spine, a quiet discomfort that doesn’t read as fear- just unfamiliarity. The place is too normal, too small, too honest. Nothing here needs polishing. A dozen patrons, maybe fewer. Mostly older men, coats still on, eyes half-lidded as they nurse their drinks like they’re waiting to be tired enough to sleep.

No one looks up. No one gives a shit who just walked in. This place doesn’t want anything from him. And for reasons he doesn’t understand, that feels... almost comforting. Max exhales through his nose. Something tight uncoils in his chest, just barely.

“This,” you murmur, more to yourself than anyone else, “is my kind of place.”

Christian beelines for the bar the second they’re inside, already tossing a half-wave at the barkeep like he’s a regular, or just pretending to be one. His voice disappears into the low hum of the room- easy, warm, familiar.

And just like that, Max is left trailing behind you.

He doesn’t mean to. Not really. It just sort of happens. One step after the other, unthinking. The carpet firm underfoot. The air too warm against his face. He watches the way your head tilts slightly as you scan the room, the subtle pause in your step when you realize he’s following you- not like a bodyguard or a shadow, but like someone who didn’t make a decision fast enough and now doesn’t know how to back out.

You don’t say anything.

But your shoulders pull a little tighter for half a second, the way people do when they’re trying to decide if they’re being hunted or accompanied. Then, with a misdirected kind of purpose, you veer toward the left. Max follows.

The side room is empty. Blessedly, perfectly empty.

Same worn tapestry carpet, same faint scent of beer and furniture polish, but quieter. Detached. A few scattered tables and chairs. A dart board. One pool table- it doesn’t match either of the ones out front. And a jukebox against the wall- an actual jukebox. Old-fashioned. And mechanical. Not touchscreen, not curated. The kind that requires real coins and real commitment.

You hover near the doorway for a second, then walk in, slow and casual, pretending you’re assessing options but already choosing. You pick a table in the back- half-tucked near a radiator that clicks softly under the window. You don’t look at Max, but you know he’s there. You can feel him behind you.

He hesitates in the doorway again, just for a beat, before stepping inside. His steps are slower now. Intentional. He slides into the chair across from you, because like fuck is he going to sit next to you. And then it happens.

That terrible, silent, brutal minute where neither of you says a word.

Because no one made you sit here, together. There’s no team debrief. No overbearing fathers. No media duty. No camera crew waiting to catch the dynamic. No podium to share. Just... a table. A chair. And the awful weight of silence.

Thick. Ugly. The kind that knows it’s silence. The kind that grows louder the longer it stretches.

You glance toward the main bar, then back at Max, your expression flickering into something a little too neutral. Your voice is light but strained, like you’re trying to casually toss something into the void to break the tension.

“Do you think Christian’s ordering for all three of us or… do you think I should- ?” You gesture vaguely toward the door, a half-lifted hand that immediately regrets existing.

Max blinks at you. “He’ll get three.”

You nod a little too fast. “Yeah. Right. That makes sense.” And that’s it. Nothing else. Just those sad, wrinkled words sitting in the air like a damp napkin no one wants to pick up. 

Silence again.

It’s impossible to tell if the talking or the not talking is more awkward.

Neither of you looks at each other.

Christian returns- mercifully- carrying three pints with the kind of practiced balance that says this isn’t his first pub trip. The tray is plastic, probably older than all of them, and each glass is filled to the brim with a different shade of gold.

He doesn’t say much. Just slides the drinks onto the table like he’s delivering a verdict and claims the seat beside you, sighing as he shrugs off his jacket.

“Here we are,” he says. “The best thing I’ve done for either of you all week.”

Your hands are already around the glass before he finishes talking.

Pilsner, probably. Crisp. Cold. Head still holding. You stare down at it like it’s a religious experience.

Max watches as your fingers tighten around the glass. Your shoulders are still a little hunched from the lingering discomfort of whatever the hell that silence was, but now there’s something else bubbling up behind your eyes. Energy. Relief. Joy.

You lift the pint slightly, almost toasting with yourself, and then just laugh- a short, breathless thing as you shake your head. “I’m trying to think of something to cheers to,” you say, voice warm and hoarse. “But all I can think about is how fucking good this is going to be.”

You grin down at the glass. “I haven’t had a beer since I moved here. I- God.” You cut yourself off with another soft laugh, this one less strained. “It just looks so good.”

You say it like it’s more than beer. Max watches you. You’re entirely infatuated with your glass, which makes it easier to do.

He hasn’t seen you like this. Not really. Not happy, not glowing, not vibrating with the kind of low-key anticipation people usually outgrow once the world teaches them better.

He shifts in his seat and picks up his own pint. Ale. Bitter. Familiar.

Christian raises his glass and taps it gently against yours with a knowing grin. “Then stop thinking and drink it.”

You don’t need to be told twice. You lift the glass with both hands and knock back a third of it like you’ve just been pulled out of the desert. It’s aggressive, almost theatrical, except it’s not. You don’t even seem aware of how intense it looks- just drink until the foam’s down your throat and the glass is heavy again on the table.

“Fuck,” you breathe, wiping the back of your hand across your mouth. “That was exactly as good as I knew it was going to be.”

You sit back in your chair with a soft thump, spine loose, mouth curling like the weight of the day finally slipped off your shoulders. Max watches it all with a kind of passive disbelief. Not judgment, not exactly. Just… surprise.

You don’t look like yourself.

At least, not the version of you he knows. The one clipped and coiled, always tucked neatly into meetings, simulator data, tight-lipped PR nods. This is different. This is you opened up, like someone’s unzipped your skin and let something feral crawl out.

And it’s… weird.

Not bad. Not good. Just wrong somehow. Off-kilter. Like seeing your teacher at the grocery store in sweatpants, or hearing someone usually stiff and composed let loose a bark of laughter that doesn’t belong in their mouth.

“Best beer I’ve ever had,” you say into the foam, laughing softly to yourself. “Not even close.”

Christian’s grinning, already halfway into his own pint. “That’s because this is your first proper pint.”

“Hm. Probably.” You nod, like he’s just confirmed something sacred, then shift your attention toward the jukebox across the room. “Wonder if that thing still works.”

Christian cranes his neck, squinting toward the machine. “Not unless you’ve got change.”

Without missing a beat, you grab your purse off the floor and haul it into your lap, already unzipping a side pocket. “I’ve probably got a few twenty-pence pieces in here. My order at the work vending machine always gives me 20p back.”

You dig around, knuckles disappearing into the depths- keys, old receipts, some rogue stick of gum. Then the jingle of metal.

Max watches, eyes flicking from your hands to your face and back again. You’re buzzing. Not just from the beer. From something else. Movement. Relief. The sheer absurdity of the moment. 

And he can’t figure out if it’s entertaining or uncomfortable. He doesn’t like you. Not really. But seeing you like this- unguarded, messy, alive- it feels like catching a stranger undressing in a room you weren’t supposed to enter.

He doesn’t look away.

But it doesn’t sit right, either.

A scatter of coins clatter into your palm. Mostly 10ps and 20ps, one suspiciously sticky quid. Then, with a pleased hum, you stand and cross toward the jukebox, slotting the first coin in with a satisfying clink.

Max follows, slow and curious, hovering beside you, scanning the vinyl list for something that he’d like to listen to. 

He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t need to. He just assumes.

Of course you’ll hand him one. Why wouldn’t you? That’s what you do. If he asks for a file at the factory, you get it. If he shows up late to a meeting, you fill the gaps. You’re polite. Accommodating. Always willing to smooth over his edges, like that’s part of your job description.

So he holds out a hand. Expectant. Waiting.

You turn. See his outstretched palm. And for a moment you just blink at it. Then you burst out laughing. Not a scoff. Not a bitter exhale. Laughter. Full-bodied, surprised, involuntary.

“Oh my God,” you choke out, grinning wide. “You really just assumed I was gonna give you one. Like, full faith.”

Max blinks. Hand still out, suspended in the air like a loose wire. You just shake your head, still laughing, and tuck the rest of the coins into the back pocket of your pants. “What?” he says, flatly.

“What?” you echo, eyes wide and tone syrupy-sweet, the kind of sweet that makes your teeth ache. “Oh, sweetie, bless your heart. You must’ve forgotten- we’re not at the office. I don’t have to kiss your ass here.”

Max freezes, not because the words sting, but because they don’t. And your tone- it’s like creamed sugar. It’s too gentle. Too soft. Like there’s a knife slipped under the lace of your reply.

And he doesn’t know exactly what just happened.

But he’s pretty sure you made fun of him.

He stares at you like you’d just malfunctioned. Max leans in, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. His tone is measured, almost too calm- because the idea that you wouldn’t hasn’t even occurred to him. “Just pass me one.” he says.

You don’t even bother to lift your eyes. “Why would I do that?”

He blinks, as if surprised by his own impulse. Like he’s just remembered he’s supposed to ask. “Because I want to pick a song?”

You finally meet his eyes, and in them you catch something warm- a glimmer that isn’t full mockery, but rather a spark of amusement, light and unexpected. “And I want to own oceanfront property in Arizona. Guess we both have dreams.”

Max blinks.

You're serious.

He stares at you, genuinely gobsmacked- more from the unexpected tilt of the moment than from your words- because it’s not just that you’re refusing, it’s that you’re enjoying it. That the second you’re off Red Bull property, the second you're not in your work clothes and obligated to keep things diplomatic, you put your foot down. 

Over a twenty pence coin.

For months, you’d always given in to him, you’d always played the part as best you could, no matter how he acted: polite, professional, bending just enough so he could assume it was his idea.

But now?

Now you laugh- loud, unreserved laughter that rings out clear as you fish a single coin out of your pocket and hold it up like a prize. It’s the kind of laugh that feels raw and real, and it cracks the weight of the past wide open. The idea that you might hand him a twenty-pence piece simply because he wants one is absurd- so absurdly funny that it seems the universe itself has tipped the scale.

Max’s mouth parts in a tentative “You’re serious?”

“Oh, deadly,” you reply, your tone light but edged with challenge.

And it’s not just a boundary- it’s a message.

I don't owe you anything.

He narrows his eyes, a half-smile tugging at the corner of his mouth despite himself. “Come on.”

With a casual flourish, you hold the coin between two fingers, letting it catch the light- a tiny sun in your grasp. “If you want a song that bad,” you say, your voice sweet and teasing, “I’ll give you one. But you have to get on your knees, right here, and tell me I’m the best support driver you’ve ever had.”

The room between you shrinks in that moment. It’s more than the clink of coins or a request- it’s a defiant echo of balance, a playful wager that recasts every past slight into something strangely equal. And in the soft glow of the jukebox’s failing neon tubes- Max, for a brief, unguarded moment- is wrestling with that truth.

He lets out a breath through his nose- almost a laugh. Almost. No chance. Max Verstappen is not going to beg.

That’s the one thread he clings to, even as the night starts to loosen around the edges- warm light, cheap beer, and the comforting weight of anonymity settling over the room like a blanket no one asked for but doesn’t mind.

But asking again doesn’t really count as begging, right? It’s not like he’s on his knees or anything. He’s mulling it over when ‘just one beer’ unanimously becomes ‘just one more.’ He doesn’t remember saying he’d stay this long. But he doesn’t remember not saying it either. He also doesn’t remember asking for a second round, but one shows up anyways- probably Christian’s gesture of good will or penance or plain old morbid curiosity, but either way, Max doesn’t argue. He takes the pint and lets the chill hit his hand, then his throat, and plans his next move through half-lidded eyes.

It’s not that you’re being mean. Not really. You’re just… unbothered. Casual. Infuriatingly in control of this very stupid, very small situation.

He waits until you’re halfway through your second beer to try again.

Max hovers just behind you with his mug, arms crossed loosely, watching as you slot another twenty-pence piece into the old machine, your fingers dancing along the laminated list like you’re selecting fine wine instead of vintage trash-pop. He’s scowling, hovering just close enough to keep asking. Needling. Pestering. Because now it’s a matter of principle. 

“You can’t possibly need all of those.”

“Probably not,” you hum. “Think I’ll hang onto them just in case. Unless?”

When two locals approach the edge of the room- one in a Saints jersey, the other nursing a cider- and ask if you and Max want to team up for doubles on the lopsided pool table, you glance at him for just long enough that he thinks his respectable performance might have bought him some leverage. Wrong. Denied. Kneel. He scoffs. 

“I’m Max Verstappen.”

You shoot him a look so full of icy amusement that it could be a patented cooling system. “Kind of embarrassing if you can’t afford 20p then, you think?” There’s something so pleased in your voice, like you can’t believe he’s gift wrapped you a third opportunity to tell him no in the same night. Like you’ve already collected the return on your little shenanigans, and now Max is shoveling over interest for free. 

He doesn’t get it. He really doesn’t. You’ve always been accommodating. Tolerant. Even when he was an asshole- especially then- you still handed him things without making it a fight. You played the part. Took the hits. Smiled through clenched teeth.

Every appeal he makes, you swat down without lifting your voice, without raising an eyebrow. Just that same calm, clipped response- get on your knees. It becomes a rhythm. A bit. A game that neither of you acknowledges as a game, but plays to win.

You make your next selection, humming under your breath again, and Max stares at your hands- at the last few coins still gleaming in the half-light. They might as well be orbiting stars. Unattainable.

The worst part is that now he really wants to play a song. Not even to win. Not even to prove anything. He just wants the satisfaction. The hit of dopamine. The petty victory of hearing his music next.

And you’ve made it a hostage negotiation.

He paces. He sighs. He sits down on a barstool for thirty seconds, then stands back up. Sighs again. Another drink. Maybe his third. Or fourth. Time gets weird in warm places with sticky floors. Fuck, he wants to play a song.

And then it happens. Something cracks.

He groans- loudly, dramatically- and drops down to one knee right there in front of the jukebox, his jeans collecting samples of whatever filth settles on the floor of a place like this. “Fine,” he spits. “You’re the best support driver I’ve ever had.”

His voice drips with so much sarcasm it practically coats the walls. “Truly. Couldn’t have done a single thing without you.” You stare down at him like he’s a sewer rat that’s learned to tap dance. Amused. A little revolted. Deeply entertained.

And then you grin. It’s not cruel. It’s not even smug. It’s pure, unfiltered delight.

Then, without fanfare, you flick a twenty-pence coin toward the floor. It falls soft on the carpet. Rolls. Spins to a stop just out of his reach. You don’t say a word. But the look on your face- God- you don’t have to.

You’re glowing. Not in the clean, polished way people look when they’ve just won something shiny and official. No, this is something messier. Deeper. Satisfaction pulled from the pit of your stomach, slow and earned.

Max stares at the coin.

Then at you.

Then back at the coin.

And fuck- it’s humiliating. Which might be why it’s perfect. After everything he’s put you through- the weeks of sabotage, the debrief interruptions, the psychological bruising dressed up as excellence- you get to watch him bend.

He reaches down and picks it up.

You laugh. Low and loose and entirely unbothered. Like the idea of him groveling for your spare change is the funniest thing you’ve seen all week.

And maybe it is.

Because he feels it. In his spine. In the back of his throat. The shift. The tilt. This isn’t just a joke anymore. This is power. Yours. 

And for a moment- a long, stretching second longer than either of you probably intends- he holds your gaze. That coin is still cold in his palm. Small. Silly. Heavy in ways it shouldn’t be. Then he turns to the jukebox. Scrolls deliberately. Finds the most obnoxious ABBA song in the catalog. Hits play.

Out of spite. Out of principle. Out of sheer, fucking petty survival.

Your laughter follows him as he walks back toward the table- bright and alive and echoing like it’s chasing him down. And God help him- 

Max doesn’t even mind.

════════════════════ஓ๑♡๑ஓ══════════════════

The car hums low beneath them, dark outside now- later than it feels. Streetlights streak through the windshield in rhythmic bursts, washing Christian’s hands on the wheel in gold every few seconds. The roads are mostly empty, quiet, tucked in.

The silence in the car isn’t awkward.

It’s something else.

Max slumps slightly in the passenger seat, just enough for his spine to ease off the tension that’s been riding him all day. He’s not drunk, not entirely. But there’s a looseness in him now- beer-soft and slow, like someone’s untied a knot in the center of his chest without asking his permission.

His gaze drifts, half-lidded, unfocused- then catches the rearview mirror.

There you are.

Sprawled back in the seat again, just like you were earlier, but this time you’re warm with victory and booze and something that looks dangerously close to peace. Your head’s tilted toward the window, eyes half-closed. One sneaker up on the seat, your jacket unzipped, your fingers idly fiddling with a keychain that had come in your convention bag. 

Max forces his eyes forward. Then a beat later, they drift again.

Back to the mirror. Back to you.

He keeps doing it. Keeps catching himself. Keeps looking. And every time he does, the image plays again in his head like someone queued it up and hit repeat:

That coin.

The way you held it between your fingers like a king holding court. That smirk. That casual little toss to the floor, like the indignity of him crawling after it might scratch the surface of what he actually deserved. And fuck- maybe it did scratch the surface.

Maybe that’s what’s been clawing at him all night.

Because in that moment, on the grimy floor of some shitty pub, he had deserved it. And you’d known it. Had looked at him like yeah, fucker, I’ve got you. Like pulling him down to the floor made up for every interruption, every data sabotage, every small, cruel, calculated erosion.

And the worst part?

It worked.

He hadn’t felt humiliated. He’d felt- God, he doesn't even know. Exposed? Levelled? Something so real it almost hurt.

You’d leveled the field with one coin.

He rubs at his jaw, tilts his head like it might shake the feeling off. His eyes flick back to the mirror.

You're still there. You’re always fucking there. Soft now, somehow. Not unguarded, not entirely, but less braced. Like the night gave you something back. Like you won something that didn’t come in a contract or a race result.

Max shifts in his seat again. Clears his throat. Doesn’t say anything.

But he looks.

════════════════════ஓ๑♡๑ஓ══════════════════

You’re folded into the backseat, the hum of the road under you and a pub buzz still warm in your veins. Not drunk, not really. Just soft around the edges. Floaty. Like your body hasn’t caught up with your life yet.

You’re going to be in Formula One.

You say it again in your head- quietly, like a secret. Not because it is a secret anymore, but because something about the shape of it still feels fragile. Like saying it too loud might undo it. Pop the balloon.

Formula One.

God, you can’t wait to tell your mom.

The thought hits you hard enough you blink at the window, like the reflection might steady you. You picture her face. The way her eyes will go wide, her mouth open just a second before the joy breaks loose. You can already hear the way she’ll say your name- half disbelief, half vindication, all pride.

You feel it rise in your chest, tight and hot. You would cry, probably. If you were capable of that sort of thing- of happy tears. So you settle for smiling into the dark window instead.

And then- eyes.

You catch them by accident. Just a flicker in the rearview mirror. A flash of blue. Max. It’s not a look. Not really. Not loaded. Just… brief. The ghost of eye contact. But the second it happens, both of you look away. Like it burned.

You turn your head, pretend you were adjusting your jacket. He shifts in the front seat like something itched. And that should be it. Should’ve passed. But you don’t mean to- you swear you don’t- but your eyes flick back up to the mirror, just once, just to check if he’s still-  He is.

Staring.

Not in that cold, calculating way you’ve come to expect. Not annoyed. Not unreadable. Just... watching. Quiet. Caught.

So you stare right back. You don’t know why. Pride, maybe. Challenge, probably.

Fuck, why is it electric? It’s not charged with romance. There’s no tenderness to it. It’s something else entirely. Like striking flint. The glint of blade against blade. 

He doesn’t look away. Neither do you. You don’t move. And in that breathless little standoff- somewhere between the motorway and the factory- you realize something terrifying. 

He might see you.

════════════════════ஓ๑♡๑ஓ══════════════════

Series Masterlist

[lovelyyandereaddictionpoint]

A reader in TW with character and Power abilities from Chinsaw Man? I think she will fit well into this universeXD

Chainsaw Man Reader | Yandere Twisted Wonderland

You most certainly are an odd one, even without the little chainsaw tug hanging from your chest. When you gain the favor of your harem newfound friends and they raise alarm to the minimalistic crappy style of life. Nonetheless, you're still smiling and happily eating the rations you’ve been ‘gifted’. And while the smallest things mean the most to you nobody expected your face to turn into this chainsaw demon when Crowley asked you to clear out some trees

“What? You asked me to clear it out didn’t you?”

Trey Clover

“O-oh my–huh?”

Dude is bewildered beyond belief

But ultimately he doesn’t mind your power

Because you’re still dependent on him

You’re always sticking close to him 

“Oh, Angel of all things delicious! Do you have anything for me to eat!”

“Not right now..but I’m going to make something now if you want?”

“Yeeessss!”

He loves how happy you are to eat his food

Subsequently loving him since he feeds you for free

He’s acutely aware of your disparity with emotions 

But he doesn’t care

Especially when you’re so willing to do anything for it

“So all I have to do is just not talk to them and I’ll get sweets forever?”

“Yeah…you also can’t tell them why okay?”

Azul Ashengrotto

“Wait wait so if you want me to enlist your services you just want…”

“A place to stay!”

“Yes and…”

“Meals and that I get to touch some nipples!”

“...yeah…just anybody’s will do?”

“Yup!”

Please let it be his

He sees how easily you’re willing to stray despite your massive power

“I can’t let them go…they may be able to do that but they don’t understand this world. They don’t understand anything so it's only right that I keep—take them in.”

In a way, he does think of you like a dog, only in your brain though

You wonderfully don’t have much morale other than comfortability

“That’s perfect! So we have a deal then.”

Dire Crowley

“AAAAA I’m sorry for not giving you a bigger budget! I’m sorry! I’m sorry!”

He’s probably the most shaken

Suddenly he’s worried his generosity isn’t enough 

Despite suddenly giving more and encouraging students to house you while he revamps Ramshackle

But once he calms down and he sees you genuinely hold no resentment

Specifically, after he offered you some takeout

With a sweat drop, he suddenly starts showing up around you more often

Praising you and letting you take breaks

And eventually, a proposal is made to send you to someone who will experiment on you for your condition

Granted Crowley has…cleaned up quite a few messes himself 

But once he does he realizes this will never stop 

But who are they to take his baby bird from him…even if you turn into a chainsaw creature on occasion 

Nonetheless, he’s decided you cannot be seen, touched, or otherwise 

Where safer than in his own little nest

It’ll take some time to get it ready, but he’ll be generous with his creation so that you can be comfy when he makes the move

“No worries (Y/n) I’ve already begun preparing the nest for you to stay in!”

“Ewww I wouldn’t want to live in a nest. That’d be cramped and scratchy.”

“No no *ahem* it’s a house or room rather…”

“Oh! Will there be food?”

“...uh…yes, yes there will be is.”

“Yay!”

Ace Trappola

“Oi oi could you do the hedges for the Heartslabyul hedges? Sure’d save me loads of time.”

“Eh?! I don’t want Riddle to yell at me…”

“I'll let you touch my balls.”

“YES SIR! Those hedges will be cut! “

“Just trim them, make shapes if you wanna. I don’t care.”

Leans into your carnal desires the most

Dangling food and sex to get what he wants from you

He loves it though

In private he blushes like crazy 

totally taking advantage of your eagerness

He gets off on just about everything you do

But part of the fun is pretending he’s just this cool unbothered love interest

“Hehehe look at you sucking like that~like a dog.”

Now while you may be the one with chainsaws 

He’s the one who actually sets you on them 

Or decides to do something about the ones who want to do the same

“They might have said they’ll do anything but I’m letting you know now they will not be. Especially since you’re not going to be able to ask.”

[burnwater13]

Din Grogu sitting at a desk with his name displayed on it, on a high backed seat, while the Mandalorian stands next to the desk and announces that 'The High Magistrate will see you now.'

Sketch and edits by me.

“Grogu. Put that blaster down, right now. Gently.”

Grogu looked up at his dad and at the High Magistrate and sighed. He’d been hoping to avoid this turn of events but even a Jedi couldn’t always have their way. He put the blaster on the floor and took a step back from it. 

“Hey! That’s my blaster! C-29, how did you let Din Grogu access this weapon?”

The High Magistrate was indignant and annoyed by turns. It was clear that he appreciated Grogu’s gutsiness, but he wasn’t happy that Grogu had to display it this way.

“Why did the droid have your personal blaster?”

Din Djarin had a way of just cutting through the chatter. A Mandalorian way.

“I asked C-29 to see to it that it was cleaned and serviced properly. I haven’t seen it for a week or more. As High Magistrate I don’t really require one, but I think it adds more than it detracts.”

Grogu understood that. Jedi would use blasters in a pinch, but that didn’t mean they were happy to have anyone notice that. It wasn’t their weapon of choice, after all.

“Is that really the sort of thing a protocol droid should be doing? Why don’t you have an assistant? A living assistant?”

Good question. Grogu waited to hear the answer. Anything that distracted them from his story of taking the weapon from the protocol droid because it was planning on taking it all apart, while the mech that really did the maintenance work on it told it not to because that was outside of its programming, was a good thing.

“I used to have a Twi’lek assistant. He was very good. But he quit a month ago. Said he couldn’t keep up with all my demands and was returning to Ryloth. Obviously he was homesick, but I don’t understand what ‘demands’ he was talking about. It’s been fairly quiet here for the last several months. Really, until this whole IG-11 thing came up.”

Grogu laughed. He didn’t mean to laugh, but he did anyway. He hoped his dad understood what he was laughing about. He didn’t think the High Magistrate would. 

“I think you should ask your protocol droid what happened to your assistant.”

Good. Din Djarin had figured it out too. 

“My protocol droid? What would C-29 have to do with that? Other than process the orders?”

“Just ask.”

Grogu watched as his dad crossed his arms on his chest plate and waited for the High Magistrate to act. Not being the sort of person who would refuse to ask a question out of spite, Greef Karga, frowned at his friend and then turned his attention to the copper colored protocol droid.

“Very well. C29. Please tell these fine people what happened to Rebber La.”

“Rebber La was relieved of duty for failure to complete tasks in a timely manner.”

“See?” 

The High Magistrate commented to the Mandalorian and Grogu.

“How many tasks had Rebber La been assigned to complete?”

“One thousand two hundred and twenty five tasks.”

“What?!”

“What?”

Huh? No one could do that many tasks. Not even a Jedi who was raised by Mandalorians and had Sith grandparents, and a droid nanny. It was impossible!

“That’s absurd. What tasks were included in that list?” 

Uff. The High Magistrate made a mistake asking that question of a protocol droid. They were all going to be stuck there for hours listening to it recite the list.

Grogu coo’d to his dad. Maybe Din Djarin could think of someway to prevent that sort of torture by boredom. Grogu was starting to get hungry.

“I am not a liberty to say.”

“What!?”

Huh?

“Override personal privacy requirements. List the last five tasks you assigned to Rebber La.”

Phew. The Mandalorian had picked up on that risk right away. Grogu smiled. The people who had trained his dad really knew their stuff.

“Rebber La was assigned to locate and obtain 3PO coverings plated in appropriate materials to create a green coloring similar to hedges, grasses, and leaves. Rebber La was assigned to locate and obtain the services of droid smiths capable of replacing 3PO coverings in less than one standard day. Rebber La was…”

“Stop. Enough. I never assigned any of these tasks to Rebber La. He wasn’t a procurement droid. He was my assistant.”

“An assistant who was not able to assist you appropriately.”

Oops. Grogu was pretty sure that C29 was not supposed to say that out loud. 

Before he realized what his dad was doing, Din Djarin was walked over to the protocol droid and flipped their on/off switch to the off position. Their sensors dimmed and they just stood where they were without saying or doing another thing. 

“Why did your protocol droid want to be the color of leaves and grass? You know it wanted those parts for itself?”

“For itself? That’s… Dank Farrik. I told it I wanted some greenery added to the offices. I meant a couple of plants. Something that would brighten up the place. I had no idea that it thought I wanted it to be green. Anyway, what does this have to do with finding IG-11? That’s what I asked you to help with, not investigating office dramas.”

Grogu shook his head. He trotted over to the High Magistrate’s chair and jumped up into it and then sat back. As usual, the desk held a little bowl of snacks and Grogu began to spin around in the chair while he used the Force to grab the snacks. He didn’t really want to pay attention to the conversation that was about to ensue. It was going to make the other drama seem a lot more tame. He just wanted to skip to the end where the High Magistrate authorized the Mythrol to pay the Anzellan’s so he could go visit with IG-11-M and talk about actual important stuff. He’d had enough drama to last him a lifetime already.

To be continued...

[theangrycomet-art]

Sonic Underground Reprise: Hedgehog Family Tree Hedge

Here- the parents, the aunts, the uncles, the grandpa and grandma's and even some cousins.

Now, are most of these characters relevant to the main plot? No. But if you have followed me for any amount of time you should know of my love of expanding character's family trees.

COMMISSIONS OPENED

Kofi

Family Notes: (this gets kinda long)

Parlouzer Lore (paternal side)

Charlotte was a sailor who split her time exploring and fishing with her crew

she may or may not have been a pirate

Maurice was a skilled carpenter who worked from his home workshop in Port Mobius

he was just a humble, if a bit on the quiet side,

the two met by chance when Charlotte was exploring the area while Maurice was trying to get groceries

instantly charmed with one another, they kept in touch and she made it a point to always come back to see him every chance she could

after about 5 years of this she proposed to him and the two were married the next day

Chuck was born shortly after (honeymoon baby)

he mostly stayed on the mainland with his father while Charlotte continued working on the high seas

Julius was born when Charles was 12, and Pauline Pauli when he was 19

Chuck left for college early at 16, so he wasn’t particularly close with his younger brothers until they were practically adults

Jules ran away when he was 13 to join the circus, completely cutting off contact for nearly 5 years

At 17, he and several other members of the circus (including Argus) were arrested in Casino City after being framed for treason by a rival performance troupe. Due to their age however, the two were given an alternative to jail time: enlistment, which they begrudgingly accepted (this was HIGHLY illegal btw, as both were underage and therefore not qualified to be enlisted)

around 3 years into service, Chuck got wind of the bullshit charges placed on his brother and threatened to raise hell if the two were not brought back home immediately

Jules and Argus were then hired as a part of the Royal guard where they were charged initially with guarding King Max’s son, Crown Prince Nigel

Pauli avoided trouble growing up, having taken more after his father than his lovely, impulsive older brothers

Ihe developed a passion for piloting and decided to start his own delivery business, which would be how he would meet his future wife Bernie

Bernie

Nadim Lore

ditch the royal family part and exchange it for a powerful magic fam

Hatshe is the matriarch of a powerful magic guild, the Rising Sun, though she has retired from any official position

the Rising Sun was formed by Aman-Rapi long ago

Hatshe met Olgilvie when traveling through the Kingdom of Mercia when the then King requested the aid of the Rising Sun’s strangest magician (they had meant to request “strongest” but their had been a slight typo, luckily for them Hatshe was both)

Bastard son of a a duke, Olgilvie was knight renound for his skills with a blade as well as the strings

he was assigned to aide Hatshe in her assignment

the two did not get along initially, as both were headstrong individuals who had their own way of doing things, but eventually became friends, and later lovers

He ran off after her once her assignment had been completed and continued courting her back home

Layla is Aleena’s older sister, as well as the current leader of the Rising Sun

Though she may appear calm, collected, and regal, outside of official appearances she is a very much a dork who is not above a little mischief

she met Terios when the were children during the family’s travels

more specifically, she found his half dead body lie partway out of a river bank

he was taken in to the guild, where he showed strong promise in healing magic

childhood friends-> lovers, slowburn 160k words basically

everyone knew that they liked eachother except themselves

despite some initial mishaps, the guild has been thriving under her leadership

despite Robotnik’s efforts, their guild halls have remained hidden to him, as well as serving a safe havens for those trying to escape his reign

they work loosely with the Resistance, though Layla leaves it up to the individuals to come forwards and offer aid

[chunkymonkey]

Easy to forget

So, literally two hours later I decided to write a prequel to The secret in his eyes. The brainrot is strong with this one. Heinrix goes on his first mission and discovers something he hasn't really paid much attention to for a long time.

"Wait here, rookie. I'll go talk to that shady fuck myself." Tanakia lights her Iho stick and takes a drag with gusto.

"I don't think the governor will appreciate you smoking in his manor, Tanakia," remarks Heinrix dryly.

"Oh, I can't wait to put out my Iho on his golden fucking drapes when he protests."

Without a second glance at him, she opens the main door and strides inside.

Heinrix feels a prick to his pride: yes, it’s his first real mission, but he can do so much better than just lounge outside while Tanakia is doing all the work.

For a while, he wanders aimlessly around the garden, breathing in the scent of freshly cut grass and admiring the manicured hedges. It feels so peaceful here, hard to believe the planet has been raided by xenos scum twice this year. Hundreds were taken hostage. Yet, the governor doesn't seem to be particularly bothered by this. He didn’t even deign to alert the Navy, claiming his PDF was doing just fine. Tanakia suspects he takes bribes from the xenos: people in exchange for artefacts.

Suddenly, Heinrix feels like he's being watched. To his left, in a gazebo, he catches a glimpse of a dress. Yellow. Almost immediately, the dress disappears from view, and he hears a giggle. Probably the governor's children, he thinks. There’s a slight chance they overheard something important in Daddy's study. Doesn’t hurt to ask them some questions. Not as if he's particularly busy at the moment.

He slowly limps towards the gazebo.

He can hear frantic whispering. Then there's a shriek, and a small child runs out of the gazebo and dashes to the manor.

"Eric, you coward!"

A girl's voice.

With some effort, Heinrix climbs the two steps to the gazebo.

A pair of wide-open blue eyes stares at him in abject horror. The girl is about 16, with long brown hair and a petite frame. Something about her reminds Heinrix of his sister Sophie. He smiles.

The girl shrieks.

"Freak! Mutant! Don't come any closer, or the guards will shoot you dead!" The girl covers her face and collapses onto the floor.

"Please don't infect me!" she pleads, sobbing.

Oh.

It's so easy to forget.

He used to be a good-looking boy. When he smiled, the girls in his mother's service blushed and giggled. His mother's friends never missed an opportunity to pinch his cheek and tell him how handsome he was -and how many hearts he would break when he grew up.

There were no mirrors in the Chamber of the Astropathic Choir. And honestly? Most psykers there didn't look much better than he did. You couldn’t shock anyone there with the sight of missing limbs, eyeless sockets, blackened veins, or drooling mouths. No one paid much attention to his looks in the retinue of the Lord Inquisitor, either.

But now, in the real world, for the first time, he sees himself through the eyes of a normal person.

An almost bald head with rare patches of sickly-looking hair. An unevenly shaped skull because a third of it is covered by a crude metal plate. One eyeless socket. The drool escaping his mouth when he speaks due to to nerve damage. The limp.

He slowly turns away and exits the gazebo. The girl is quiet. She has probably lost consciousness.

He can't work like this, Heinrix remarks to himself dryly. How is he supposed to question witnesses if they faint at the sight of him? He’d better do something about it.

[ssaeri]

your god won't hear you

☆ tags: m!sydney x gn!reader, just a little fallen!sydney, slightly corrupted!sydney, he’s still strawberry blond because I don't want to dye his hair, it's that temple scene where he gets protective of you, I cut out the good night scene because I got lazy, SFW, but the game itself is 18+ so might be suggestive due to the nature of the game, ft. f!jordan, ft. m!sirris ☆

The temple is quiet at night.

During the day, there is always movement: supplies to be transported, shrubs to be cleared, sheets to be washed. But once the sun slips in the sky, a sigh of silence settles over the space, and one by one, robed figures roam along the perimeter, leaving flickering candles in their wake. Sometimes, you sought solace in the embrace of the holy, letting the murmured prayers wash over your frayed nerves like a soothing balm; other times, you skirted around the edges of the temple, the weight of sin heavy on your skin.

Today is an instance of the former. You get to the corner of Wolf Street when the warning bells start tolling, signaling ten minutes before the start of the evening service, and you watch as temple members rush to complete their chores. For once, you're not among them. One lithe initiate pulls sun-dried habits from the laundry line, rolls them into a pile, and stuffs them into her basket in a rush. The head nun of housekeeping is not going to appreciate the unnecessary wrinkles; you've earned her ire enough times to know that ironing out every individual crease is another form of earthly torture. Meanwhile a tall monk hefts bags of hedge trimmings over his shoulder to deposit by the roadside, and when he sees you, he waves with a shy smile.

Cute.

You wink back. You don't know his name.

A line of initiates not much younger than you push open the wooden temple doors with a loud creak, and you cut across the street to trail in behind them, smoothing down the tattered remains of your overalls and hoping that you’re decent enough to not draw stares. A chant has already started. Half of the candles are lit. You're afraid to make a sound.

Like you said, the temple is quiet at night.

Your eyes strain to scan the pews until they land on a familiar figure in a corner of the main hall, knelt in prayer, head bowed over clasped hands. Strawberry blond hair—colored burnt umber in the low light—spills over one shoulder.

Bingo.

The monk to your right greets the entrance with a murmured Welcome to the temple, his eyes closed, his steepled fingers pressed to his lips. You side-step him. You also tiptoe around the sleeping drunkard in the back pew who clutches an empty bottle to her chest, the rumbling exhales smelling of liquor.

Your boyfriend doesn't greet you when you settle down near him—a respectable distance of two and a half feet minimum—but he’s fighting back a smile and you wait patiently for him to finish reciting his lines. As Sydney mouths the last few words, his eyes flutter open and crease at the sight of you. You loved his glasses, but you must admit that he looks better like this, adoration for you unfiltered.

“Good evening, my love,” he whispers, reaching across the space to brush the back of your hand. You catch it in his retreat and intertwine your fingers. “What are you doing here?”

“Praying,” you say simply, though you are clearly not.

Still, he hums in accord, squeezes your hand, and resumes his previous posture. At the altar, Jordan finishes setting up the religious artifacts and does a sweeping glance of the space. You wonder what she sees. Monks on the side processing with a sweet-smelling thurible. Initiates carrying the remaining piles of scrolls to the back rooms. Nuns walking around with a donation basket. Temple-goers lining the wall to confess their sins and seek grace. Jordan’s gaze eventually lands on you, and you swear you see an infinitesimal nod of approval before she descends to her usual place in the first pew, pearl-white and spun-silver robes setting her apart from the rest.

Jordan leads the congregation into the next set of prayers by chiming a golden bell that echoes eerily in the space. The temple isn't empty, but the vaulted ceiling, extending into darkness, morphs the sound into something resembling the pained groan of spirits. You kneel, too, feeling wood against bare skin, the holes in your overalls fresh from a forest adventure. You wouldn't call yourself a believer, but you'll take all the help you can get in this town.

You pray for salvation. For the orphanage. For the math project that you still haven’t finished. Sydney’s expression is concentrated now, troubled by the thoughts that plague his mind, but you can’t spend too much time dwelling on it because your own thoughts drift to hopes for the future and how things could be better. The next hour passes quickly behind closed eyes, and with every exhale, you feel your burden lighten.

The calm is interrupted by a nasal:

“A token of appreciation from the faithful, hm?”

The voice comes from a stout nun who stops in front of you, holding out a donation basket and barely missing your elbow. While her smile is neutral, she scans your outfit with thinly veiled contempt, and it's in that judgmental expression that you realize why she's so familiar—it's the one who always has a bone to pick with you and your faith. She swears that you're a fraud (you are) and that you treat the temple like a playground (you do) and that you’ve been tempting temple members in the chambers (you have)—but honestly, that is beside the point. As a woman of the veil, couldn’t one expect more grace from her?

Sydney reaches in front of you to drop in a crumpled £10, which the nun accepts with a sniff of her upturned nose. Tacking on your best customer service smile, you make a big show of rummaging for your wallet and pulling out the crispest £100 you have, courtesy of your last customer at the massage salon.

“Of course, Sister. Anything to support the temple,” you say with conviction you do not feel. “Perhaps this can help buy new curtains for the west wing.”

At your emphasis, the nun flushes down to her neck and stalks away without another word, coins rattling in her basket. You swear she's muttering something about you under her breath, but it doesn't matter; you've clearly won. There’s a beat of silence before Sydney leans over, shoulders shaking.

“Did you know the curtains were burned down last week because she knocked over a candle in her sleep?”

“Why do you think I said it?”

A suppressed laugh that makes his eyes twinkle.

“Oh, you are bad,” he says, and his mirth makes your skin tingle pleasantly.

“Thanks, I try.”

The golden bell rings again, and as one, the congregation sits back onto the pews to shift into the next prayer. It’s one that you kind of know. The language is foreign, some ancient tongue that you never learned, but the cadence is almost melodic, so you mumble along and hope that it’s enough. Their god is a forgiving god, right? Surely your intentions will win over your execution.

.

.

Another hour or two passes in this way. At some point, during another break, Sydney turns to you and asks what you're praying for. For peace, you reply vaguely. Honestly, as it grows later, you've just been trying not to nod off, the lingering effects of treasure hunting in the lake wearing down your muscles. Your watch reads almost midnight, and soon Sirris will emerge from a hidden corner, offering you a ride home before he returns to the Danube mansions with his son. You're banking on it; walking home at this hour would probably invite some unwanted encounters.

Suddenly, there’s a new warmth at your side. A slender man, dressed in a monk’s habit, leans in close and sneers as his chest brushes against your shoulder. A light but intentional caresss. You tense, biting back a yelp of surprise. He takes that—your silence, your stillness, your deer in headlights look—as a sign to continue, resting a hand on your exposed thigh. The tattered overalls. The bastard leans closer still.

“Don’t cause a fuss,” he murmurs, his sickly sweet tone edged with the promise of threat, “or I’ll say you attacked me. Who will they believe?”

Certainly not you. You've been carefully balancing your notoriety; photography sessions with Niki are now monthly instead of weekly, chef shifts at the local café are limited, no more cabaret shows on Friday nights—you’ve even started wearing conservative clothing to keep a low profile. But none of it feels like it’s enough, especially when you still get recognized on the street for your nightclub shifts and the growing list of crimes that have you in hot waters with the police.

This guy? He has a golden pendant around his neck, the center inlaid with a blue gemstone. You're not familiar with the colored rankings, other than the fact that Jordan’s pure diamonds denote her as the head of this temple, but just having a gemstone places him higher than your initiate level, marked by the plain gold cross pendant that dangles on a simple chain.

Before you can say anything, though, Sydney lifts the hand off your thigh, holding it in a crushing grip. A smile is frozen on his face. Despite not being directed at you, the barely masked fury and crazed eyes send a chill down your spine.

“Belief won’t matter because I’ll attack you for real,” he says lowly. Slowly. Letting the words sink in like stones in water.

And unlike yours, Sydney’s reputation does hold weight in the temple. There’s rumors of him being Jordan’s successor decades down the line, but even without the help of those rumors, you know that Sydney is ready to send this man to hell and back for daring to touch you, much less threaten you. Sydney’s grip is steady; the man’s fingers tremble and redden, seconds away from snapping. Sydney’s hand has been around your neck before, but it was always gentle, never more than a loving pressure. Now you lightly brush your sternum, wondering what it would be like to have this energy turned on you.

The man’s life must flash before his eyes because suddenly he has the strength to rip his hand away and scurry to the back of the temple, the worn monk habit swishing at his ankles. Smart move. You don't know who he is, and honestly, you can barely recall his face, but you doubt that he'll be bothering you for a long time.

“Fucking heathens,” Sydney spits at the retreat.

He waits until the man’s figure completely disappears into the shadows. Sydney isn’t much of a fighter, but from the straight line of his shoulders, you don’t doubt that it’d change in a heartbeat.

Then his attention is on you, and his anger crumbles. “Are you alright, love?”

He cups your face in his palms, and you lean into the touch.

“I’m okay,” you say, giving him a tight-lipped smile.

If this happened a year ago, you would’ve been shaking in your boots, bewildered at the audacity of the stranger, but ever since Bailey insisted on weekly payments, you’ve…seen the world. For better and for worse.

Right on time, Sirris strolls over, blissfully unaware. He swings his car keys from a finger. “Ready to go, kids?”

[azspot]

Israel, supplied with billions of dollars of weapons from the U.S. Germany, Italy and the U.K., created this hell. It intends to maintain it. Gaza is to remain under siege. After an initial burst of aid deliveries at the start of the ceasefire, Israel has once again severely cut back the trucked-in assistance. Gaza’s infrastructure will not be restored. Its basic services, including water treatment plants, electricity and sewer lines, will not be repaired. Its destroyed roads, bridges and farms will not be rebuilt. Desperate Palestinians will be forced to choose between living like cave dwellers, camped out amid jagged chunks of concrete, dying from disease, famine, bombs and bullets, or permanent exile. These are the only options Israel offers.

Chris Hedges

[stephensmithuk]

The Hound of the Baskervilles: The Problem

Yew hedges are pruned lots of European yew (Taxus baccata), a highly dense tree that can cope with heat, cold and pollution.

A wicket gate is a small narrow door built into a fence, wall or larger gate. You would often find them in city gates as they could be opened to admit pedestrians without incurring the time and security risk of opening the main gate.

Padlocks have been around since ancient civilisation, but the Industrial Revolution made them much easier to make and available to the masses.

Clogs were very popular in Britain at this point as they were cheap, strong footwear for industrial and agricultural workers. People danced in them and it is still a thing in Wales. One British expression for dying is "popped his clogs".

Waterloo was the main railway arrival point in London for ocean liner passengers disembarking at Southampton (a major port of arrival for them), with special trains being put on to meet the various liners. An express train in 1888 could do the journey from the Southampton Docks station in 2 hours and 10 minutes. The electrification of the line from London to Southampton by British Rail led to the closure of this station and nearby Northam in 1966 to passengers, freight services running a year longer. Passenger services were diverted to Southampton Central. The station's platform area is now a car park under the old glass canopy and the station building is now a casino, part of the Gentings Casino chain.

Yellow fever is a viral disease spread by mosquitoes. Most people get over it in five days or so, but 15% will get a second phase including jaundice (hence the name) with a 20%-50% fatality rate at that point. Africans were mistakenly thought to be immune to this when they had in fact merely acquired immunity via burying their dead close to their habitations with resultant mild cases among children. When these traditions were stopped by imperalists, they got it just as bad as everyone else. It is thought it came to South and Central America via the Spanish conquerors.

A successful, easily manufacturable vaccine was developed in 1937. A lot of countries now require some form of yellow fever vaccination, although precise regulations vary.

Shag tobacco is fine-cut tobacco used for self-made cigarettes i.e. roll-ups.

The Ordnance here refers to the Ordnance Survey, which I have discussed in the past.

Princetown prison is HMP Dartmoor, originally opened in 1809 for prisoners of war from the Napoleonic Wars and then the War of 1812. Closed in 1815, it was rebuilt in 1850-1851 to become a civilian prison; today it is a Category C (general population) men's prison.

[nobodysuspectsthebutterfly]

Playing a little game with the HOTD S2 teaser trailer called "can I identify scenes". Nothing but spoilers (major, major spoilers) under the cut:

Rhaenyra at Storm's End looking for Luke's body, as reported in leaks.

Stokeworth and Rosby shields - this is the Sack of Duskendale / Battle at Rook's Rest. From leaks (re what happens to Meleys, um) we know that BRR is this season, probably near the end of it.

Criston cutting some guy's head off - possibly the execution of Lord Staunton after the battle of Rook's Rest. Staunton's head and Meleys's head were taken to KL and paraded.

may be Nettles, but I think more likely to be Addam of Hull, as that's Seasmoke.

It's a bit blurry, but pretty sure those are Darklyn shields. (<nerd> incorrect Darklyn shields, too many white shields for this point in history, they haven't had that many Darklyns in the Kingsguard yet.</nerd>) More from the Sack of Duskendale/Battle of Rook's Rest.

Possibly executions during Daemon's Assault on Harrenhal? Although that was Aemond who killed the Strongs in F&B... that's definitely a weirwood, though... but then, most castles have weirwoods, not just Harrenhal. Could also be part of the Taking of Stone Hedge.

Something in the North, almost certainly, but not sure what. Maybe the Winter Wolves leaving?

Seasmoke's back, back again. Rumors are that Laenor just gives him up or something? Lore nerds will freak ("a dragon never has two living riders!"), but babes, this is where you have to just relax and remember the show is not the books.

Nice establishing shot of the Dragonpit. The Storming will not be this season, but it'll be useful to compare once the show gets there.

This is either Prince Jaehaerys' funeral or the parade after Rook's Rest, but I think that's the carriage that was carrying Alicent and Helaena in mourning clothes (as seen in leaks), so possibly the former. OTOH leaks had a drum being beaten while Meleys's head was paraded, so it might be the latter. We'll see I guess!

Probably at Rook's Rest, trying to get the fuck away from Meleys's fire.

speaking of which. Rosby shields on the ground, that early scene where they were standing is probably right before Rhaenys and Meleys arrived.

yay Baela gets to do something. Wonder if she arrives at BRR too late to help, but in time to see Rhaenys's body? Would be a good setup for her and Aegon later.

KG doing the Secret Service thing with Alicent. Some kind of public panic, this may be in relation to the Meleys parade because the book says it made everyone want to leave KL, so they may have changed that up a bit.

Brackens, probably the Battle of the Burning Mill / Taking of Stone Hedge.

Assault on Harrenhal, probably.

well we all know what this is. 😭

ah shit, Erryk fighting in someone's bedroom? Cargyll twin vs twin, probably, I knew it was early in the war, but I liked him. 😔

Not screencapping this bit, but the cut that makes it look like Aemond is fighting Rhaenyra on their dragons is oh-so-clever to play with audience expectations.

Rook's Rest, the ground is all smoky because of Meleys, and shit here comes Vhagar to make it worse.

A few scenes I have no idea what's happening yet, like the Helaena underwater scene and Alicent in her nightgown at the Gods Eye... are we getting dream scenes at last? Would be a nice changeup. Could be POV prophecies also. Well, looking forward to it!

edit to correct: Helaena's not underwater, that's a veil, undoubtedly a mourning veil. 😭

[tavolgisvist]

When he [Bob Eubanks] hired me he was the man who promoted the Beatles in LA. I was never really sure he liked them, but the hell, he was getting rich at the Hollywood Bowl. There were many other deals going. One of the drivers, after the first Bowl show, handed the Beatles towels to dry their sweat. He later cut up the towels, encased half-inch squares of towel in plastic, and sold them for five bucks each. The driver was really a radio station newsman. I guess he’s got turned on by now, but in those days he wasn’t very cool. It was all deals then. Anyway, I got to know Eubanks during our first American visit, with the Beatles in 1964, and he said whydoncher work for me buddy, we’ll get rich? So our family of six emigrated.

...

Paul Revere and the Raiders, the Beau Brummels, Joe and Eddie and Jerry Naylor. Plus the Beatles, for though I wasn’t working for them any more they were the love of my life and Bob Eubanks figured that with a love like that you know it can’t be bad. ‘I’m going to have you fly to the Bahamas,’ he said, the night we arrived in Los Angeles, 70,000 miles from England and intending to set up home. ‘Tonight?’ ‘No. Next week.’ Gee, thanks. Maybe we can get a house, find schools, buy some furniture, get used to the heat and, all in one week, fly to the Bahamas. And, also, he said, why didn’t I fly to Sacramento, see Paul Revere and the Raiders, make friends, sign them up and go on stage to say: ‘Hi. I’m Derek Taylor, used to work for the Beatles. I’m now working for Paul Revere and I’m flying to the Bahamas next week to see the Beatles make their new movie and I’m going to take them your love and also the good wishes of Paul Revere and the Raiders.’ I guessed this must be how things work in America, so I did it. I made friends with Paul Revere, signed them up and went on stage and made my speech. Later that night, I went to the motel where Revere and company were staying and he showed me how you could put a match to a fart and there would be green flame. I quite liked the guy. I liked the group too. They were good and they did well. They were all young then (all but Revere and Mark Lindsay who had seen a lot of hard service here and there), and full of hope of taking over from the Beatles. ‘Are we good enough?’ they asked and it was tough to answer ‘No’, so one just hedged and mumbled and begged the question. The next week I flew to the Bahamas with Dave Hull, squarest disc jockey at KRLA, an amiable short-hair who believed that Medicare had to be the worst thing to happen to America since the New Deal. We arrived in Nassau to find the Beatles just leaving for dinner in the town. They were less than glad to see me, old pal in radio drag with a tape-recorder over my shoulders. ‘This is Derek Taylor, reporting from the Bahamas. I have with me Ringo Starr of the Beatles. Hi Ringo. Nice to see you again.’ ‘Hi Derek. Nice to see you again. What are you doing with a microphone under my famed nose?’ What indeed? Bob’s idea was that I would use my relationship with them, my friendship even, and get interviews which would be unique: ‘Not merely interviews, but rather … conversation between friends’ was the slogan we would use to sell the tapes, once they had been cut up, packaged and prepared for use on radio stations. A scale of charges was drawn up – $50, $100, $200, depending on the wattage of the station. None of this was to be communicated to the Beatles. All they were to know was that Derek was doing a little gig for KRLA to get Prestige Publicity some working capital. Before the family and I had arrived in Los Angeles, there had been dozens of commercials on KRLA: ‘Derek Taylor is jetting to town. Derek Taylor? Wow. Yes, folks, Derek Taylor is coming to KRLA.’ Also, above my glamorous name, letters had gone to every showbiz celebrity in town, announcing my coming. Oh, yes, it’s all true. * Paul was very mean in the Bahamas. I mean, mean. Who is to blame him? Not I. Not me.

‘Bloody hell,’ he said when he saw me. ‘Bloody hell, Derek. You with a tape-recorder asking us questions?’

Oh yes, me with a tape-recorder. The thing was what was the thing I was? Their friend or a journalist or their ex-publicist Brian Epstein’s ex-personal assistant or a puppet of Bob Eubanks or a man in search of a career in American radio or what? The answer is I didn’t think there was any choice. I didn’t know about things like that. I mean I wouldn’t rob an old woman with one leg and a blind dog, and I wouldn’t take a bribe and I wouldn’t rape my sister but I would do many, many things if I was told to because that was the way it had always been. I would write a list of Forty Fab Facts you didn’t know about the Beatles and sell them. I would allow myself to be offered to Lloyd Thaxton of Hollywood as a television link man, I would do so many things which now would be quite ridiculous. I would, even, have the extraordinary cheek to turn up in the Bahamas with a tape recorder to interview the Beatles. It was as well I did it then; I couldn’t do it now. God, I must have been brave or daft or something I’m not sure any more. Brian had slipped out of the Bahamas before I arrived. A good idea. We hadn’t been very close since the previous year, 1964, when I had resigned in the Riviera Motel near Kennedy Airport. It was a shame because we lost valuable talking-time and he hadn’t very long to live and many, many people with whom Brian had trouble have their own regrets that their patience was not more extensive and, of course, patience was what you needed with Brian because he could be, if not impossible, then unbearable, and sometimes impossibly unbearable, but many of the people I like most are absolutely terrible. You too? Good.

We were down on the beach at Paradise Island (you reached it by ferry from Nassau; in those days it was owned by Huntington Hartford, later Howard Hughes) and it was a fantastic rich man’s folly with a casing like a palace out of Ben Hur, quite empty, safe doors swinging open, phones out of order – open to wind and water. The beaches that were Paradise, empty but for Beatles paying gold for the privilege, and an army of savage extras, one of whom was Murray the K, disc jockey lately become fifth Beatle and anxious to appear in a movie with them. (‘For the image, man.’) Down on the beach at Paradise Island, Dave Hull had one recorder and mike, I had another. He had given me his mike: ‘This will put more oomph’ (oomph, for Chrissake?) ‘in your voice,’ he said, showing me. ‘Moooore ba aaaaasssss sound, like, deeeeeep.’ OK Dave, I can dig it. The mike was faulty and I popped p’s in the breeze.

We split up between the Beatles. I took John first; caustic John who was really nothing of the sort. He pulled a couple of desultory put downs and then gave me as good a tape as you’ll get if you are asking questions like: ‘Whereja buy your boots?’ and ‘Do you enjoy filming?’ and ‘How old are you?’ of someone you know at least as well as your brother, and maybe better. George told me about going to a family wedding in Liverpool.

Paul decided not to be mean any longer – guessing, correctly, that life was bad enough without rubbing my nose in it – and talked about song-writing (‘we can carve Paul’s up into twenty pieces,’ said Dave. Let’s see, twenty by $100, that’s 2,000 bucks) and Ringo said it was great to be married, a quote you can read even today. It comes up as fresh as ever. That evening we had dinner in the open air, along a fine table laid with white linen and silver from a graceful pantry. I was invited with one of those, ‘Don’t tell a soul, man, just give Dave and Murray the slip, like come alone,’ and it was a nice time. Dave and I flew back to LA next day. Bob Eubanks met us at the airport with press photographers, a frown creasing his handsome, suntanned mask. ‘Hi buddy. Get the tapes?’ ‘Yeah man; got the fucking tapes. Lost me soul, tho’, lost me soul.’ He seemed very glad to hear it. Gayle and Cecil were waiting back at 6290 Sunset, Joan and the kids were at the airport with Bob and by the time we arrived home in Nichols Canyon, where we had just scored a house before I flew to the Bahamas, I was needed in the office to write about my thrilling experiences with the fab Beatles in the sun-drenched Bahamas. I thought maybe I was really earning the stinking $215 a week and Joan wondered if any money could make up for the changes she was having to go through. A few days later, Bob Eubanks and his team of mailers, tape-editors and salesmen were ready to market the tapes, segmented, trailered, packaged. Beatlemania would do the rest. An ad was placed in Billboard. Disaster … No one wanted the tapes, at all. But these, we said, were conversations between friends, we said. No deal, said the thundering silence. And Brian Epstein, through his lawyers in New York, threatened vengeance in the worst way. ‘I back down,’ I told Bob. ‘You stay where you are,’ said Bob. ‘We won’t have hands to count the money.’ Forget it. I backed down and out of Beatle tapes. Also, I never had the lust for gold again. Money doesn’t talk, it swears* and Hollywood is a town of many temptations. I left Bob Eubanks a few weeks later, taking with me 2½ per cent of the Byrds who were then grossing a few hundred a month and Paul Revere and the Raiders who had been paying Eubanks $750 a month but who asked me would I take $350 a month on account of they weren’t all that well heeled (they were in fact very well heeled), and I may not be able to do the job as well without Bob behind me. OK, OK, I’ll take it. This was the middle of 1965. The Byrds’ epoch-making Tambourine Man had been released and it had made Number 1 in the US and was about to do the same in Britain. Revere had yet to have a hit, but they were good on stage. The Byrds and Revere were both Columbia Records and they didn’t really enjoy each other’s music though they shared the same producer, Terry Melcher. Serving them was therefore like walking on a tightrope. It was like pedalling backwards on a one-wheeled cycle with a puncture, body all aching and racked with bennies, between ‘Revere: the finest performing group in North America, Oregon’s answer to Liverpool’, and ‘America’s best group’ which is what I thought about the Byrds then and still do, mostly. When, later, I picked up the Beach Boys, who also wanted their publicist to write ‘best’ and ‘greatest’, it became more a matter for a clever thesaurus than a tired, tired biped with twenty clients and five children.

...

In those days, and the more I write, the further off and the further out they become (remember the McGuinn glasses and David Crosby’s cape?) – in those days there was the Beatles and everyone else and as we flew to Britain, Michael Clarke, Byrd drummer, was asking, did I figure they would get to meet the Beatles? Since ‘These Are Not Merely Interviews, These Are Conversations Between Friends’, the last thing I wanted to do was run into the Beatles! Yet, all the pre publicity to the tour suggested that the Beatles would be intrigued to see what the Byrds were like. So a meeting was unavoidable. On our first night in London, I stayed in the hotel, the Europa in Grosvenor Square. Mike went out with Gene and David (I think they all went out) and at about 4 a.m. Mike woke me and said, ‘We met them, we actually got to meet the Beatles. Paul said “hi” and George wants to see you.’ Oh yeah? Next night it happened that George and John came to Blaises where the Byrds performed to a room no bigger than the one you’re sitting in now, on a stage insufficient to carry all the drum kit. They played louder than anyone else had been known to play, even in Madison Square Garden they were bloody loud, and Blaises or blazes, they were going to tune up and belt the music out. I thought they were marvellous and I think John and George did, but some of the English smirkers smirked and you only need a few English smirkers in a half lit room to feel pleased you’re not proud to be English. Upstairs in Blaises, after the set, John and George sat at a long table and invited us in. Boy, were they big-time then – I’d forgotten. It wasn’t them at all, it was the situation. They were absolutely IT. John sat at the centre of the table, George at the head and they sent for wine for free. It came and we arrived with it. ‘Thanks for the tapes,’ said John, very loud. ‘Which tapes?’ I said, very soft. ‘You know which tapes,’ said John, still very loud. ‘True,’ I said, a little louder, knowing that was the end of that. So it was. We all left, again in that under-the-breath ‘come alone’ way, John grabbing bottles of wine to wave goodbye by way of goodbye to Jim Carter-Fea, then owner of Blaises, By Appointment, Host to the Beatles. We went round to Brian Jones’s apartment where we smoked some hash and some grass and as there was no food in the place and, after the wine had finished, no liquid excepting a half-bottle of milk, solid as chalk, we went out for hamburgers and then went home.

*Bob Dylan

(As Time Goes by Derek Taylor)

(Part I, Part II, Part III, Part IV, Part V, Part VI, Part VII, Part VIII, Part IX, Part X, Part XI)

[fgrobichiko]

Case 2024A2 "She"

[[Description - Several reports of an anomalous stranger]]

REPORT 1:

Clipping of the Luau Gazette, Tennessee, Obituaries, [redacted]

"Gone but not forgotten, Mister Doherty will be survived by three daughters and two sons, and heaven will await his arrival. If you have any information as to the circumstances of Mister Doherty's death, any samples of the food or drink eaten that day, or any information regarding the unknown woman who reported the deaths and allegedly claimed the death was the doing of Father Trufels, supposedly to claim the inheritance in an elaborate embezzlement scheme, police are asking witnesses to contact them on the following number:"

REPORT 2:

Audio clip of a call to emergency services, Devonshire UK, [redacted]

"Yes, hello, I'm sorry, Miss [unintelligible] asked me to call. My father is dead. She just found him, shot in the head, I think yes. Miss- s-sorry, Ma'am, yes I know you aren't a miss. I'm sorry, what did you say? How did I know he'd been- ah. Yes, I'm sorry, let me just - yes, please send an ambulance. Yes, he's dead, I'm quite sure. Thank you. I think I'd better have a rum..."

REPORT 3:

A photograph of a crime scene, Paris Police forensic archives.

[The photograph shows a man dead on the floor, his eyes rolled back in a head that is lolling backwards over a chair. A filligreed knife is protruding from his neck, and his hand holds a blood-stained letter. Visible behind a chintz tea table is a pair of smart heeled shoes below a plain dress. The tip of an umbrella is also visible by the feet, which appears to be wet. The photograph is labelled in french - "Photograph of victim, taken by prime suspect in fillicide". Numerous other such photographs are included, each with the shoes and wet umbrella visible, including one with the subject's body obscured entirely by the umbrella, which has been opened towards the camera.]

REPORT 4:

A news report of a traffic accident cut short, BBC News, [redacted].

"The wheel turned on its own, I couldn't stop it. The brakes weren't working. I don't understand how it happened, I just got it serviced. My brother-in-law did it, but he's a mechanic, so I don't think it should he an issue."

[There is a voice that suddenly fills with static on the feed. The camera turns to the speaker, showing what appears to be a short, caucasian, white-haired woman for a single, blurred frame.]

"I'm sorry Madame, what was that?"

[The footage begins to be overtaken entirely by noisy static, with voices being obscured until the screen turns black.]

REPORT 5:

Live footage of the Glastonbury Derby, [redacted], BBC

[The footage shows the final hurdle of the course. Nine horses trail behind a lead horse by several seconds, as the jockey atop it suddenly clutches his chest. The horse leaps, but jerks spasmodically in midair, and crashes through the hedge, rolling over the jockey. The crowd rushes onto the racecourse as the trailing horses come to a stop, and the camera cuts close, before swapping to the commentators, one of whom has gone white with shock.]

"My god, a truly terrible fall there. Emergency services are already coming up the track now..."

[The other commentator does not seem to be shocked until he turns and raises his hand]

"Excuse me madame, you can't be here right now, I'm sorry-"

[The back of a short woman's head, with white curly hair, enters the screen, before the broadcast abruptly ends.]

REPORT 6:

Security footage of gate 5, [redacted] airport

[The footage shows a sudden flash of light wash over a hundred sitting people. All of them but one get to their feet, and after a number of seconds begin to flee. One small, white-haired Caucasian woman gets to her feet as shards of glass, and the wing of a plane, enters the frame. She opens her umbrella, and appears unscathed after the wing passes over her.]

[[Reports End. This woman seems to have appeared during, or shortly before, numerous cases of seemingly accidental, but ultimately proven to be intentional, brutal deaths. In the occasions her speech has been recorded, she appears to show anomalous knowledge of the perpetrators of these crimes. Her clothing seems to alter between appearances, as do the specifics of her facial features, though as it appears to be impossible to record said features it is hard to be certain.

This woman may either be an entity herself, or be utilising the abilities of some unknown entity. Thus far, she does not appear to have caused any incidents, but if her domain includes some psionic knowledge of crime, this bares significant investigation.]]

[toronto-tree-removal]

Leslieville Tree Removal Services – Safe & Reliable Arborist Solutions

Leslieville is one of Toronto’s trendiest and fastest-growing neighborhoods, known for its charming homes, lush tree-lined streets, and growing demand for professional tree services. Whether you need a tree removed due to safety concerns, disease, or property expansion, Toronto Tree Removal is here to provide expert arborist solutions in this guide you will know everything when it comes to Leslieville Tree Removal.

Expert Tree Removal & Care in Leslieville, Toronto

Why Choose Our Leslieville Tree Removal Services?

✔ Experienced Arborists – Certified professionals ensuring safe and precise removals ✔ Emergency Tree Removal – Available 24/7 for urgent cases ✔ Stump Grinding & Removal – Full cleanup to restore your yard ✔ Tree Trimming & Pruning – Promote healthy growth and aesthetics ✔ Permits & Bylaws Compliance – Assistance with City of Toronto tree removal regulations

Common Tree Issues in Leslieville

Leslieville’s urban landscape presents unique challenges when it comes to tree removal:

🌳 Tight Urban Spaces – Limited access areas requiring specialized removal techniques 🏡 Heritage Properties – Preserving the integrity of older homes while safely removing trees 🌀 Storm-Damaged Trees – Fast response to hazardous leaning or fallen trees 🌱 Invasive Roots – Trees causing foundation or plumbing damage

How Much Does Tree Removal Cost in Leslieville?

The cost of tree removal varies based on factors like tree size, accessibility, and location. On average, homeowners in Leslieville can expect to pay between $500 and $3,000 depending on the complexity of the job.

📌 Read Our Full Cost Guide Here

Tree Removal Permits & Regulations in Toronto

If your tree is over 30 cm (12 inches) in diameter, you may need a tree removal permit from the City of Toronto. Our team can assist in navigating the application process to ensure a smooth removal experience.

📜 Toronto Tree Protection Bylaws

Our Tree Services in Leslieville

🔹 Tree Removal & Disposal 🔹 Stump Grinding & Root Removal 🔹 Arborist Reports & Consultation 🔹 Hedge & Shrub Trimming 🔹 Lot & Land Clearing

Book Your Tree Removal in Leslieville Today!

Whether you need a full tree removal or seasonal maintenance, our expert team is ready to help.

📞 Call Us: 647-558-1366 📍 Service Area: Leslieville, Toronto 🌍 Visit Our Website

More Toronto Areas We Serve

➡ Cabbagetown Tree Removal ➡ Kensington Market Tree Services ➡ Danforth Village Arborists

Frequently Asked Questions (FAQ)

Do I Need a Permit for Tree Removal in Leslieville?

How Much Does Tree Removal Cost in Leslieville?

Will You Remove the Stump Too?

Our Tree Removal & Arborist Services in Leslieville

🌲 Tree Removal & Cutting – Whether you have a dying tree or one that poses a risk, we safely remove it using specialized equipment.

✂️ Tree Trimming & Pruning – Keep your trees healthy and well-shaped with expert pruning to prevent hazardous overgrowth.

🪵 Stump Removal & Grinding – After cutting down a tree, we grind the stump below ground level for a seamless finish.

🏡 Emergency Tree Services – If a tree falls unexpectedly due to storms or decay, we offer 24/7 emergency tree removal in Leslieville.

🌿 Tree Health Assessments – Our arborists can evaluate your tree’s condition and recommend the best course of action as well as facilitate arborist reports and tree removal permits on your behalf.