#Window Cleaning Service in London

[mnssltd]

MN Support Services offers professional commercial window cleaning in London. We provide window cleaning services to all our clients throughout London. Regardless of the size, height and number of windows in your property, you can rely on our professional staff to have spotless windows throughout the year.

[asherswindowcleaninguk]

Asher Levi & Emmanuel Window Cleaning unveils premier window cleaning services in London. Our expert team delivers exceptional results, ensuring crystal-clear windows and enhanced curb appeal. Discover the highest standards in window cleaning services London and transform your view today.

[scssltdcouk]

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[hometoursandotherstuff]

This is Trellick Tower built in 1972 on the Cheltenham Estate in North Kensington, London, UK and designed by Hungarian-born architect and designer Ernő Goldfinger. A 3bd, 1.5ba unit on the 19th floors is for sale for £1,000,000 / $1,248,735.

The building is split into the main block of flats and the imposing service tower. To maximize living space, Goldfinger put the lifts, stairs and even communal laundrettes into the tower. The heating system and water tanks are housed there, too, in the plant room at the top, which allows water to run down to apartments using gravity, minimizing piping. 

The tower stairs look so clean. Probably nobody uses them.

Yellow lift hallway.

The connecting hall from the lifts to the apts. looks dated.

Since the connecting halls from the tower are on every other floor, this unit's entrance is on the 18th fl. below.

Hall at the top of the stairs.

For the price, this is a small living room.

Opens to a narrow balcony.

The kitchen isn't oversized, but it's nice.

The primary bedroom is small.

This bedroom is being used as a den.

And, this one is a nursery. The window seat is nice, but I don't think that you could fit a bed in here.

The 1.5 baths are right next to each other.

The view.

I think that I would rather live in a longboat on the canal. I just don't think that this unit is worth the price.

[lineffability]

style, flair, and a head of red hair – she’s the nanny?!

oneshot. 5k. human au. the story of how crowley becomes a nanny. no, not that one. the other one. the fine type. this fic was inspired by @densewentz and this stunning piece of The Nanny/Crowley art that blew my socks clean off. i had to write it.

She is entirely perfect and utterly boring.

Aziraphale Edenson, ever the picture of perfect pleasantry, has recited three consecutive poems in his mind while she's been speaking, and he could almost swear one of them had been the entirety of Ginsburg's Howl. He can't be certain, as he's drifted. In front of him, the Mary Poppins palimpsest is finishing her impassioned speech that had begun somewhere in her childhood only to end, in a satisfying narrative conclusion, he is sure, in the childhood of Warlock, his unexpected teenage protegé, and somehow between those two childhoods she had also wedged in his, Aziraphale's, childhood too, though he isn't sure quite how that is possible. It seems she has done her research rather thoroughly. 

It is not polite to interrupt people, so Aziraphale does not. He smiles, he nods at the right moments, and he offers more tea, and then he ushers her to the front door with perfect manners only to say, in one last moment of mental impasse, "Well, thank you so very much, Mrs Poppins, I will be sure to contact you by the end of the week. It has been so very lovely to meet you."

It only occurs to him half an hour later why her smile had faltered, and he smacks his hand to his forehead, producing a noise that sounds very much like oh, bugger. 

A string of interviews follow this initial one, and after a fortnight, Aziraphale gives up. It’s not that the applicants are unsuited: rather the opposite, their credentials battle each other for excellence: if one has twenty years of experience in royal nanny service, the next will present a doctoral degree in Nannyology straight from Harvard. After all, Villa Eden is not only a beautiful and prestigious estate in the nicest part of London, but he offers a pay check that the best paid nanny in the world might have envied, promptly losing her her title. An honest wage for honest work, he thinks, and he certainly does not know what to do with a twelve year old boy. So if someone does, money shall not be the issue. 

The thing is: hiring a nanny is… it’s like selling books. Aziraphale is selfish. Aziraphale does not want to hire a nanny. He does not want to share his space, his routines, his library, his home. He can do it for Warlock, for a few months, because it is the right thing to do. He does not love it. But he likes the kid enough. Especially because his parents… well, they don’t. Not properly, not like they should, and that is enough for Aziraphale to feel a bristling sense of injustice, and a burning desire to bestow the boy with a love that might not live up to the parental ideal, but make him feel safe and liked and cared for, at least. 

So maybe he has to hire the Mary Poppins nanny, after all, to help him realize his wish, to support him in his quest, to breach the friendly but unbreachable rift between the old, reclusive neighbor and the bright, young boy that has been parked here by his parents, like a pet, while they are away for travel for half a year. Aziraphale huffs. 

He stares out the window of his conservatory, but can’t make out the expanse of his glorious estate. That’s because it is cloudy and gray and rainy and grim, and also winter, which might have something to do with it. Darkness has settled over the hill and his mansion like a heavy blanket. His clock chimed five not a minute ago, and yet it is already pitch-dark. Aziraphale likes winter. It grants you more alone time that needs not be justified as much as during other seasons. The weather today suits his mood. With a grim face, he makes up his mind to hire the nanny. 

In a dramatic last minute coincidence not at all necessitated by the narrative, the doorbell rings precisely in the moment Aziraphale starts to dial the number on the resumé.  

Aziraphale puts the receiver back down. He walks to the main entrance. 

(He does not believe in servants: for the same reason that he does not believe in nannies.)

When he opens the door, it takes him a moment to make sense of the picture of personified misery he is presented with. 

“Cosmetics,” the picture of misery says. 

“Excuse me?”

[continue reading]

[cod-dump]

Haunted

SoapGhost fic

___

Soap and Ghost never become intimate while in 141. Both didn’t want to cross the line. And a part of them believed the other didn’t feel the same way. Years go by with them remaining close friends. But something happens and Ghost disappears one day. Just gone within a night.

It sent Soap in a panic so he went to Price. The man assured him that Ghost was alive, and that’s all he would tell him. Price couldn’t tell Soap anything but Soap knew he was discharged. Just like that, his best friend and the man he loved the most is gone.

Soap continued on, raising rank to lieutenant. Ghost slowly becomes nothing more than a distant memory. A memory that hurts him every time it rears itself. Soap becomes stone cold, slowly losing himself as he fights. Finally, Price tells him it’s time. He had grown too old to keep fighting and no one else would take his place. This was the end of 141.

Soap planned on continuing to fight, but Price urged him to go home. So Soap goes home. To his aging parents, his married sisters and their grown children. They welcomed him home eagerly, but Soap felt so out of place. He forced himself to smile for their sake. His mother made his bed in his old room. The room was just as he remembered, left untouched by the years he was gone.

He tried to merge back into civilian life, but he just couldn’t. He was always standing guard, waiting for something to happen.

One evening, after dinner, Soap was doing the dishes. He felt a hand on his shoulder and he jumped and turned around. He relaxed when he saw his father, hands up to show he meant no harm.

“At ease, soldier.”

“Sorry, Pa…”

His father looks him in the eye before speaking, “Service hasn’t been kind to you.”

Soap resumes the dishes, “Hasn’t been kind to anyone.”

“Have you kept in touch with your old team?”

Ghost immediately comes to mind, Soap’s heart aching. He stops scrubbing the already clean plate, swallowing.

“Gaz- Kyle, is back home in London. Old man Price is in Liverpool. Kyle visits Price often.”

His father nods, “Could invite them over. Have a get together.”

Soap loved that idea. To seem them again, to see that they were doing well instead of just hearing about it. Ghost flickers across his mind again and Soap sighs.

“Would be nice to see them.”

“Then let’s do it. Call up your old team. They can stay a week or so.”

“Would Ma be okay with that?”

“Of course! You know your mother, she never meets a stranger.”

Soap stares out the kitchen window at the black sky. Involuntarily Ghost comes back. Soap thinks about him meeting his family, his mother taking his hand and asking if he had eaten yet. His father wrapping an arm around his shoulder, already calling him ‘son’. His sisters teasing him as he gets roped into watching the youngest of the MacTavish family. Soap sighs, looking to his father.

“I’ll call them up.”

“Good, lad.”

That night Soap laid awake at night, Ghost plaguing more than he had in years. Every thought turned back to him. All Soap could think was that he missed him so much, that he hated that Ghost left before Soap could tell him how he felt. He desperately wanted to go back, to that very night that Ghost disappeared on. Take his hands before they separated to go to bed, tell him how much he loved him.

But that won’t happen.

Soap rolls over in bed, blinking away the tears as he curls up. He forced his thoughts onto Gaz and Price, on the joy he will feel from seeing them again. Maybe he could talk about Ghost with them… he knows they don’t miss him like he does. That they weren’t plagued by him every day, every night, wishing that he could see him again.

Soap closes his eyes, hugging his pillow as sleep slowly comes to him like a skittish animal, the slightest sound or movement threatening to chase it off. Darkness overcame him after what felt like hours. Probably was hours.

Soap found himself awake in his bed suddenly. He blinked before sitting up. Was this a dream? He honestly couldn’t tell. Soap slipped out of bed and into the hall, walking carefully past his parent’s bedroom. He makes his way downstairs and into the living room, surprised to find someone sitting on the loveseat. He should be alarmed but something told him there was nothing to fear from the stranger.

He creeps closer, “Hello? Who are you?”

The man turns to him and Soap found himself frozen at Ghost’s face. It was exactly how he remembered him all those years ago. Not a bit of age on him. Soap steps forward, tears welling up.

“Simon!”

Ghost smiles sadly at him, “Good to see you, Johnny.”

Soap tried to get closer but it felt like he wasn’t getting any closer no matter how much he ran. Ghost stands and turns to him, that sad smile never leaving him.

“I’m sorry, John… I can’t stay.”

“No, please don’t go!”

Ghost seems to fizzle away, “Goodbye, Johnny.”

“Simon! SIMON!”

Soap’s eyes snap open. After a minute the tears start to pour, Soap burying his face into his pillow to muffle his sobs. He rolls onto his back, blindly reaching for his phone. When he finds it, he dials a number and holds the phone to his ear with a shaking hand. After a minute someone picks up.

“Johnny?”

“What happened to him?”

Price’s groggy voice seems to clear quickly, “John… I can’t—“

“It’s been twenty years, Price… Please… What happened to Simon?”

Price was quiet before he speaks, “He had a… episode. The higher ups decided they could no longer ignore that he was in the field. No longer pretend that it was okay. So he was discharged.”

Soap swallows, “He… why leave in the middle of the night? Why didn’t he say goodbye?”

There was a weight in Price’s voice. It was so heavy and tired, “That night is when he had the episode. They didn’t allow him to come back.”

Soap blinks away the tears, “He couldn’t say goodbye…”

“No, son. They believed that it would do more damage than good.”

“Fucking— Do you know where he went?”

“Son, that’s all I can tell you. I’m sorry but… Simon is gone. He’s been gone for twenty years.”

Soap grips his phone, “You don’t know.”

“John—“

“You don’t know what happened to him. Do you?”

Silence. It dragged on for a good bit before Price finally breathed out, “No. I don’t.”

Soap chokes, “Of course… he’s the Ghost.”

“If he wanted you- any of us- to know what happened to him, we would know already.”

Soap rolls over, feeling the dampness on his pillow from his tears, “Yea… you’re right.”

“I’m sorry I can’t give you the closure you seek, John.”

“I need to give myself closure, not get it from someone.“

“We can’t always give ourselves what we need. It’s okay to reach out when you need help.”

Soap laughs, “Always know what to say.”

“I read too many fortune cookies.”

The night dragged on. Hours passed before Price finally decided to go back to bed, telling Soap good night before hanging up. After the line clicked, Soap slowly let his phone slip from his hand. Staring at the window. Somewhere out there was Ghost. And Soap wondered if that somewhere was in his future to visit.

[study-with-aura]

Monday, July 1, 2024

I am so grateful to my dad for keeping up my Duolingo streak for me. He did a hanzi practice every day, as if he needs to considering he's fluent, but it did keep my streak going. I also found out that if I make my profile private, it takes me out of leagues and allows me to stay in the same league I was in when I turn it back on. I've been in the Diamond League for 24 weeks. I'm not about to lose that.

This weekend was nice. We went out to the lake on Saturday, and then we had a baptism service out at the park yesterday. They had the sprinklers running, so after eating, a lot of us ran through them. I hadn't done that since I was a lot younger, but it was a lot of fun considering how hot it has been the past few days!

I wasn't sure if I was going to post tonight or not, but I figured since I missed yesterday, I owed one today. I am a bit behind on my music studies since I had to take two weeks off. I want to catch up this week without pushing myself too hard, but there is only so much my brain can soak up of theory before it starts to wander. After tomorrow, I should be starting the Getting Ready for Algebra 2 course on KA as well. I was tired the other night, and missed two simple questions when I was trying to finish the Geometry mastery challenge, and it set me back two days because of it. That's okay. I don't mind the review.

Tasks Completed:

History 9 - Learned about Handel's early life and time in London + studied "Water Music"

Theory - Reviewed diatonic substitutions

KA Geometry - Completed daily mastery challenge

Duolingo - Studied for approximately 15 minutes (Spanish + French + Chinese) + completed daily quests

Piano - Practiced for two hours in one hour split sessions

Reading - Read pages 45-84 of Lumara by Melissa Landers

Chores - Vacuumed my bedroom and the study + cleaned my bathroom + cleaned windows in my bedroom and in the study

Activities of the Day:

Personal Bible Study (Hebrews 11)

Morning Yoga

Swimming

Volunteered for one hour at the library

1 hour gaming with Julien

Journal/Mindfulness

[asherswindowcleaninguk]

Employing Window Cleaning Services London on a regular basis is a simple but effective measure that goes a long way towards creating a positive first impression of the business.

[thenightling]

I liked the movie Wonka and there are a LOT of subtle and not-so-subtle references to other musicals through it. Here are a list of the ones I recognized. 1. Wonka's hopeful arrival in the big city is like an inverted version of "No place like London" from Sweeney Todd in that it's joyous and hopeful despite people waiting to cheat him. It's a bit like Fun City from the never released Man who fell to Earth musical but sung by the would-be target. 2. Mrs. Scrubbit's name is a punny play on Mrs. Lovett from Sweeney Toodd. 3. Mrs. Scrubbit and Bleacher are very easily equatable to the Thenardiers from Les Miserables, especially when you see how they trump up how much Wonka owes them. 4. Noodle is a cross between Cosette from Les Miserables and Little Orphan Annie. 5. When Wonka gets bribed with money to free his friends from indentured servitude after his shop is wrecked this is very similar to Jack being bribed in Newsies. 6. Wonka showing up at the window to break out Noodle was similar to Jack wanting to rescue Crutchie in Newsies. 7. Wonka going back after the bribe to save his friends is also like Jack from Les Miserables. 8. The indentured servitude contracts remind me of the one from Pirates of Penzance in how ridiculously long they are. 9. The "Scrub Scrub" song is a lot like A Hard Knock Life from Annie. 10. The Oompa Loompa Song and Pure Imagination (Though with different words) are from the 1971 Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory. 11. Noodle's book obsession could be a little nod to Belle in Beauty and the Beast. 12. Noodle's dream of her mother is a lot like Cosette's Castle on a Cloud only about a mother in a home full of books. 13. The Tango of "Do you have a Sweet Tooth?" is very similar to the modified version of Roxanne for Moulin Rouge in that it's persuading a character and done to the tune of a catchy tango. 14. Bonus: All the names are blunt references to what the characters actually are. Noodle is the smart girl. Abacus Crunch is an accountant (an abacus is an ancient adding device and crunching the numbers is a term for doing taxes and figuring out what's owed or what you can keep). A woman named "Bell" worked as a telephone operator, and Scrubbit and Bleacher own a laundry cleaning service. There are many other blunt as a hammer name clues. That isn't quite a musical thing but that is a thing from J. K. Rowling's Harry Potter franchise. That's why I put that in as a bonus.

[toiletbulges]

Diarrhea Roadtrip

I had been on a trip to London and had been eating a few dodgy things. My stomach had been playing up, having to spend almost a entire night on the toilet!. I ended up having to buy some mens adult tenas to try and be able to carry on like going to the theatre and for the drive home.

I got into my car and started the drive home and 5mins into the drive my stomach started hurting. I tried to hold it in but I could feel the diarrhea started to leak out into my tena. It started to smell so opened my window. It happened again. Got onto the motorway and saw a service station. I took my backpack with a spare tena in and went to the toilets. I sat on the toilet and destroyed it. A bloke next door laughed and said "sounds like you just made it" . It took almost 15mins to clear up and put on a new tena. 30mins into after my stomach went again and I farted out loads of diarrhea. Could feel it starring to leak out into my trousers! I managed to get to another service station. I had to waddle to the toilets, luckily nobody around. I peeled off my trousers and it was like a bomb gone off. At this particular service station there is a shower area. So I walked over and slightly panicked as it was large area with only a small curtain for privacy. I was cleaning up when I heard the door go and a bloke walked past. I panicked. He saw the mess on the floor and said "ah don't worry mate, every trucker has a accident!

[checkoutmybookshelf]

Lady Whistledown Returns: Chapter 5

Kidnappings are generally frowned upon, but being a hostage is the strangest mix of tension, boredom, and mischief. Points will be won and lost…but who will win the game?

Need to catch up? Find previous chapters and works on AO3.

This chapter has no content warnings.

When the lid of the packing crate was next wrenched free, it was full dark, with only a few candles illuminating a grossly familiar room. A pair of footmen stood on either side of the single door and another pair guarded the window. These footmen were not the nervous, young men of eleven or twelve who were just beginning their training and careers in palace service, either. All of them were in their early thirties, if Colin was any judge, and one of them looked as though he would not be out of place in the boxing ring, squaring off against Mondrich. At a guess, his escape attempts on the road had been reported and any attempts he might make here were being preempted. 

And he desperately wanted to make an escape from this room. 

Even by candlelight, he knew it. Could still see red curls matted down with sweat spread across a white pillow and the silver flash of knife as it cut into pale flesh. Could still hear his name screamed in pain and terror. Could still feel his chest constrict as he silently begged Pen to breathe. Holding him in the room in which he had nearly lost Pen was a particular cruelty, and one he did not appreciate. 

As his heart beat a tattoo into his rib cage and his breath came hard and short, Colin wiped his suddenly sweaty palms on his trousers. They came away gritty and grimy, and he grimaced. “What I wouldn’t give for a bath and a change of clothes,” he ground out. 

A fifth footman—this one a more traditional age, the boy was fourteen if he was a day—emerged from the shadows to yank the bellpull. When a maid appeared at the door a few minutes later, there was a hushed exchange, followed about three quarters of an hour later by a big copper tub, kettles of hot water, and nondescript but clean clothing. There was even a tray with a sort of one-course dinner on it. 

That was when Colin realized that he had spent the intervening time sitting ingloriously in the packing crate, desperately trying to control his breathing and racing heart, and wishing with every fiber of his being not to come in contact with this room. He hadn’t even noticed the time elapse, but now he had either to get out of the packing crate or commit to curling into a ball inside it until someone retrieved him.

Ultimately, it was no manly fortitude or particular strength of heart that made Colin climb out of the box. He desperately wished it had been, and he would almost certainly tell Anthony, Benedict, Eloise and Gregory that he had climbed out as a show of strength. But Penelope would know and understand that the real goad that got him out of that crate was a base but insurmountably strong desire to feel clean again. He had been wearing the same suit of clothes for days, and the escape attempts had not been kind to them. The miasma of his own perspiration and London’s humidity in the crate had only added to the intolerability of the layers of dirt he felt buried beneath.

That didn’t mean he wasn’t trembling as he rose, swung himself out of the crate, and began to disrobe.

Distracted by his own distress, Colin barely noted the unusually high sides of the copper tub and completely failed to see the small stepstool that would have prevented the need to bear down on the side with all his weight to swing a leg over the edge. Not minding his strength and the physics involved in copper tub construction meant that Colin tipped the tub top over teakettle, sending steaming water over his lower half and flooding the room. The footmen all yelped and somewhat inelegantly hopped from foot to foot in vain attempts to stop their shoes and stockings from being utterly ruined. The young footman by the bell pull yanked it repeatedly, so hard that it snapped in his hands.

Colin’s instinct to immediately apologize and help clean up the mess was suddenly quashed by utter fury. He would not apologize for the queen’s mind games being effective, and he would not sit meekly by as little more than a pawn. Summoning his best impressions of Cressida Cowper and Honoria Holroyd, nee Smythe-Smith, he said, “My heavens, how clumsy of me. I cannot imagine how I should have been so careless. We shall have to have another bath drawn up, of course, I cannot possibly be expected to endure this sort of deprivation!”

Swinging his arm for dramatic emphasis, Colin made sure to catch the edge of the tray of food, sending it spinning across the room in a crash of shattering crockery. That felt good. The thought was nearly a snarl in Colin’s head, but he made sure that his voice maintained the slightly higher-pitched, drawling, whiney affect that grated his teeth when debutantes deployed it.

“Oh lord and now we shall need a new—and much larger—tray of food before I waste utterly away from hunger. Surely such privation falls into the realm of cruel and unusual treatment, and I may in fact faint!” The hand dramatically thrown to his forehead covered the sharp assessment Colin made of the footmen’s reactions. The boy worried him not at all, but the bruisers’ reactions would make or break a suspicion he held. To a man, they were red-faced and clench-fisted, but none of them had moved to check him. Interesting, he thought. One more test.

Lifting the sodden heap that used to be the clean trousers between two fingers, Colin flung them towards the man who would have looked more at home in a boxing ring and allowed a shrill note to slide into his voice. “Would you look at these? I cannot possibly put them on before my new bath is drawn. Whatever shall I wear? Or am I to simply catch my death of consumption from exposure and cold?” Intending to rip down the curtains over the window the bruiser was guarding, Colin strode toward them. The fist that connected with his jaw made him see stars for a moment.

“No going near the window,” grunted the fist’s owner, looking smugly satisfied at the opportunity to use his brawn.

“Then I shall have your coat and breeches, man! And quickly too, imagine the damage to my modesty and reputation this situation is causing!” Beyond wishing to be maximally irritating, Colin could not bring himself to pull the sheets off the bed in the room to wrap up in. He might break if he had to do that.

The footman grunted derisively, but caught the eye of his companion at the window and jerked his head in fashion that clearly said, “Well, go on, then.” The other man’s face went redder than any beet Colin had ever seen in his life, but began to grudgingly shrug out of his coat.

“Absolutely not!” shrieked Colin, in an impersonation of Daphne that was so on point that had the duchess been in the room, Colin would have expected a sisterly slap. “You cannot imagine that I would fit into his coat! I shall have yours or I shall have nothing at all!” To drive home his point, Colin squared up to the man, feed just slightly wider than shoulder-width apart, fist planted firmly on hips, and chest puffed out in an exaggerated impression of a furious Anthony.

As the lead footman glared at Colin, the sound of a door opening followed by the screeches of what sounded like an army of maids at the sight of Colin’s backside added to a cacophony that Colin was genuinely surprised hadn’t already summoned an army of other servants and marines. The farcical nature of the situation made Colin grin despite himself. At the grin, the bruiser blinked, surrendering the battle nearly by accident. The fury in his eyes when he realized promised that he would make Colin pay when the time came.

“What in the name of God is going on here?” Glancing over his shoulder, Colin was shocked that the thundering evocation had come from Brimsley, a man renowned amongst the ton for his ability to leverage near-silent disdain to command a room. He prodded the sodden carpet with the toe of his shoe, producing a distinctive squish sound. A look of sheer distaste crossed his face as he took in the sopping wet floor, food, and crockery shards. Standing beside Brimsley behind a gaggle of red-faced, silently giggling maids was Worth, with one hand over his face to hide what Colin would have bet Aubrey Hall was a grin.

Brimsley’s look of disgust deepened when he glanced at Worth, but rather than excoriate Colin for his behavior, Brimsley simply ordered the maids to redraw the bath, find another set of clothing, and replace the food tray. He also sent the young footman running for additional maids to get the room put to rights before taking up a position by the door to supervise. Worth actually winked at Colin before quietly disappearing from the room.

The look that Brimsley subsequently gave Colin ought to have been a head-to-toe assessment, but it managed to remain above Colin’s neck. “May I recommend the sheets on the bed, while we wait, Mr. Bridgerton?” he asked, settling back into the quietly disdainful tone with which the entire ton was familiar.

The immediate descent of his stomach into his toes at that thought distracted Colin from the goosebumps covering his body as the water cooled on his skin.

“You may not,” drawled Colin, affecting Benedict’s casually unbothered artist mood. “However, you may light the fire.”

“I think not, Mr. Bridgerton,” said Brimsley. “I should hate to think what your sudden attack of clumsiness might develop into if we include fire in the picture.”

Colin offered Brimsley his most formal leg in response before reclining across a settee, with a strategically placed pillow to prevent the maids from collapsing from the vapors. Then, he belted his favorite bawdy German drinking songs. Certainly the maids did not speak the language, but a couple of the footmen’s mouths twitched, and Brimsley’s look of disdain deepened.

When the tub was newly filled and the maids dismissed, Colin switched to French drinking songs, and his voice resonated and bounced off the tub, echoing through the hallways at a truly insupportable hour. Within about fifteen minutes, pages from across the wing of the palace began filing through the room—ineffectually hiding their giggles at the English bawdy songs that Colin had been roundly scolded by his mother for daring to quietly whisper-sing where there was possibility that his nephews would hear them—to convey complaints of other denizens, including the princes and princesses.

Colin was particularly pleased with himself as he climbed from the tub, dressed, and proceeded to inhale the loaded tray that had been left for him. Brimsley, apparently tired of babysitting, departed, taking the army of maids, pages, and extra footmen from the room. Satiated, warm, and bored, Colin proceeded to tip the empty tub over, and banged the bottom like a drum to herald the rising sun. All four of his minders clapped hands over their ears, but otherwise moved not at all to check him.

Before Colin was bored enough to try different drum patterns, the door burst open.

Framed in the doorway was Queen Charlotte, hair still wrapped, lacking any jewels or makeup, and simply dressed in a loose, clearly well-loved banyan. “What on earth do you imagine you are about?” she snapped.

Colin stopped banging on the tub. “The rope on the bellpull snapped. However else was I to inform you that I require another meal? Although I must say, I’m shocked that you would greet a distinguished guest in such a state of undress. How very uncouth and continental of you.”

“You dare speak that way to me?” snarled Charlotte. 

Colin grinned. Grinning was a fairly common phenomenon for him, and his family could and often did identify the various grins with startling accuracy. However, the expression on his face now was a combination of sheer smugness and predatory glee that would have had Violet up nights worrying for a week, Eloise begging to be allowed in on the mischief, and Anthony reaching for the whiskey. Some of his childhood tutors would have recognized the expression. To a man, they had all seen it right after Colin found a mischief-friendly loophole in something they had said. 

“I not only dare, I revel in speaking to you and everyone else who walks through the door in such a manner. And I must graciously thank Your Majesty for the privilege, because you have made me—” Colin draped himself across a settee with languorous insouciance before casually throwing his feet up on a pouf— “untouchable.” Interlacing his fingers behind his head, Colin gestured dismissively with the toe of his boot. “Now be a dear and see about finding me a meal worth eating.”

Charlotte’s eyes narrowed, but she held herself as still as a marble statue for a long moment, considering. “You are correct, Mr. Bridgerton. For the moment you are untouchable. But if I may offer you a word of advice? I should consider what happens to you–and your increasingly sprawling family–if your faith in your wife is misplaced. After all, she has proven famously unable to restrain herself where her Lady Whistledown impulses are concerned.” 

Still lazily draped over the furniture, Colin snorted. “You never gave Penelope the credit she deserved.”

“And you seem to forget that she exposed young Miss Thompson’s pregnancy to stop you from marrying her, and dragged Miss Eloise’s name through the mud, to the possible ruination of your sister and your family. I see all of your wife, Mr. Bridgerton, not just the parts you fell in love with.”

“Am I getting fed or not?” snapped Colin, sitting upright and glaring at the woman who had orchestrated his kidnapping and imprisonment. 

Charlotte actually laughed. “I would not dream of starving the Bridgerton known for his prodigious appetite. Especially not after I have scored a point.” She turned on her heel and strode from the room without giving him time to answer. 

Rising, Colin paced the room for a few moments before leaning into a wall far enough away from the door or window to prevent his minders from objecting, forehead resting against his forearm. He had nothing but faith in Pen, despite the queen’s attempts to raise doubts in him. Anthony would be able to plan a way to see him released, and he and Pen could plan their next steps together. She and Anthony would find a way to get him released. He had no doubts about his wife’s and older brother’s abilities. And the sooner Pen was back in his arms, the better.

[srorgana1]

Invocation

Paring: Vampire Kylo/Hunter Rey

Warnings: Dark Themes (apporaching Dead Dove, you have been warned), Supernatural/Paranormal, Blood, Violence, Gore, Death, NSFW 18+, Sexual Content, Psychological and Physical Torture, Kidnapping, Hatred towards organized religion, Pain, Major/Minor character death/injury, Demonic Possession

Chapter Three

Kylo shuts his book and wills it away as he can feel the plane start to descend. He shifts, careful not to wake the sleeping woman next to him. Like all charter flights for the elite, they come with a playmate. A carefully picked companion to help keep them occupied and stress free during long travel.

He licks his lips, still able to taste her slightly salty blood on his tongue. Half Selkie, he surmises as heads to the small bathroom to clean up and dress. He smirks as he touches his lip, his guess confirmed by the dried greenish blood on his fingertips. He will have to tip her extra for letting him bite. While it was common in vampires to bite during sex, other creatures not so. So it was customary to tip them for the extra service.

He dresses quickly, smoothing out the invisible wrinkles of his perfectly tailored black wool suit coat. He wills his phone to his pocket as he heads to the front. He deposits himself in one of the large bucket seats and looks out the window. The tell tale skyline of London meets him, beautifully bathed in gold from the waning sun.

He sighs. He hasn’t been to his native soil in a hundred years. Not since The Council completed the alliances. Him and the others felt they made the situation more volatile so they decided to disperse in the name of peace. It was better that way so they could start anew.

A voice comes over the cabin’s speaker system. “Please buckle in Mr. Ren, we are starting our descent. We hope you had a nice flight. We should be arriving in ten minutes.” Good he thinks as he fastens his seatbelt. He grabs his phone and sends a quick text to Vicrul.

He runs a hand through his newly cut hair, pushing it away from his eyes. While it was still rakishly long, it made him able to blend in the mortals. Hide in plain sight just as so many do. According to Vicrul, many in the community keep mundane lives and just magick and glamour to keep them and their families safe.

The half Selkie enters from the back, fixing her blouse. She smiles as she sees him looking out the window. “Welcome to London Mr. Ren, we hope you enjoy your stay.” He nods as he wills a wad of cash into his hand. As the plane lands, he hands her the cash with a silent nod. She blushes and pockets the money in her skirt pocket. “Always here to be of service Mr. Ren.”

He fights rolling his eyes at her as the door opens. He grabs his carry on, moving quickly down the waiting stairs. He smiles as he sees his friend lounging as his luggage is being loaded into a luxury town car. “Long time no see my friend” Vicrul yells, pushing himself off the car, arms wide open in greeting.

“Likewise brother” Kylo says, embracing him. As soon as they touch, their magick acknowledges the other. They wait until it passes, slapping each others backs aggressively. Kylo knows his eyes are red just as Vicrul’s eyes will be gold. He shuts his eyes, willing it away.

“Welcome Kylo, come we have much to discuss. I have found out a lot and The Council wants to speak with you. I must catch you up” Vicrul says, opening the car door for him. His brow crinkles as he nods and slides his big body into the spacious interior of the car.

Vicrul settles himself and grabs a bottle of vintage Johnnie Walker Blue from the ice. Kylo smirks as he pours them both a glass. “Not much has changed then?” he says, taking the glass before him. He watches Vicrul’s face pucker as he takes a sip. “Yes and No” he says “If you mean I am still a surly Werewolf who loves American spirits then yes.” He smirks as he tips his glass in Kylo’s direction.

Kylo chuckles as he downs his glass, enjoying the burn on his tongue. “So you're saying I am still a… what did you call me last time…oh yeah a epic asshole of a blood sucker” he says, pouring each of them another. It was Vicrul’s turn to chuckle, a wide grin breaking across his face. “If the shoe fits” he says, shrugging his shoulders.

He watches the grin fade as Vicrul’s face becomes stony again. “But a lot has changed, as you will see” he says ominously “you were smart to remove yourself.” Kylo hunches over, interested in what his friend had to say.

“The Council wants to hide it in order to not cause mass hysteria, but there is evidence that Hunters are back. We don’t know how or why yet but we know that some in the community have gone missing. As per the reports and rumors coming out of AXS, those missing aren’t just random transients. They are people with families and mortgages” he says, taking a long sip.

“Isn’t that what The Council was set up for? To protect the Supernaturals? Clearly they wouldn’t let a Hunter organization settle and grow so close to a Supernatural community” Kylo says, swirling his glass. “Yes but they have become lax and too trusting. Human Politics now acknowledge the Supernatural community and promote intermingling unlike before. You know how backwards some groups are and are averse to change. I feel the disappearances are because of this” he says bitterly.

Kylo can feel Vicrul’s energy spiking. There’s more to the story for a seasoned warrior like him to be this upset. “Vicrul, I don’t mean to be indelicate but why are you really here and so interested in this. I mean, the last time I saw you, you and Jessica were building a cabin in Maine and planning to have pups” Kylo says empathetically.

He watches his friend’s jaw muscle twitch. “Jessica and I have been involved for awhile in Supernatural/Human relations in America. I am proud of the work we’ve done and how accepting the public has been. But why I am here Kylo and why I contacted you is because my son has disappeared” he says, his finger tracing the rim of his glass.

“Now before you say anything, I know something is amiss” he says. “His mother awoke one night, screaming his name and kept repeating no and let him go” he says “she even transitioned to her Undead state she was so upset.” Kylo shook his head, understanding the bond between Witches and their children well. They are fiercely protective mothers.

“We tried to call and text him the day after but no response. We called his flat mates and they he never came home one night and have not seen him since. So we came over to look for him. Jessica reached out to her old contacts but it was a dead-end. Even the psychics cannot find him. I know my son Kylo and he wouldn’t just leave without telling us” Vicrul says, becoming more and more emotional.

“The Council doesn’t believe us that he was taken. They don’t want to believe there is something threatening the community again. But I can feel it, I know it” he says brokenly as he grabs at his short dark hair. Kylo watches as Vicrul’s hands and nails elongate and his forearms’ become hairier.

He leans over and places a hand on Vicrul’s shoulder. He shuts his eyes, allowing a wave of calm to pass to him. He hears Vicrul’s ragged breath hitch at the feeling of his magick. “It’s okay Vic I believe you. I will help you however you need” he says, sending another calming pulse. He watches Vicrul nod as he removes his hand, feeling it tingle slightly. “Thank you. You don’t know much that means to us” he huffs as he straightens up in his seat, fixing his suit and tie. Kylo smiles softly, finishing his drink. “So what’s the plan?”

“We have a meeting with The Council and then I was thinking we could go to AXS to see if we can get some information” he says as the car parks in front of a large modern looking glass building. “What is this AXS? Is it like the old network?” Kylo asks as they exit the car and enter the building. “Oh no Kylo, it’s much much more.”