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[presidentialapartmentslondon]

Presidential Serviced Apartments Central London

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[plazaservicedapartment]

Experience the epitome of luxury and comfort in our spacious serviced apartments at Grand Plaza. Located in the heart of London, these meticulously designed apartments offer the perfect blend of style and convenience for your stay in the city. Explore the vibrant neighborhood, relax in your elegant home away from home, and create unforgettable memories.

[yawnderu]

// OPERATOR BIO: K-9 //

MAIN INFO:

Name: Jiang Zhi (蒋 智) Alias(es): K-9 Rank: Combat Medical Technician Age: 32 (as of 2024) Sexuality: Heterosexual  Native Language(s): Cantonese Other spoken language(s): English Nationality: British Eye color: Dark brown  Hair color: Black Height: 1.73CM Weight: 65KG Body Type: Lean Blood Type: O Marks: Small beauty mark beneath her left eye, a tattoo with the quote ‘’In Arduis Fidelis’’ on her left arm that runs above her elbow, a bullet wound scar on the right side of her body, above the iliac crest.

AFFILIATIONS:

British Army 

Royal Army Medical Corps 

SAS

Task Force 141

SpecGru

BACKGROUND:

GUANGZHOU, CHINA.

Welcomed to the world in 1991 by Chunhua Jiang and Junjie Zhao, Jiang grew up with nothing but pure admiration and respect for her parents, a couple consisting of an anesthesiologist and a medical translator. Despite her parents never engraving their professions into her head, Jiang displayed a keen interest in life sciences from a young age, oftentimes stealing their medical articles and documents to read in her free time. 

Wanting better life opportunities for a freshly graduated Jiang Zhi, Chunhua and Junjie made the decision to move around the United Kingdom in early 2008 before eventually settling in Hereford, England. In awe of living fairly close to one of the SAS bases and armed with a newfound interest in the Army, a then 17-year-old Jiang spent months preparing for the selection process, passing with flying colors and officially becoming part of the British Army in 2009.

From fieldcraft to how to handle a rifle, Jiang took on the challenge, eventually using her background in medicine to start her training as a Combat Medical Technician for 22 weeks, traveling around the world with a lot more maturity and interest in saving lives, aware of how crucial timing is.  

While faced with countless injuries during her service, Jiang showed utmost determination to recover and keep serving, never being one to stay still for extended periods of time, not when the sense of responsibility over her mates has been weighing her down ever since she joined the Army. 

Once the policy changes that allowed women to become members of the SAS were announced in 2018, an eager Jiang all but begged her superiors to put in a good word for her, eventually being contacted by a recruiter after anxiously applying. Despite her 9 years of experience in the Army and plenty of determination, Jiang found herself challenged by a system set up to only allow the best of the best to pass, close to giving up mid-way, she found strength to move forward in the name of the fallen soldiers she had an oath to protect. 

Despite the extensive and exhausting selection process, Jiang made history as one of the three women who have completed the six-month course, celebrated in 2019 by her parents and the extensive group of soldiers she managed to befriend during her time serving. Interrupted by a ringing phone, Jiang heard of the name John Price for the first time, called for what would be her first mission with the SAS after a number of multiple terrorist attacks in Central London.

Working along Kyle ‘’Gaz’’ Garrick and John Price, Jiang proved herself to the war-hardened Captain by providing cover and patching up injured hostages and soldiers, eventually being hand-picked by Price himself a month later, once Task Force 141 formed. 

“Y’can’t heal others if you’re falling apart yourself.” Within the 141, Jiang found someone who could always tell how hard she was on herself, how much harder she worked to ensure no one would ever die at her hands again, oftentimes only being able to sleep after working her fingers to the bone.

Her relationship with Simon was surprising to even herself, oftentimes finding the quiet man in her office doing his own paperwork or offering to get her a cuppa whenever she seemed stressed, despite knowing her preference for coffee. 

Despite how witty she can be, her relationship with the 141 was based on mutual trust and shared understanding despite it all, knowing that every single member is needed to keep each other alive and make things work. 

In late November, Jiang’s skills and knowledge were put to test as a gravely injured John ‘’Soap’’ MacTavish was brought to her, panic quickly setting in the moment she saw the bullet wound leaking out blood from his head like a broken faucet, quickly rushing into surgery and defying the odds against them, managing to save his life as the base of his brain and spinal cord being completely untouched by Makarov’s bullet, allowing him to be part of the 10% of people who have survived a headshot after a 12-hour-long surgery. Jiang’s body collapsed the moment Johnny was stabilized, a build-up of stress and disappearing adrenaline quickly catching up to her, only being held up by Simon, who was present during surgery and helping her with minor medical assistance for his injured mate.

Her first sexual encounter with Simon happens the day after, an extremely stressed and tired Jiang asking him to lay with her when he comes to check up on her, his resolve tested the moment he accepts her offer and feels her cuddle up to him, acting like a painfully fitting piece against his body. Clothes were discarded not even minutes later, hungry lips meeting as their hands desperately grasped for anything they could touch, quickly escalating into Jiang sitting on Simon’s face while he masturbated, the first sexual contact in years for both of them, yet a memorable one at that. 

Lines were blurred after the events of that day, eventually starting a not so secret relationship with the Lieutenant.

PREFERENCES:

Clothing style: Long pencil skirts, turtlenecks, sweatpants, Simon’s shirts. Favourite song: Bauhaus - Passion of Lovers  Favourite book: The Woman in Black - Susan Hill Favourite smell: Latex Favourite drink: Black coffee

TRIVIA/FUN FACTS:

Jiang renounced her Chinese citizenship at 22 years old, as the Chinese government does not allow dual citizenship. 

The tattoo ‘’In Arduis Fidelis’’ translates to ‘’Faithful in Adversity’’ and it comes from the motto of the Royal Army Medical Corps, remaining as a permanent placeholder of a Medic armband, and being a representation of her commitment to being a Medic.

Jiang never had an interest in dating, only briefly accepting someone’s proposal in high school to see what it was like— and quickly realizing it wasn’t for her. Due to this and her close relationship with her best friend, her parents thought she was a lesbian until she brought Simon home.

Jiang smokes a lot, easily running through a pack of Marlboro Gold within a day and a half. 

She’s surprisingly good at picking up accents, usually heard speaking in a painfully thick Birmingham accent, much to the dismay of the entire 141.

She has a pet octopus named 親愛的 (chān oi dik), meaning ''darling'' in Cantonese.

Despite not being extremely religious, Jiang and her family are Catholics.

She’s usually seen with a pair of black half frame reading glasses.

[tealeavesandtrash]

Wolfstar Micro Fic - @wolfstarmicrofic prompt: Travel - 293 words

“I don’t think I can cope without you.”

Remus hums, kissing the top of Sirius’ head. “You’ll have James to keep you company.”

“It’s not the same,” Sirius mumbles into Remus' shoulder. The scratchy wool of his jumper itches his nose, but he can’t bear to move, not when it smells like Remus - musky vanilla mixed with the lingering scent of freshly mown grass from where they were lounging about in the garden. It invades every breath, wrapping around his mind like tendrils. He wants to stay like this forever, wrapped up in each other's arms in the dusky summer evening.

The automated announcement voice calls out, echoing along the platform. 'The train now approaching platform 2 is the 20:55 service to London Paddington via Cardiff Central.' It’s the moment he’s been dreading all day - all week even - the inevitable heartbreaking goodbye.

Remus pulls away ever so slightly so he can push their foreheads together, noses bumping and lips a breath apart. “Call me when you get home,” he murmurs as he holds Sirius’ face with those strong callous hands.

Sirius clings onto Remus' wrists, anchoring himself for the few remaining minutes they have. “It won’t be until almost midnight.”

“I don’t care, I won’t sleep until I hear you.”

Sirius smiles sadly, tilts his head just enough to press a soft, sad kiss to Remus’ lips as the train comes thundering into the station. “Come visit me soon?”

“The second I can, I’ll be there.”

They stay like that until the last moment - until the conductor pointedly blows the whistle in their direction.

Remus' hand slips from his grip as he steps aboard.

At four minutes to nine, Sirius presses his face to the window and watches the platform slip away.

[scotianostra]

The leading Scottish suffragette, Evelina Haverfield, was born at Inverlochy Castle on August 9th 1867.

Evelina’s birth is recorded as ‘Honourable Evilena Scarlett’, she took the name Haverfield from her husband. Her childhood was divided between London and the Inverlochy estate. In 1880 she went to school in Dusseldorf, Germany, after which she married Major Henry Haverfield at the age of 19., who was 20 years her senior. The marriage is said to have been a happy one they had two sons together, The Major however died in 1896. Evelina married again two years later, a another military man, Major John Blaguy. This was not a happy union and after some time they drifted apart. The rest of her life was informed by devotion to a cause.

She became an enthusiastic supporter of the suffragette movement and was arrested during suffragette demonstrations in London for hitting an escorting police officer. Her only regret was not hitting him hard enough, promising to bring a revolver next time. During that heady time she met Vera Holme. Their companionship was to last the rest of her days.

At the outbreak of the First World War the suffragettes supported the war effort by founding a Women’s Voluntary Emergency Corps and a Women’s Voluntary Reserve Ambulance Corps. Evelina became commandant in chief of the latter, looking, it was said, every inch a soldier in her khaki uniform, although she later left after a disagreement of an undisclosed nature.

Evelina joined the Scottish Women’s Hospitals and devoted the next two years to overseas service with them. She served in Serbia with Elsie Inglis, as a hospital administrator and was part of a small group taken prisoner when the armies of the Central Powers overran Serbia in October and November 1915.

Under appalling conditions of poverty and military oppression, Evelina and those with her, struggled heroically through the winter to provide food and basic care for their wounded Serbian patients and some of the local civilian population. In the spring of 1916, Evelina and the other 'Scottish Women’ were released through the International Red Cross and returned to England.

In August 1916 Evelina went to Romania in charge of 18 ambulance and transport vehicles as part of two units of the Scottish Women’s Hospitals. These units were in support of Serbian soldiers fighting on the eastern Allied front. The stronger enemy invading armies drove the Russian, Romanian, and Serbian defenders out of southern Romania and north of the Danube river delta.

During this two-month retreat by the Allied forces, Evelina and the transport drivers were working non-stop under constant enemy fire, in desperate situations, while rescuing wounded soldiers and driving them to safety.

By early 1917, with the fighting on the eastern front over, and unable to return to Serbia because of the enemy occupation there, Evelina returned to England, where she remained until after the Armistice of November 1918. In England she raised money for clothing and canteens for Serbian soldiers, gave public speeches on behalf of Serbian relief, and helped to found a Serbian Red Cross Society in Britain.

After the Armistice she returned to Serbia to supervise the distribution of much needed food, clothing, and medical supplies. When this was done, in 1919, she made plans to found a home for Serbian war orphans in a Serbian mountain village. It was there, in Baijna Bashta, that she contracted pneumonia, probably brought on by overwork and fatigue, and died prematurely at the age of 52, revered and honoured by the Serbs for her five years of humanitarian work on their behalf. The Serbs issued a stamp commemorating this remarkable women in 2015, a woman few Scots have even heard of…….

Buried in Serbia today, Evelina’s gravestone reads:

‘Hear lies the body of the honourable Evelina Haverfield youngest daughter of William Scarlett 3rd Baron Abinger and of Helen ne Magruder his wife of Inverloky Castle Fort William Scotland who finished her work in Bajina Bashta March 21st 1920 through the war 1914-1920 She worked for the Serbian people with untiring zeal. A straight fighter as traight rider and a most loyal friend. R.I.P’

In 2015 Evalina was one of five Scottish women and one English women, who worked as doctors, nurses and drivers honoured on a series of stamps in Serbia, the others were Dr Elsie Inglis a campaigner for women's suffrage and the founder of the Scottish Women Hospitals in Serbia. Dr Inglis was one of the first female graduates at the University of Edinburgh.

Dr Elizabeth Ross, one of the first women to obtain a medical degree at the University of Glasgow. She travelled to Serbia as a volunteer and tragically passed away during the typhoid epidemic in 1915.

Dr Katherine MacPhail OBE, involved in humanitarian work in Serbia throughout WW1. She is remembered for opening the first paediatric ward in Belgrade in 1921.

Dr Isabel Emslie Galloway Hutton who joined the Scottish Women Hospitals as a volunteer in 1915 after she was turned away by the War Office in London. She served in France, Greece and Serbia until 1920.

The sixth was English woman, Captain Flora Sandes, who was the only known British female to bear arms during WW1.

This may have been seen as a great adventure for many, but as with all wars there was a price to pay, some of the women ended in desperate tragedy. A total of 21 died in Serbia, many after falling ill with suspected typhus.

[the-lonelybarricade]

Ten Past Five - Feysand NYE

It's six days late, but it's finally here. My Feysand New Years Eve fic, delayed because this mofo is a whopping 12k words. This is my very late contribution to @unofficialfeysandmonth2022 Day 31: Holiday. Please enjoy!!

Read on AO3 • Feysand Month Masterlist

-

Ladies and gentlemen, please note that due to extended strike action, train services will be ending early this evening. If you are leaving this station for London Marylebone, please check your returning train times. The last train leaving from London Marylebone will be at ten past five.

“Great,” Feyre sighed under her breath. She rolled up the soaked sleeves of her coat to glimpse her wrist watch.

Noon already.

She’d woken up late.

Well. Actually, she’d woken up with plenty of time to get to the station. But she’d turned her bleary eyes towards her bathroom door, and the distance between the bed and the shower had felt unconquerable. It had taken her so long to convince herself to get out of bed that she’d needed to brush her teeth in the shower to leave the house on time. Then it hadn’t even occurred to Feyre that she’d rushed out the door without her umbrella—not until she’d taken the elevator to the ground floor and walked out her building's front steps. There was no reminder quite like being assaulted by a winter downpour. If she’d turned back around to grab it, she would have missed her train.

So there Feyre was, shivering on the platform, waiting for her train to arrive, praying she could handle things in central London quickly enough to be back at Marylebone by ten past five.

She hated Tamlin for insisting they meet in person to do this.

She hated him more for insisting it be in central London on New Year’s Eve.

She hated him the most for using this as an excuse to hatch some braindead plan to win her back.

Feyre wondered if he thought she was stupid. He’d probably suspected she’d have no plans, since all of her New Years plans had been with him and his friends. Perhaps he’d expected to find her sad and lonely and willing to forgive him. She could already hear his pitch to come home with him to celebrate. We could start over, Feyre. New Year, new us. A fresh start. As long as she didn’t let him talk, she could just give him back his house key and get home in time to snuggle on the sofa with a glass of wine. Tamlin was too vain to believe it, but Feyre was actually relieved she wouldn’t need to be spending another New Year with his stuck up friends, watching Ianthe hang herself all over him.

Good riddance.

The trains were, thankfully, not very busy, nor was the Underground. And Feyre used the idle travel time to rehearse everything she would say to Tamlin.

No, I don’t want a coffee. No, I don’t want anything to eat. I just want to give you this house key, and I want you to give me mine, and I never want to see you again.

Firm. Direct. Unwavering.

“Hey, Feyre.”

It all fell apart when she saw him standing in the cafe, smile nervous. Charming. He was wearing the cream knit jumper she’d gotten for him last year. The one he never wore, despite how Feyre expressed her fondness for the look. It softened his demeanor.

“Hi Tamlin.” She forced a smile, trying not to look at his eyes, or his loose, shoulder length hair. Things that were easy to miss.

“I got you a coffee,” he said, holding up the cup with that stupid bashful smile. It was the same one he’d flashed her the day they’d first met, when he’d come up to her at her art gallery and admitted he had only attended because he thought she was pretty. “Two pumps of vanilla, one pump of hazelnut. Whipped cream. Just how you like it.”

Feyre stiffly accepted the drink. There was the first part of her plan up in flames. A drink kept her in his proximity, forced them to sit down. She knew that was his plan—he’d never bothered with gestures like this before. She hadn’t even realized he knew her favorite order, and she wasn’t suddenly touched to find out he did know it.

It meant that ignorance wasn’t the reason he’d never bothered, he just hadn’t cared.

The paper cup stung her palms as she followed him to a table in the corner. She could at least take the drink with her when she left. She didn’t need to stay and drink it.

“Here,” Feyre said, placing the cup on the table so she could dig into her purse and withdraw the small jewelry bag she’d placed his key into. She dangled it by the strings towards him. “Your house key.”

Tamlin stared at the small velvet bag. He started to reach for it, then paused. “Feyre…”

“Take it, Tam. And give me back mine.”

“Don’t you want to talk about this?” He asked, leaned back in his seat. Leaving her holding that key in the air, cheeks burning the longer she held onto it.

“No,” she snapped, flinging the bag at him. The weighted metal inside slapped against his chest, any satisfying thunk she imagined in her head blanketed by the soft, thick sweater. He was frowning as he caught it in his hands. “There’s nothing to talk about,” she added. “We’re broken up, Tamlin.”

She watched his hands curl around the bag. She scooched back in her seat.

“It was one drunken—”

“Don’t,” she interrupted. “Don’t you dare make excuses. Just give me back my house key, and we’ll go our separate ways.”

The bag was now smothered in his fist. She watched him clench his jaw, then look back at the bag. He took a deep breath, intentionally relaxing the tension in his posture on the exhale. He tried another smile, but it was poisoned by the irritation in his eyes. “Come on. It’s New Year, Feyre.” He tilted his head, both brows raised high. “Remember all the plans we made? I know Lucien and Alis will miss you tonight.”

“I have plans,” she said flatly. Tamlin jerked his head up, eyebrows bunching into a tight knot. Feyre stared him down, channeling her best impression of Nesta’s cold, cruel indifference. She reached carefully for the coffee cup, hoping that moving her body would help conceal her shaking hands. “So if you could give me back my house key, I can be on my way.”

“Who are your plans with?” He asked.

She remembered watching Tamlin shave his face in the mornings, gliding his sharp razor carefully over his cheek, applying just the right of pressure so that he didn’t nick his skin. She could feel him, pressing that edge into his voice. Not too much—not enough to wound, not yet. But she could feel the razor on her skin, a warning that she was entering dangerous territory.

“You don’t know them.” She made a point to pull up her sleeve, check her watch. Nearly three already. She needed an hour to get back to Marylebone, but she was fine. She wouldn’t be here longer than two hours.

“A man?” He pressed, words gritted. “Is there someone else?”

Feyre sighed. “Tamlin. Just give me back my key.”

“Maybe I’ll hold onto it,” he said. “You’ll never know what will happen if you’re inviting strange men around, Feyre. If anything happens, I’ll be able to help—”

“Tamlin. Let me make this clear. If you show up to my house and let yourself in, I will have you arrested. Do you understand?” She stared at him. Levelly. “Give me my fucking key back.”

“I’m just trying to look out for you, Feyre,” he said, rolling his eyes. “Don’t be so dramatic.”

“You know what?” Feyre stood up from the table, coffee cup in hand. She momentarily debated dumping it on top of his head. “It’s fine. Thanks for the coffee. I’ll be staying with a friend until I get my locks changed.”

A bluff, but he didn’t need to know that.

Tamlin scrambled to his feet. “Feyre.”

She was already striding to the door.

“Feyre, let me at least walk you to the station. ”

She ignored him entirely, keeping her head fixed on the cafe doors. People were likely turning their heads at the commotion—the British public always knew how to act scandalized by an outburst. But she didn’t dare acknowledge the cutting looks. They could think what they wanted. She wasn’t going to indulge him any longer, he wasn’t worth the headache.

“I have an umbrella—”

He was cut off by the door slamming shut. Once she was out, Feyre turned abruptly, the opposite way of the station. Knowing Tamlin, he wouldn’t be far behind, and she was at least going to ensure she wasn’t easy to follow. She took a sharp corner so that she’d be out of sight when he came out of the cafe, rationalizing that it was better to waste time walking in a big circle than risk him catching up to her.

And perhaps he wasn’t even trying to chase her down, but that didn’t stop her from ducking into the first Underground Station she saw. It didn’t matter that it wasn’t on the right line. She had plenty of time, and Tamlin certainly wouldn’t be looking for her on the District Line—not when walking a block to a station on the Central line would have saved her half the time.

Worth it. Worth it to avoid that angry knit of his eyebrows and delay the onslaught of texts that would come through once she was above ground.

Three thirty.

It was fine. She had plenty of time. She’d get to Embankment by four, Marylebone by four thirty, and would be halfway home before the final train even left Marylebone.

She fished out her phone once she was in the train carriage, juggling her coat and the coffee cup in her other hand, so that she could pull up a picture of the tube map to ensure she’d mentally mapped out her journey correctly. It calmed her to have a plan, and to know that there was no rush. Though, in the Underground, it was hard not to rush, with the rapid flow of traffic. When she stepped off the train at Embankment, she couldn’t help falling into the familiar habit of long, quick strides, staring up at the signs to direct her towards the Northern Bakerloo line.

Feyre promptly turned in that direction, glancing at her phone to double check the time. Five past four, just as she’d guessed. The status board said everything was running on time. It was all going to be—

“Shit!”

Her phone clattered to the ground as she smacked into the shoulder of someone who had cut in front of her. The impact jolted his arm so that his phone went flying, too, as did her coffee.

All over his expensive looking shirt.

“Oh my god,” she squeaked, pulling to a halt in the middle of the busy tunnel, earning nasty glances from the passersby. “I am so sorry.”

He grimaced as he looked at his shirt, then lifted his head to look at Feyre.

To her horror, the man she had just assaulted with coffee was utterly gorgeous. The kind of gorgeous she would ordinarily be mortified to even make eye contact with—And, oh, he was making eye contact. Unblinking, soul-bearing eye contact. It felt like magnets clashing, the pull so strong it would have been impossible to look anywhere else. She probably should have been saying more, but she was too fascinated by the array of colors in his eyes, some hues so deep they were nearly purple.

She could feel herself forgetting how to speak as he smiled, lifting a hand to wave away the apology. “It’s fine. I hated this shirt anyway.”

God, what did she even say?

He reached down, risking his hand against the foot traffic to retrieve both of their phones. He stood back up in one fluid, graceful movement. “It’s my fault, anyway. I shouldn’t have cut in front of you like that.” Raven-black hair fell across his forehead as he gazed down at the pair of black screens in his hand—both remarkably unscathed, considering neither of them had phone cases.

Their phones were an identical make, she noticed. Feyre supposed that meant she and the handsome stranger had similar tastes. As if it wasn’t the most popular phone brand. It was nice to delude herself that this was some clandestine meeting, as fleeting as it would be.

“Here you are,” he said, deep blue eyes sparkling as he extended the phone towards her. Their fingers brushed as she accepted it and oh no his hands were so big. She didn’t want to notice—she hated that she did. She hated that she couldn’t stop noticing. Long, elegant fingers, with a large vein running over the back of his hand.

“Sorry again,” Feyre said. She told herself she was only breathless because she had been rushing through the station. Her face was so hot, and she dreaded to think about how obvious her blush probably was.

It was normal to be flustered after spilling coffee on someone.

“Don’t be.” He winked. “Running into you was worth a ruined shirt, any day.”

Feyre turned her face to hide her blush. “I should, um..”

He laughed. “Happy New Years, darling,” he said, offering her a small wave before he took off, swallowed back into the flow of the crowd before she could even ask him his name. Not that she would have been brave enough to. Feyre was certain if she learned anything else about him, it would ruin her life, burning inside her mind along with the knowledge that she would never see him again.

It was better to keep the beautiful man nameless.

Taking a deep, steadying breath, Feyre assimilated back into the crowd. She clicked the power button on her phone to glance at the time, only to stop abruptly at the picture on the lock screen. Feyre recognized those smiling violet eyes immediately, sandwiched between two grinning men with equally dark, rugged features.

This wasn’t her phone.

Feyre turned, searching for that dark of hair in the crowd, but he had already disappeared toward the Westbound Circle Line. Heart pounding in her chest, Feyre doubled back, elbowing her way through the crowd to chase after him. She didn’t even have a name to call out, not that it would have been heard over the roaring tunnels and the screeching wheels against the track.

The train now approaching is to Edgware Road. Please stand back from the platform edge.

She broke onto the platform where a train was already waiting, doors open as passengers filtered inside. She scanned left and right, but there was no tall, charming stranger in sight.

Doors closing.

BeepBeepBeepBeepBeep

Fuck. Feyre panicked. Her train ticket home was on that phone.

She jumped on.

And as the doors closed, she immediately felt foolish. He wasn’t in this carriage, and she had no idea if he had even gotten on this train. At least the carriages on the Circle Line were all connected. It gave her a chance of finding him as she carefully navigated to the next carriage, then the next. No purple eyes. No coffee stained shirts.

The next station is Westminster. Change for the Jubilee Line. Exit for Westminster Abbey, Houses of Parliament and Riverboat Services from Westminster Pier.

Mind the gap between the train and the platform.

Had he gotten off? Feyre had no idea, but she’d resolved to follow this carriage all the way to the back of the train.

The next station is St. James Park…

The next station is Victoria…

The next station is Stone Square…

The next station is South Kensington…

God, what was she doing? He could have gotten off at any of the stops. The final train home was leaving in thirty minutes, and she still needed to get to Marylebone. It wasn’t like the man had stolen her phone on purpose—no thief would offer their own phone as collateral. Once she was off the Underground, she could call her number, and they could meet each other another time to exchange phones.

Resigned, Feyre got off at South Kensington. It would be cutting it close. She would need to switch lines and double back, then up, but she might make it if she hurried. With an exasperated huff, she followed the signs towards the Piccadilly line, trying to forget the handsome stranger for the time being.

-

This is South Kensington. Change for the Piccadilly Line. Exit for the Museums and Royal Albert Hall. This is a Circle Line train via High Street Kensington and Paddington.

Rhysand stepped off the train, relieved to be almost home so that he could change out of his sticky shirt. Not that he particularly minded. Not when blue eyes lingered in the back of his mind, so wide he could mistake them for the sea. They reminded him of staring out at St. Ives Bay as a child, when their family would go on holiday in the summer. Warm and beautiful and dangerous.

Mor would laugh when he told her the story. He had run into Feyre Archeron, of all people, on the Underground. She clearly hadn’t recognized him, or she simply didn’t know who he was. If he was bolder he would have said something.

But he’d looked into those eyes and he’d felt like he couldn’t breathe, let alone say anything articulate. Feyre fucking Archeron, red-cheeked and just as devastatingly beautiful as he remembered. He wondered where she’d been going, if he should have pretended he was going that direction, too. Hell, he would have followed her to the other end of London just to listen to her talk. He was endlessly curious to know what she’d been doing. Why was she in a rush? What did it sound like, when her lips shaped his name?

Rhys wasn’t certain they’d ever actually spoken a word to each other. Tamlin seemed to very intentionally avoid him at any work functions, and Rhysand had always been content to do the same. He’d gotten used to pretending Tamlin didn’t exist outside of when it was strictly necessary. That was, until Tamlin had started showing up to parties with Feyre Archeron on his arm. Then he became harder to ignore. Rhys had last seen her only a few weeks ago, at their work Christmas party. She’d been wearing a red velvet, long-sleeved dress, which in itself could have been a living commentary on how men were first driven to sin. It hugged her hips the way Tamlin should have been doing—adoringly. Like it wanted to worship every inch of her.

Where did someone like Tamlin even find someone like her?

Rhys had been wondering that question for almost a year now, and he supposed he had his answer. In the Underground, apparently. He’d been paying so much attention to his phone that he hadn’t even seen her until they crashed into each other.

What had he even been looking at, again?

Rhys tapped his card on the reader, following the gates out of the station before he pulled his phone from his pocket to remind himself what he’d even been in the middle of doing before his mind had become tangled up in Feyre Archeron.

There she was again. Smiling at him.

He blinked, half expecting the image was some strange mental projection because he couldn’t stop thinking about her.

But—no. That was a picture of Feyre on the lock screen, her arm thrown around Lucien Vanserra’s shoulder. Interesting that it wasn’t Tamlin. And more interesting, that he seemed to have ended up with her phone in their collision.

That was when the Whatsapp messages started coming in.

Tamlin: Feyre.

Tamlin: Where did you go?

Tamlin: Feyre???

Tamlin: Come back. Let’s talk about this.

Tamlin: If you don’t want to come to New Years, I can come to yours. Just the two of us.

Tamlin: Feyre???

Tamlin: I’m sorry. Tell me where you are and I’ll bring you your key.

Tamlin: Who are your plans with?

Tamlin: Are you with them right now?

Tamlin: Is there someone else already? Did our relationship really mean that little to you?

Jesus Christ. Rhysand could venture a guess as to why Feyre was in such a rush when he ran into her. Knowing he was likely overstepping, Rhys held down the most recent text so he could type out the reply: Hey buddy. Ten messages is a little overkill, don’t you think? Maybe you should leave Feyre alone.

The response was immediate.

Tamlin: Who is this???

Rhys stared, wondering how far he could take this before he crossed a line that Feyre wouldn’t let him come back from. When the phone began ringing, he couldn’t resist answering.

“Hello,” He greeted smoothly. “Feyre Archeron’s phone, how may I be of assistance?”

“Who the fuck is this?”

“I was about to ask the same,” he said. “This number isn’t saved in Feyre’s phone.”

“Put Feyre on.”

“Feyre darling is a bit occupied at the moment. I would be happy to take a message, though.”

“... Is this fucking Rhysand?”

“Ah, so she’s told you about me? I’m flattered to know I’m not the only one who’s been telling all my friends about her.”

“Rhysand, I swear to—”

“Oh, what’s that? You’re ready to go darling? I’ll be right there. Hate to cut this call short, but I’m needed elsewhere. Hope you have a happy new year.”

He quickly clicked the end button, marveling at what he’d just done. Knowing he shouldn’t—knowing he’d already invaded too much of her life already—Rhysand clicked on the home button, just to see what would happen.

It unlocked immediately. Rhys could guess why.

No secrets between us, right Fey?

He’d overheard Tamlin say that to her once at a party. He’d missed the context, but the tone with which he’d said it, the condescension, had immediately curdled his stomach.

Rhys shouldn’t. But fuck, did he want to. It was right there. Everything he could possibly wish to learn about the girl he’d been dreaming about, literally at his fingertips.

Okay. Wait. There were some things that he did need to do—like adding himself on Whatsapp so he could send her a message.

Hey! This is Rhysand. Looks like we accidentally swapped phones in the Underground. When you get this, please call this number. We can meet up and switch them back.

Her conversation with Tamlin was right there below his own name. Maybe he could tell himself that his thumb had slipped.

And—oops. The conversation opened. There was the slew of texts that had just come through, but if he scrolled up, he could see more.

Feyre: I am stopping by the post office today to send your house key. Please return mine.

Tamlin: Post office? Why? Let’s meet in person.

Feyre: No. Send it in the mail.

Tamlin: I don’t trust the mail. I don’t want you to lose my house key.

Feyre: If it gets lost, I’ll pay for a replacement.

Tamlin: Let’s meet tomorrow. That cafe by Mile End?

Feyre: Tomorrow’s New Years Eve, Tamlin. Let’s at least meet next week.

Tamlin: You know what? Why don’t I come swing by your place and drop the key off.

Feyre: Mile End is fine. I’ll meet you at 2.

Bastard. Rhys felt less guilty about involving himself.

And maybe he could admit that he himself wasn’t much better than Tamlin, with the way he kept scrolling through their conversations. He wanted to know more about her, what she was like when she was in love, the things that made her happy.

There wasn’t a lot of substance to her conversations with Tamlin. Feyre was clever—and funny. Rhysand found himself laughing under his breath at the dry humor she often used to combat Tamlin’s abrasiveness. She was a treasure, and each of Tamlin’s low effort responses left a bitter taste in his mouth.

The jealousy burning in Rhysand’s chest was ugly. He knew that.

But god it wounded Rhys, in his soul, to know that the bastard hadn’t even appreciated what he’d had. Tamlin didn’t ask after her very often, and when he did it was always demanding. Where are you?? Show me. Rhys was fairly certain he’d blow Feyre’s mind with just a simple Good morning, beautiful.

The bright side is it meant there were many pictures of Feyre out and about, usually holding a random number of fingers at his request. A “peace sign” selfie in front of St. James Street. A wide-eyed mirror shot when she was brushing her teeth, toothpaste foaming at the corner of her mouth. Feyre beaming in front of a canvas, paint splattered on her cheeks like a smattering of freckles.

And when she was in bed. Naked.

Rhys had to sit down when he came across that conversation.

It was a picture of Feyre sprawled in her bed, wearing the tiniest pair of sleeping shorts he had ever seen.The angle was downturned, focused mostly on her breasts, emphasized by the way she beautifully arched her back. Rhys was losing his mind imagining precisely what she would look like melting underneath his touch, sliding his hands along her spine while he sampled every inch of the skin on display.

And—fuck.

He was glad he was sitting, or the next one would have taken him to his knees. Feyre sat in a chair, her legs spread open to show off her glistening pussy. Her fingers were posed at her clit, and her mouth was tilted into a taunting smirk that could have convinced him to do anything she asked. Anything to taste those perfect pink lips—either of them. He would have traded his entire life away, just to have been in that room to see her in person.

His throat went dry. Did she even know how much power she had?

She was the prettiest thing he’d ever seen, and she was owed someone who would crawl through broken glass if it meant earning a smile.

Tamlin had never deserved her. No one would ever deserve her.

God, he wanted to try to.

Rhysand called his phone.

This is Marylebone. Change here for National Rail Services.

Shit. Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit.

It was 5:05, and she had only just stepped onto the Underground platform.

Feyre ran, even knowing there was no way she was going to make her train in time. Not when she still needed to buy a ticket. She pushed to the left on the escalator, taking them two at a time. When she burst out of the gates, her eyes darted immediately to the departure board.

5:08.

Please say it’s delayed, please say it’s delayed, please say it’s…

Platform A. On time.

Fuck. Feyre barrelled to the ticket kiosk, frantically stamping in her destination with the pad of her finger.

5:09.

The train was at the other end of the station. She knew, even as she continued to the payment screen, that she wouldn’t make it in time. There was no way.

Her phone started ringing.

No—it wasn’t her phone. But that was her number on the screen.

“Hello?”

“Is this Feyre?”

Oh god. He knew her name. It only just occurred to her that her phone wasn’t password protected because of Tamlin’s rule about not hiding secrets from each other. What do you have on your phone that you don’t want me to see?

Nothing. But she had plenty that she didn’t want a complete stranger to see. Especially one that looked like him.

“Um, yes. This is Feyre. And you are…?”

“Rhysand,” he said with a small laugh. “It appears we swapped phones when we ran into one another.”

“Yeah,” she breathed, watching the LED clock switch to 5:10. In the distance, a whistle blew, and her train pulled out of the station. “I, uh… I’m sorry that I spilled coffee on you then stole your phone. I promise I’m usually better behaved.”

“... Are you okay?” She could hear the frown in his voice

“No, I…” she pinched her nose, holding back tears. “Sorry. You called at a bad time. I just missed my train.”

“Oh.”

Fuck, she probably sounded so dramatic. She could practically hear what he was thinking: So what, Feyre? Wait for the next one.

“It’s the last one of the day,” she explained. “I… need to figure out where I’m going to stay tonight. And I can’t call any of my friends because….”

“I have your phone?”

“Right,” she said on a soft sigh.

“Where are you?”

Feyre hesitated to answer. This man was still a stranger, and she had just admitted that she was in a vulnerable position.

Please note that due to extended strike action, train services from London Marylebone will be running on a restricted schedule. Please check your journey before travelling.

“London Marylebone?” He guessed. Feyre’s face felt hot. “Feyre, stay where you are. Please. I’ll be there in, fuck. Thirty minutes, max. Just… don’t go anywhere. Okay? If you’re bored, my passcode is 1221. I’m on my way.”

“Rhys—”

The phone call abruptly ended.

Feyre stared at the lock screen, at the man sat in the center who now had a name. Rhysand. He looked so familiar to her, but she couldn’t quite place why.

With a shaky breath, she slid the screen over and typed in the numbers.

1 - 2 - 2 - 1.

To her surprise, the phone actually unlocked.

A stranger had given her full access to his life, just like that? If you’re bored, he’d said. What was off limits? She scrolled aimlessly through his apps, but he didn’t exactly have any mindless games she could play.

Curious, she went to his photos. What kind of person was he? She could only imagine that someone that handsome had to be a major asshole. She was picturing a homage to the material. Fancy cars and Rolex watches. Pictures of beautiful women traipsing his house in lingerie. He probably collected them like Christmas wrapping paper—pretty, until they’d served their purpose.

She hadn’t expected all the pictures of the stars. Real stars. Some of them she recognized, like the picture of deep space that the Hubble Telescope had recently come out with. She only knew about it because Hank Green had talked about it on her For You Page. But Feyre got the feeling, as she continued scrolling through his camera roll, that he hadn’t gotten his news from Tiktok.

He was an astronomy nerd.

Feyre couldn’t help smiling at the revelation. And the fact that there were no pictures of naked women, just Rhysand and the same two men from his lock screen. On a skiing trip, at the gym, midair at a trampoline park. She might have wavered on those last two photos, zooming in to get a closer glimpse at Rhys in a loose black tank top. Covered in sweat that glazed over his toned chest and broad biceps.

She didn’t think the sight of someone upside down in midair would ever be sexually arousing, but Rhysand certainly challenged that prospect. Gravity pulled at his shirt gratuitously, exposing a tightly corded abdomen that she wanted to run her fingers over. And her tongue, if Feyre was being honest with herself.

Though, to her dismay, there was one woman who appeared quite regularly in his photos. Long blonde locks and big I-know-you-want-to-fuck-me brown eyes. She was exactly the kind of beautiful she imagined would be suitable for someone like Rhysand. There were plenty of pictures of them together, hugging and laughing and pulling silly faces. They looked happy.

She’d never properly met this man, but she could admit she was burning with jealousy.

Especially when she scrolled far back enough to find a picture of Rhysand fresh out of the shower. He’d taken a picture in the foggy glass, one hand sliding through his wet hair, eyebrows quirked in a way that begged, should I drop the towel?

Please drop it, please drop it, please—

Feyre swiped to the next photo and quickly locked the screen, letting it go black before anyone could walk behind the bench to see what she’d just been staring at. Even if it was gone, the picture burned in her mind.

She’d thought romance novels had been exaggerated.

It was wrong to compare. It was wrong to even look. But…

Feyre unlocked the phone again.

Dear God.

He was fisting his erection at the base. From using that single fist as a size reference, it looked like a second fist wouldn’t have been enough to cover the rest. Ferye had seen his hands, she knew that they dwarfed her own. Would she even be able to wrap her hand around it? Or her—

No. She couldn’t let herself fantasize about being on her knees for a man who hadn’t even consented to being seen naked. Who probably had a very lovely blonde girlfriend. Oh my god, what was she doing? Why was she like this?

She locked the phone again, pushing it into her pocket to curb the urge to keep looking at that photo. It was far too tempting to zoom in on that flushed head and imagine…

Feyre walked stiffly towards the toilets. She needed to splash cold water in her face and get a grip. One stunning man with vibrant eyes, and she’d suddenly lost touch of all her sensibilities.

Meeting her own eyes in the mirror was an effort, how was she going to manage when it was Rhysand? Her cheeks were stained with the evidence of what she’d just been doing, and she took more than a few minutes to press cold water on them, willing the flush away. Unfortunately the water couldn’t wash away the image that had imprinted in her brain.

Rhysand’s phone buzzed in her pocket.

I’m here. Please tell me you haven’t left.

Her feet felt heavier than they’d been when she came into the bathroom. Feyre had to drag them out the door, back into the station center. There were no more trains running, so it was practically empty save for the man who stood beneath the departure board, craning his neck in every direction as he searched for her.

No—his phone.

Feyre was just an inconvenience to him.

He turned at her approach, and she watched his expression melt from concern to relief.

“Thank god,” he said, closing the distance between them much faster than Feyre would have liked. There was still a coffee stain over the entire front of his shirt, not that he seemed to notice or care. “I was so worried you’d left.”

“There was nowhere to leave to,” was her response. She couldn’t help cringing at the complaint in her voice. It was meant to be a light hearted comment.

He laughed softly. “Right—sorry about your train,” he said, sounding as if he didn’t mean it at all. She supposed it was more convenient for him this way.

Feyre couldn’t help feeling annoyed at the growing smile on his face at the expense of her misfortune, even when it made her heart flutter to see that smile up close. It helped to know he was at least a little bit of an asshole. It made it easier to find peace with his absurdly attractive face and his obscenely large—

“Anyway.” Feyre reached into her pocket, holding his phone out to him. “I believe this is yours.”

“Ah, yes.” He responded in kind, retrieving her phone from his front pocket. It was torture, watching the way his fingers curled around the plastic, sending her mind elsewhere as he clicked the power button. A picture of herself and Lucien lit up the once black screen. “Lucien Vanserra?”

Feyre blinked in surprise. “You know him?”

“I work with him,” Rhysand said. There was a note to his voice that made it unclear how he felt about that statement. “Are you and he…?”

Oh. Oh. “No!” She said quickly. “No, not at all, Lucien’s just a…” Friend, she almost said. But she wanted to make sure he believed her. So she said, “He’s my brother-in-law.”

Lucien was the reason she’d ever met Tamlin to begin with. He’d invited his work colleagues to her art gallery as a favor, assuring at least a few of them would make for wealthy clientele. She wondered if that meant Rhysand had been invited, too, and she hadn’t even noticed. If he worked with Lucien, he also worked with Tamlin. How many times had they come so close to meeting and simply passed right by?

The tragedy of her life was that if he had come up to her at the art gallery, she would have forgotten all about the cute blonde man who’d been flirting with her. Tamlin who? She wouldn’t have even kept his business card.

“I see,” Rhys said. Did she imagine the relief in his voice?

In any case, Rhysand must not know Lucien particularly well, if he was unaware that Lucien was married to Elain. Feyre swore every other sentence that came out of his mouth began with, Elain and I… They were the kind of lovesick that always made Feyre wonder what was broken between herself and Tamlin. So many things, it turned out.

For someone who was so eager to get his phone back, he tucked into his pocket with remarkably little attention. For all he knew, she could have wiped the entire thing clean, or used his virtual wallet to buy herself something lavish or—anything. And he put it away without even looking, staring at her like it didn’t matter to him at all.

“Seeing as you’ve missed your train home, would you like to come celebrate New Years with me? And my friends, that is. The five of us are just getting together for some drinks at my place. It’s very casual.”

“Oh,” Feyre reeled back, trying to process this change of direction. “Uh…”

“I know. I know. We’re strangers. You don’t really know me. But I know Lucien—call him up. I’m certain he’d vouch for me.”

She hesitated. Yes, she wanted to say. But… going to his house? Meeting his friends? It was too much, even if she was attracted to him. “I don’t know Rhysand…”

“Rhys,” He said. “Call me Rhys, please.”

“Rhys,” she corrected, not missing the way his gaze flickered to her mouth.

“Do you have anywhere you can stay?” He pressed.

Feyre bit her lip. The only person she could think to stay with would be Tamlin. Either that or risk an extortionate hotel room.

“Okay.” It was quiet. Resigned. But she wouldn’t have thought so from Rhysand’s triumphant grin.

“Good.” She could tell he meant it. Rhysand extended his hand towards her. “Come on. It’s not far, but we’ll have to go back through the Underground.”

She took it, not really knowing why. His fingers curled around hers and didn’t let go. Instead he smiled, lifted his arm over her head, and spun her, like it was a dance as he guided her back toward the Underground gate.

Smooth. Feyre could give him that much. But she hadn’t forgotten the blonde girl she’d seen in his phone.

“Tell me Feyre,” he purred once they stepped onto the right hand side of the escalator. He turned so that he was facing her, still taller despite being on the lower step. “Anything about yourself. Whatever you think is relevant.”

“Um. I’m an artist?”

“I know,” he said, something unreadable in his eyes. “Lucien invited me to your first gallery show. I have one of your pieces hanging in my living room.”

Feyre gasped. She’d sold all of five pieces that evening. Three to extended family, one to Tamlin, and one to… “That was you?”

She’d never met the anonymous buyer, and she’d always assumed it was another one of her family members trying to encourage her.

If she didn’t know better, she would have said that was a blush growing on Rhysand’s cheeks. “It’s one of my favorite pieces,” he admitted.

Feyre could remember it well. She’d painted the night sky—stars and the moon and clouds and just endless, dark sky. She’d never really known why, just that she’d been staring out her window one night and something had seemed to call to her. She supposed, as an astronomy nerd, the image had called to him, too.

“Your turn,” she said.

Rhys cocked his head, searching her face. “Pardon?”

“I told you something about myself.” They stepped off the escalator and descended back into the winding tunnels. “Now it’s your turn to tell me something about you.”

He seemed to think for a long moment. “I’m an older brother,” he said. “I technically only have one sibling.”

“Technically?”

“Well…” Rhys stared ahead as they turned onto the platform, eyes flush with warmth. “I have one little sister. She’s in Year 11. But I also have two friends that I consider brothers. And a cousin who might as well count, too.”

“So many people to look after,” Feyre teased. “You must be very responsible.”

“I believe you are the first to hold that opinion of me, Feyre darling.” Rhysand leaned close, so that his breath tickled her ear as he whispered, “Your turn.”

And so it went, back and forth trading little facts about themselves, until they stepped off the train at South Kensington. There was no way. Had he gotten off at this station when she’d been trying to chase him down?

“Not too far from here,” he murmured. “Though it does look like it’s coming down pretty hard.”

Rhysand withdrew an umbrella from his jacket pocket, pausing like he was waiting for Feyre to do the same.

“I…” She didn’t want to explain that she’d been in such a rush not to miss her train that she’d left it at home. How dysfunctional must she look to him?

He shrugged. “All the better. Come share with me.”

No, certainly not all the better. Rhys opened his arm, encouraging Feyre to tuck herself against his body so they could both fit beneath the umbrella that was really only big enough for one person.

They stepped into the rain and we’re immediately embraced by the sound of water droplets thudding against the plastic. Rhys used the arm around her shoulder to protectively tug her closer, practically shoving her face into his neck.

“You smell like coffee,” she blurted before she could help herself.

His chest shook beneath his laugh. “That’s my cologne, Eau de Feyre. It’s limited edition, unless you’re feeling up to making this a regular occasion.”

“What, spilling my coffee on you in the Underground?”

He hummed. “Something like that.”

They took a turn onto a gated road. It was lit intermittently by streetlights that had been reduced to a fuzzy glow in the rain. Rhys pulled them to a stop in front of a white terraced house and while Feyre was marveling at the size of it, he leaned down to whisper in her ear, “Could you grab my keys for me, darling? They’re in the front pocket of my trousers.”

With one hand holding the umbrella and the other wrapped securely around her, Feyre supposed there was no other way to retrieve the keys unless they broke apart. But Rhysand clearly didn’t want to risk either of them getting wet.

And maybe… maybe he was flirting with her. It was too dark to gauge his expression, but she heard his breath hitch when she slid her hands against his leg. She’d seen in the photos that he was toned, though it hadn’t truly prepared her for the feeling of dragging her palm over the hard, powerful muscles.

Rhysand had gone stiff. When her fingertips skimmed his inner thigh, he made a small, strangled sound in the back of his throat that sounded suspiciously like a groan. Feyre knew the second they stepped inside, he would be able to see that her face was bright red. Why did they make men’s pockets so much deeper than women’s?

At last, her fingers slipped around the keyring. She withdrew quickly, stumbling out of his grip. Rain droplets splattered on the back of her neck and the icy cold that lurched down her spine was a welcome reprieve from his touch.

Rhys extended the umbrella towards her, trading it for his keys. Feyre watched, numbly, as he quickly ducked into the rain to unlock his front door. He glanced over his shoulder as the door pushed open, somehow unbothered by the rain pressing into his skin, its weight dragging inky wisps of hair across his forehead. The heavy downpour turned the rest of the world to static, narrowing her entire world down until it was just Rhysand and the stupid smile on his face as light flooded from inside, haloing his back.

“Welcome home, Feyre darling.”

She swallowed past a lump forming in her throat. Nerves. Butterfly shaped nerves that were beating furiously to escape.

It was warm inside. Her fingers tingled at the sudden change in temperature, and she struggled with the mechanism of the umbrella until Rhys laughed softly and took it from her, easing it back into its compact form with a click of a button. Sly.

“Can I take your coat?”

His house was big for central London. But the entryway was too small for the heat in his gaze as Feyre breathed, “Yes please.”

Rhys stepped behind her, fingers brushing against her collarbone as he grasped the collar of her coat. As smoothly as he had twirled her in the station, Rhys glided the coat off her shoulders and hung it on a nearby hook.

“I should probably text my cousin,” he said. “Ask her to bring some spare clothes.”

Feyre turned, prepared to tell him that wasn’t necessary, but he had already opened his phone. His mouth fell open at what lay on the screen and—too late—Feyre remembered the picture she’d been staring at when his phone had last been unlocked.

“Rhys…”

Fuck, what did she even say?

He clicked his phone shut, jaw working. With anger? It was hard to read the darkness in his expression.

Feyre tried to steady herself for the tension she could see coiling in his body, preparing for an outburst as Rhys pocketed his phone and prowled forward. She instinctively took a step back, only for her shoulders to meet the unforgiving wood of his front door.

“Curious about me, Feyre?” He braced a hand on either side of her, gripping the door frame. “Did you find anything interesting when you went looking through my phone?”

“You gave me the passcode,” she whispered. “You never said…”

“No,” Rhys agreed. He was staring at her mouth. “I wanted you to do whatever you pleased.” The butterfly was back, a pulse in her throat that she couldn’t escape. Rhys met her eyes. “Did you find what you were looking for?”

“I wasn’t looking for anything!” She insisted. “I just…”

A sly smile quirked at his lips, close enough that his breath caressed her lips. “You just found it?”

“Yes,” she said, aware of every inch between them, the distance smaller and smaller.

“Did you like what you found?”

Feyre hesitated. It was an admission she couldn’t come back from.

Just then, the door at her back creaked open.

“Hello?” said a voice tinged with confusion at the unexpected resistance.

Feyre and Rhysand stumbled backwards, clearing room for the blonde woman on the other side. She beamed when she saw them and Feyre’s butterflies turned to stone, dropping into a pit deep inside her chest.

“Rhys!” The blonde greeted pleasantly. “Who’s this?”

“Ah…” Rhys touched a hand to the back of his neck. “Mor, this is Feyre. Feyre, this is Mor.”

“So nice to meet you Feyre!” The blonde threw her arms around Feyre’s shoulders like they’d been friends all their lives. “Are you going to be celebrating with us?”

“Yes,” Rhys answered before Feyre could make up an excuse and book it out of there.

Sleeping on a park bench sounded really nice, suddenly.

“Oh good! The boys are just behind me. We raided everyone’s liquor cabinet.” She turned towards Feyre and grinned conspiratorially. “I hope you like drinking.”

“Oy!” A deep, masculine voice called. “Get the door!”

Mor turned on her heel, pulling the door open to two bulking men that Feyre instantly recognized from Rhysand’s lockscreen. They were carrying a storage crate filled with bottles of alcohol. The one at the front, with wavy hair that fell to his shoulder, paused when he saw Feyre. He raised a slit eyebrow. “Who’s this?”

Rhysand placed a hand on her shoulder. “This is Feyre. My guest for the evening. Feyre, these are the brothers I told you about. Cassian and Azriel.”

She nodded. “Nice to meet you.”

They were both flickering their eyes to Rhys, then back to Feyre, in some silent communication between friends. Rhysand’s eyes had gone wide, practically pleading. Whatever that look meant, Cassian cut her a toothy grin.

“Well I’ll be damned,” he said. “The artist herself.”

Mor’s hands flew to cover her mouth. “I forgot! You made that painting!”

“What happened to your shirt?” That was the one at the back, the darker one. Broodier in expression, his eyes narrowed on the coffee stain.

“Collision on the Underground,” Rhys answered noncommittally. His hand, still clasped on Feyre’s shoulder, squeezed lightly. “Why don’t you guys set up while I show Feyre to the guest bedroom, hmm?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Cassian muttered.

Rhys ignored them as he led Feyre down the hall, then up the stairs. The voice of that blonde woman—the trill of her laughter—followed them. Rhysand gripped the banister so tightly Feyre could see the whites of his knuckles.

What was Ferye even doing there?

He paused in front of a white door, sliding his hands into his pockets as he braced himself against the door frame. “This one's yours.” He nodded his head. “I’m the one across. I’m just going to change into a new shirt, but take your time if you want to freshen up. Hell, take a bath if you want.”

“I’m—”

“I’ll get you a towel. There should be some shampoo in the ensuite—”

“Rhys, I’m fine. Thank you.”

He looked sheepish. “Let me know if you need anything, okay?”

“Um…” He’d already started to turn, but whirled immediately at the sound. Feyre stared at the soaked sleeves of her jumper. Rain and sweat had made the fabric unbearably itchy. “Would I be able to borrow a top? If it’s too invasive, don’t worry—”

“No,” he interrupted. “No, not at all. Here, come with me.”

She followed him across the hall, faltering when he pushed his bedroom open and gestured her in. Rhyand leaned in so he could shut the door behind her. They paused, too close, and she watched his Adam's apple bob as he studied her, then pushed off the door.

Feyre stayed where she was, safe from the thrall of his proximity, as he strode across the room and opened a drawer. “What do you like? Jumpers, t-shirts, hoodies? The heating’s on, but still it’s a bit…” He glanced over his shoulder at her, and Feyre finally noticed the flush crawling up the golden brown column of his throat. “It’s a bit chilly.”

“Um.” Feyre shifted weight on her feet. “Just a hoodie or a jumper is fine.”

Rhysand nodded towards the drawer. “Take your pick. I’ll change in the bathroom.”

Once he was gone, it was like a weight cut loose. Feyre ventured forward without worrying about that violet gaze assessing her as she ran her hand over the various soft fabrics. They were all so neatly folded. Her fingers snagged on a navy knit jumper.

“Rhys? Wouldn’t Mor mind that I’m wearing your clothes?”

“What?” Even muffled through the door, she could hear the frown in his voice. “No. Why would Mor care?”

“Well…” Feyre hesitated, absently thumbing the soft cable pattern. “Mor seems lovely, but personally I would be bothered by some random girl wearing my boyfriend's clothes.”

Something clattered to the floor in the bathroom.

Then the door tore open, and Rhys was standing there with wide eyes. “What?”

The entire front of his shirt was unbuttoned, falling open to expose his muscular chest and stomach. Her hands fell away from the drawer. “Maybe it’s just a girl thing,” she said defensively.

“Mor and I…” Rhys wavered as he ran both hands through his hair. Feyre tried not to pay attention to the way his muscles flexed in response. “We’re cousins.”

That stunned her into silence. Rhys had mentioned his cousin on the train, but he hadn’t assigned a name to her, she’d just assumed that the woman in his phone was his girlfriend.

“So you’re not…?”

“I’m single, for the record.” he said. Holding her eyes in a way that made her mouth go dry.

“Right.” She hastily turned back to the drawer, busying herself with unfolding the jumper. “Well. Good to know.”

“Feyre.”

The floorboards creaked behind her. She didn’t turn around.

He said behind her, so close the skin on the back of her neck tingled, “A thought for a though, darling?”

“What?”

“Tell me something that you’re thinking.” His voice was a soft seduction at her ear. “In exchange, I’ll do the same.”

He still wasn’t touching her. Feyre was too afraid to turn around to see just how close he was—certainly close enough that his body heat warmed her back. “I’m thinking… that this jumper must have been expensive.”

Rhysand’s laugh scraped against the thin space between them. “I’m thinking that it would look exquisite on you.”

“I’m thinking that it would feel like wearing a cloud.”

“I’m thinking that I would prefer you didn’t wear it.”

She dropped the fabric back into the drawer. “Oh—”

“I would prefer you didn’t wear anything at all.”

Oh. Thank god his back was to her. Feyre had never had much of a poker face, and she was certain her expression would have given everything away. “I think that doesn’t sound like very appropriate attire for a New Years party.”

“It’s appropriate attire for my bedroom.” He leaned closer, lips a phantom touch on her neck. “Don’t you think?”

Feyre bit her lip at the invitation. Rhysand had braced a large hand along the curve of her hip, ever-so-polite considering the proposition he’d just made. She believed if she told him no, he’d drop it and take them back downstairs like nothing had happened.

She needed to know that.

“I think that your friends are waiting for us.”

His hand fell away. Feyre turned, unsurprised to see Rhys had taken a step away from her, and now wore an easy smile as he slid his hands into his pockets. “Best not keep them waiting then, hmm?”

Feyre buried her nails into her palm. It didn’t sting nearly as much as the immediate, burning regret. Oblivious, Rhys disappeared back into the bathroom—presumably to give her privacy to change into his sweater.

What was she doing?

In the midst of some divine intervention, she was at an absurdly attractive man’s house, in his bedroom, and she turned him down because… why? Because she wanted to ensure he understood the word no, even when all she’d wanted to say was yes. Yes, yes, yes. And so what, if that was all that he wanted? It was normal for people to have one night stands on New Years. As a newly single woman, she should be having fun.

Feyre peeled off her jumper with a small huff. Maybe it was for the better. This whole ordeal was so unexpected, she wasn’t exactly prepared for it. Her underwear was mismatched and not exactly interesting. Not to mention it was the middle of winter, so she hadn’t bothered shaving regularly since the breakup.

Midway through pulling Rhysand’s jumper over her head, Feyre faltered, and instead she pressed her face against the fabric to smother a groan of frustration. At least she was right—It was like a cloud. A soft, Rhysand-scented cloud that only reminded her what an idiot she was. And a coward.

There was a small knock on the bathroom door. “Feyre? Am I good to come out?”

Right. Time to pull herself together.

“Yeah.”

Rhys emerged. Just like before, his eyes went wide as he looked at her. He stumbled to such a clumsy stop that he had to catch himself against the doorframe.

“Thought for a thought, Rhys?” She asked. Feyre watched him work his throat, like words were suddenly an effort for him. Steeling her nerves, she said, “I’ll go first.”

That first step towards him was the most difficult. It became easier after she saw the way he was watching—like a man who’d seen God. The muscles in his arms strained as his grip tightened on the wood. It gave her confidence to keep going.

“I’m thinking that actually, you were right about the appropriate bedroom attire. And…” her voice shook, she hoped under the guise of raspiness. She came to a stop in front of him, quietly impressed by the way he held her gaze as she whispered, “I think you’re overdressed.”

As if it was permission, his eyes finally flickered downwards, surveying the swell of her breasts held up by a simple black bra.

He spoke slowly, voice like gravel. “I think you should get on my bed.”

“Or what?”

Rhys shifted his weight—the only warning she had before he lunged forward, hooking his arm around her waist to pull her against his body. He said roughly, “Or I won’t be able to make it that far.”

If he intended to let her try, he didn’t do a very good job of it. His grip was iron tight, and there was no going anywhere from him but closer. Not that she wanted to. Feyre tangled her hands in his hair, still damp from the rain, and tugged him down until their lips touched.

It was gentle—softer than she expected, given the way his body was trembling. She could feel in the way he was holding her, that careful control not to come on too hard, too fast. But she had slammed into him on the Underground, she’d seen him naked before she knew his name, she’d missed her train chasing after him. There was nothing about this that had been controlled. What was the point in being reckless, in going home with a stranger and standing topless in his bedroom, if they weren’t going to throw their whole selves at each other?

Feyre wound her fingers through his hair until she wore the locks like rings, creating the perfect handle for her to tug, saying, give me more. Give me you. With their bodies flush, she could feel Rhysand harden against her, and she groaned into his mouth.

That sound snapped whatever leash he held on himself. Rhys surged forward until Feyre’s back hit the bedroom wall. The next second, he dropped to his knees, keeping her captive in his arms so he could lay praise with his lips over her bare stomach. She squeaked in surprise, earning a wicked laugh in the back of his throat.

“I warned you,” he murmured as he nuzzled a path from her navel to the waistband of her leggings. “I wasn’t going to make it to the bed.”

Calluses scraped her skin as Rhysand’s hands trailed over the shape of her waist with the same measure of reverence she’d seen sculpters use to meld clay. They stopped at the top of her leggings, fingers curling beneath the fabric, tugging to create enough space so he could taste her hip bone.

From the way he passionately sucked and bit and licked at her skin, Feyre knew she was going to be covered in lovebites. Tamlin had always left bruises, too, but… these felt different. She’d never been undressed like this. On his knees in front of her, peeling her leggings down slowly so he could savor every inch of skin, Rhysand’s mouth felt less like a claiming and more like a devout man paying his oblation.

He stopped at her knees, perhaps sensing she was losing her balance, and tugged the rest of the way down. Feyre had never felt so exposed, standing bare before a man on his knees. It didn’t help that she couldn’t see his face—his eyes were downturned as his hands folded delicately behind each of her ankles. He slid them up, slowly, over her calves, behind her knees, raising until they fell just below her bum.

“Beautiful,” he rasped, staring at her with what could only be described as awe. “You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen, Feyre.”

Suddenly her throat felt tight. “Rhys.”

Her hands tangled back into his hair, trying to urge him up so she could kiss him again.

Rhys resisted in favor of nuzzling the junction between her hip and thigh. “I want to taste you,” he whispered—pleaded. She hesitated, thinking about how little she had prepared, but Rhysand’s fingers were digging into her backside, and he was mouth at her inner thigh with a hunger she had never seen in anyone.

She dropped her hands, a silent concession that gave Rhys all the permission he needed. Her hands scrambled against the wall for balance, something to hold herself above water, as all the coiled tension finally snapped. Rhys sprung forward, hands guiding her hips to meet him halfway as he buried his face into her cunt.

Rhysand’s nose touched her first, guiding unhurried through the seam of her lips as the flat of his tongue followed. He held her eyes as he licked her—for as long as he could, anyway, until his eyes fluttered shut, and he licked her again. And again. Slow, broad licks that curled warmth up her spine.

She wasn’t used to this. Tamlin had been willing to go down on her, but it had always been a part of quid-pro-quo. He had never been particularly enthusiastic about it—certainly not Rhys, grunting against her skin, utterly lost in what he was doing. He was kissing her with open mouthed passion, savoring her on his tongue, and when he moaned—a wet, garbled sound—it offered just enough friction that her hips bucked forward of her own accord, grinding against his tongue.

Rhys moaned again, this time in encouragement. She rolled her hips experimentally, and his hands pushed her forward, desperate, practically begging Feyre to keep going. To fuck herself on his tongue. Rhysand groaned when she did it again, craning his head back to cover a better surface area as his mouth and tongue worked feverishly against her canting hips.

His grip tightened when her legs started to shake, weakened by the frenzied heat growing in her stomach, twining up her chest, spinning her heartbeat into overdrive. Could he hear that roaring drumbeat in her ear?

She didn’t think so, not over his own slurping, debauched sounds as he sucked her clit into his mouth and lashed his tongue mercilessly, flicking upwards against her sensitive bud, until her legs threatened to collapse.

“Rhys,” she gasped, pulling on his hair. Feyre tried to pull her hips away and he growled, tugging her closer. “Rhys, I’m gonna—”

Fall, she was going to say. But Rhysand had grabbed her hips and pulled her downwards, refusing to let go or detach his mouth until her knees hit the floor. His grip on her hips guided her forwards, and the next thing she knew she was hovering over his face.

She hesitated for a moment. And Rhys, in his frustration, broke away to gasp, raggedly, “Fuck me, Feyre.”

It was those eyes—wide and dilated—that encouraged her to put her weight on him and move again with abandon. He was such a mess. Hair ruffled from her fingers, full lips swollen and glistening with arousal that coated his cheeks, his chin, his neck. And the second she started grinding against him, he groaned in veneration, used his grip on her hips to help her go faster, harder, while he buried his tongue inside her.

Feyre covered her mouth to smother the scream building in her throat, knowing Rhysand’s friends were just a floor below. But Rhysand released her hip to grab her arm, pulling it away with a wild glint in his eye. The message was clear: I want to hear to you.

Oh god. Oh god, she was coming and—”Rhys,” she gasped as her entire body shuddered, tightening and releasing like a phantom fist around her chest. She whimpered from the force of it, her vision went spotty, and for a moment all she could see were those violet eyes through the soul-bearing pleasure that crested white-hot through her body.

He continued licking her, slower now. Easing her down until he gently guided her off his face.

“Beautiful,” he repeated, rolling them until he was hovering over her. “Fuck, Feyre. You’re incredible. Look at what a mess you made of me.”

Rhys pushed his hips so she could feel the erection tenting his trouser. God, he was still clothed.

“You have a choice to make now,” he murmured, wet mouth close enough that she could smell her own arousal. “I can fuck you right here, on the floor, or you can get on my bed and I can fuck you there.”

He pressed a hot, open mouthed kiss to her lips before he climbed off her body. “I’ll be right back.”

Feyre laid on the floor, stunned, as Rhys quickly disappeared into the bathroom. She heard a drawer open, followed by the sound of a wrapper and—oh. She scrambled to her feet, shaky as they were, and quickly sat on the bed.

Rhysand came out of the bathroom naked, condom ready, smirking at her with those violet eyes as he surveyed the way she’d spread herself on his bed. “Good choice.”

She tried—and failed—not to stare too long at his bobbing erection as he stalked towards her. Feyre had assumed the picture had been an exaggeration, a manipulation of angles. And it was, to some degree, but…

“My eyes are up here, darling,” he teased, pulling her gaze up with a gentle finger beneath her chin. His lips found hers again, and he took his time savoring the taste just as he had done between her legs. When he broke away, they were both panting. “Lay back for me, Feyre.”

Rhysand followed her retreat, pressing a knee to the bed, then the other. Feyre watched, breathless, as crawl over her body, taking his time to drag his eyes—and sometimes his lips—over every inch of skin. “You are devastating,” he said once their faces were level. “How are you even real?”

“How am I real?” His face was still coated in her arousal. He hadn’t even bothered to wash it off his face and as he kissed her again, slow enough that she could taste herself, she had the feeling he didn’t want to.

The head of his cocked nudged her entrance, and Feyre’s gasp was quickly smothered by another kiss as Rhys pushed in, and in, and in. Careful not to hurt her. He grunted into her mouth as he seated himself all the way and ground his hips, nudging the dull head against a cluster of nerves that had Feyre gasping again. He used the sound as an invitation for his tongue and a light thrust, directly into that same spot.

Feyre keened, burying her fingers into scalp, another set into his shoulder blade. He liked it rough, she gathered, as she scraped her nails along his back, she earned herself another thrust. Harder, enough for stars to flood her vision.

He broke this kiss to gasp, “Fuck.” Then, on choked air, “Where did you come from?”

“Marylebone,” she whispered. He laughed. A wonderful breath against her collarbone.

“Thank god for Marylebone.” He kissed her again. “Thank god you missed your train.”

“Thank god I-ah—”

She watched his eyes darken at the sound. “What was that, darling?”

Smug prick.

“Thank god I spilled—”

Feyre cut herself off again, this time in a squeak of surprise as Rhys slipped a hand between their bodies and rubbed his fingers, tauntingly, against her still sensitive clit. “Sorry, fuck. The sounds you make, Feyre.” He nipped her pulse, grinding relentlessly into that single spot. “You have no idea what they’re doing to me.”

She had some idea, if it was anything close to what he was doing to her. She scrambled her nails at his back, uncertain if she was begging for more or less, just something as her mind slipped away from coherency.

“Pretty like this,” he was saying, still driving his hips forward. “So fucking pretty coming undone on my cock, Feyre.”

The sound in the back of her throat was embarrassingly close to a whimper.

“Are you going to come for me?” He whispered, nuzzling her jaw.

Downstairs, she heard Rhysand’s friends begin shouting, Ten… Nine…

Rhys groaned, speeding up the small, tight circles around her clit. “I know exactly how I want to start the New Year,” he said roughly.

The heat was building again, near unbearably this time. “Rhys,” she panted.

Five… four…

“That’s it, Feyre.” His hips had sped up, too, and she could feel his heart hammering against her own as her fingers tangled in his hair.

Three… two…

Rhysand’s mouth surged forward, claiming her lips in one final, breathless kiss as that hot wave of pressure crested and light bursted into fractals behind Feyre’s eyes. She felt herself clench tightly around him, and Rhys groaned into her mouth as he slammed into the hilt and stilled, holding Feyre flush against him.

For a moment, all she could hear was the drumbeat of their pulses, the soft cymbal of their colliding breaths.

Rhys broke the kiss to whisper, “Happy New Year, Feyre darling.”

-

Brzzzzzt. Brzzzzzt. Brzzzzzt.

Feyre muttered some incoherent complaint at the vibrating sound, turning over to snuggle closer into the warm beneath the covers.

Brzzzzzt. Brzzzzzt. Brzzzzzt.

She groaned, which earned a soft, sleep-addled chuckle.

The bed shifted as Rhysand rolled over, and a moment later she heard his raspy voice purr, “Feyre Archeron’s phone.”

Feyre lifted her head at that, peeling her bleary eyes open to Rhysand’s handsome smile. He’d propped himself up on one elbow and her phone was braced leisurely against his ear with two fingers.

“Mmm. Feyre darling’s sleeping. She can’t come to the phone right now.”

“Rhys,” she said softly, swallowing her terror at the idea that he was talking to Tamlin. Who else would call her this early, on New Years Day? “Hang up, don’t indulge him.”

He raised a brow, likely at whatever hostile words Tamlin was lashing at him on the other side. “Feyre’s house key?” Rhys reached out an arm, ran his fingers slowly along Feyre’s shoulder, down her collarbone. “Well of course she wasn’t at her house. She was at mine. Post it through my letterbox.”

Rhys hung up, tossing the phone to the bed with an expression of distaste. He glanced up, and must have read the worry in Feyre’s expression because his face instantly softened. “Don’t worry, darling. If he comes by I’ll have Cass and Az answer the door. Have you seen them? They’ll get your house key back.”

Tamlin had gone to her house.

The smile Rhys offered her was gentle. His hand slipped around her shoulder, inviting her to rest her head against his naked chest. She could hear his steady heartbeat as his fingers wound into her hair, stroking soothingly over her scalp. “Thank goodness for the train strikes, hmm?”

“I hear the railways are closed today,” she said, quietly. A subtle way of asking if she could stay. Not just because Tamlin was apparently at her house and the thought of possibly being alone with him made her feel nauseous, but because… she liked it here. And she wanted to meet Rhysand’s friends.

The fingers in her hair paused.

Feyre lifted her head to gauge Rhysand’s expression.

She was met with a shameless grin as he said, “And tomorrow. Actually, I heard they’ll be closed all week.”

[scratchybongvt]

All locations of Sidemascots episodes

Here are all canon locations where the Sidemascots episodes take place.

Note that an asterisk (*) denotes a fictional place.

Trailer

- Sumi’s bedroom*, Whistler, BC, Canada

- The leased studio facility (formerly owned by Warner Bros.)*, Vancouver, BC, Canada (where all intros and outros take place)

- The Canucks’ Bar*, Vancouver, BC, Canada.

- Thunderbird Sports Center, Vancouver, BC, Canada (where all Sidemascots boxing matches take place)

- Whistler Amateur Recording Plant*, Whistler, BC, Canada (where the diss track was recorded)

Auditions

- The leased studio facility (formerly owned by Warner Bros.)*, Vancouver, BC, Canada

- Sumi’s bedroom*, Whistler, BC, Canada (where Vinicius and Sumi auditions everyone via video calls

- Miraitowa and Someity’s Apartment*, Shinjuku, Tokyo, Japan

- Wenlock’s flat*, Stratford, London, England

- The Phryges’ House*, Paris, France

- Soohorang, Bandabi, and Moongcho’s wooden house*, PyeongChang, Gangwon, South Korea

- Aokigahara Forest, Honshu, Japan

- Lee Garden Service Apartment, Beijing, China

- Powder’s bedroom*, Salt Lake City, Utah, United States

- Copper’s bedroom*, Salt Lake City, Utah, United States

- Borobi’s house*, Gold Coast, Queensland, Australia

- Chenchen, Congcong and Lianlian’s Apartment*, Hangzhou, China

- Mascot Academic Growth and Integration Center*, Mascotverse*

- Roy E. Disney Animation Building, Burbank, California, United States

Episode 1

- The leased studio facility (formerly owned by Warner Bros.)*, Vancouver, BC, Canada (intro and Outro)

- Manchester Regional Stadium, Manchester, England (100m sprint challenge)

- Elstree Film Studios, Borehamwood, Hertfordshire, England (Winner stays on challenge, the set is the same as Who Wants to be a Millionaire)

- Thunderbird Sports Center, Vancouver, BC, Canada (Boxing challenge, the only event not to be held in England)

- University of London Canteen, London, England (Bingo challenge)

- The Boleyn Tavern, Upton Park, London, England (Foosball challenge)

Episode 2

- Varsity Stadium, Toronto, Ontario, Canada

- Sumi’s bedroom*, Whistler, BC, Canada

- Toronto Chess Club*, Toronto, BC, Canada

- The Hotel*, Pyongyang, North Korea

- Thunderbird Sports Center, Vancouver, BC, Canada

Episode 3

- The leased studio facility (formerly owned by Warner Bros.)*, Vancouver, BC, Canada

- Another leased studio facility (formerly owned by CTV)*, Toronto, Ontario, Canada

Episode 4

- The leased studio facility (formerly owned by Warner Bros.)*, Vancouver, BC, Canada

- Varsity Stadium, Toronto, Ontario, Canada (the planning segments)

- The Rubro-Negro Pub*, Rio de Janeiro, RJ, Brazil

- Sumi’s bedroom*, Whistler, BC, Canada

- Central Park, Manhattan, NY, United States

- Bloor Street, Toronto, Ontario, Canada

- Toronto Courthouse, Toronto, Ontario, Canada

- Another, more larger studio facility (formerly owned by MrBeast), Greenville, NC, United States

Episode 5

- Stade de France, Saint-Denis, Ile-de-France, France

- The leased studio facility (formerly owned by Warner Bros.)*, Vancouver, BC, Canada

Episode 6

- The leased studio facility (formerly owned by Warner Bros.)*, Vancouver, BC, Canada

Episode 7

- Varsity Stadium, Toronto, Ontario, Canada (Poll results, 100m sprint, Finish or forfeit, follow the car, meditating challenge)

- Elstree Film Studios, Borehamwood, Hertfordshire, England (Who wants to be a Millionaire)

- London Stadium, Stratford, London, England (Pole Vaulting challenge)

- Wembley Way, Wembley, London, England (Eating challenge)

- Shinjuku, Tokyo, Japan (Reverse Boccia challenge)

- The O2, Greenwich, London, England (Darts challenge)

- Thunderbird Sports Center, Vancouver, BC, Canada (Boxing challenge)

- The leased studio facility (formerly owned by Warner Bros.)*, Vancouver, BC, Canada

Episode 8

- The leased studio facility (formerly owned by Warner Bros.)*, Vancouver, BC, Canada

- Varsity Stadium, Toronto, Ontario, Canada

- Borobi’s house*, Gold Coast, Queensland, Australia

Episode 9

- The leased studio facility (formerly owned by Warner Bros.)*, Vancouver, BC, Canada (intro, outro and fake courtroom)

- Sumi’s bedroom*, Whistler, BC, Canada

- Thunderbird Sports Center, Vancouver, BC, Canada

- Ebisu Bridge, Osaka, Japan

- The San Siro pub*, Milan, Italy

- Another, more larger studio facility (formerly owned by MrBeast), Greenville, NC, United States

Episode 10

- Local park*, Whistler, BC, Canada

- Salt Lake City Public Library, Salt Lake City, Utah, United States

- The leased studio facility (formerly owned by Warner Bros.)*, Vancouver, BC, Canada

Episode 11

- Studio 130, Saint-Denis, Ile-de-France, France

- The leased studio facility (formerly owned by Warner Bros.)*, Vancouver, BC, Canada

Episode 12

- BC Place, Vancouver, BC, Canada

- The leased studio facility (formerly owned by Warner Bros.)*, Vancouver, BC, Canada

Episode 13

- The leased studio facility (formerly owned by Warner Bros.)*, Vancouver, BC, Canada

[gogobootz1]

(Not So) Silent Night

Spider-Man x Reader

Summary: You're called into work on Christmas Eve, but a certain web-slinger makes your job more entertaining.

A/N: just a quick xmas one shot - not edited. I didn't have a certain Spider-Man in mind so it could be read for any of them <3

Word Count: 1.5k

Finally one of your favorite nights of the year had rolled around. Christmas Eve- perfect to sit back, relax, and put on a movie. You were debating between White Christmas and Christmas Vacation when your phone rang.

Recognizing the number, you quickly picked up the call.

“Yes?” you said.

“The boss requires your services tonight,” came a voice from the other end.

“Mike, do you really think anyone is listening to this call?” you asked, mildly annoyed.

“They might!” he said defensively.

“Fine,” you rolled your eyes, “what’s the job?”

“He forgot a Christmas present for his wife so now he needs you to steal some stone from the Natural History Museum,” he said offhandedly.

“Mike,” you said, exasperatedly, “there are probably a shit ton of stones there. Which one?!” At this point you had sat up, there was no way you’d be able to go back to relaxing.

“Okay, okay, uh…” you shook your head when you heard papers rustling. “It’s called the Ostro stone- it’s on loan from London’s Natural History Museum.”

Quickly you pulled out your laptop and searched the name. An image of a brilliant blue gem graced your screen. It looked to be a little larger than cell phone size.

You sighed, “when does this need to be done by?”

“I need it by four, so I can get it to him by six.”

“And shall I gift wrap it?” you asked, sarcasm dripping from your words.

“Actually, if you could, that’d be gr-“ his words were cut off when you ended the call.

Sometimes you really hated being on retainer for the most notorious of New York City criminal under lords. It didn’t matter what you were in the middle of- when he called, you delivered.

But the job had its perks. One of which was the nice Central Park apartment that you currently occupied. Being on salary instead of working freelance provided a nice level of financial security. And being on the payroll for someone so infamous provided you physical security as well. No one messed with Fisk’s employees for fear of retribution.

Once you’d sufficiently researched the gem and the museum you sprang off your couch and to your closet. Pajamas weren’t suitable for working a job, and you were hoping tonight would spell out a large holiday bonus.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

When you arrived at the natural history museum, you decided to bide your time until you determined the best method of entry. If you didn’t have to climb on the roof and enter via a skylight, you wouldn't.

Luckily for you, the guards were switching, and the one who was about to go on shift smelled strongly of cigarette smoke. You knew he’d have to step out later for a cigarette break, which would provide you the perfect chance to make an exit.

“Just so you know,” the one leaving turned toward the one you were about to follow in, “Kenny’s asleep in the cams room.”

Merry Christmas to me.

“Of course he is,” the man said, chagrined. “Have a good one, Craig.” The other guard gave him a wave before walking off.

Quickly, you turned invisible and stepped into the building before the door could close behind the guard. It was this ability that had brought you success even before Fisk found you. But now that you were on his payroll, your boss asked you to use it in more creative ways. By having you spy and thieve for him, Fisk discovered precious insider information. Not to mention secrets that made for excellent blackmail fodder. He compensated you heartily for your efforts.

In comparison to the other work you did for him, this job was relatively simple. The only difficulty that came with thieving jobs was when insufferable do-gooders took it upon themselves to stop you. And for what? So that a painting could sit in a museum instead of someone’s penthouse? So that everyone could look at a precious gemstone instead of one wealthy asshole? To you, there was no difference. It’s not like anyone appreciated that sort of stuff anyway, so why not make a buck off it?

When you finally made it to the display, you took a moment to analyze. You checked for any silent alarms and, not finding any, took the opportunity to examine the display case more closely. Unfortunately, it was clear that any movement of the protective glass would trip an alarm. So would any motion within the display case, and likely any movement of the stone itself.

Grabbing your backpack from your shoulder, you reached in and dug around for the device you were looking for. Once you’d found the small box, you leaned it against the black podium that supported the gem and pressed the button on its side. It released an electric pulse that would zap the power until you turned it off.

You quickly removed the glass lid that guarded the topaz against the public and lifted the gem from its stand. Just as soon as you’d locked it into to cushioned box you brought, you heard a voice come from behind you.

“You know, committing a robbery on Christmas Eve is pretty Grinch-y of you.”

“Is that why your voice sounds like Cindy Lou Who’s?”

You turned in time to see Spider-man drop from his place on the ceiling. He landed on the floor with a quiet thud and started walking in your direction. Swiftly, you replaced the box within your bag and backed away from him.

“You really couldn’t have taken a night off?”

“I’m a working woman,” you shrugged, “I just get bad hours.”

“You just have a bad job,” the masked man said, placing his hands on his hips.

“Well, I wouldn’t say that,” you argued, “it has good pay, great benefits- my dental care is free, baby, free.”

Spider-Man shook his head at you, “as much as I’d like to chat, I’m gonna have to ask you to hand it over.”

“And if I refuse?” you raised a brow.

“I’ll have to take it from you.”

His words made you smirk, “I’d like to see you try.”

You managed to dodge the first few webs he shot, but he landed one on your forearm. With a snap of his wrist, he pulled you close.

“If you wanted to hold me in your arms, Spider-Man, all you had to do was ask,” you said, chest to chest with the masked hero.

Slightly embarrassed, he took a quick step back, and you took the chance to yank off the glove he’d webbed. When he realized your ploy, he took a swipe at your legs, which you swiftly jumped over.

“Woah, woah, woah, okay, time out,” you said, making a playground-style T shape with your hands as he stood. Reluctantly, he paused his oncoming attack.

“Look- I don’t want to be laid up in bed for the holidays. I have plans! I can’t be limping or have any bruises.”

“Okay, I have never given you bruises,” he protested.

“Still, I’ll make you a deal. I will give you the topaz, and we’ll both walk away and have a lovely Christmas vacation.”

“How do I know this isn’t a trick?” Spider-Man was skeptical.

“You saw me put the box in my bag, and now you’re seeing me take it out,” you said while slowly removing a box from your bag.

Slowly, you set it down and slid it over to him. He picked it up instantly and examined it.

“What’s with the padlock?”

“Safety precaution,” you assured him, “I’m gonna tell you the code and then I’m gonna go.”

“Fine- what is it?” he huffed.

“Everyone’s favorite number,” you smiled and swiftly disappeared.

Once out of sight, you grabbed the electric purse device and practically sprinted back to where you came in. To your great luck, the same security guard from earlier was stepping out for a smoke. You crept out behind him and started walking back towards your place. You sent Mike a quick text, telling him to stop by in an hour to pick it up.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Back in the museum, Spider-Man had finally tried entering 420 into the combination lock. When it released, he opened the box to find a post-it note sitting in the middle of it.

He let out a sigh when he saw the message on it.

Merry Christmas, Sucker ♡

It was scrawled under a face with its tongue sticking out. He shook his head at his own stupidity. Of course, you had two identical boxes.

“Stop thief!” he heard from behind him and whipped around to see a security guard pointing a taser at him.

“Me?”

“Yes, you! Set the jewel down and put your hands in the air!”

“Really, the nerve of some people,” he shook his head, and shot a web up to the skylight he came in through.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

When you read the Christmas Day edition of the Daily Bugle the next morning, you couldn’t help but chuckle at the headline.

Spider-Man a Scrooge!

The Masked Menace steals beloved British jewel

[dreamyfanfix]

Chapter 1: A Woman's Worth

"'Cause a real man, knows a real woman when he sees her And a real woman knows a real man ain't afraid to please her"

Kate was rarely one to wander around but she had never really had spare time to just search for a hobby. She wanted to try painting but considering she was an art teacher, the idea of doing art in her spare time just seemed like the antithesis of what she was meant to be doing. 

Kate had been juggling 2-3 jobs since her early twenties and on her 25th birthday right after Mary's father, the last of the Sheffields died and left her a considerable sum, Mary decided that Kate no longer needed more than 1 job and that her stepmother would pay for a new apartment and a hobby for Kate to 'try something new'. So Kate picked her favourite of her jobs, Art Teacher at a local college, and was now at the community centre in central London, looking for a hobby on the centre's notice board.

There were a lot of advertisements for art classes as well as guitar lessons. There was a time in her childhood when Kate wanted to learn an instrument, the flute. She was in lessons for about a month when Kate quit because she hated the idea of being bad at something for as long as she was. She had matured since then and thought it would be a good idea to take it up again. She looked around the notice board for anyone who might be a flute instructor, but there wasn't. It was a shame so Kate took out her phone to Google for an instructor when someone bumped into her.

The person was walking with someone shorter than him and talking and laughing and not paying attention to the fact that they just bumped into Kate "Hello! Rude much?" Kate said to the back of the raven-haired men.

They both turned and Kate thought for a moment she was in trouble but one of the men looked apologetic and the other seemed to be appraising her appearance. The taller one with a charismatic smile stepped up to her and said "I'm so sorry. Me and my brother have a knack for causing trouble wherever we go,"

"Speak for yourself Ben, I was not the one who bumped into this beautiful woman," the other one said giving Kate a wide smile.

Kate thought the shorter of the brothers was more attractive in a dark way but she was not going to show it so she put on a neutral expression, "Well next time please be careful, I almost dropped my phone,"

"My apologies again. Are you thinking about taking one of these classes?" The taller one, Ben, asked.

"I might have been but nothing here is what I wanted so I was just leaving," Kate said as she made to leave.

"Bridgerton Community Centre has a wide range of classes is there anything you were looking for in particular?" The shorter handsome one asked.

Kate thought it was worth a try and said "A flute instructor,"

"Flute?! That's a dreadful instrument," Ben said before his brother elbowed him.

"A flute instructor is one of the few instructors we do not have, unfortunately," The handsome one replied.

"We? Do you run the centre?" Kate asked.

"Run and own. We are the Bridgertons," The handsome one extended his hand "Anthony Bridgerton at your service. If you want I can take your number down and if we ever get a flute instructor I could give you a call,"

Kate scoffed, "Can I see some ID?"

Anthony smiled fished in his pants and handed her his ID "Not easily trusting are we?"

Kate eyed his ID and then handed it back to him "Well I guess you are telling the truth. How long will it take for you to get a flute instructor?"

"A couple of weeks," Anthony said.

Kate was unconvinced "Yeah that's too much time to wait, I think I will just Google. Thanks anyway,"

Kate turned to leave but then she felt a hand on her elbow "Wait, why don't you try lessons for a different instrument?" Anthony asked her walking until he was in front of her again.

"I used to go to lessons for the flute. I was just thinking about picking up the hobby again,"

"Well if you wanted to broaden your horizons and try something completely brand new why not take guitar lessons? My brother Colin is the instructor and-"

"No thanks," Kate interrupted "Guitar is an instrument that everyone knows how to play,"

"So you're looking for something a bit more unique? How about piano?" Anthony finger snaps at his brother who takes a flyer down from the notice board and hands it to him.

"Piano is not exactly a unique instrument either,"

"Maybe not but it is difficult to learn. Especially as people age,"

"And it is an instrument that most people like to hear being played," Ben said as he came closer to his brother, who elbowed him again after his comment.

"I don't know..." Kate said sceptical. She did not want to give this guy the satisfaction.

"Just try it out for 3 lessons. On the house, and if you do not like it or find it easy then we can go from there. I'm sure by then we would have found a flute instructor," Anthony's brown eyes looked at her pleading so Kate looked down to take a number from the flyer.

"There isn't a number to tear away from the flyer. I'm pretty sure that means the class is full," Kate said.

"No, it's not,"

"And how would you know that?" Kate asked.

"Yeah Ant, how would you know that?" Ben asked, now smiling at his brother.

"I'm the instructor and I mostly do one-on-one sessions with adults so there is no such thing as full,"

"You're the instructor?" Kate asked incredulously. 'How convenient?' she thought.

"Yep. Why don't you take my number down and call if you are interested? That way the ball is in your court," He said.

Kate nodded and Anthony relayed his number to her. She left the centre feeling confused. There was something off about the brothers but Kate had taken multiple self-defence classes and carried around brass knuckles and a taser so she felt as if she was in the cross-hairs of a serial killer at least she had the tools to defend herself. Then again, serial killers are only ever as handsome as Anthony on TV so she felt like she was safe enough.

--

"So tell me, when did you quit your job as a developer to be a piano instructor?" Benedict asked his brother a while after the beautiful woman left the building.

"I haven't but I was losing her interest, I had to try something," Anthony replied shrugging.

"So why didn't you just give her Daphne's number? You remember Daphne right? The actual piano instructor in the family,"

Anthony turned to his brother confused "Ben why do you think we are here right now? Daphne does not give lessons anymore she's five months pregnant. We came here to remove her from the schedule,"

"I see, but that does not answer the question of how you are going to be a piano instructor?"

"I've been playing the piano my whole life Ben, surely instructing someone won't be too difficult,"

"Have you ever thought about what if the young lady is not interested in taking you up on your offer? Or what if she is not interested in taking your relationship further than that of teacher-student?" Ben asks as they reach the community centre's main office. His mother, Violet ran the centre but she had been a bit busy with Daphne's pregnancy news so Anthony volunteered to take care of a few things in her busy schedule.

"Contrary to popular belief just because I stopped actively partying and dating does not mean I lost the ability to charm women," Anthony said.

"And what happens when she drop-kicks you for lying to her? She looks like the punching type," Benedict asked.

"She won't and what makes you think she can drop-kick me?"

"I don't know brother, I just think you might have your work cut out for you with this one," Benedict said with a smile on his face and Anthony scowled.

--

Kate was restless. It was the second Saturday she had slept in and she could not believe how bored she was. She tried watching a few K-Dramas but besides 'Goblin' and 'What's Wrong With Secretary Kim?' she could not get into new shows. She took Newton for a walk and listened to music she had not heard in a while but again she was bored.

The advantage to living with her stepmother and sister for as long as she did was that Kate never had to come back to an empty home. And even though she loved Newton, Kate worried that being couped up with her dog would turn her into one of those people who pushed strollers with their dogs in them. Kate really needed a life.

She went on Google and saw an old search for a flute instructor and then she remembered that she had taken the number of the guy who gave piano lessons, Anthony. He was handsome but Kate felt something was off with him. Kate knew the Bridgertons had money and they were hands-on with the community centre but she wondered more about Anthony himself. She immediately went to type his name in and then felt bad.

If she was really about to get herself a life, Kate needed to stop worrying about knowing every little thing about people and just go with the flow. That's what all the books say. So what if these people were rich? So what if he could afford to take the time to teach her piano? Kate would be a fool to at least not take him up on the free 3 lessons. She could always try something else if he turned out to be a creep. She carried pepper spray and brass knuckles for a reason.

So, Kate sent a quick message to Anthony:

Kate: 'Hi, my name is Kate. You gave me your number a week ago. You said you were a piano instructor.'

Anthony: 'Hi, Kate. Took you long enough. You never told me your name. I will add it to my contacts. Yes I am free to instruct you.'

Kate: 'OK great, when can we start?'

Anthony: 'When are you free?'

Kate: 'Don't most instructors have teaching times? I can work around those.'

Anthony: 'How about Saturdays around 2-4pm? Or Sunday 2-4pm or Thursdays 12-2pm?'

Kate: 'Saturday and Sunday times are good for me. Sign me up.'

Anthony: 'Alright I will see you then :)'

Kate: 'Where is that exactly? The community centre?'

...

...

Anthony: 'No, the community centre's piano was removed after the flooding last year. 116 Darling Drive, West London. I'll put your name down as someone to expect.'

Kate: 'Okay got it. Thanks see you next week.'

Anthony: 'See you next week.'

There. Kate had her hobby scheduled. Now to fill the time this weekend. Maybe her friend Sophie was free.

--

Anthony had just gotten off the phone with Benedict, begging to use his old art studio to give Kate piano lessons. He spent half of the time dodging Benedict's questions about why he was trying so hard and the other half ignoring his innuendos about not sullying his furniture.

Anthony had spent the last week learning about how to be an effective instructor and knew what his first lesson with Kate was going to be about: First Proper Piano posture and technique and then the basics of reading piano music sheets.

Anthony felt once they got the basics down then it was just about getting her to play and aiding her along the way. Anthony feels like that would only take 3-4 weeks, he thinks then he could pawn her off on someone else and then make his move.

He did not usually work this hard to be with a woman but he felt like she was special and he promised his mother that he would take more time with love and try to find a proper partner for himself. He only hoped that he could get Kate to see he was a good guy before letting her know who he really was.

Starting off a relationship with a lie was not something he wanted to do so he promised he would not try anything with her until he told her the truth. If she saw the good in him like he saw the good in her then maybe this would be just a funny story they told their kids.

[presidentialapartmentslondon]

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[howaboutcastiel]

Does It Show Again?

Summary: Steven is injured and Marc underestimates his strength. Layla doesn’t have cell service. Gus and Fish get a sister. 4.1k words

Content: angst. Lots of other stuff? This chapter is plot heavy but also feelings heavy. Hurt/comfort? Canon-typical injuries, Layla talks some more about the trafficking ring, with some details that might be upsetting. Marc talks about Randall. FWMS Masterlist. 

They named the dog Nadine. 

As it turned out, Layla was still in love with the staffy she had come across after her impromptu date night with Steven. She had loved the sweet puppy so much that she was convinced she had to have her. After several hours of talking it over with Steven and Marc, she had made a trip to the store to buy everything from food to a kennel to squeaky toys, and then another trip back to the shelter. They charged her next to nothing to adopt the stafford terrier. She had been waiting for months for an owner and no one had chosen her. Well, Layla was happy to give her a home. 

Except, she still had work to do for Taweret. So Layla’s dog quickly became Layla’s and Marc’s and Steven’s dog, and the boys agreed to stay at Layla’s with the pup when she traveled for work. That’s what Marc was meant to be doing now, as Layla was halfway across Europe in a place so removed from cell reception that she hadn’t gotten a word out to him in days. He was meant to come home from dinner with Mrs. Bamford and greet Nadine with a walk and a night-time play session. 

Her little tail wagged frantically as Steven stumbled through the door, covered in blood. 

Making it home was a blur. After Mrs. Bamford had convinced him to evade the police, he had run mindlessly in the direction of central London. He couldn’t exactly catch the bus in the state he was in. Eventually, he managed to hail a cab to Layla’s flat. The driver didn’t ask any questions about his appearance. Just as long as he got paid, Steven supposed. So he handed the man some cash and mumbled out the address of Layla’s apartment complex. It wasn’t until he was settled in the back seat that the adrenaline began to wear off of him. By then, the pain in his body radiated from more than his fists. 

That’s when he discovered that the switchblade hadn’t missed his skin afterall. It wasn’t a deep wound, but it was broad and solid. Steven had pressed against his chest to keep the blood from spilling out onto the leather seats.

Nadine wasn’t very pleased with the way he ignored her. Steven made a B-line for the guest bath, tugging his shirt up over his head. He felt ready to faint at any moment, but he tried his best to focus on his breathing as he rinsed the blood from his hands. Steven was grateful that his hand wasn’t broken, but his knuckles were certainly raw. 

‘I’m sorry.’  Marc’s voice rang desperately. His shame was palpable. ‘I don’t know what came over me.’

“‘S alright,” Steven slurred. He pulled a towel from the cabinet and pressed it firmly to the wound between the ribs on his right side. 

‘Let me deal with that,’ Marc offered. ‘I’m the one who got us into the fight. You shouldn’t be the one in pain.’

Steven shook his head. He leaned back against the wall for support, breathing shallowly. “I don’t mind it so much.”

‘C’mon, man. We got stabbed. I know it hurts like hell.’

“It’s a graze at best.” Even though he felt Marc trying to push his way to the front, Steven stayed put. He had never been in physical pain like this before, Marc had made sure of that. He had always assumed he was too weak for it, and Marc had always assumed Steven couldn’t handle pain like that. 

But Steven felt just fine. 

There was something harrowing about the wide gash in his side. Something calming about the rings of broken skin around his bruised knuckles. Steven might have even leaned into the feeling, except for the black spots that formed in the corner of his eyes when he did. Not to mention how much Marc Spector found his serenity to be disturbing, given the circumstances. Still, Steven was handling the pain just fine, and he had no trouble at all keeping Marc from the front as he continued cleaning his wounds. He had just finished bandaging his non-dominant hand when Nadine ceased her whining at his heels. 

“What is it, sweet girl?” Steven could feel the weakness in his breath as he cooed to the puppy. She only turned her head and left the bathroom, moving to sit patiently at the front door. “I’m sorry. I have to finish this before we go on our walk.”

But Nadine perked her ears and wagged her tail at the door. Steven shook his head, remembering that saying the word walk would only make her more excited. He turned his attention back to his hands, which were swimming in his vision by now. The wound in his side was still bleeding steadily and he was covered in a layer of thin, cold sweat. He kept working as tunnel vision started to creep in. He struggled to unfurl the wrappings that he was trying to put on his other hand. Again, he propped his weight against the wall, swearing. This time, he leaned into the pain, even though it was weakening him. 

There was a scratching metal noise outside, like the rattling of keys against a lock, and Nadine had started whining again. Steven closed his eyes. He needed to focus and get through this, quickly. The door opening registered somewhere in the back of his mind, but the front of it was focused on his hands and his side. He moved his bandaged hand up against his ribs. 

“Hello, gorgeous!” A voice rang from the door, high-pitched and tired and singsong-y. Steven smiled, still not having opened his eyes. Some clattering let him know that Nadine had jumped up into Layla’s arms to greet her. “Are you here by yourself?”

And then a beat of silence. The entryway light wasn’t on, but the one in the bathroom was. The door was still open and Steven was just out of view of the front door. 

“Marc?”

When Layla spotted him, he could hear the way she frantically ran to his side. Her voice was dripping with worry and her hands cupped his face. Steven struggled to open his eyes. 

“Marc!”

He scoffed lightly. “Not Marc.”

“Steven?” Layla’s eyes flashed across his body, surveying his wounds. “What—Why are you…? What happened to you?”

Layla guided him to sit on the couch. Steven didn’t protest as she did it, not that he had the energy if he wanted to. His breathing had gone from steady to shallow to labored. He hardly had the strength to hold the towel to the wound on his side anymore. 

“Just a home invasion,” he quipped. Layla didn’t find it funny. “At Mrs. Bamfords. Don’t worry, she’s safe. Nothing we couldn’t handle.”

“Let me help you with that.” She gestured to his ribs. The towel covered the wound and the blood streaming from it. 

He shook his head. “I can do it myself. You should go walk Nadine. She’s been cooped up all day.”

“She can wait a little longer,” Layla insisted. “You can barely open your eyes, Steven. Let me patch you up.”

He sighed, leaning back against the cushions. Steven hoped he wasn’t bleeding on the couch. 

“Alright.”

Layla didn’t say much as she bandaged his hand, except to point out that his left one was certainly sprained. She made sure he still had relatively free use of his fingers. It was only when she pulled Steven’s hand away from his ribs—laying her eyes on the blood-soaked towel and the wound in his side that was still streaming red—that she found her words again. She tried to keep her voice calm, but she wasn’t used to seeing him bleed. Not without the suit there to heal him. 

“This is going to need stitches.” She tilted his head in her hand, making sure he was listening. “You might want to let Marc take over for this. They aren’t very fun.”

Steven smiled at her, like he found her suggestion amusing. “I can handle it.”

Layla wouldn’t admit what that look and those words made her feel. She just nodded at him. 

“Go ahead and lay down for me, then. I’ll be right back.”

When Layla returned with her needle, thread, and bandages, Steven was sprawled across the couch. His work pants and boots were still on, but his chest was exposed. He kept his eyes open and on her, an adoring expression on his face as she entered the room. The puppy was at his side, her head resting on the couch just beside his face. Layla settled on the floor opposite his chest.

“I can turn on the TV, if you’d like,” she offered to him. “It’ll go easier if you have something to distract you.”

“No, that’s alright,” he replied. He stared at her for a moment. “Tell me about your trip, love.”

She scoffed. “I’m not sure that’s the kind of distraction you want.”

“I’d still like to hear about it,” he shrugged. “You know we get worried when you’re away. Especially when you can’t get to a phone.”

“Yes, I know.” Layla wiped as much blood from the wound as she could. Steven barely flinched. “Every time I get service again, I read the novel Marc sends me while I’m away.”

Steven tilted his head. “You did ask him to open up more. It would help him a lot if it worked both ways.”

“It does work both ways,” she interjected.

He grinned. “Then tell me about your trip.”

Layla folded. Steven was convincing, and he knew he had caught her. That was one thing Marc was never good at—convincing. He usually got his way by throwing punches, which he would never throw at Layla, of course. Steven used his words, and Layla found his method surprisingly effective. But she also found it irritating. She had gotten used to winning arguments with her husband. So, Layla made sure to wait until the first stitch was done before she started her story. 

Not that it made a difference to Steven, of course. 

“I spent the last few days in New Delhi,” she began. “Taweret started by sending me to Munich, but there’s a problem with the higher-ups in the—”she couldn’t bring herself to say the name that they called themselves. 

“In the ring.”

Steven nodded at her, so invested in Layla’s feelings that he appeared to not even notice the needle weaving in and out of his chest. Layla, on the other hand, seemed doubly affected by the combination of the blood and her own recollection of her trip. Steven knew how serious this job was, which was why he pushed her so hard to talk about it. He was afraid of how Layla would be affected if she bottled it up. 

She continued. “So I had to follow the team to India. Anyway, there’s a rival operation there that they wanted to merge with. Or, if they couldn’t merge, they wanted to destroy it. Obviously I wasn’t complaining about that idea. Taweret helped me keep tabs on both rings while my team captured one of the big guys in their rival gang.”

Layla’s hands had stopped moving. Steven looked up at her, seeing the hesitation on her face. 

“You’re not hurting me,” he offered. “You can keep going.”

But he knew that the hesitation was not for the stitches. Layla was struggling with her story. She didn’t say anything else as she wove the next stitch in his side, focusing on keeping her hands from shaking. 

Steven changed his tone to be more gentle, more deliberate. “It’s okay if you’re not ready yet. If something really bad happened, I mean. You don’t have to tell me.”

But Layla shook her head. There was fear in her eyes. “It isn’t that something bad happened.”

“No?” He didn’t understand what was upsetting her. 

She bit her lip. Layla couldn’t look him in the eye. 

“It’s that I did something bad.”

Steven was quick with his response. It was second nature to him, this sort of thing. “We knew this was going to be hard, right? I mean, going undercover was bound to have some tough moments. Some tough decisions. I’m sure that you only did what you had to, love.”

Layla’s face and neck flushed with something akin to shame. Steven reached out weakly to cup her face, but she turned her head away from his touch. She went back to stitching him up, nearly finished now. 

As she continued—hesitantly—her eyes never left his chest. “They wanted information out of him, but he wouldn’t talk. He didn’t think that merging the rings would be a good idea and he was loyal to his own people. He told us to just kill him and be done with it, that he would never betray his operation, and that we would never work together. I thought we were going to shoot him and dump his body somewhere the rivals could see. I could have almost come to terms with that. 

But my boss wasn’t satisfied. 

He wanted to know everything that man knew, and he wanted it as quickly as possible. All the guys on my team, though, they’re hasty. They’re impulsive. Not to mention, they’re not too bright. They wouldn’t have the patience or the wit to get information out of him.”

Steven understood what she was leading up to. 

“But you would.”

She nodded. 

Steven thought that there was nothing else to be said, so he didn’t say anything. Layla wasn’t eager to speak up, either. She finished the last stitch on his side, wiping the wound clean one final time before covering it with some antibiotic cream and a layer of bandages. When she picked up the soiled rags and medical supplies and headed toward the laundry, Steven pulled himself up against the cushions in a somewhat-sitting position. Layla came back with a glass of water in her hand, instructing him to sip on it. He grabbed at her, a silent plea for her to sit at his side, and she reluctantly did. 

They sat in silence. Eventually, Nadine moved up onto Layla’s lap and Steven moved to lay his head on her shoulder. He was almost asleep by the time Layla’s voice rang out, small and meek as ever. 

“I was really good at it, Steven.”

He blinked at her a couple of times, his brain foggy from the blood loss and adrenaline crash. “Good at what?”

Her voice broke around the words. “At making him talk.”

Steven had nothing reassuring to say to that. What could he possibly say? He only weakly stroked her hand as she cried into his hair. Whatever was running through her head, it wasn’t a feeling that he could imagine. He didn’t know how to help. 

They were both so tired. Steven and Layla sat still, holding each other weakly until her breathing evened out again. They could have fallen asleep there, enveloped in one another’s pain, if it weren’t for the stafford terrier that hadn’t gotten her walk for the day. 

Nadine hopped down from Layla’s lap, whining and scratching at the front door, and Steven didn’t even have a chance to stand up before Layla was by her side with a leash in hand. 

“We’ll be right back, habibi.”

Steven simply nodded and watched as they walked out the door. 

Marc wasted no time speaking up once they were alone. Steven already had a fair idea of what he was going to say. “I knew something like this was going to happen. That fucking hippo is no better than Khonshu after all.”

“It was Layla’s choice, Marc. Taweret didn’t force her.” Steven took another sip from the glass of water, struggling to swallow it. 

Marc wasn’t convinced. “Khonshu never forced me, either.”

“He was manipulating you. It’s different.” 

But Marc was angry. “No, Steven. This is different. Khonshu only used me for what I already was. A killer. A soldier. Layla isn’t like that. She would never torture someone. Not even some sex-trafficking bastard who deserves it. Layla isn’t like me. She’s too good. Taweret is doing something to her, I’m sure of it.”

Steven shook his head. 

“Maybe you just don’t know your wife as well as you thought.”

~~~

Layla was home all week. Marc and Steven had taken the weekend off from Mrs. Bamford’s, and she had happily informed them that the intruder had been arrested without much questioning. After Layla had managed to stitch Steven back together, he had allowed Marc to take the reins and spend some quality time with his wife. Marc needed it, and she needed it, and Steven was happy to spend some time on the inside, or just silently watch from the sidelines as they rebuilt their marriage piece by piece. 

It had been a long time since Marc had had to heal from a fight without the suit. He had forgotten how sore his hands could get. How hard it could be to move around with a row of stitches in his side. Marc tried to hide his discomfort as much as he could—it was his own fault after all, wasn’t it? Did he really even have a right to complain? 

He continued to talk with Layla about the details of her trip. She was getting close to the head of the ring, they both could feel it. But Layla was understandably reluctant to talk to Marc about it. She felt far too guilty about her new and improved role in the whole ordeal. Layla couldn’t bring herself to tell him all the gory responsibilities she had come to adopt. She couldn’t talk to him about the way she had that poor man begging for her to stop. How she had him spilling his guts about everything he knew of the ring he served. 

She especially couldn’t tell him the worst part of it all. How that small part of her, deep down inside, had enjoyed making him suffer. How she was proud of herself for being so good at it. 

And how he hadn’t been the only one. 

Layla wasn’t a fool—she knew everything that those people had done. She knew they deserved everything that they got, and she knew she grew closer to the head of the snake with each monster she cut through. Layla knew that her heinous actions only strengthened the trust that the ring had in her, only gave her more power within the group and more opportunity to peek between the cracks in the operation. None of that justified it, though. She also knew that. Nothing changed the fact that she was hurting people, and that she enjoyed it. 

She was beginning to understand why being an avatar had broken Marc so completely. 

Marc finally found himself able to talk to her. Really, truly talk to her. He’d already shared so much since they first arrived home from Cairo. Now, though, he was almost completely unrestrained. Tiny piece by piece, he had warmed up to her enough to share the parts of his life that he’d hidden from her. The ones he’d hidden from everyone. Marc was finally finding a way to share himself with Layla. 

Some things were harder to share than others. 

“I can’t remember him that well,” Marc explained. “We were so young, you know? I only got bits and pieces anyway, but it was such a long time ago. Sometimes it doesn’t feel like he was ever real.”

Marc was sitting on the floor, the dog in his lap, while Layla sat behind him on the couch and brushed his hair for him. He still couldn’t lift his right arm because of the stitches, and his left hand was sprained too much for fine movement. It was easier to talk to her like this, he supposed. He didn’t have to look her in the eye. 

“I only really remember that day. Everything before it is a blur, but I remember everything about that day. Steven had to explain it to me. I used to just think that it was Randall’s tragedy. That I was just a bystander. A witness who should have saved him. I was the one who did that to him—”

Layla couldn’t help but interject. “You weren’t. It wasn’t your fault—”

“It was an accident, I know.” Marc scoffed. “But I felt responsible. Most of the time, I still feel that way. It’s hard for me to really believe anything else, it’s just been my fault for such a long time. But Steven explained it to me. He—he gave me permission, I guess, to not just be a witness. I was there, too. I was just a kid, too.”

Marc cleared his throat, blinking away tears. 

“And I almost drowned, too.”

“Is that why you can’t go under anymore?” Layla was almost whispering when she asked. 

He shook his head and bore a lopsided smile she couldn’t see. “I don’t know. I guess I did fine with all of the training as a Marine. I don’t really remember. And I can swim just fine, the water doesn’t bother me. It’s hard to explain.”

His smile dropped. 

“But when I look up, and all I see is water? Or when there’s no one around and I have to go under? It’s like…

It’s like I’m right back in that cave.

I was taller than him. Just a few inches, and I was thinner. I guess I could squeeze through the rocks? I could keep my head above the water just a little longer? I don’t know. I just know when they pulled us out, I still felt like I couldn’t breathe. I looked over and my mom was doing chest compressions on RoRo. I just remember thinking, “I must already be dead. That’s why no one’s doing CPR on me. I’m already gone. That’s why I can’t breathe.” I was just lying there, alone.”

Marc stopped when he felt a tear run along his upper lip. He hadn’t realized that he was crying, but he couldn’t say he was surprised. He had never told anyone about those moments afterward. He hadn’t even told Steven. 

“There was water in my lungs, is what my dad told me. I spent a couple days in the hospital. Almost missed his burial. My dad barely left my side the whole time I was there. He was worried, you know? I guess my mom was worried, too. But when I came home… that was the end of it. It was Randall’s shiva, and I was still alive, and it was my fault.”

Layla was crying, too. “And no one was there for you? To make sure you were okay?”

He shook his head. “I didn’t think they were supposed to be.”

She was almost done with his hair. Layla had managed to convince Marc to add curl cream to his routine, now that she had to do it for him. She was almost positive that he would abandon it as soon as he regained his full range of movement. But, it was fun while it lasted, and his curls were bouncier and wilder than ever. Layla ran her hands through the mop of hair one last time when her fingers suddenly dug into his scalp. 

“Ow!” Marc yelped. He turned his head to see her staring off into space. “Layla?”

She nodded her head like she was listening to someone. Her eyes focused on thin air. On something Marc couldn’t see. 

Someone Marc couldn’t see. 

“You’re sure?” Layla said, eyeing the space beside the TV where Marc assumed Taweret was standing. “That’s halfway across the world from our last lead. Why would they be there?”

“What’s she saying?” Marc asked. Layla shook her head, still listening. 

“What if that’s really it?” She hummed nervously. “What do we do when we get there?” 

Layla nodded and turned her attention toward Marc. Her voice was low. 

“Taweret says there’s a lead in Jacksonville. That this could be the head of the whole trafficking ring.”

His eyes widened. “What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to Jacksonville,” she said decidedly. “And I’m going to finish this. I’m going to kill them all.”

Marc didn’t know if it was really Layla talking, or if Taweret had twisted her sense of justice into something else. Either way, Marc knew exactly what he was, and he knew exactly what Layla wasn’t. 

And just like Layla, he understood deep down that he needed this. That he was meant for this. 

“I’m going with you.”

~~~

@n1ght5h4d3-24 @magicwithaknife @rmoonstoner @nervouslaught3r @unavoidabledirewolf @kbakery @mccn-bcys @gingermous @avatarofseshat @damreonsgirl @dragons-are-my-favorite @k8esilver @competentpotato @theconsultingdoctor10 @rayrlupin @moony-artemis @nerdory10 @valkyrieace

@ahookedheroespureheart @mt2sssss @loki-hargreeves @starfirette @celeste4121-blog @avengersinitiative2012 @sifinskies @unspokenmoon @maplemind @mainstreambitchlife @hot-mess-express1 @toracainz @zarahbronstein @daughterofthequeen @am-3-thyst @romanarose @wand-erer5 @jake-g-lockley @alexismm @moonmoonboys @bitchyglitterfox

[ifreakingloveroyals]

14 December 2017 | Britain's Catherine, Duchess of Cambridge and Britain's Prince William, Duke of Cambridge arrive at St Paul's cathedral to attend a Grenfell Tower National Memorial service in central London. The fire on June 14 in the Grenfell tower apartment block claimed 71 lives making it the worst fire in the United Kingdom since World War II. (c) Stefan Rousseau/AFP via Getty Images

[realeatateagentslondon]

The Top Neighborhoods in London: Where to Buy, Rent, and Invest with Real Estate Agents London

London’s diverse neighborhoods offer a plethora of opportunities for buyers, renters, and investors alike. From bustling urban hubs to tranquil residential enclaves, each area has its own unique charm and appeal. In this comprehensive guide, Real Estate Agents London will highlight the top neighborhoods in London, including Canning Town, Newham, Stratford, West Ham, and East Ham. Whether you’re looking to buy, rent, or invest, these neighborhoods offer something for everyone.

Canning Town

Located in the heart of East London, Canning Town has undergone significant regeneration in recent years, making it a sought-after destination for buyers and renters.

With its proximity to Canary Wharf and the City of London, Canning Town offers excellent transport links, making it ideal for commuters.

Real Estate Agents London can help you find properties in Canning Town that offer modern amenities, convenient access to transportation, and vibrant community living.

Newham

Newham is a diverse borough with a rich cultural heritage and a wide range of housing options to suit different budgets and lifestyles.

From the iconic Olympic Park in Stratford to the bustling markets of East Ham, Newham offers a variety of attractions and amenities for residents.

Real Estate Agents London specializes in Newham properties, providing expert guidance and personalized service to help you find your ideal home or investment opportunity.

Stratford

As the host of the 2012 Olympic Games, Stratford has undergone a remarkable transformation, becoming one of London’s most vibrant and dynamic neighborhoods.

Home to world-class shopping destinations like Westfield Stratford City and cultural attractions such as the Theatre Royal, Stratford offers a lively and diverse community.

Whether you’re interested in buying a luxury apartment overlooking the Olympic Park or renting a stylish loft in East Village, Real Estate Agents London can assist you every step of the way.

West Ham

West Ham is a historic neighbourhood with a strong sense of community and a rich architectural heritage.

From Victorian terraced houses to modern apartment complexes, West Ham offers a range of housing options for buyers and renters alike.

Real Estate Agents London has extensive experience in the West Ham property market and can help you find the perfect home or investment property to suit your needs.

East Ham

East Ham is known for its diverse population, vibrant high street, and excellent transport links to central London.

With its affordable housing options and a strong sense of community, East Ham is an attractive destination for first-time buyers and families.

Real Estate Agents London can provide expert advice and guidance on navigating the East Ham property market, ensuring you find the right property at the right price.

Conclusion

From the urban energy of Canning Town to the cultural diversity of Newham and the excitement of Stratford, London’s top neighborhoods offer something for everyone. Whether you’re looking to buy, rent, or invest, Real Estate Agents London is here to help you navigate the London property market with confidence and expertise. Contact us today to explore the opportunities available in these dynamic neighborhoods and find your perfect home or investment property.

[scotianostra]

The leading Scottish suffragette, Evelina Haverfield, was born at Inverlochy Castle on August 9th 1867.

Evelina’s birth is recorded as ‘Honourable Evilena Scarlett’, she took the name Haverfield from her husband. Her childhood was divided between London and the Inverlochy estate. In 1880 she went to school in Dusseldorf, Germany, after which she married Major Henry Haverfield at the age of 19., who was 20 years her senior. The marriage is said to have been a happy one they had two sons together, The Major however died in 1896. Evelina married again two years later, a another military man, Major John Blaguy. This was not a happy union and after some time they drifted apart. The rest of her life was informed by devotion to a cause.

She became an enthusiastic supporter of the suffragette movement and was arrested during suffragette demonstrations in London for hitting an escorting police officer. Her only regret was not hitting him hard enough, promising to bring a revolver next time. During that heady time she met Vera Holme. Their companionship was to last the rest of her days.

At the outbreak of the First World War the suffragettes supported the war effort by founding a Women’s Voluntary Emergency Corps and a Women’s Voluntary Reserve Ambulance Corps. Evelina became commandant in chief of the latter, looking, it was said, every inch a soldier in her khaki uniform, although she later left after a disagreement of an undisclosed nature.

Evelina joined the Scottish Women’s Hospitals and devoted the next two years to overseas service with them. She served in Serbia with Elsie Inglis, as a hospital administrator and was part of a small group taken prisoner when the armies of the Central Powers overran Serbia in October and November 1915.

Under appalling conditions of poverty and military oppression, Evelina and those with her, struggled heroically through the winter to provide food and basic care for their wounded Serbian patients and some of the local civilian population. In the spring of 1916, Evelina and the other 'Scottish Women’ were released through the International Red Cross and returned to England.

In August 1916 Evelina went to Romania in charge of 18 ambulance and transport vehicles as part of two units of the Scottish Women’s Hospitals. These units were in support of Serbian soldiers fighting on the eastern Allied front. The stronger enemy invading armies drove the Russian, Romanian, and Serbian defenders out of southern Romania and north of the Danube river delta.

During this two-month retreat by the Allied forces, Evelina and the transport drivers were working non-stop under constant enemy fire, in desperate situations, while rescuing wounded soldiers and driving them to safety.

By early 1917, with the fighting on the eastern front over, and unable to return to Serbia because of the enemy occupation there, Evelina returned to England, where she remained until after the Armistice of November 1918. In England she raised money for clothing and canteens for Serbian soldiers, gave public speeches on behalf of Serbian relief, and helped to found a Serbian Red Cross Society in Britain.

After the Armistice she returned to Serbia to supervise the distribution of much needed food, clothing, and medical supplies. When this was done, in 1919, she made plans to found a home for Serbian war orphans in a Serbian mountain village. It was there, in Baijna Bashta, that she contracted pneumonia, probably brought on by overwork and fatigue, and died prematurely at the age of 52, revered and honoured by the Serbs for her five years of humanitarian work on their behalf. The Serbs issued a stamp commemorating this remarkable women in 2015, a woman few Scots have even heard of…….

Buried in Serbia today, Evelina’s gravestone reads:

‘Hear lies the body of the honourable Evelina Haverfield youngest daughter of William Scarlett 3rd Baron Abinger and of Helen ne Magruder his wife of Inverloky Castle Fort William Scotland who finished her work in Bajina Bashta March 21st 1920 through the war 1914-1920 She worked for the Serbian people with untiring zeal. A straight fighter as traight rider and a most loyal friend. R.I.P’

In 2015 Evalina was one of five Scottish women and one English women, who worked as doctors, nurses and drivers feature on a series of stamps in Serbia, the others were Dr Elsie Inglis a campaigner for women's suffrage and the founder of the Scottish Women Hospitals in Serbia. Dr Inglis was one of the first female graduates at the University of Edinburgh.

Dr Elizabeth Ross, one of the first women to obtain a medical degree at the University of Glasgow. She travelled to Serbia as a volunteer and tragically passed away during the typhoid epidemic in 1915.

Dr Katherine MacPhail OBE, involved in humanitarian work in Serbia throughout WW1. She is remembered for opening the first paediatric ward in Belgrade in 1921.

Dr Isabel Emslie Galloway Hutton who joined the Scottish Women Hospitals as a volunteer in 1915 after she was turned away by the War Office in London. She served in France, Greece and Serbia until 1920.

The sixth was English woman, Captain Flora Sandes, who was the only known British female to bear arms during WW1

[renta-stay]

Experience Comfortable and Convenient Contractor Accommodation in London with Renta Stay

When you’re a contractor working in a bustling city like London, finding the right accommodation is more than just a checkbox on your to-do list — it’s essential for staying productive, focused, and well-rested. With long hours on site and often tight deadlines, contractors need accommodation that offers convenience, comfort, and affordability. Here’s a look at what contractor accommodation in London can provide and some tips for finding the best places to stay.

Why Contractor Accommodation Matters in London

For contractors, work schedules can be intense and unpredictable. The demands of the job often mean spending long hours on-site, and accommodations that are far from the work area can add unnecessary stress and time. Fortunately, contractor accommodation in London has evolved to cater to these needs, with many options providing easy access to major work zones, comfortable living spaces, and flexibility in booking.

Essential Features of Contractor Accommodation in London

What makes contractor accommodation in London stand out? Here are some features to look for when you’re booking:

Central Location and Accessibility

London’s extensive public transport network is a major advantage. However, the closer your accommodation is to your worksite, the more time you save. Many contractor accommodations are located near major transport hubs or directly within areas like Canary Wharf, the City of London, and other prominent business districts.

Flexible Booking Options

Contractors often work on short-term or flexible contracts, which makes fixed, long-term leases impractical. Many accommodations in London now cater specifically to contractors by offering short stays, weekly rentals, or extended-stay options without strict commitments.

Comfortable and Fully Furnished Spaces

Contractor work can be physically demanding, so having a comfortable, fully furnished place to return to each day is crucial. Most contractor accommodations in London come with amenities like high-speed Wi-Fi, private bathrooms, and cozy bedding, which add to the comfort of the stay.

Affordable Pricing

Budget considerations are key for any contractor. Accommodations tailored to contractors are often more competitively priced than standard hotels and provide amenities that cater specifically to the contractor lifestyle, like communal kitchens and laundry facilities.

Nearby Amenities

It’s also a good idea to check for nearby amenities. Contractor accommodation in London often places guests near supermarkets, restaurants, and fitness centers, making it easy to stock up on essentials or relax after a long day.

Types of Contractor Accommodation in London

There are various options when it comes to contractor accommodation in London, each offering a unique combination of location, comfort, and flexibility:

Serviced Apartments

Serviced apartments offer the best of both worlds: the convenience of a hotel with the independence of a private rental. With fully equipped kitchens, living areas, and even weekly cleaning services, serviced apartments are ideal for contractors who need longer stays.

Private Rentals

London has a robust market of private rentals, which can be a cost-effective solution for groups of contractors working together. Sharing a rental property can reduce costs and allow for a comfortable, home-like experience.

Short-Term Room Rentals

For those who prefer a budget-friendly stay, renting a room in a shared house can be an economical choice. Many shared accommodations cater specifically to contractors, ensuring easy access to work sites and all essential amenities.

Booking Tips for Contractor Accommodation in London

To secure the best contractor accommodation in London, follow these tips:

Book in Advance: London is a busy city, and contractor accommodations can fill up quickly, especially during peak work seasons.

Check for Flexibility: Look for providers who allow flexible check-in and check-out times to accommodate your work hours.

Read Reviews: When booking online, take time to read reviews from other contractors. Their insights can be invaluable in understanding what to expect from the property.

Ask About Additional Amenities: If you have specific needs — such as on-site parking or a workspace — confirm with the accommodation provider before booking.

Making Contractor Accommodation Feel Like Home

Long days and intense projects can make you yearn for a place that feels like home. Personal touches can make your stay more enjoyable, such as bringing a few personal items, cooking your favorite meals in the kitchen, or establishing a simple post-work relaxation routine. The goal of contractor accommodation in London is to offer a restful, reliable environment where contractors can recharge and prepare for the next day’s challenges.

Finding contractor accommodation in London doesn’t have to be a complicated process. With options ranging from serviced apartments to private rentals, contractors can enjoy a comfortable and practical base while working in the city. By knowing what to look for and planning ahead, you can find accommodation that keeps you close to the worksite and meets your needs for comfort, affordability, and convenience.

[empirechase1]

Properties for Sale in Harrow: Your Guide by Empire Chase

Harrow, a charming borough in North West London, has become a sought-after destination for homebuyers and investors alike. With its vibrant community, excellent transport links, and diverse housing options, it offers a unique blend of suburban tranquility and urban convenience. This article explores the current landscape of properties for sale in Harrow, showcasing the opportunities available through Empire Chase.

Exploring the Harrow Property Market

The Properties Sale In Harrow is dynamic and competitive, characterized by a range of housing options that cater to various needs and budgets. From modern apartments to spacious family homes, there is something for everyone. The area’s affordability compared to other parts of London makes it particularly attractive to first-time buyers and families looking for a more spacious living environment.

Key Features of Properties for Sale in Harrow

Diverse Property Types: Harrow offers a wide variety of properties, including flats, terraced houses, semi-detached homes, and new developments. This diversity ensures that buyers can find a home that suits their lifestyle and preferences.

Affordability: Properties in Harrow are generally more affordable than those in central London, making it an ideal location for first-time buyers and families seeking value for their investment.

Green Spaces: Harrow is known for its parks and open spaces, such as Harrow on the Hill and Canons Park. These areas provide residents with opportunities for outdoor activities and relaxation.

Why Buy in Harrow?

Buying a property in Harrow comes with several advantages:

Excellent Transport Links: Harrow boasts multiple transport options, including the Metropolitan line and national rail services, providing easy access to central London and beyond. This connectivity is essential for commuters and enhances the appeal of the area for potential buyers.

Strong Community: Harrow has a rich cultural heritage and a strong sense of community, making it a welcoming place for families and individuals alike. The borough hosts various events and activities that foster community spirit and engagement.

Growing Investment Potential: As more people discover the benefits of living in Harrow, property values are expected to rise, presenting an excellent opportunity for long-term investment.

Why Choose Empire Chase?

Empire Chase is dedicated to helping clients navigate the Harrow property market. Our expertise and personalized service set us apart:

Local Knowledge: Our team possesses in-depth knowledge of the Harrow area, ensuring that clients receive the best advice and insights into market trends.

Tailored Support: We understand that every buyer has unique needs, and we strive to provide personalized support throughout the buying process.

Comprehensive Listings: Empire Chase offers a wide selection of properties for sale in Harrow, making it easier for you to find your dream home.

Conclusion

The properties for sale in Harrow present a fantastic opportunity for homebuyers and investors. With its affordability, excellent transport links, and strong community spirit, Harrow is an ideal location for those seeking a balance of suburban life and urban convenience. Trust Empire Chase to guide you through the buying process, ensuring you find the perfect property that meets your needs. Contact us today to explore the exciting options available in Harrow!