Hair and Make Up : Rie Fukazawa
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Hair and Make Up : Rie Fukazawa

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Holcroft Court, 10 Carburton St, Fitzrovia W1W 5AL, London
Thereâll be a point in his life, Octavian promises, where his time wonât be measured in Julius Caesarâs calls. For now, thatâs only a calcified threshold. A barometer of rust and grassroots, campaigns and fossilized ideals. Between him and it stands a world of interference.
He sets to scrubbing it like polishing your inheritanceâwhich is to say, like earning it back.
Itâs to do with semantics, after all: steel-capped pen, steel-wool sponge. The lunch comes and goes. Octavian is ready to rinse it off with hot water. A part of him wants to render Antonyâs indifference sterile. As if antiseptic ever meant harmless; as if he hasnât had his share of lessons of contagion, textbooks of public policy on containing and deterring. As if it didnât plant something in his skin. Like all grand memorandums of disaster, Octavian turns his face away from it. Prepares his odds for better days.
Julius will have him cut the same cards for other people. Heâll get the in on this, wonât he? He was good. He can be. Cinna is far from stableâthe balance is the rabbleâs for the tipping. Heâll get other rooms. Which means... Jesus Christ, it means there is no need to recall the oil and gloom of that one. The Gallery, the table, the thick rumble of Antonyâs speech.
People like Marcus Antony, much like tadpoles, heâs found, move in a dark and treacly lake. Everything is slower; everything is magnified. Its joys, if thereâs fuck-all to it, are inscrutable to the likes of him. He leaves Westminster feeling not just dirty, but drowned under.
(How was it? Did he bite off your head? Forced-fed you those charts? Horace, from the kitchen. The quizzing pelted him like horseflies diving home. Octavian swerved by, shifting out of reach. Water. Cheap wood creaked where he moved. Good God, he thought. The man just begets these metaphors, does he not? Devotion and devouring. They should put him up at Toussaud.)
A few days after that lunch, his phone rings again. Octavian slathers a smile over the tone. Julius likes his congeniality to be just room temperature; obedient enough, but not febrile. Not saccharine. Nothing to tint the enamel on his teeth, when they sink into it.
A car is up front, Julius says. His voice is tired; scrubbed to a pallor of a different sort. If this was another moment, if the barometer tipped a tad closer, Octavian might ask him how heâs coping.
Itâs a moot concern. No, worse; a weak one. It disgusts him, to feel it slop and spill. He asks how many days he needs him for.
He packs a clean shirt, double chargers, a blister foil of Advil.
Nothing stronger? Can you face up to Father Caesar in this wretched state? Horace; the common area, this time. Octavian wonders if itâs a skill you learn at public school, pissing all over peopleâs business. Murena left some Ritalin over.Â
The hell of it is... he considers that. His tongue runs over his lips; chapped and cold. Heâs betraying all the gaping scars of late deadlines. Except heâs never late. Except theyâre not his deadlines. (Heâd dare say he fares better, when itâs his skin on the bloody rack).
He wrote Antonyâs draft over night. That left him two more days to brush up to snuff with Switzerlandâs medical industry, then with the pitfalls of their own (snakes and fucking ladders). Then it was on with Corneliaâs past. Her ancestral squabbles, particularly aimed at her brother Lucius, and Luciusâ ex, and just about everyone in London who isnât a Harrods attendant.
That left him one more day to send in the essays for Pompeyâs youngest. A tiny illegality, as far as upstreet favours went. The twat was just an undergrad house plant, as fatalistic during mid-terms as he was trigger-happy to paypal him after each close shave.
How had Horace put it? Oxbridge boot, right primed for the dining.
It was a stupid use of his time. He knew it, back then. He knows it all the more now. It splatters with all the velocity of delayed realizations. Do I not give you enough? Julius would ask him.
That answer, of all, is the easiest in his mouth. Maybe even the truest.
No. Never.
The thing with money isâ
The thing with money is that thereâs people who say sentences like that and believe it, people who dig for the hidden crick, the doorstop, the pulleyâand people who never do.
Octavian takes two pills. Cheating. Wasnât this your scene?Â
It no longer sounds like Horaceâs voice.
He knows too well whose voice it is.
In the car, he allows himself the hope that Antony isnât there. He walks in through the lobby, coat draped over. He tries to come up less tenderfoot, less led by the throat, but light doesnât hold its own, in Fitzrovia. He can practically feel his head peering round like a terrierâs.
A pulse rings in his soft tissue, each inch and ply of it. It should be grounding, but instead it sets a gong. A sense of urgency is cooking from the ground up. The house knows it.
A flock of suits he canât recognize tells him two thingsâsoundlessly, as all real lessons carry. The first is that Cinna will have about a few days before he goes the way of the political dodo. If not in flesh, then in the party. The other thing matters slightly less, and slightly more.
Theyâre all surrounding Antony.
count me in on the âbaby yoda is my allâ bandwagon. currently working on a mando x woc!oc work because.....
whereâs the representation?
curious on what the hazbin hotel fandom is doing as a whole. who are they. what are they like. im searching on deviantart right now
Apple has released the iPhone in red, a brand new colour. The special edition phone will help benefit the AIDS charity, which is a good way of thinking. Apple has worked with the charity a number of times in the past, creating red products and supporting it in different ways.
As well as the red iPhone, Apple also increased the storage in the iPhone SE. That has been doubled, meaning that the largest one can now hold 256GB in its tiny body.  It was unveiled alongside an update version of the smaller iPad Pro, and the removal of the old iPad Air in place of just a cheaper tablet going by the name of iPad. The new iPad Pro features a brighter display and improved performance, as well as being sold at an even cheaper price.
The new, red phone will be available to order from 24 March, in both the normal and Plus size.Â

Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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Great Smith Street, Westminster, SW1P 3BU.
Lucius Cinna is hospitalized on a Saturday. His pacemaker fails, or he barrels down the stairs, or he chokes on a fucking oysterâit doesnât matter what the truth is, because the truth is still immaterial.
On Sunday morning, Octavian is called to create it.
(Spurious fact. Julius doesnât call. Julius rings him up like the click of a heel, like the leather flap on a falconerâs wrist. Octavian goes).
The first question is not why me?, because thatâs a rookie error. Caesar needs his neutral onlooker. He wants the impartial hand of Empire to sink in the mire, the muddy media water, and stir it about. On that hand, Octavian is the best knuckle.
He has no dogs in the fight; low birth, high morals. A Procrustes bed of a thing. That makes truth his prerogative. That makes him the nationâs blind spot. An unofficial account, a pal at The Times (Vergil, Oxford fraternity), a debt over a Twitter journalist (Horace, cashed out of a scandal) and so the story forms. So are the blinkers saddled on the consortium gentium.
The first question, the right question he has to ask, is what hospital? The NHS has come a cropper, which everybody knows; which nobody concedes to. If they went private, if they went abroadâGod, unless Cinna croaks, the opposition will maim them on it.
(Itâs Switzerland. Itâs very bad).
The second question must be: whoâs inside on this? He expects Brutus; or Pulcher, maybe, if theyâre soft-soaping it. Then Julius says Antony, and Octavianâs body seizes up in the chair. Heâll never sit down with me. Sir, he wonât... why notâwhy not send him to Cicero?
A frown. Displeased, or perhaps disappointed; he canât tell whatâs worse. He has no grip on Juliusâ hierarchy of human folly. Octavian looks away.
(He shouldâve known better than to ask that. The last time Cicero and Antony were in a room together, the NASDAQ for free speech dropped five percent).
Antony does agree to sit down. Or maybe Caesar forces him into it, which... oh, he canât tell whatâs worse here, either. The pity or the penance of it.
The business club he chooses was practically named in Cinnaâs honour, so privacy is supposed to be a given. (Itâs never a given. He wishes someone told Julius that).
At the door, the maĂźtre d' wonât let him in.
Itâs not the first time this happens. Of course, the fact that itâs not the first time this happened doesnât make it easier. It makes it so, so much worse.
Octavian forces a smile, and forces it too fast. It catches his tongue between his teeth. âI have a reservation for The Gallery. Please, will you do me the favour of checking again?â A breath, clipped. âItâs on the tab of Julius Caesar. Or Marcusââ, he thinks heâs gonna spit the name with blood on it, and so he swallows, âOr Marcus Antony.â
The waiter doesnât even open the book. âSir, if you will be so kind as to step out. Our seats are at full capacity today. You can contact us throughââ
âSure, yes, I understandâ, Octavian cuts in, because he has to be quicker than him, because if that weasel-eyed fuck finishes his sentenceâyes, itâs a matter of diffusing. Itâs a matter of getting the drop on your own murderous impulse. He can spot ten empty seats right in the sight-line. Thatâs fine. Thatâs how these things go. Heâll just dip outside and message Julius.
He faces about, ears burning, and crashes into Antonyâs chest.
13th anniversary live, finished! Itâs an odd feeling to perform in front of an empty hall, but it was fun. Itâs been a while. A whole bunch of sake later, and weâre set! Letâs do this again soon! Opera BAR is coming up next!