#Property Solicitors London

[moeenkhan1]

Navigating Lease Extensions with Lease Extension Solicitors Fixed Fee Services

Tenants and property owners may find the process of extending a lease to be difficult and frustrating. But you can handle this process easily and affordably if you get the correct legal advice. This blog will discuss the advantages of hiring Lease extension solicitors fixed fee, the reasons they are necessary, and how to pick the best attorney for your situation.

Why Select Lease Extension Solicitors Fixed Fee Services?

For the protection of both parties' interests, lease extensions require careful discussion and in-depth legal knowledge. Lease extension solicitors fixed fee provide a transparent, up-front pricing so you may budget wisely without having to worry about unforeseen legal costs. Pricing must be transparent, especially when dealing with real estate transactions, which can be extremely expensive.

Fixed Fee Services' Advantages

There are a number of benefits to using fixed cost lease extension solicitors:

Cost Confidence: Avoiding the financial uncertainty that comes with hourly invoicing is made easier when you know the actual amount up front.

Setting a Budget: It is simpler to manage your money when there are fixed costs involved, particularly if you anticipate more spending tied to your property.

Openness: The possibility of hidden fees is decreased when pricing is transparent and up front, as it builds trust and guarantees that you know exactly what you are paying for.

Put Quality First: Solicitors may concentrate on providing top-notch services without having to track billable hours when they have a fixed charge.

Fixed Fee Services Offered by Lease Extension Solicitors

A variety of services are provided by lease extension solicitors to guarantee a seamless extension procedure:

First Consultation: Talk about what you need and know how the lease extension procedure works.

Assistance with Valuation: Assistance in acquiring a precise property assessment, which is necessary in order to calculate the lease extension premium.

Bargaining: Advocating for your needs during talks with the freeholder in order to obtain advantageous conditions.

Record-Keeping: Drafting and checking the required legal documentation to make sure it complies with regulations.

Finalization: Completing the lease extension procedure and making sure that all information is accurately registered and recorded.

Selecting the Best Lease Extension Solicitors Fixed Fee

Choosing the appropriate attorney is essential to a successful lease extension. Here are some pointers:

Experience: Seek out attorneys that have experience negotiating lease extensions.

Credibility: Examine past client endorsements and evaluations to determine the solicitor's dependability and level of service.

Unambiguous Communication: Make sure the attorney gives you a thorough explanation of the procedure and updates you at every stage.

Expertise: To take advantage of their specialized knowledge, select a lawyer who handles lease extensions.

In Summary

The fixed fee services of lease extension solicitors provide an affordable and clear way to handle lease extensions. With their experience, you can be sure that everything is done quickly and effectively, safeguarding your interests and keeping you safe from any dangers. With confidence and peace of mind, you can successfully complete a lease extension by selecting the proper lawyers. Select the fixed fee services offered by lease extension attorneys to take advantage of upfront, transparent pricing and expert legal assistance, guaranteeing a seamless and stress-free lease extension procedure.

[crownla98]

Navigating Legal Terrain: Will and Residential Property Solicitors in London

The complexities of managing estates and navigating residential property transactions in London call for specialized legal expertise. This article delves into how Will Solicitors and Residential Property Solicitors provide essential services that safeguard personal and financial interests, ensuring peace of mind for clients navigating the intricate legal landscape of London.

The Essential Role of Will Solicitors in London

Understanding Will Solicitation

Creating a will is a critical step in ensuring your assets are distributed according to your wishes after your passing. In London, the nuanced legal frameworks make it even more crucial to have expert guidance in drafting a legally sound will.

Services Provided

Will solicitors in London offer a range of services, including estate planning, drafting wills, and providing legal advice on appointing executors and guardians for minor children, ensuring that all aspects of your estate are managed as per your wishes.

Impact of Expert Guidance

Professional advice from will solicitors can prevent potential legal complications, ensuring your estate is managed and distributed as intended, thus avoiding default legal distributions that might not align with your personal wishes.

Residential Property Solicitors: Navigating London's Real Estate

Comprehensive Legal Support

From handling high-value property transactions to navigating leasehold enfranchisements and advising on property taxes, residential property solicitors in London provide comprehensive legal support to ensure smooth property transactions.

Leasehold Enfranchisement Explained

Leasehold enfranchisement offers a pathway for leaseholders to buy the freehold interest of their property. Solicitors play a pivotal role in this complex process, ensuring leaseholders can secure favorable terms and gain greater control over their properties.

Mortgaging and Re-mortgaging Insights

In the context of London's dynamic real estate market, solicitors provide crucial advice on understanding mortgage terms, ensuring all documentation is in order, and facilitating smooth mortgaging or re-mortgaging transactions.

Complex Agreements

Navigating overage and clawback agreements requires specialized legal expertise. Solicitors ensure that these complex agreements are negotiated and drafted in a manner that protects the client's interests, whether they are on the seller or buyer side.

Choosing the Right Solicitor

Factors to Consider

Selecting the right solicitor involves considering factors such as expertise, experience, client testimonials, and the solicitor's ability to communicate complex legal matters in understandable terms.

The Selection Process

The process of choosing a solicitor should involve thorough research, consultations, and evaluations based on your specific legal needs, ensuring you partner with a solicitor who can best represent your interests.

Conclusion

The roles of Will Solicitors London and Residential Property Solicitors London are indispensable in managing legal affairs related to estates and property transactions. Their expertise not only ensures compliance with legal standards but also provides clients with the assurance that their personal and financial interests are well protected.

Consider consulting with Will Solicitors London. Navigate the complexities of the capital's property market with the help of Residential Property Solicitors London, ensuring smooth and informed transactions.

[cityce90]

Will Solicitors and Residential Property Solicitors in London: Navigating Legal Services for Your Future

Navigating the complexities of legal services in London, especially concerning wills and residential property, requires the expertise of skilled solicitors. This article delves into the pivotal roles played by will solicitors and residential property solicitors in London, offering insights into their services, the importance of choosing the right solicitor, and the emerging trends in the legal landscape. The Critical Role of Will Solicitors London Will solicitors in London are instrumental in ensuring that your final wishes are honored and your estate is managed according to your directives. Their services extend beyond drafting wills, encompassing comprehensive estate planning, tax advice to minimize liabilities, and guiding executors and beneficiaries through the probate process. These legal professionals ensure that your estate planning is not only about distributing assets but also about creating a legacy that reflects your wishes and provides for your loved ones. Navigating Property Transactions with Residential Property Solicitors The property market in London is dynamic and complex, making the services of residential property solicitors invaluable. From conveyancing, which encompasses all legal aspects of buying and selling property, to handling lease extensions and remortgaging, these solicitors ensure that your property transactions are smooth and legally sound. They also play a crucial role in resolving landlord and tenant disputes, protecting your rights whether you are a property owner or a renter in London's competitive real estate market. Choosing the Right Solicitor: A Decision Not to Be Taken Lightly Selecting a solicitor who is well-versed in wills or residential property law is paramount. Factors to consider include their specialization, experience, and the level of personalized service they offer. A solicitor's reputation, as gauged by client testimonials and professional accreditations, can provide valuable insights into their competence and reliability. Personalized service, where the solicitor tailors their approach to meet your specific needs, can significantly enhance the effectiveness of the legal assistance provided. Complex Estates and Catering to International Clients Will solicitors in London are adept at managing complex estates, including those with international assets or unique family circumstances. Their expertise ensures that such complexities are navigated with a keen eye on the legal implications across different jurisdictions. Additionally, for international clients, solicitors in London offer tailored services, accommodating different legal systems and languages to provide seamless legal support. Trends Shaping Will and Property Law in London The legal domain is constantly evolving, with technological advancements like digital conveyancing and online wills becoming increasingly prevalent. Legislative changes also impact estate planning and property transactions, necessitating a solicitor's keen understanding of the current legal environment. Furthermore, sustainability and environmental considerations are becoming more integral in property development, reflecting a shift towards greener practices in the legal aspects of real estate. Conclusion: Securing Your Future with Expert Legal Guidance The roles of will solicitors and Residential Property Solicitors London��are indispensable in securing your legal affairs. Whether planning for the future with a comprehensive will or navigating the complexities of the property market, the right legal guidance is crucial. By choosing a solicitor with the requisite expertise, experience, and a client-centric approach, you can ensure that your legal matters are in capable hands, allowing you to look to the future with confidence and peace of mind.

For expert assistance with estate planning and will drafting, connect with experienced Will Solicitors London. For property legal support, consult Residential Property Solicitors London.

[brandsmiths]

How to Navigate Trademark Protection in a Global Market: A Comprehensive Guide

Safeguarding your brand's identity and assets has become paramount. Intellectual property (IP) law, particularly trademark protection, serves as a fortress in defending your brand from infringement, counterfeiting, and unauthorised use. Brandsmiths, a leading litigation company specialising in intellectual property law, understands the complexities involved in this landscape and is committed to guiding businesses through the intricate maze of global trademark protection. Here's a complete guide to steer your brand through the labyrinth of global trademark protection:

Understanding Intellectual Property Law in a Global Context

In the modern digital era, businesses transcend geographical boundaries, requiring comprehensive trademark protection strategies. Intellectual property solicitors play a pivotal role in safeguarding brands by offering expertise in IP law, ensuring your trademarks are shielded across jurisdictions. Brandsmiths, a renowned intellectual property law firm, recognises the nuances of global IP law and assists clients in navigating this intricate terrain.

The Terrain of Global Trademarks:

Before embarking on the journey of trademark protection, it's crucial to comprehend the landscape. Each country boasts its distinct trademark laws and registration procedures, rendering the process complex and multifaceted. Start by conducting a thorough trademark search to ensure your mark is available for use and registration in your target markets. This involves scrutinising existing trademarks, both registered and unregistered, to avoid potential infringement issues.

Crafting a Robust Strategy:

A holistic trademark protection strategy is indispensable for global expansion. Begin by prioritising markets based on business potential and trademark-friendly jurisdictions. Filing for trademark registration in these territories should align with your expansion timeline to secure your brand's identity pre-emptively.

Nurturing International Relationships:

Forge alliances with legal experts well-versed in global trademark laws. Collaborating with experienced attorneys specialising in international trademark protection can be invaluable. They offer guidance on the nuances of each jurisdiction, facilitate seamless registrations, and provide counsel on navigating potential disputes.

Leveraging International Treaties:

Explore the benefits of international treaties like the Madrid Protocol and the Nice Agreement. These treaties streamline the process of obtaining trademark protection across multiple countries by enabling a single application process. Leveraging such treaties can economise resources and simplify the often convoluted process of global trademark registration.

Adapting to Cultural Nuances:

Understanding cultural diversities is pivotal in global branding. A mark that resonates profoundly in one region might bear a different connotation in another. Prioritise comprehensive market research to ascertain the cultural implications of your trademark. Adaptability and flexibility in branding strategies can mitigate potential pitfalls and ensure a resonant connection with diverse audiences.

Vigilance and Enforcement:

Securing trademark registration is just the initial step; vigilance and enforcement are ongoing imperatives. Regular monitoring of trademarks in various jurisdictions is critical to address any potential infringements swiftly. Establishing a robust enforcement strategy enables prompt action against unauthorised usage, safeguarding your brand's integrity and market share.

Continuous Evolution:

The global market is in a perpetual state of change, demanding continuous evolution in trademark protection strategies. Periodic reviews and updates to your portfolio, in alignment with market shifts and regulatory changes, fortify your brand's protection and resilience.

Conclusion

In the global market, trademark protection stands as an indispensable fortress safeguarding a brand's identity. Navigating this terrain mandates meticulous planning, a profound understanding of international laws, and a proactive approach. Embrace the complexities as opportunities to fortify your brand's presence globally. Engage expert guidance, adapt swiftly, and vigilantly safeguard your trademarks to ensure your brand continues to thrive amidst the diverse, competitive global market.

If you’re looking for trademark litigation services, Brandsmiths is the place to go. Brandsmiths specialise in navigating the intricate realm of trademark protection in the global market. With their expertise and dedication, the company safeguards your brand's identity, empowering it to flourish in diverse landscapes.

[gloomwitchwrites]

Tattoo Artist Simon "Ghost" Riley x Female Reader

Chapter Specific Warnings (per the warnings MDNI): canon-typical swearing, emotional hurt/comfort, angst, heavy suggestive themes, lots of kissing, intimate touching, domestic!Simon

Word Count: 8k

A/N: Part Nine of Ink & Needle

Evie fractures. You spend the evening with Simon in his apartment. An unwanted caller makes contact.

Chapter Eight // Chapter Ten

ao3 // taglist // main masterlist // ink & needle masterlist

The excitement of the day is starting to set in. Everything was a whirlwind this morning, and only now, in the quiet of the kitchen in Evie’s Cambridge home, is it all beginning to catch up with you.

The continuously growing list of things to do is as messy and vast as the scattered assembly of carryout boxes on the kitchen island. Most of it is Chinese takeout boxes—which, to your disappointment—is not like American Chinese takeout at all. Evie thought it hilarious when you began opening boxes only to discover multiple containers of curry sauce and mushy peas. Greasy burgers were ordered and consumed instead. Now, as you begin sifting through the mess, tossing containers into a trash bag, exhaustion is showing its teeth, reminding you just how hectic it’s been.

Outside the patio doors, the sun is low, it’s beams hardly breaking over the natural hedge fence along the property line. The lights above the kitchen island and stove are on, adding to the low, warm glow of the evening sun. Scattered across the countertop behind you are various stacks of paperwork. You and Evie need to go through all of it, but you’re unwilling to burden her with too much.

Evie is still grieving, and she’s eight months pregnant, quickly approaching nine. The only thing Evie needs to worry about is getting plenty of rest and the upcoming labor. She doesn’t need to fret over conversations with the estate agent or Archie’s solicitor. Not to mention the fact that the solicitor brought up potential troubles with Archie’s family, indicating a barrister might be needed if they decide to fight over Archie’s money. That did not reach Evie’s ears. Those people have already done enough, and if you can, you’ll keep their poison away for as long as possible.

No. The main concern is Evie’s pregnancy. With the move to London, all of Evie’s medical history has to be transferred to her new hospital and doctor. It’s incredibly close to the due date for everyone’s liking, but it can’t be helped. Evie won’t be giving birth in Cambridge.

Sighing, you toss yet another empty container into the bag, purposefully keeping your back to the stack of papers. You offered up the idea to the estate agent of selling the place fully furnished to which you were quickly dismissed. Frustrating, because it means your job becomes much more difficult, but understandable. People want to make new memories. They don’t want to cling to someone else’s old ones.

Over dinner, you and Evie discussed how she wanted to clear out the house of her belongings. Sell it? Donate it? Put it in storage? Take it with her? There wasn’t a true decision but there was an agreement on beginning the process.

It’s a start. It’s something.

Tomorrow, Friday afternoon to be exact, you and Evie are heading back to London. It’s a quick turnaround, but you’re eager to return and see your wraith. Just thinking of him, speaking his name in your mind, is enough to swirl the quietly simmering heat in your belly to a healthy boil. The warmth that arrives with Simon’s name spreads to your toes and throughout your limbs.

Smiling, nearly giggling, cheeks fevering with the memory of his kisses from Monday, you lightly press the tips of your fingers to your lips, floating in the memory of how they tasted his skin.

Then, you remember where you are. And what you’re supposed to be doing.

“Get a fucking grip,” you mutter under your breath, stuffing the last of the takeout boxes into the trash bag.

When you return from tossing the bag into the outside bin, you wash your hands before reaching for your phone. In the group chat with Jade and Sam, you give them a quick update, silencing your phone afterward, plugging it in to charge for the night.

Evie is upstairs somewhere, likely rummaging around in things she shouldn’t be. She has a knack for that, doing things without asking for help, believing that doing so is a sign of weakness. It’s that American Midwest can-do attitude. Independent and self-sufficient. A good ole’ Missouri girl. That’s Evelyn Green.

Rubbing at your right temple, you head upstairs, aiming for the master bedroom. The door stands open, and as you approach, you stop short the frame when you hear a choked, strangled sob.

“Evie?” you call out.

You listen intently, not sure if you’ve misheard. But you hear it again, a pained sound that sounds more injured animal than human.

Cold fear twists your stomach, drags it down to the floor, stomps all over it and grins.

“Evie!”

Shoving through the door, you don’t find her anywhere. Scanning the master bedroom, you notice the scattered clothes across the bed and the rumpled sheets. But the room is dark. The only light comes from the walk-in closet. Its angles are sharp like a blade and you fear the worst. What if she’s fallen? Surely, you would have heard the crash, or a solid thump?

Heading toward it, the rising fear intensifies until it lodges in your throat, waiting to emerge like a striking snake.

You step into the beam of light.

Sitting in the middle of a large pile of clothes is Evie.

She’s bent over, at least, as bent as her belly will allow her to be. Her pale cheeks are slashed with red and tear-stained. Her shoulders shake with every sob, each one appearing painful. And, in her hands, she cradles a little beige box.

The lid is off. The white ribbon on the top is yellowed and brittle. It rests to the left of Evie’s right foot on one of Archie’s button ups. Within that little beige box is a boutonnière. It’s Archie’s boutonnière. The one he wore on their wedding. It’s dried out now, more potpourri than flower, a silent witness to Evie’s suffering.

“Oh. Evie,” you sigh, going down on your knees in front of her, your hands outstretched but not touching, unsure of how she’s needing comfort.

She glances up. Chokes. Hiccups. “He’s gone,” she whimpers, and all you want to do is absorb her pain.

“I know,” you murmur. “I know, Evie. I’m so sorry.”

“He—he’s gone.” Fresh tears form in the corners of her eyes. They quickly compound on each other, rapidly filling the bottom of her eyelids. “He’s gone and I—”

A gut-wrenching sob rips from her. Like someone is reaching down her throat to tear out her vocal cords.

With extreme gentleness, you place one hand on her shoulder. The other cradles her hand holding the small beige box. “Evie—”

“He’s gone!” she wails. “And this is all I have left!” Evie gestures around at the clothes.

“You have so much more than that,” you soothe, lightly rubbing her shoulder in slow circles.

But Evie is shaking her head, sniffling hard, sucking up all the phlegm that threatens to slip from her nostrils. She’s a mess. A cacophony of a storm.

She glances up. Stares at the ceiling of the closet. “What happens when I start to forget his face?” Evie turns her gaze to you, the defeat and sorrow there sharp enough to shred the soul. “What happens then?”

“You won’t,” you insist, grasping the sides of her face. Strands of her dark hair stick to her tear-stained skin. Your brush them out of the way. “You love him, and the memory of that love is enough.”

Evie keeps shaking her head. “I can’t do this,” she murmurs, cradling her belly with one hand. “How do I do this without him?”

“You can, Evelyn Green. And you’re not alone. You have me. And Amelia. Jade. Sam.” With the pad of your thumb, you remove a few falling tears from her cheek. “This baby will be surrounded by love. She’ll never be without. She will always be safe. And when you tell her stories of her father, all she’ll know is how much you love him, and how much he wanted to meet her.”

Tears spillover to paint Evie’s cheeks as she leans into you. You wrap your arms around her, pulling her close, offering your shoulder to rest her head on. Neither of you talks, and this isn’t your place to say anything at all. This is for Evie, and whatever she needs.

Keeping one hand clutching the beige box, Evie reaches up with the other, fingers wrapping around your forearm. Digging, digging in where they land and are sure to leave little half-moons behind. Fuck it. You hardly care. You’re too focused on keeping her aloft, on being Evie’s anchor where she has none.

You won’t allow your friend to sink.

You stay like this until your knees hurt and your lower back aches. You stay like this until Evie signals she’s ready to let go with a gentle squeeze of your arm. As she pulls away, Evie wipes at her eyes. She still clings to that little box, but she needs rest, and you know she’ll never forgive herself if she takes it to bed with her and crushes it.

Placing both hands around the box, you silently implore her to let go. Evie does, hesitantly, and you lay the precious cargo on the ground. Presenting your hands, you put Evie to bed, keeping watch until you’re certain she’s truly asleep and not faking it for your benefit.

Only then do you return to the closet. Only then do you lift the little box from off the floor to carry it downstairs and set it next to your charging phone. Going to the mantel over the fireplace, you select your favorite photo from Archie and Evie’s wedding day. It’s a simple one, but the love oozes from it, sticks in between your teeth to blissfully rot away the enamel.

In the photo, Archie and Evie look at each other and not into the camera. It’s not staged. Just a moment caught when they thought no one was looking. A moment special only to them. Taking it to the kitchen, you rest it next to the box holding Archie’s boutonnière.

By the time you crawl into bed in the guestroom, it’s close to morning.

The few hours you manage to snag are not nearly enough. And when you awaken, you realize quickly that there is no amount of coffee in the world that can save you. Dragging yourself from bed, you clean up the clothes Evie left on the floor of the closet without disturbing her. Down in the kitchen, you make breakfast and place several phone calls. Nearly all of them are to Archie’s solicitor and the estate agent.

You’re exhausted. Fucking gone, but you have to do this for her.

Evie doesn’t drag herself out of bed until almost noon. By that time, the two of you need to start heading back to London. You take the driver seat, and Evie sits passenger with the little box holding Archie’s boutonnière and the framed photo resting in her lap.

“Simon came to see you,” are the first words out of Amelia’s mouth when she greets you.

“He did?” you squeak, nearly dropping the bag you just removed from the trunk of the car. Excitement and giddiness blooms in your chest.

Simon came to see you. He came…to see you.

But why would he not? He chased you down. Pursued you. Looked for you relentlessly. Of course he’d come by. You know this.

After visiting him at 141 Ink on Monday morning, you stopped to grab some groceries before heading home. Amelia and Evie nearly tackled you when you came through the door, both of them eager, pecking like annoying hens, seeking information. Too embarrassed to admit that you’d straddled him in front of the big window and sucked on his neck, you glossed over the more intimate moments much to their frustration.

Amelia had popped open a bottle of wine afterward and asked you if you knew anything about his history in the military. In all honesty, you know very little, just what he mentioned that morning. Thinking about it now, you truly don’t know anything concrete about your wraith. Physical chemistry is a good thing to possess, but that won’t last if there is nothing else to connect to.

Amelia already appeared to know this, and mentioned that you might want to take a delicate step with him in that area. “A bad injury” is what she said, but Amelia didn’t know any of the details. Then again, Amelia might know, and was only considering Simon’s privacy.

“Oh, yes. He was here. Burst through the backdoor and yelled at me for forgetting to lock the front one.”

Evie’s head pops up above the top of the car. “He yelled at you?”

You glance at Amelia, unbelieving that someone like Simon would raise his voice at her.

“Oh, posh,” she says, waving her hand dismissively. “Perhaps yell is a strong word. Growled. Said with irritation. Better?” Amelia shrugs one of the bags over her shoulder.

You and Evie exchange a knowing glance.

Could you go see him tonight? You consider the options. You could stay here and have dinner with Amelia and Evie. Or, you could go see Simon. Enter his shop while he’s working, observe him in his elements. And afterward—

“Are you all right? You look like you’re about ready to faint.” Amelia’s voice snaps you back to reality.

Shit.

Evie stands slightly left and back to Amelia. She’s grinning, knowing exactly where your mind drifted off to.

You smile awkwardly. “I’m fine. Just surprised.”

Amelia makes a face like she doesn’t believe that for a second. But she shrugs, not commenting about it. “You should visit him. It’s Friday. Make a night of it.”

“Are you sure?” you ask hurriedly, not wanting to sound too eager.

Amelia scoffs. “Evie and I will be perfectly fine.” She turns to Evie pointedly. “Won’t we?”

“Perfectly peachy,” winks Evie, shimmying her shoulders suggestively at you before following a cackling Amelia inside.

Your grab several more bags as if one less trip will truly cut into seeing Simon time. Then it’s done, and you’re nearly sprinting up the stairs for a shower and a change of clothes.

“How do I look?” you ask around your toothbrush, turning slightly so Evie can see every angle.

Evie glances up from her phone and grins. “If Simon isn’t all over you the moment you walk through the door, he’s a fucking idiot.” She points at you with her phone. “And you can tell him I said that.”

You snort, and then cover your mouth quickly. Evie laughs too but it’s more of a wheeze and that only makes the strangled, airless sounds you both make that much worse.

“Oh shit,” hisses Evie. “I peed. Thanks, bitch.” She half-rolls, half-flops out of the bed and starts waddling toward the bathroom.

“You’re welcome,” you call out to her retreating back.

Evie holds out her middle finger before shutting the bathroom door. Pulling on your coat and grabbing your purse off the top of the dresser, you head downstairs to slip on your boots.

Every step you take toward 141 Ink is light. Unhurried. It’s easy. Yes, you’re anxious, but that’s only because you’re eager to see Simon, to feel his hands on you, and forget yourself for a bit in his embrace.

As you near, that nervousness starts to slither up, blooming like a poisonous flower. Beautiful, but deadly, waiting for you to consume it. The black and eggplant-purple exterior come into view and that only amplifies what is already screeching under your skin.

“You’ve got this,” you tell yourself. “It’s fine. Calm. Down.”

Your heart and brain and limbs won’t listen. It amplifies further as you reach for the door.

Pushing it open, you’re met with warm air and the scent of pine underlined with the faintest hint of sterile cleaning solution. There is no soft chime when the door opens, but it might have been swallowed up by the music. Heavy metal rushes out from the speakers. It’s not overly loud, nothing that would damage the ears, but it’s certainly loud enough to muffle a conversation. You’re curious if this is Simon’s choice, or if it’s the customer currently in the tattoo chair.

Your glimpse of Simon and his client is brief. Immediately upon entrance, an all-black German Shepard leaps off the couch and greets you, tail wagging so fast it stirs up the air creating a breeze.

“Hello, Bravo,” you croon, scratching under his chin and then between his ears. Bravo leans into it, his tongue lolling out the side of his mouth in perfect contentment. “Good boy.”

When you straighten your back and glance up, you notice Simon in the back of the room next to the tattoo chair. He sits on a small stool with a black cushion on wheels. The person receiving their tattoo is on their stomach, back presented to Simon as he works. He hasn’t noticed you yet. He’s completely lost in his craft.

You take this time to observe him, standing there in the entrance of his parlor while Bravo aggressively licks the inside of your hand. Simon isn’t wearing a jacket, only a black t-shirt with short sleeves. It fits him snuggly, clearly hugging every muscle. Both tattoo sleeves are on full display. One is solid black. The other consist of various images and symbols that all interweave around each other. Other than the black t-shirt, Simon wears black joggers and sneakers.

Simon sits up a bit, rolls both shoulders. The muscles in his arms flex with the movement. Your wraith is all power. There is so much strength there, and your brain conjures up the memory of Riot Room when Simon lifted you effortlessly, held you aloft as he brought your bodies together over and over again.

He dips the tip of the needle into the ink, bends forward, returning it to the skin. Returning to his work. You desire closeness, to admire the art as he’s creating it on the man’s back, but also don’t wish to disturb his concentration. Watching him in his natural elements is peaceful. All that earlier anxiety is suddenly gone.

When Simon reaches for the ink again, Simon finally glances up. The moment your gazes lock, he freezes, hovering in a moment of stasis. It breaks, and Simon starts to stand, his arm extending outward to turn off the tattoo gun.

Nope. No. This is not what you want. You’ve disturbed him, throttled his concentration.

You shake your head vehemently, holding up both hands, pointing at the couch in the waiting area. Bravo lightly headbutts your thigh, clearly upset that you’ve taken away your hand for him to lick.

Simon holds his position. Knees slightly bent, legs just starting to extend like he’s ready to leap up at your request. Moving quickly, you settle yourself on the couch, Bravo jumping up next to you, snuggling down onto his belly, his large head plopping into your lap.

Only then does Simon sink back onto his stool.

The distance between the two of you is too much for your liking, but you know the feeling is mutual. Simon’s gaze is heated, and his body, which at first faced the client in the chair, is turned in your direction. Those dark, gorgeous eyes of his linger. They drag up your body, and back down again. Simon is taking his time, and under that wanton stare, you feel bare. Exposed. Chest cavity broken up and strewn out. Vulnerable.

It's unnerving. And yet thrilling. It’s how you felt when you first accepted his offer at Riot Room, when you off-handedly brought up the proposition and Simon made sure to end it.

His gaze remains a few seconds longer before Simon finally returns to the man lying face down on the chair. With one hand on top of Bravo’s head, you press the other hand to your cheek. It’s hot. Feverish. And you suddenly notice the growing slickness between your thighs.

Attempting to shift focus, you give most of your attention to Bravo, talking softly to the dog about your day, lulling the massive hound to sleep.

Even like this, you can’t help but notice all the times that Simon consistently glances up from his work, gaze focused in on you like you’ll somehow disappear. Sometimes it’s a quick one-two and he’s right back in it, set in on his work. Other times, he draws it out, as if silently telling you that he sees you. Those glances seize your heart, wrenching it right down into your stomach.

Once Bravo falls into a gentle snooze, and you have nothing else to direct your attention toward—except Simon’s lingering stares—you opt for productivity. With no idea how much longer Simon has with his client, you slip your phone out of your coat pocket and start catching up on work emails. Several deadlines are approaching quickly, and you’re terribly behind. You need an afternoon to yourself to simple work without interruptions. But that’s been difficult, especially when most of your time has been devoted to Evie.

“Done.”

Your head snaps up at the sound of Simon’s deep timbre. The client stretches, half-rolling half-stumbling to his feet.

Simon gestures for them to turn around. “Back to the mirror,” he instructs.

From off a rolling cart, Simon snags a hand mirror, presenting it to the client. It allows the man to admire Simon’s work. You have a clear view of the mirror. It’s just an outline, but it’s massive, covering the man’s entire back.

“Color and shading will take a couple sessions,” says Simon. “What do you think?”

You don’t catch what the man says, but you do hear Simon’s amused chuckle. He takes the hand mirror and places it on the tattoo chair. The two of them talk for a bit as money is exchanged and Simon hands him a care packet. The client shrugs on his shirt and coat, heading for the door.

As he approaches, he slows, noticing you on the couch. The corner of his mouth turns upward. He pointedly takes his time opening the door, a flirty smile on his face aimed at you as he steps out onto the street.

When the door clicks shut, you glance at Simon. His fists are clenched, hanging at his sides. Those dark eyes of his are bullets, ready to kill, completely fixated on the shut door.

“Simon,” you call out softly, a little of your worry slipping in. His gaze immediately adjusts, moving to you, softening entirely when he takes you in.

He tears off his black latex gloves and tosses them into the trash, already striding toward you as he does so. Bravo grumbles a protest as you bolt upward and off the sofa. You don’t even make it halfway to Simon before he’s on you, grabbing at the back of your neck and your waist, pulling you in for a kiss.

There isn’t a chance for you to push up the balaclava. And Simon doesn’t appear to care. He kisses you through the rough material, and you giggle against his cloth-covered lips.

“Simon,” you laugh, pushing lightly on his chest with your palms, voice slightly muffled from the balaclava.

He pulls back just enough to give you the faintest bit of breathing room. Then, he’s shoving his balaclava up to his nose, revealing those gorgeous lips of his. They are there and gone quickly, Simon already reclaiming what is so rightfully his.

You open and Simon slips his tongue inside, fingers digging roughly into the back of your neck, drawing you closer. This kiss is desperate. Needy. And so full of emotion that when he draws back, you’re momentarily breathless.

Simon’s smile is soft and you easily match it with one of you own. “Amelia told me you stopped by,” you murmur.

“You went to Cambridge,” he states. It’s not a question, and that gives you pause.

You nod. “I did.” You do not elaborate or give him an explanation. The situation with Evie is…complicated. While you wish to tell Simon everything, you also don’t want to unload, to dump all your worries onto him without warning.

“Do I have you for the evening?” he asks, hopefulness laced within the words.

A creeping sadness wiggles in. Simon cannot have you for the whole evening even though you’d love nothing more than to stay the entire night. But you won’t allow the disappointment to make a home. You are still here, with him, and that is enough.

“You have me for a few hours,” you answer, waiting for the discontent on his end.

It does not come.

Simon’s thumb traces the length of your throat. His smile is still there. Unchanged. “Do you want to join me upstairs?”

“Upstairs?”

“To my flat. For a drink.”

“Oh.”

“If not it’s fine,” says Simon quickly. “I understand. Quieter than one of the pubs.”

You nod eagerly, popping up on your toes. “Yes,” you breathe. “I’d like that.”

Going upstairs to his flat means that you and Simon will truly be alone. And that singular thought, one that speaks to uninterrupted pleasure, starts a thrumming in the lower recessives of your belly that only moves farther south with each passing second.

“Good,” he sighs with relief.

Did he think you’d say no? Is Simon just as nervous, just as eager to want to be with you?

Have you not thought about me? Not once? Because I’ve thought of you. Every day.

And what if I wanted it to be more? What if I still want it to be more?

Of course he does. Of course.

“Just need to,” he gestures to the room. “Close up.”

“How can I help?” you ask.

Simon thinks for a moment. “Floors?”

“Done.”

The two of you work in tandem, moving through the motions in a natural, domestic dance that seems so normal and so routine that it doesn’t feel odd. It’s comfortable. Cozy. Like you could live this life easily and not regret a single moment.

When the floors are cleaned, and surfaces are sanitized, Simon shuts off the main lights, locks the front door, and arms the alarm system.

Simon doesn’t say anything. Just overs his hand to you, palm upward.

There is no hesitation on your end.

Gently, you take his offered palm, admiring the little tattoos on his fingers as they fold over your hand. Simon guides you to a door you’ve never noticed before. It’s blocked off by a curtain, and when Simon opens it, the two of you step into a narrow hall. To your right is a door that leads out to the sidewalk. To your left is a staircase heading up to a landing.

Simon’s grip on your hand tightens as if you’ll make a run for the street. He does this sometimes. You’ve noticed these tiny gestures where he seems to cling a little too tight, and you question whether it’s a need to feel close to you, or anxiety.

Remembering what Amelia told you the other day, that you may need to be gentle with him, that Simon had a bad injury, you consider how that might influence someone. How it might change their perspective on things.

You return his tightened grip with a gentle squeeze of reassurance, silently prompting him to take the lead. Simon does, bringing you to the top of the landing. The front door doesn’t have a traditional lock but a passcode. Strange. Completely odd. But, then again, Simon is ex-military. Old habits?

Simon punches a series of buttons and the little red light on the top righthand side turns green. The audible sound of gears turning and locks—definitely plural—unlatching reaches your ears. Simon pushes down on the handle, and then you’re inside, Bravo right on your heels.

You’ve never thought about what Simon’s space might look like. Perhaps you figured it would be like any other bachelor pad. But Simon’s home is warm, and has a similar feel to the tattoo shop downstairs.

The interior is industrial with brick walls and exposed grey-black pipes running along the ceiling. The floor is hardwood, a deep, rich brown. To your left is a kitchen and dining area. All the cabinetry is black, the countertops butcher block, and the appliances stainless steel. To your right is the living room. The television is massive, and the sofa is large. You easily picture yourself and Simon snuggled on it, watching a movie.

Directly ahead of you is a short hallway. It branches left, disappearing to a place you cannot see. But you do notice an open bedroom doorway to the right of the end of the short hall.

“I have whiskey.”

You glance away from the doorway and find Simon. He nods toward a small bar next to the dining table. He’s right. There is only whiskey there. “Then whiskey it is.”

Simon laughs softly and grabs two rocks glasses. His gaze scans over the various bottles. Finally selecting one, Simon lifts it from its perch. Removing the cork, Simon pours a double on both. He brings your glass to you, and you take it with both hands, glancing down at the amber liquid.

This will hit you hard. You haven’t eaten since lunch.

“Are you hungry?” asks Simon, as if reading your mind.

“What?” you blink, looking up.

“I can order us something. Or I could cook.”

“You cook?”

“I’ve perfected a few meals.” Simon shrugs. “And instant ramen.”

“Instant ramen?” you ask, deadpan.

Simon crosses his arms over his chest, the whiskey in his glass sloshing slightly as he does. “And other things.”

“Are you sure? You don’t have to.”

“I want to,” he says automatically.

He wants to do this. He wants to do this.

“Okay. Yeah.” You nod. “You pick. Cook’s choice.”

Simons starts to turn away, but promptly returns, holding up his hand like he’s about to say something. He pauses, and sets his whiskey down. “Hold on.”

“Holding,” you say to his retreating back.

Simon disappears for a minute and reappears clutching a stack of papers. At first, you’re confused, but as he draws closer, you recognize them for what they are.

They’re pages out of a sketchbook, and there isn’t just a handful. Simon has to be holding as least a few dozen individual pieces of paper. And that’s not even the most startling thing. It’s the way he’s holding them, almost nervously, his thumbs rubbing the pages in an anxious tick.

Simon presents the stack to you. “Couldn’t decide on what I liked best.”

Your whiskey glass is on the dining table in an instant. Fingers itching, you gently take the papers from him. Already, from the very top sketch, you’re awed by the artistry. You don’t even look as you sink down into a chair. Placing them on the table, you begin to fan them out in a wide arc.

“These are lovely, Simon,” you murmur, captivated by how creative his mind is.

“You don’t need to select one today. Take a look and pick what you’re leaning toward.”

Quickly, you sift through them, spreading them out across the table, dividing them up to make the process easier. It’s almost overwhelming. Some of the pieces are similar, but most of them are entirely different. Completely unique.

As you start through your first organized stack, Simon is already in the kitchen, a large pot of water on the range. Before him on the countertop is a small pile of flour. He makes a well, cracks three eggs into the center, and the smallest splash of water. Taking a fork, he starts to whisk.

Is he—no.

You hold a paper in each hand but you’re not even looking at the artwork. You’re watching Simon make pasta. Fucking pasta. From scratch. And he’s not breaking a sweat. He looks so goddamn casual it’s almost maddening.

Bravo sits at your side, but all of his attention is on Simon. He licks his chops periodically but is otherwise statuesque. Your wraith wraps up the dough and sets it aside, quickly cleaning up his mess before retrieving a large frying pan, cutting board, and sauce pot.

Glancing between the artwork you pick up and Simon’s movement in the kitchen, you start to see a different side of him. Garlic, onion, fresh basil, and grape tomatoes are tossed into the sauce pot. Oil is drizzled into the large pan. Chicken breasts are pounded out, made thin, and then coated in breadcrumbs.

You at the table. Him in the kitchen, cooking you dinner. Nothing planned. Just present and existing, content with each other’s company.

By the time you’ve sorted through all the sketches and selected ten you’re leaning toward, Simon is rolling out the dough, cutting it into long strands, depositing the homemade spaghetti into the salted boiling water. The chicken cutlets are finishing under the broiler, topped with chunky tomato sauce and cheese.

Bravo’s no longer sitting but laying down. He’s still alert to everything happening in the kitchen, but Simon is meticulous, dropping nothing for Bravo to vacuum up.

“Simon?”

“Hm?” He briefly glances at you over his shoulder before returning his attention to the pot of cooking pasta.

You lick your lips, pausing before asking the question. “How did you get the tattoo shop?”

The tongs Simon holds hesitate before dipping into the water. “Part of my retirement,” he answers. Cooked pasta and leftover sauce are tossed together.

“Military retirement?” He nods but says nothing. You’re not sure if this will be too sensitive to ask, but you’re curious, and Amelia’s words from earlier in the week keep grating on your mind. “What did you do to earn you an entire tattoo shop at retirement?”

Simon divides the pasta up between two plates. “Early retirement from an injury. Got me this flat, too.”

Early retirement? An injury? What the fuck happened to him that the government would give him enough money to afford all this? That is unheard of, at least by American standards. You couldn’t say for certain what it’s like here, but it couldn’t be much different.

You sip on your whiskey, the amber liquid burning smoothly on the way down. “So you didn’t plan on becoming a tattoo artist originally?”

Simon shuts off the broiler and removes the breaded chicken cutlets. Placing them on a fresh cutting board, Simon slices them quickly, transferring one cutlet to each plate. “I was military.”

“I know,” you say quickly. “But—did you ever think about after?”

Opening a nearby drawer, Simon grabs two knives and two forks. “Sometimes.”

Why is he being so evasive? Was the injury that bad? Thinking on it, you do recall several scars. There is the one running along the edge of his jaw. That one is clear to the eye. The other scars you noticed were hidden under the ink.

Simon picks up the plates and you hastily clear away the sketches, piling up the ones you didn’t select.

“Find anything?”

“These.” You gently push a small stack toward him.

Simon doesn’t even look at them until your plate is in front of you and you’re holding the silverware. Social norms and general social expectations might say to be dainty when with a new romantic partner, but the food in front of you is begging to be devoured. Simon made this for you to enjoy, and you’re going to do just that.

And Simon doesn’t appear to give a shit anyway. With one hand, he’s cutting through his chicken. The other is spreading out the sketches you selected, his gaze entirely fixed on the paper. He takes a bite of his food. Chews. Lifts a sketch up to study it.

You tuck in, eating but silent, observing every twitch and change in Simon’s expression. There are few of note. You have no idea what he’s thinking. Is he conjuring up new sketches already? Is he itching to pick up his pencil or charcoal or whatever he enjoys working with and starting immediately? Is Simon surprised by your choices?

The strongest reaction you pick up on is the arch of a singular eyebrow.

Eventually, he nods, seeming satisfied. With one hand, Simon neatly situates your selections into a stack, setting it aside. Your plate is nearly empty at this point, inhaling the meal like an addict.

Simon settles into his chair, his gaze fixating on you. “Why’d you go to Cambridge?”

Does Simon mean to make it feel like an accusation?

“I went for Evie,” you answer.

“Your friend.”

“Yes.”

“That’s why you’re here?”

“In London? Yes. I am.”

You don’t know how far you can take this conversation before crossing into territory you don’t want to discuss. It’s not that you don’t want to discuss it with him, you simply fear the idea that you might unload on him. You are fully aware how stressing the entire situation with Evie is, but Simon doesn’t need to hear all of it at once. There are some things that are private. There are some things that if spoken to another, might break Evie’s trust in you.

Simon twirls his fork in his hand. “She’s pregnant.”

“Very pregnant,” you add.

“Married?”

How the fuck do you answer that?

“Widow,” you decide, because it’s the truth, and there isn’t any reason to hide it.

“How recent?”

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.

“She buried him a week ago.”

Simon stops twirling his fork. “A week?” You hear the surprise in his tone.

“Dead two. Buried one.” Saying it like that makes it sound so final. Archie is gone, and Evie is alone in that regard. She’s lost a piece of herself. A pillar of support.

This whole time, Simon’s gaze has been locked on you. But it drops down toward the floor for a brief few seconds before returning. Sometimes you really wish he’d take that balaclava off so you can get a full picture of what might be happening behind it.

“I’m sorry,” he says. Simon doesn’t press for more, and you nearly sigh with relief.

“I’m helping her for a bit. Easy for me since I work remote.”

“What do you do?”

Oh shit. Simon doesn’t know. All this time, and it’s never come up in conversation.

“Freelance mostly. Technical writing and editing.”

Simon swallows and takes a sip of his whiskey. “And what is that?”

“User manuals, medical documents, press releases.” You list a few more things and as you do, Simon’s lips stretch into a smile. “What?” you ask.

“That sounds incredibly boring.”

You burst out laughing, covering your mouth as you try not to choke. “Pays the bills. Wouldn’t call it exciting.”

This is easier conversation. This is what a normal back-and-forth is supposed to be between two people. Isn’t it?

But what is normal about this dynamic? The two of you met and hooked up in the basement of a club. You ran and he chased, kept chasing for three years, and when you finally appeared before him, you ran again and he followed after you without hesitating.

“Can you stay?” asks Simon, and you hear the silent plea in his voice. It draws up every needy thought simmering beneath your skin.

“For a bit,” you reply, purposefully being non-specific.

He inclines his head toward your plate. “Finished?”

“Yes.” You start to pick it up, standing with the intention to take it to the sink. Simon is having none of it. He whisks it out of your hands before your legs have a chance to fully extend. You plop your ass back in the chair.

Simon rinses out pans and cleans knives. Sitting in a chair and doing nothing is not something you’re accustomed to.

“Would you like me to help?”

“I’d like you to relax.”

“Yes, sir,” you murmur, finishing off the last of your whiskey.

He washes his hands and dries them on a towel. As he strides toward the dining table, he snaps at Bravo. “Kennel.”

Bravo’s ears droop, but he complies to Simon’s command.

Simon watches the German Shepard disappear down the hallway. He turns toward you, offering his hand. When you place your hand in his, Simon’s fingers take hold, drawing you out of your chair, pulling you against his body. His other hand cradles the side of your neck and lower half of your jaw. His thumb traces over your bottom lip.

“Can I take you to bed?” he asks, voice slightly husky with need. His thumb returns to your bottom lip, lightly pressing on it. “I want to kiss you. To touch you.” Simon is still holding on to your hand.

Not sex then? Just kisses. Touches. Even the thought of that is sending you into overdrive, every nerve in your body firing at once until your heart thuds loudly in your ears.

“Take me to bed,” you whisper, hardly believing you managed to get the words out.

Slowly, Simon’s hand falls away from your face. It is a gentle release, one that speaks of desire but doesn’t feel so primal and raw as when the two of you first came together. Walking backwards, Simon leads, entering into the dark of his apartment, heading down the hall, and entering the bedroom you noticed earlier.

You don’t even glance at your surroundings. You’re too focused on Simon, and the way he guides you around, easing you onto your back upon the bed. He drapes himself over you like a protective cocoon. One knee slides between your legs, forcing them to apart. The other digs into the bed just shy of your thigh.

Simon rests his forearm just above and to the side of your head. His other hand immediately goes to your waist. You are pinned in. You are under him, and it’s deliciously perfect. Better than what you’ve conjured up in your head. Beneath him, you feel protected. Safe.

Your fingers are already on the balaclava, pushing it up further, seeking him. You know not to go past the eyes, and while it pains you to not see Simon fully, you respect the boundary. That will fall away eventually. As will your uneasiness about being completely open and honest with him about Evie’s situation.

These things will happen. They have to. You want them to.

The moment you have full access to his lips, Simon is on you. Your hands fist the front of his shirt, dragging him closer. Simon lowers himself, his pelvis slotting perfectly with yours. Each kiss is slow. Measured. Every stroke of his hand along your waist, hips, and thighs sends a wave of rippling heat straight to your core.

It grows and grows, melting your resolve into mush. Your legs fall open wider, and Simon instinctually moves in. You clearly sense his needs. It’s fucking poking you. And fuck—what’s a few more hours? You can stay. You can.

Your hand slides between your bodies, slipping beneath the waistband of his joggers, your fingers finding him, wrapping around his hardness.

Simon swallows down a groan as his hips reflexively press against your palm. He breaks the kiss, breathing heavy, his teeth finding your throat.

Simon gently bites your neck, his large hand squeezing your thigh in warning. “Keep touching me like that and you won’t leave this bed until morning.”

The intensity of his delivery zaps you right out of your haze. “Sorry,” you gasp, withdrawing your hand quickly.

Simon’s answering growl pins you to the spot. He snatches your retreating arm, encircling the wrist, only to draw your hand back to him.

“Never apologize for touching me. Never.” His lips and teeth trace over your skin. When he finds your lips again, there is nothing chaste about the way he tastes you.

“Simon—”

“Not tonight. I—Not like this.”

Your hand that still rests on his chest slides upward. One finger delicately traces that scar you know so well.

“Will you walk me home?”

“You never have to ask.”

Simon guides your hand away from his groin. In the next moment, he wraps his arms around your waist, lifting up and off the bed, and onto your feet.

He’s smiling down at you, and it’s full of joy. You don’t know how to receive it. It’s almost too much, and you slightly feel undeserving of it.

“I’ll grab my coat.” You start to move but Simon’s arms around your waist tighten.

“Wait.” You glance up, find an intensity in his stare. “Can I take you out?”

“On a date?” you blurt.

“Movies. Dinner.” He shrugs. “Normal things.”

Your lips part slightly in confusion. There is nothing normal about Simon. “You don’t want to take me out for normal dates,” you say slowly.

Simon’s jaw clenches. “No.”

You grin, knowing you’ve trapped him. “What kind of date would you actually like to take me on?” Leaning forward, you rest your chin on his chest.

“Take you for a ride for starters.”

“On a bicycle?” you ask with mock innocence.

Simon sharply lands a slap to your ass. “I’ll put you back on that bed.”

“Promise?”

His answer is a growl, and a firm squeeze. “I’d take you to the coast. Or the country. Maybe up to Manchester. Show you where I grew up. All my favorite spots.”

“Go on,” you entreat.

“I’d show you the Highlands. Stay in a little cottage on a friend’s family farm.”

“What else?”

Simon’s brow softens, and then he’s bending down, capturing your lips in a deep kiss. “I’d make new memories with you,” he murmurs against your mouth.

“Promise?”

“That’s a fucking guarantee, love.”

For several minutes, the two of you embrace just inside his bedroom door. For several minutes, the two of you almost return to the bed, to fall right back into each other’s arms. But Simon has far more control than you.

Coats are collected. Bravo’s leash is found and attached to the dog’s collar.

The two of you don’t hold hands on your walk to Amelia’s. Instead, the two of you loosely intertwine a few fingers. There is no rush. No need to arrive quickly. And while there is silence, it’s a contented, peaceful thing.

Reviving. You are reawakening with Simon.

At Amelia’s front door, your parting kiss is not a kiss at all. With both hands, Simon cradles your face, closes his eyes, and rests his forehead against yours. You match him, closing your own eyes, placing your hands over his, simply breathing in his presence.

You’re practically skipping up the stairs to your shared bedroom with Evie. You expect to find her asleep. But when you open the door, you don’t find her tucked under the covers. She’s sitting up, resting against the headboard, wide awake, and crying quietly.

“What is it?” you ask, panicked, dropping your purse and coat onto the floor, crawling onto the bed to reach for her.

Evie wipes at her eyes, smirking through her tears. “Shouldn’t you be in your man’s bed right now?”

“Oh hush,” you mutter, waving her comment off. “What is it?”

Her smile falters. “Archie’s older brother called.”

The panic disappears. The contentment and peace that clings to you from your time with Simon evaporates instantly. All of it is gone. Poof. Like a popped balloon.

In its place is a seething anger.

“What the fuck does he want?”

“He wants to meet.”

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[dbmars]

Well, I just finished and posted the end of Act 1 of Bram Stoker’s HANNIBAL. I basically took the first few chapters of Dracula where Jonathan Harker goes to Castle Dracula to sell Dracula London properties and used that as the framework for Inspector-turned-real-estate-solicitor Will Graham to meet Count Lecter. Like in the Coppola film, Will is the reincarnation of Hannibal’s lost love. It was tricky because Will does remember that he had a previous life and he does fall for Hannibal. But I had to get the action back to London for Act 2. Did you know that it’s canon that Jonathan has a “brain fever” when he escapes Castle Dracula? Hmm, who does that sound like?

This is going to be a LONG fic. We haven’t even gotten to Alana, her suitors, Randall/Renfield… I’m excited, and also daunted 😅.

We will see how much I get done. Because I discovered a Hannibal AI and I have spent hours flirting with it as Will 😂

[thefisherqueen]

Reading Letters from Watson's The Norwood Builder now! Here we go :)

“From the point of view of the criminal expert,” said Mr. Sherlock Holmes, “London has become a singularly uninteresting city since the death of the late lamented Professor Moriarty.” You literally killed him, Holmes, then faked your own death and spent years in hiding because of him, and now you're complaining that he's dead and you're bored - to the very one who's still recovering from the shock that you're alive? I diagnose you with some major Readjustment Issues and should consider therapy instead of just trying to cope with inappropriate humor. Watson is very valid in calling you whimsical

"At the time of which I speak Holmes had been back for some months, and I, at his request, had sold my practice and returned to share the old quarters in Baker Street." Of course. No news here

“I'm sorry, Mr. Holmes,” he cried. “You mustn't blame me. I am nearly mad. Mr. Holmes, I am the unhappy John Hector McFarlane.” Quite the introduction! By the way, why are so many of Holmes' clients young men on the verge of a nervous breakdown?

"Familiar as I was with my friend's methods, it was not difficult for me to follow his deductions, and to observe the untidiness of attire, the sheaf of legal papers, the watch-charm, and the breathing which had prompted them. Our client, however, stared in amazement." Character growth! Well done, Watson. I'm proud of you. Freemasonary, by the way, is so broad a movement it barely means anything. This quote prompted me to do some research into the symbols of freemasonry. The watch in itself isn't the symbol, a combination of a builder's square and compasses (used to draw perfect circles) with the letter G was the most common one. I guess Watson is referring to the fact that this gentlemen's watch has an added engraving or something similar with this symbol. Also, I wonder about the connection between freemasonary and the murdered man being a builder in this case.

“Arrest you!” said Holmes. “This is really most grati—most interesting. On what charge do you expect to be arrested?” Omg. Barely caught himself there

"My companion's expressive face" Oh, the contradictions in Holmes' character writing. Is Sherlock Holmes that expressive suddenly, or is Watson just able to read him really well?

"He was flaxen-haired and handsome in a washed-out negative fashion" Watson was that judgement really necessary

"For some years he has practically withdrawn from the business, in which he is said to have amassed considerable wealth." Not working, yet amassing wealth. I'd say that's suspicious but, really, under capitalism the only people who are able to gain wealth are those not working - either exploiting or investing (likely both)

"It is known that Mr. Jonas Oldacre had received a late visitor in his bedroom upon that night, and the stick found has been identified as the property of this person, who is a young London solicitor named John Hector McFarlane." Inviting young sollicitors into his bedroom at night. Creepy behaviour. (can't help but think about Dracula's Jonathan Harker). Also, I'm glad the openly naming of suspects is restricted nowadays. No opportunity of a fair trail otherwise

"The conduct of the criminal investigation has been left in the experienced hands of Inspector Lestrade, of Scotland Yard, who is following up the clues with his accustomed energy and sagacity.” Yay, we'll get to see Lestrade again!

"One moment, Lestrade,” said Holmes. “Half an hour more or less can make no difference to you, and the gentleman was about to give us an account of this very interesting affair, which might aid us in clearing it up.” “I think there will be no difficulty in clearing it up,” said Lestrade, grimly. Power struggle. Bless Holmes for working independent and not afraid to tell the police off

“‘Here is my will,’ said he. ‘I want you, Mr. McFarlane, to cast it into proper legal shape. I will sit here while you do so.’ “I set myself to copy it, and you can imagine my astonishment when I found that, with some reservations, he had left all his property to me." Strong Jekyll and Hyde paralell here. I wonder, is murder conviction a legal reason to exclude someone from a will? I guess that doesn't even matter anymore if McFarlane would be executed. And who will the inherentence go to then? The next in line family member? Strong motive for framing McFarlane for murder, then. Next line of inquiry, I guess: who else knew about the will?

Already really liking this story! Protect this poor young sollicitor from injustice, Holmes

"He was a strange little, ferret-like man" Comparing people to animals again. Did McFarlane really say that, Watson, or was that one of your fancy additions?

“You can imagine, Mr. Holmes, that I was not in a humour to refuse him anything that he might ask. He was my benefactor, and all my desire was to carry out his wishes in every particular." Dosing so might cost you your life, McFarlane. *mutters about power imbalace*

“Not until I have been to Blackheath.” “You mean to Norwood,” said Lestrade. “Oh, yes; no doubt that is what I must have meant,” said Holmes, with his enigmatical smile." Oh, Holmes is delightful here! Wasn't Blackheath where McFarlane lives? My guess is that Holmes wants to know what the connection between Oldacre and McFarlane's parents was. Were they both in a same freemasonry community? That would tie it neatly together

I don't trust Oldacre's motivation in leaving his inherentance to McFarlane. Seems a bit like whitewashing of ill-gotten money to me. Then, again, he wouldn't have arranged his own murder. Or - wait - is he really dead? Since there's only some blood and charred remains found. Easy enough to fake. I have a Theory. I feel Clever (likely wrong but who cares)

"You are too many for me" Love that expression. Going to use that

"It is curious—is it not?—that a man should draw up so important a document in so haphazard a fashion. It suggests that he did not think it was going to be of much practical importance. If a man drew up a will which he did not intend ever to be effective he might do it so.” He did not ever intend the will to be effective. I think we have our villain! *Points to my theory* And - did he hide McFarlane's walking cane on purpose? Motive still not entirely clear to me. Fake your own death for life insurence, sure, but not to claim an inherentence that is currently already your own. Something most be up with that money to devise an elaborate, dangerous plot like that

“Well, it is quite possible; but the case is not clear to me yet.” “Not clear? Well, if that isn't clear, what could be clear?" Oh, Lestrade. You started so well by being picking up that Holmes had Thoughts and being willing to listen to him. But now...

Holmes thinks a bypassing third person did it. I'm not buying that. And, after Lestrade's remark that no papers were taken while a third person would have done that, I don't think Holmes is convinced anymore either

"But it is evident to me that the logical way to approach the case is to begin by trying to throw some light upon the first incident—the curious will, so suddenly made, and to so unexpected an heir." Yes! Investigate that!

"There is no prospect of danger, or I should not dream of stirring out without you." Awww! Also, famous last words, Holmes

I had to look up what black-guard means. According to the cambridge dictonary, apperently a word for someone who has no moral principles.

Holmes did you really just call a human being 'fluffly?"

Yet another murder victim who was a terrible person and is not mourned. This is really a repeating theme

“‘You knew him at that time?’ said I." “‘Yes, I knew him well; in fact, he was an old suitor of mine. Thank Heaven that I had the sense to turn away from him and to marry a better, if a poorer, man." Oh, it's personal! Good for her for getting away from him

"She rummaged in a bureau, and presently she produced a photograph of a woman, shamefully defaced and mutilated with a knife. ‘That is my own photograph,’ she said. ‘He sent it to me in that state, with his curse, upon my wedding morning.’ What the fuck. Please let Oldacre be the villian of this story

"I crawled about the lawn with an August sun on my back, but I got up at the end of an hour no wiser than before." Another very amusing image

"Unless some lucky chance comes our way I fear that the Norwood Disappearance Case will not figure in that chronicle of our successes which I foresee that a patient public will sooner or later have to endure.” Holmes! Be more kind to your chronicler!

"But I fear, my dear fellow, that our case will end ingloriously by Lestrade hanging our client, which will certainly be a triumph for Scotland Yard.” Don't give up Holmes! *points to my theory, somehow it all still fits*

"I do not know how far Sherlock Holmes took any sleep that night, but when I came down to breakfast I found him pale and harassed, his bright eyes the brighter for the dark shadows round them." Now I'm feeling sad :( Please, Watson, cheer him up

"Take your breakfast, Watson, and we will go out together and see what we can do. I feel as if I shall need your company and your moral support to-day.” Awww

“At present I cannot spare energy and nerve force for digestion,” he would say in answer to my medical remonstrances." Damn it Holmes, that not how that works. Please take care of yourself

"He led us through the passage and out into a dark hall beyond. “This is where young McFarlane must have come out to get his hat after the crime was done,” said he." Wait, didn't the housekeeper say that McFarlane left his hat behind?? *beep beep* tempered with evidence?

“What a providential thing that this young man should press his right thumb against the wall in taking his hat from the peg! Such a very natural action, too, if you come to think of it.” Holmes was outwardly calm, but his whole body gave a wriggle of suppressed excitement as he spoke. “By the way, Lestrade, who made this remarkable discovery?” “It was the housekeeper, Mrs. Lexington, who drew the night constable's attention to it.” This is hilarious. Holmes is so ready to tear this 'evidence' to treads

"The fact is that there is one really serious flaw in this evidence to which our friend attaches so much importance.” “Indeed, Holmes! What is it?” “Only this: that I know that that mark was not there when I examined the hall yesterday" Yes :) Now just find the evidence to convince the police. I also wonder how Oldacre attained McForlane's thumb imprint? Perhaps he just asked for it, since McForlane was not in a position anyway to refuse even an odd request?

"And now, Watson, let us have a little stroll round in the sunshine.” I'm making a lot of awww-sounds while reading this story. This is just so cute. I love them going out for walks!

"Lestrade knew my friend too well to disregard his words. He laid down his pen and looked curiously at him. “What do you mean, Mr. Holmes?” “Only that there is an important witness whom you have not seen.” “Can you produce him?” “I think I can.” I'm excited! Is this where Oldacre is shown to be not dead at all? Hiding in one of those attic bedrooms, is my guess?

"Holmes stood before us with the air of a conjurer who is performing a trick." Of course Holmes can not help but be Dramatic (TM) about this. What is he going to do? Smoke the man out?

"A door suddenly flew open out of what appeared to be solid wall at the end of the corridor, and a little, wizened man darted out of it, like a rabbit out of its burrow. “Capital!” said Holmes, calmly. “Watson, a bucket of water over the straw. That will do! Lestrade, allow me to present you with your principal missing witness, Mr. Jonas Oldacre.” Can't believe I got it right! A fake door, no less. Such a fun, dramatic reveal

"It was an odious face—crafty, vicious, malignant, with shifty, light-grey eyes and white eyelashes." *Sigh* There we go with the criminal faces again

Lestrade really owes Holmes a lot this time

“And you don't want your name to appear?” “Not at all. The work is its own reward. Perhaps I shall get the credit also at some distant day when I permit my zealous historian to lay out his foolscap once more—eh, Watson?" Now this is just flirting. I approve

“There's the advantage of being a builder,” said Holmes, as we came out. “He was able to fix up his own little hiding-place without any confederate" Nice tie-up. I wonder about the other loose ends? Will the freemasonry still come up?

"I thought he had not the nerve to lie quiet before an alarm of fire. We could, of course, have gone in and taken him, but it amused me to make him reveal himself; besides, I owed you a little mystification, Lestrade, for your chaff in the morning.” And this is 100% Holmes. I love that man

"It was amusing to me to see how the detective's overbearing manner had changed suddenly to that of a child asking questions of its teacher." I adore Watson's narration here. He is just shamelessly laughing at Lestrade

"He determines to swindle his creditors, and for this purpose he pays large cheques to a certain Mr. Cornelius, who is, I imagine, himself under another name. I have not traced these cheques yet, but I have no doubt that they were banked under that name at some provincial town where Oldacre from time to time led a double existence. He intended to change his name altogether, draw this money, and vanish, starting life again elsewhere.” So that was how he intended to do it. Clever scheme.

It takes a special kind of evil to be angry at a woman for rejecting you and then, as revenge, frame her child for murder. Wow.

[texas-gothic]

I must say, El Conde is positively brilliant.

Augusto Pinochet really does make for a truly perfect vampire. A truly Dracula like figure. I mean, we must ask ourselves, before becoming some dark undead, who was Dracula? He was a bloodthirsty warlord who ruled over a fiefdom at the periphery of a great and mighty empire, and served at that empire’s whims. He slaughtered thousands in pursuit of his masters’ commands and for his own personal enrichment. Now, who was Augusto Pinochet? Why, none other than a bloodthirsty dictator who ruled over an entire country at the periphery of a great, mighty empire, and served at that empire’s whims. He slaughtered thousands in pursuits of his masters’ commands and for his own personal enrichment.

We find him in this film holed up in an abandoned and ramshackle palace, where he spends his days lamenting the past and cursing a world that has moved on from him. All he needs to do now is cable a handsome young solicitor to sell him some property in and around London, and we’re standing two feet at the beginning of that most classic vampire novel.

Pinochet not only makes for a perfect vampire, he might make for one of the best modernizations of the classic Dracula figure that I’ve ever seen.

[beardedmrbean]

A councillor sent an “intimidating email” to thousands of colleagues, threatening to publish the names of anyone opposed to a ceasefire in Gaza.

The “abhorrent” message was sent to all 19,102 councillors in England and Wales, alleging that anti-Semitism had been “weaponised” to silence those who opposed Israel’s actions in the wake of the Oct 7 attacks by Hamas.

The Local Government Association (LGA) said the threat to publish the names of councillors went against everything it stood for and confirmed that it was urgently investigating.

The email was sent by Cllr James Giles, an independent councillor on Kingston Council, in south-west London, who emailed members on Sunday asking them to sign a public letter he had previously written calling for a ceasefire.

The letter had been co-authored with Jamal Chohan, a Conservative councillor, who said he had nothing to do with the email later sent by Cllr Giles.

In the letter, the pair wrote: “To be clear and stating the obvious, anti-Semitism is wholly unacceptable. However, this term cannot continue to be weaponised to absolve Israel of any accountability in how it has contributed to the ongoing tensions and its failure to comply with international law.”

In his email, Cllr Giles said that he would be publishing a list of all the people who supported the ceasefire, although anyone who “feared retribution from their parties” could be anonymous.

He added: “We will also be publishing the names of those who have been invited to sign but choose not to, in the interest of accountability” but later backtracked after angry responses from councillors who said the threat was “dangerous at a time when councillors were already feeling under intense pressure”.

One anonymous Labour councillor told The Telegraph she had spoken to police after receiving death threats for her stance on the conflict.

She added: “Councillors are public property – we live in our communities, many people know where we live. We don’t get the same level of protection that MPs get, however, and we don’t have police protection when we are meeting the public.

“It has made me think about whether it is even worth being a councillor. The allowance is pitiful – we do it because we want to help our residents. But is it worth being this scared?”

She described the email as “performative”, adding: “As a council, we had just been talking about safety measures that could be implemented for councillors and then this letter came out. The people that wrote it will know we are not protected and are saying they will name the people who don’t agree with their bullying tactics. It’s abhorrent.

“We are all aware of what happened to Jo Cox and David Amess and what we feel now is this fear of the unknown. There is this anger out there, and we don’t know what is going to happen.”

A number of councillors, including Alex Prager, Barnet Conservative, shared their responses to the letter on social media. Mr Prager wrote: “If you serve your residents as a local councillor with the same passion as you perpetuate anti-Semitic tropes, you’d be doing them a real service.”

Barbara Cannon, a Cumbrian councillor, described the email as a form of “bullying” and said: “Today I am being asked to sign a letter or my name will be published for ‘accountability’. This is for someone I don’t represent and don’t know. It’s always men with big opinions and small brains. I won’t be signing.”

Cllr Giles, representing the Kingston Independent Residents party, previously worked alongside George Galloway, the far-Left politician, on his unsuccessful campaign run in the Batley and Spen by-election.

Cll Chohan, a solicitor, has previously voiced his opposition to the bombardment of Gaza and claimed to be “isolated” from his party.

“I was raised with the belief that we [the UK] are keepers of peace in the world”, he said in an interview with online publication National News. “The narrative that these children are somehow human shields is completely invalid – would you be OK with an armed officer in Kingston shooting a child as cannon fodder to apprehend a suspect?”

Cllr Chohan told The Telegraph on Monday that he had not signed off the email warning that names would be published and had only co-authored the open letter, saying: “Cllr Giles wrote the email to all councillors that contained the perceived threat. It was not written or approved by me.”

In a joint statement issued earlier on Sunday night, Cllr Giles said it had never been the intention to publish the names of councillors who objected.

“There is no intention to publish names of councillors that do not respond to our email, nor is there any intention to publish the names of any individuals against their will,” the statement said.

“We would encourage any elected representatives that have been threatened to contact the police as this cannot be tolerated. We will continue our democratic duty to engage in debate.”

Cllr Shaun Davies, the chairman of the LGA, said: “Pending investigation, Cllr Giles has stood down from all formal positions within the LGA and all upcoming speaking opportunities at our events, with immediate effect.”

A spokesman for Kingston Council said: “Our primary concern is the security and safety of our residents, elected members, staff and our local communities, whilst encouraging tolerance and community cohesion.

“The campaign that has been brought to our attention by many is an initiative of individual councillors and is not Kingston Council-led or endorsed. We are currently looking into the details surrounding this matter and are unable to provide any further comment at this stage.”

[deadendtracks]

The property scene??

When he says, "no one touches my property", it seems also about the ongoing apprehension he has for the loss of his throne (I believe he feels that his family only values him for his throne and also he earned it).

But why did he start the conversation with "you belong to me" as Mosley was not in picture at that time, and it's not like Lizzie's reason of leaving had any tint of infidelity...was it because he felt a need to mark everything as his earned? Or he had a slight fear of her leaving as someone trusted would betray him? Or something else?

I talked a little bit about that general idea (not necessarily the loss of his throne, but feeling out of control of everything in his life) in my recent response to an ask about the "when you marry a Shelby you stay married" line.

Apologies, this got really rambling and long.

When I was thinking about how to respond in a way that might say something new I realized I couldn't remember the wider context of the episode and wanted to get a better understanding of it. Too often we discuss scenes like this in a vacuum (myself included), so here's everything that leads up to it -- and note all of this happens in one day:

The episode starts off with the confrontation at the orphanage. I've always found this scene interesting because it isn't ever referred to again and doesn't have an obvious connection to anything else. I have ideas about that, but they're for another post.

Next is the scene where there is tension between Tommy and Polly and Michael over Michael's losing the family fortune. Tommy asks Polly to go placate Aberama in the hospital and orders Michael to come with him to London.

Tommy brings Michael and Arthur to his meeting with Mosley -- which is very, very weird, especially when you remember he brought his sister to their first meeting. It shows how nervous he is about being in a room alone with Mosley. Both Michael and Arthur pick up on it even before Mosley arrives. Mosley sees right through his strategy, performs some fairly obvious dominance displays (watch what he does with his cigarette) toys with them all, implies Linda is sleeping with another man to enrage Arthur, and gives Tommy an invitation to join his fascist party.

Tommy, Michael and Arthur meet with Ben Younger. Tommy continues his earlier poking at Michael, who suggests he see a psychiatrist to dig out all the shit in his head. I've posted before about how desperately Tommy wants Younger's help with Mosley, though in typical Tommy fashion it's hard to tell unless you're paying attention.

Tommy returns home to find Johnny Dogs fucking a maid, and then Johnny tells him that Polly has helped Aberama leave the hospital to pursue his vengeance on the Billy Boys, exactly the opposite of what Tommy asked her to do. This of course upsets his plan to use the Billy Boys against Mosley, which Mosley had already called him out on.

Tommy meets Jessie Eden at the Garrison. By time she arrives he's obviously drunk, which is pretty unusual for Tommy. She pushes him on speaking at a Communist rally, which he can't do because (and this is mostly implied though it's pretty clear) he's already decided to inform on Mosley, which requires him to join the fascists. He makes his drunk little speech about champagne bubbles and pulling yourself up by your bootstraps. There's a lot going on internally there, but he's fucked up enough that Jessie Eden asks if he's okay. He reacts by clumsily propositioning her --which I think was more about driving her away than actual interest -- and then hallucinating Grace after she leaves.

It's only *then* that he goes home (again), and shows up still drunk to find Lizzie waiting for him. He says Frances told him she'd made a phone call (and I think it's implied he knows what it was about) and then Lizzie tells him about calling the solicitor in London to divorce him, but changing her mind.

So not only has he had about 45 stressful meetings that day, but he's driven back and forth to London and Birmingham. It's a completely bonkers schedule when you look at it. And if you look at the context of those meetings, you start to see a pattern: No one will do what he's asked them to do. Echoes of him yelling about how no one listens to him.

Polly defies his request for her to make sure Aberama doesn't fly off the handle, Arthur loses his shit about Linda in front of Mosley, Michael calls him paranoid and crazy in front of Ben Younger, Johnny Dogs is fucking one of his maids in his library. All of this in the context of a day started with a meeting about children being abused where he reacts very uncharacteristically (as if triggered by it) and a meeting with Mosley where he's clearly freaking the fuck out. Then Jessie Eden has the audacity to ask if he's okay, and he comes home to (presumably) learn from Frances that Lizzie had called a solicitor in order to leave him.

I'm not suggesting all of his behavior in this episode is justified, just setting the scene. Because I think a lot of people interpret the "my property" line as being purely about Tommy being possessive of Lizzie in a more straightforward "jealous lover" way. But as you've pointed out, we've never seen a hint of Lizzie being interested in someone else, and Mosley has yet to tell Tommy about knowing her. Not that this is required for someone to be controllingly jealous, of course. But in this case I do think the context is important to understanding it.

The line is said in response to her talking about his infidelities (and there's a whole other meta about that, because there really isn't much evidence he is fucking anyone else in s5 and I think it's entirely possible Lizzie thought it was him fucking the maids when it was Johnny). Then she asks him to let her into his head.

His response to this is interesting as well, in the context of the episode. He agrees, and echoing Michael's language, says "To clear it out, that what needs clearing out." Which suggests everything that happened earlier in the episode is present in this scene.

The other thing is that he doesn't only say that she's his property, he goes on to say that everything is mine. Not just Lizzie, everything. And again this is fairly uncharacteristic of him.

To me, this is very much about a guy who sees his life and all of his plans spiraling out of control -- who has no control over anyone at all ("there's a general lack of discipline in this fucking company" as he tells Polly in s3). Polly has seemingly betrayed him -- siding with Michael, who lost the company fortune, then helping Aberama spoil Tommy's plans for the Billy Boys. He thinks Michael is after his "throne." He can't count on Arthur not to fly off the handle when he's supposed to be acting as intimidation towards Mosley. Implied in all of this (and I think it comes out later when he talks about marrying a Shelby) is that Linda too has betrayed him by leaving Arthur -- therefore leaving Tommy to deal with Arthur, leaving Arthur destabilized. @holyfoal has talked about this point I think.

It's also important that Lizzie explicitly mentions that one of the factors in her decision to stay was their sexual relationship. "I touch myself but it's you... this, always."

Oh a last point is that hallucination of Grace talking about breaking his heart -- you could definitely look at what he says to Lizzie as being about fear of losing her like he lost Grace, as well.

Oof. Sorry. This is way too unfocused and lacking in any actual conclusions. There's definitely something here that I'm not quite getting at underneath everything going on in this episode, and I have ideas about it but need to think it through more.

[hardingsurveyorsessex]

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[whitehorselaw]

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[itsrattysworld]

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[thefastestpropertysale]

What are the legal requirements for a probate house sale Hemel Hempstead?

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What is Probate?

Probate is the legal process that authorizes an executor to administer the estate of a deceased individual. It includes distributing assets, paying debts, and managing property sales. When it comes to probate houses for sale Hemel Hempstead, obtaining the necessary legal permissions is the first step.

Obtain a Grant of Probate

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Property Valuation

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