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[chris-bodywork-euston]

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[chrismasseur1]

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[esen-enjie]

100 things I want to do in 2024

Make one recipe out of the hobonichi

Go bird-watching alone

Go to the cinema alone

Sleep nude

Watch a play with JL

Babysit

Draw 5 things with watercolor pencils

Make one piece of abstract art

Go to a jazz night

Dedicate myself to wearing one bracelet all the time

Make omurice

Go to Tate Modern

Go to church in London

Not speak for one day

Do a round of sun salutations

Send my best friend a card

Send my other best friend a card

Make a poster

Go to one dance class

Lie down in a park with JL

Lie down in a park alone

Go to Hyde park alone solely to take photos of the birds

Go to the British museum alone

Make 100 paper stars

Use tabo in the UK

Go to Primark alone

Eat in a restaurant alone (not a cafe, a restaurant!)

Go to karaoke with friends

Go one week without calling anyone

Call someone every day for a week

Ditch chocolate for a week

Sing every day for a week

Dance in my dorm room

Buy myself a necklace

Spend one day cooking all my meals for the week

Do a 30 min stretch

Don't open twitter for a whole day

Buy something with a fish on it

Visit F in Cardiff

Draw 10 fish

Put £500 in savings

Eat rice every day for a week

Dye my hair without telling anyone (But I suppose I've told you, dear reader, oops!)

Attend a concert with a friend

Draw a shrimp

Buy myself a cake

Buy flowers for myself

Go out with a friend every day of the week

Take a random bus and sightsee on it

Choose a random station to take the train to

Do laundry and throw out the trash and clean the dorm in one day

Cut my hair by myself

Go to the aquarium with TL

Wear emo makeup+clothes for a day

Meditate everyday for a week

Don't listen to music for a whole day

Go to a zoo/petting zoo on my own

Embroider socks

Run the length of a big park

Go swimming

Pick a flower

Destroy something beyond repair

Drink a mountain dew

Read at a poetry open mic

Sleep on the floor

Do the ice bucket challenge

Go to a paint shop (that has paint chips) and find my favorite colors

Go to IKEA with JL

Read a book for leisure

Hold hands platonically with a friend

Wear a fancy dress nowhere

Eat shaved ice

Pick up "too good to go" food

Buy new slippers

Watch a movie with a friend at home

Buy a new perfume

Take photos of myself in my favourite outfits

Stop wearing lipstick for a week

Have a personal spa day at home

Learn to sing 'Mai Lohilohi Mai Oe'

Go to the club sober

Try a virgin drink

Go to gameboard night

Try African food

Attend the tasters of 5 different societies

Be a street poet for a day

Go fishing

Go to a botanical garden (alone first, then with a friend)

Make a jello cake

Make an elaborate dish with MX

Visit a pond

Paint/draw something from life

Watch a play alone

Redecorate my dorm

Use the umbrella when there's no reason to

Get a proper manicure

Eat breakfast in the park

Buy, prepare, and eat a pomegranate

Wear earrings everyday for a week

Buy and eat a box of tangerines

[chikaiomoi]

where the bonten boys take you on vacation

mikey

in truth mikey doesn’t care where you go so long as you’re happy, so he takes notes of the places you want to visit and plans a surprise trip

he wants you to get the full cultural experience of wherever you go because you’ve mentioned how interested you are, so he books the two of you onto loads of different events

half of the time he’s bored out of his mind but as long as you’re smiling, he’s content

he definitely naps on the plane with a face mask on

sanzu

the last thing he wants to do is go on vacation where his bags will be checked at airport security, so he takes you to kinosaki onsen in northern hyogo

an onsen town is a perfect destination for the two of you — a wonderful place to relax, especially for a perverted boyfriend who loves seeing you nude

he takes you out for dinner every night to a different restaurant every night, even though you insist you’d be happy with dinner at the ryokan

sure, he gets stared at when he’s lounging in one of the baths with bloodshot eyes and wide pupils, but his lover is beside him at an angle where he can see all the parts he loves

rindou

he’s proud and wants to take you somewhere that he can show you off and show off that you’re his

so okinawa is his ideal choice — the beaches are beautiful and he gets to see you wander around in your swimwear

people stare but he wraps his arm around your waist and pulls you close to kiss you just so that everyone knows this beauty is his

this vacation is time for the two of you to relax, so most of the time is spent relaxing on the beach or drinking fancy cocktails at the expensive bars

ran

it’s a city break for the two of you. somewhere like paris or london or new york

he plans to absolutely spoil you with shopping and fancy dinners and shows. he loves the way your face lights up when you see an outfit you love or hear a song you love by a fantastic singer in one of those fancy lounges

naturally he’s booked you into a penthouse suite with the best facilities, which he plans to take full advantage of

he enjoys taking you to the fancy spas too, and he can’t deny that he likes the opportunity to relax and enjoy a good massage

kakucho

he really doesn’t see the point in vacations, but after you whine about wanting a break and some alone time with you, he gives in and takes you away

he doesn’t take you too far from tokyo, only just a few days away in osaka. it gives him the chance to work in secret, scouting out the gangs in the kansai region

it doesn’t take you long to figure out what he’s doing, though, and you scold him for thinking more of work than of you

so, to make up for it, he spends the final day giving you his full, undivided attention

kokonoi

you know you’re going somewhere fancy AF with kokonoi because he has more money than you could possibly imagine

he wants you to have the fanciest vacation possible, so he takes you on a cruise. not just any cruise - a royal caribbean cruise, exploring the transatlantic on the wonder of the seas ship

he outdoes himself with every activity on the itinerary and you can’t stop gasping and cooing and fawning at how much he surprises you

every night you remind him how much you love him by covering him in kisses and pampering him with attention

takeomi

it’s no secret to you that takeomi wants to go camping, so when he tells you that he’s taking you on vacation, you already know what you’re doing

you camp in shiretoko national park which is beautiful in the autumn

you spend your days exploring the area, hiking and relaxing in the hot springs, just constantly with each other doing the most down-to-earth activities

at the end of your vacation, you kiss his cheek and tease him with, “not such a bad trip considering it was planned by an old man”, to which he scowls and reminds you how much you love said old man

[mobscene-london]

VALENTINE’S DAY 2022 DATE MATCH-UPS:

ZHANNA MEDVEDEVA & MAKSIM KURYLENKO.

Create temporary tattoos for each other, placed somewhere immediately visible on the body. These must reference the person you’re on the dates with. PART ONE: Spend the afternoon at a public, nude life drawing class. One, or both, must volunteer to be the model at some point in the session. PART TWO: Hop on a plane, and journey all the way to Iceland, where you will get to spend three nights in a romantic lodge near the Blue Lagoon thermal spas. 

ARIA ROSSI & FRANKIE ROSSI.

Style your date for the first half of the day. Hair and makeup are included, along with outfits. There are no limits; the crazier the better as long as it’s fit for public. PART ONE: Spend the afternoon busking in any London tube stations of your choosing, whether you have any actual musical talent or not. Whoever makes the most money can change back into regular attire for their dinner.  PART TWO: A five course meal, including champagne, on a Thames cruise riverboat, before heading to the Chelsea Royal for an all expenses paid weekend for two in one of the hotel’s premiere suites.

LARA RUTHERFORD & LAURENT ST. PIERRE.

Head to a local dog shelter, and adopt a pup for the day to show some love. PART ONE: Take a crash course in origami together. After each round, the person who did the worst job on their project has to take a shot of chilli vodka. PART TWO: Just before the dog has to head back to the shelter, enjoy a three course meal in Hyde Park (in a dog friendly marquee, with snacks for him too, of course.) A flight from Heathrow shortly after will start your weekend in Monaco.

LISETTE MARSEILLE & THÉODORE CHAUSSARD.

Pick a set of fake wedding bands from any of those provided for the event. You are not allowed to remove them for the entirety of the day. PART ONE: Acting as if foreign tourists on their honeymoon, try to get a free three course lunch to celebrate; a starter at one restaurant, a main at another, and a dessert somewhere else. Bonus points if you get drinks included. PART TWO: Both will be whisked away to Heathrow to board a flight to Southern Italy, where a remote coastal villa will be yours for a long weekend.

KATHLEEN ZHAO & ÉTIENNE CANET.

Piggy backs only, not walking, when travelling in the city on foot. PART ONE: For once, the people of London can give blood on their own terms! Head over to the local blood drive, and donate together. PART TWO: Assuming you survive the trauma of helping others, a weather permitted riverside picnic will tide you over until your flight to N. Ireland. Enjoy a weekend in one of Finn Lough’s luxury forest bubble domes.

ADRIANA AMARO & AVIV KASYANENKO.

Design a set of couples t-shirts. Bonus points if they match, not complement. PART ONE: Head to an afternoon-long martial arts class, where you will not only have to keep the shirts on, but make sure they’re visible to everyone else.  PART TWO: Enjoy a five course dinner for two at one of London’s premiere Michelin restaurants (you can choose which) before being driven to the Cotswolds to spend the weekend in a modern treehouse lodge.

DELPHINE ST. CLAIR & VARDEN LEFEBVRE.

Switch personalities for the day. You’re not allowed to revert until part two. Whoever can get away with the most convincing impression wins. PART ONE: Crash a wedding. Check TWI for announcements, before showing up at the celebration and winging your way through the entire thing. If you don’t get kicked out, it adds an extra day onto the second part of the date. PART TWO: Head over to Heathrow and board the first European flight available, regardless of which country it goes to. The adventure will be paid for in full, including accommodation, for three days and two nights (potentially 4/3.)

PEYTON HARROW & SOFIE DEKKER.

Spend the day handcuffed together. You cannot remove them until the second half of the date; absolutely no exceptions.  PART ONE: Take part in a London-based Escape Room whilst bound. You must make it through this process to win the second half of the date. PART TWO: Head off on a five-day cruise around the Western Mediterranean; first class suites, food, and alcohol all included for the duration of the stay. Stops include Rome, Naples, Cannes, and Barcelona.

ALEXIS LARSSON & SPENCER BERKELEY.

Choose: one of you is 1, the other 2. Spend the day wondering what this means.  PART ONE: Archery lessons, baby. Try not to kill your date. The crash course will end in a competition between you both. Winner gets perks.  PART TWO: Enjoy a scenic, night-time helicopter tour of the nation’s capital. When it lands, you’ll be taken to Heathrow. Whoever won part one gets to choose the destination. If you’re 1, you must pick a European capital between A-M. If you’re 2, you must pick one between N-Z. The long weekend will be paid for in full. 

[angryhausfrau-writes]

I Travel Troubled Oceans: Chapter 20 - In Which Jack is the Life of the Party and Charles is a Wallflower

Councilor Featherstone comes through with planning permission, his personal interest allowing Max's petition to jump to the front of a very, very long and very, very slowly moving list. Glacial is a good description of that list. Full of icy aristocracy impeding any sort of forward progress. Because they all make money when the price of real estate goes up and up and up via the dearth of available properties.

Should someone sell off a property – or, God forbid, build a new one, particularly one meant for the lower class rabble to actually live in – well, they'd lose out on potential astronomic profits. And losing out on potential profit is as good as being robbed.

Not to mention the cut they make if someone has enough name and capital to approach them about buying a potential property, hoping to bolster their own enormous bank accounts with a “risk free” investment. But there's no such thing as a free lunch, particularly to the sharks that swim in the ocean of Britain's current property market. Everyone gets a cut of the pie.

Finders fees, they're called. As if anyone is finding anything in the morass of red tape and stark type on expensive paper. Not if someone doesn't want it to be found.

Jack has actually been granted a sizable finders fee by Max. All part of the massive, technically-legal tax dodge that allows the wealthy elite to remain the wealthy elite. Max makes an obscene amount of money selling her property off to a developer – while retaining a seat on the board of trustees, of course, and majority interest in the company they've formed to oversee the spa. And then she pays Jack a handsome consulting fee for all of his assistance with the planning permission. Which is a business expense – and therefore, a tax write off. And then Jack uses the money to wine and dine the councilor. Which is also a business expense and so another tax write off. On and on and on. Each just a small step in the endless dance of Legitimate Business.

Incidentally, Max is also paying Jack rather handsomely to consult on the design and interior decorating for the spa.

There are, of course, actual interior designers and professional decorators and florists and lighting and sound specialists in Max's company's employ. But it just wouldn't be nepotism if she hadn't found a job for Jack to make a lot of money at whilst doing absolutely nothing of value. And it just wouldn't be a London planning project without nepotism.

Plus, it gives Jack's not quite fake career as a fashion designer a little boost. Soon every rich socialite in London – and elsewhere, hopefully – will be relaxing in a Jack Rackham original spa robe, lounging on Jack Rackham original cushions on a Jack Rackham original divan reminiscent of a swan's elegantly unfolding wing, but in palest peach to complement the spring pink scrubs worn by spa staff – another Jack Rackham original – and soothing seafoam walls.

And if all that weren't enough to keep him and Christine (mostly Christine, if he's being honest) busy, Jack's also got fashion week to contend with. Oh, his projects are all finished, and he hasn't even worked himself into that much of a tizzy over the whole ordeal. Not with as well prepared as he feels – and as buoyed as he is by the positive attention his press releases and Instagram posts have received. No, he's as prepared as he can be and there's little point in wearing himself ragged worrying over the what ifs and wheretofors.

No, what's wearing on Jack in the small hours of the night is something else entirely.

More than Jack's actual fashion show – where half the designers are showing essentially nude models with various decorous scraps of latex and/or lace as opposed to actual outfits, not that Jack's petty or anything – more than the actual fashion show, Jack is required to make an impression on all the “benefactors” of the event. The rich, vapid men and women who decide whose fashions are to die for – and who's dead in the water.

Jack's not a real fashion designer. Just someone posing as one for the cover it gives a (hopefully) international crime empire. But that only makes this gladhanding and wheeling and dealing all the more imperative.

It's not much of a cover if everyone questions how, exactly, Jack's made it into the international fashion world. Hell, even here at home he's required to make the sort of connections that get him into the posh parties and stately homes of the rich and famous so he can case the joint and report his findings back to Max.

All of which necessitates Jack throwing his own party. A night of debauchery so blatant, so tasteless it wraps right around to tastefulness again. A night where he can show the fashion world, business moguls, and investors that he has the money and connections that make him worth their money and connections. And he's been granted the dubious honor of hosting the night of the newcomers fashion show. His debut on the international stage. Followed swiftly by his debut as an international man of quasi-leisure.

Max is, of course, the one actually throwing the party. The one determining the guest list from the half-dozen file cabinets worth of dirt and gossip and just creepily intimate details about London's upper crust.

Max is the one to hire the DJ – the same poor sap she'd blackmailed into playing Jack's first fashion show slash after party. And she's got Eme lording over the caterers with an iron fist.

And Max is the one to insist that Jack put up her ridiculous painting in pride of place, over the main sitting room fireplace where it can be reflected a hundredfold in the mirrors she'd brought in to line the room – and in the disco ball the DJ brought for the occasion. A thousand tiny paintings cover the floor, the walls, the goddamn ceiling. And sure, it's a nice enough painting – although it makes something spark hot and hungry in Jack's breast when he looks at it too long.

Or maybe that's just because a shirtless, glistening, complaining Charles – who just spent the majority of the morning hauling furniture and sound equipment around and hanging mirrors - is the one who's been roped into hanging it. Standing there, arms straining as Max directs him to position it just so.

Jack lets his gaze trail down Charles's biceps, chest, abs and away. He's got too much to do to be caught lollygagging like this. And Anne's amused and too-knowing look from over her clipboard is rather ruining the mood.

--

Anne watches Jack flounce away through the crowd, the heaving throng of party guests parting around him like water.

Jack's fashion show had gone over well. All the rich fucks without an original fucking thought between the all of them had been impressed with the flash fucking jewels and dripping gold. Entranced by the swirl of velvet skirts and silken shirts baring just slightly too much cleavage Which Anne knows cuz she's the one telling all the makeup artists to put fucking glitter on all their tits, like Max told her to.

And all them rich fucker's'd been entranced by Jack, too. Drawn like moths to the dancing flame of his showmanship. Lured by the siren song of wealth and elegance he'd spun on the catwalk.

And here at the party too.

Though it ain't elegance they're after here. Decadence, just like the fucking fashion show. But this ain't some rich old fuck's sitting room. This is a bacchanal. They're the cult of Dionysus tonight and they've got loyal followers high on poppers and coke and half a dozen other designer party drugs, courtesy of some of Jack's now-infamous street contacts, dolled up nearly as much as the party guests. And the drugs are all set out in little gold-rimmed dishes on antique walnut sideboards. K itchy as all fuck. Like candy someone's Nan might set out. All free for the taking.

Well, the first taste is, anyway. You gotta pay for the next dozen.

And they're willing to pay, the rich fuckers. Money's no object to them. And they've sold their souls long ago. What's a little more blood squeezed outta stone? Why give a fuck about tomorrow when you can constantly live in the happy glimmering now? Consequences can't touch them – these golden fucking chosen people.

And Jack walks among them like a prince. Like a god, and all this worship is simply his due.

Even from her secluded, shadowed corner Anne can see how he draws them in. Snares them with pretty words and pretty clothes and the promise that if they just flock to him, follow him, they too can be as effortlessly beautiful and catty and elegant and perfect.

And then, when they're thoroughly caught in his silken web, he directs them towards Max.

She's standing on the second floor balcony overlooking the party, queen of all she surveys. And even though Jack's throwing this party, she's the real mastermind behind everything. Every sweating, glittering, drug soaked body heaving against each other on the dance floor is there because that's exactly where she wants them. And when she turns her gaze to one or another in particular, it's far, far too late for them to run. Cuz even if they wanted to. Even if they weren't snared so tight they couldn't get out of the trap not even if they chewed their own fucking leg off. Even if they escaped, Anne'd chase them down for her. Hunt them down for her, across oceans and continents until they'd been found and bound and delivered back to her feet. Where they fucking belong, the fucking scum.

--

Charles tucks himself further into the corner he's found on the second floor. It's not quiet – nowhere in the house is quiet, not even the fucking bathroom. And his spot overlooks the dancefloor, bass thrumming up though the floor to rumble against the bottoms of his boots. But at least it's private.

Jack's holding court in the middle of the crowd, shining and happy and basking in being noticed, being revered.

He's always been like that. Flash and brash and attention grabbing. So you don't see the knife Anne's slipping between your ribs from the shadow Jack casts.

But even then. Even when it had been half misdirect and half distraction. Jack'd wanted this. Burned for it so bright and hungry you almost couldn't stand looking at him. But at the same time, you can't stand looking away.

Charles isn't like that.

Not that he lurks in the shadows, like Anne – or Max, even. He's a blunt instrument, and not ashamed of that fact. His strength lies in direct confrontation.

Oh, he can be crafty. Strategic. He can turn everyone's expectations of him against them. Jack's not the only one with a head on his shoulders, oh no. And Charles ran a crew just fine without his wiles.

But Charles doesn't want to live in the spotlight either. Hasn't chased renown, it had just kind of happened to him, whether he wanted it or not. More trouble than it was worth, half the time.

And now, something else – a new kind of notoriety – is happening to him. And it's all Jack's fault.

See, people aren't only fawning over Jack. No, there's those who saw the promotional material with Charles's face on it and decided he was some sort minor celebrity. Some kinda object for them to project all their filthiest desires onto.

He'd been poked and prodded and fondled. Offered modeling contracts. Offered sex. Offered money for sex. Like he'd welcome it – feel honored by it. Like he's some kinda doll, dressed up pretty just for them.

Not real.

Not a person.

Just a fucking pretty picture in a glossy program, there for them to get off to and then throw away.

He's been down that road before, though not with Johns as posh as these. The swells so used to getting what they want the moment they want it there's no real way to say no. Especially not when they – Anne and Max and Mary and Jack and him – have got so much riding on this.

Charles isn't going to be the one to ruin this. This bright shining con. This dream world Jack and Max have spun out of gossamer. So fragile – so easily ruined.

Charles isn't going to be the one to let the crew down.

So he'd flirted. Glib and meaningless and pretty. Dumb and flighty and careless. Caressed everyone who'd fondled him. Stood close and whispered low in their ears. Made them feel special, feel noticed. And then when they'd tired of him, cuz they always fucking do, so bored of life nothing can hold their interest for long, especially when he's not trying to keep it, Charles'd escaped to the second floor balcony overlooking the party and he'd put his back to the wall and watched Jack's glittering, fragile, beautiful dream unfold below him.

--

“Hiding up here all by yourself, Charles?”

Charles grunts in response, but not in a way that makes Jack feel like he's unwelcome. So Jack leans against the banister next to Charles and waits to see if he'll say anything more illuminating.

After a few minutes of silence – or silence from Charles, at least, the music's loud enough to be heard from a block away, never mind just upstairs – it becomes apparent that he won't be any more forthcoming. And if he's to speak, someone will need to coax it out of him.

Fortunately, Jack is nothing if not persistent.

“Got sick of the party, I'd imagine. It's a bit over the top, even for me.”

Charles snorts at that, so they're making progress.

“I know you'd be happier with something a little less glam pop.” Because that's never really been Chaz's scene. He's more of the rocker type, really. Not that Jack's complaining about his penchant for black leather on top of black silk. “But you have to admit, it's a good turnout. Especially for our first real industry bash. And Featherstone certainly seems to be having fun.”

Jack looks down at where the councilor and Idelle are grinding together on the dance floor (eughh) with the mirrored reflection of Max's painting shimmering on Featherstone's sweaty skin and reflecting in Idelle's eyes. Drawing him in almost as much as Idelle having exchanged her ornate velvet gown for a sexy little cocktail number - although she's wearing hardly any less jewelry than she had at the fashion show – and that too reflects a hundred thousand tiny sparkling versions of the painting. Of the taste and class and wealth the painting promises.

She's bathed in it.

She's a goddess. She's regal. Elegant. Glamorous. The kind of woman the kind of man the councilor is could have for more than a fun night in the sack. The kind of woman he could have for forever, if he'd wanted.

If he was lucky enough to catch and keep her attention.

Men and women in the crowd, only some of them planted by Max, ooh and ah over Idelle's elegance and poise. Remark, just loudly enough to be heard by the councilor about how much they wish she would deign to look at them like she looks at him. Ask to cut in, only to be cut down by Idelle, who has danced only with the councilor, attended only to the councilor, all evening.

Made him feel special. Feel desired. Feel like perhaps he could have this every night of his life, if he'd only put a ring on it. Something suitably flash, of course. Idelle deserves only the best.

But he's not thinking about any of that right now, not with the way he's got his gaze fixed firmly on her bosom, which is being shown off to great effect by an enormous diamond pendant that only she and Max know is actually cubic zirconium. Marriage is probably the furthest thought from his mind right now. But in the morning – in the morning, he'll remember this night. This wild bacchanal. The way the painting had whispered promises of finally belonging to the elegant, tasteful, obscenely rich world that Idelle navigates so effortlessly. How maybe she could guide him through troubled waters when he finds himself out of his depth. Idelle and only Idelle.

“Wish there weren't so many fucking people,” Charles grits out, shaking Jack out of his dreams of what ifs and might could bes. Back to the man standing beside him, one of the reason's they've had so much success in this venture. “All pawing at you. Like you owe them something.”

“Oh, darling. I've never minded a little manhandling, you know that.” Jack keeps deliberately glib, because Charles looks like he's liable to rip someone's throat out if Jack even hints at discomfort.

And it's true that he'd been somewhat leery of the attention at one point, after so long hiding in shadows out of necessity, even as he'd yearned to step into the spotlight.

It turns out that actually being in the spotlight isn't quite what Jack had imagined. That sometimes people shine it on you for reasons other than simple recognition.

That night at the strip club comes to mind.

That had felt like being used. Like being back in his childhood, father a subject of ridicule too drunk to understand that the whole village was laughing at him.

But Jack had understood. He'd understood the power of perception. The power other's had over you when they were the ones controlling the narrative. The ones making you an outsider.

But today, Jack's the one controlling how people see him. The one directing – and misdirecting – perceptions.

Because there's power there. Because people only see what they want to see. And you can get a hell of a lot done when people are too stupid to believe you capable of anything.

This being in the spotlight, being loved and adored by a fickle crowd, keeping the eyes of the world on him so that they stay off Max and Anne and Mary as they pick their marks. This is just another kind of power. Just another shield to hide behind while the dirty work gets done.

Jack elbows Charles in a way he hopes is reassuring. “And anyway, Anne's been keeping an eye out for trouble. You know she's been itching to stab someone for weeks now. I'm safe as houses.”

Charles grunts and turns away, back to the shadows he'd been hiding in when Jack came up here to talk to Max briefly, introducing a new mark – one who's in international real estate and interested in investing in Max's little property endeavors. And the glint of Charles's eyes in the gloom, the occasional sparkle of the silver charms in his hair and the earrings in his ears, the rings on his hands and necklaces draped against his bared chest, it had felt like a predator looking at him. Some big jungle cat watching him from the tall grass.

But Jack hadn't felt frightened. Because he's stupid and hopelessly in love. And he knows Charles, better than he knows himself, sometimes.

So he'd gone over to where Charles was standing. And he had stepped out of the shadow and into the glaring light of the party to stand at the balcony railing with Jack. To listen to Jack prattle on about inconsequential things with only fond mock annoyance, the way he'd always done. Even when Jack had been considerably more annoying – and Charles considerably more inclined to gut people who annoyed him.

But if he's hiding again, returning to the shadows, clearly that wasn't the right tack.

Jack comes at it from another angle. “Would it make you feel better if you came and danced with me? Just to remind everyone my big tough boyfriend is looking out for me?”

Because Charles trusts Anne. They all do – and with their very lives. But sometimes Charles is a protective, possessive sonofabitch. And if he's in a mood, Jack wants to make sure they deal with it in a way that doesn't end in homicide.

Charles turns back, eyes gleaming. “Stake a claim, you mean. In front of everyone.”

Prove Jack's his. And fuck. Maybe that is a step too far for their pretend relationship.

He's about to apologize. Walk everything back, make a joke, disassemble.

But then Charles says, “Yeah, all right. You're too much trouble for only one person to keep an eye on.”

--

Charles has Jack in his arms. And Jack'd said it was about Charles staking a claim. Making sure all the rich fucks kept their greedy hands off Jack. Make sure he was being looked after.

But it goes the other way, too.

Charles is out here in the middle of the dancefloor, covered in shiny that Jack'd bought – or stolen – just for him. Jack's arms around him, just like he's got his arms around Jack. Like they're one person, bound together, with no beginning or end.

There for everyone to see. To see that he and Jack are one.

That Jack has a claim on Charles. That all their pawing and fawning and come-ons don't mean shit. Just like all the heaving, sweaty bodies surrounding them don't mean shit. Not when him and Jack are like this. Together.

Everything – everyone – inconsequential compared to the feeling of Jack pressing against Charles's front, grinding against his dick, Charles's hands on his ass. Jack's his, if just for this moment. And he ain't gonna waste it.

Charles cups the back of Jack's head, fingers tangling in that stupid mullet he still insists on wearing. “Mine,” he growls into the breath of space between the two of them.

And Jack must be a great lip-reader. Or he's on the same wavelength as Charles, feels the same way as Charles does about all this. Because he grips Charles at the nape of his neck. Pulls his hair until his head tilts back and Jack's teeth are at his jugular.

And Charles feels the threat and the promise pressed so tenderly against his skin when Jack says “Yours.”

[masseurrsvp]

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[pampertree]

Let Your Nails Make A Statement

Everyone is wanting to break free and express themselves following lockdown and so that upcoming nail appointment is your chance to make a splash! If you still want to go for something traditional that’s OK but why not get adventurous? Go for galaxy nails and you will love them to the stars and back. It really looks like this will be an exciting year for nail trends available at the nail salons in London! So don’t get left behind with last year’s boring shades, not when you can draw envious looks with your 2021 statement nails. It’s time to go for………………..

·         Metallic Nails. …

·         Galaxy Nails. …

·         Jewel Nails. …

·         Pastel Nails. …

·         Green Nails. …

·         Pastel Rainbow. …

·         Gradient Pastels…

·         Nude and Neon…

·         Negative space nails.

If you think a French manicure is so last year think again. 2021’s twist is chrome finishes and gold chrome is stealing the limelight! The nailistas in the top salons are ready to transform you and every fashionista is ready to embrace the new looks.

Go for a Pro Finish

A set of professionally manicured nails just make you feel different. Whether you are looking for those ultra long coffin nails, or a set of made to last shellac nails, the nail bars in London are ready. The nail artists are eager to apply some amazing nail art, something customised perhaps? 

Alternatively, influencers are currently going for sleek manicures and it is true that hand care has reached an all-time high for many because of the frequent hand washing. After such a long time since a professional tended your nails,the nails have had a good rest and are ready to be taken to the next level. 

It’s your choice whether you opt for acrylic, gel or shellac.  But one thing we are sure of, your time and date are already set at one of your favourite nail salons near you! You will not be able to wait to even leave the salon before posing your hands to capture their look and hit your Instagram page. The last thing on your mind is how much does it cost to get your nails done in London? Who can put a price on that feeling?

Finding the Perfect Nail Bar

If you find yourself overwhelmed by the choice of salons, bars and spas available, you may just end up wondering, where can I get my nails done in London? Sometimes it can be trial and error. Prioritise whether you are looking for the skilled technicians, the creative artists, even a salon with a nail art printer, or the vibe of the salon itself. It depends on whether you are looking for pristine white surfaces, or plush pink manicure booths. 

Do you prefer the feminine atmosphere or the semi industrial look? Or are you simply committed to a certain method and are looking for the best acrylic nail salons in London. Or if you prefer, gel nail salons in London? 

Of course you may need to know who offers vegan and cruelty free products. Hunting down the venue that could be what you want can be easier with the PamperTree search bar. No need to try one salon after another. This way you get to see the top rated salons, including their award winning artistes. You will be on the right track to the best looks for nail this year. The latest trends right now and the inspirational innovators who anticipate future trends!

[chrismasseur1]

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[stevieboebi]

Nudity is not sexual. You know when you're texting someone new and they're all like 'getting in the shower' and then you're like 'oooooo omg that's hot lemme join'? Not trying to kink shame but like can we stop sexualizing each other's bodies 100% of the time? I encourage my friends to be naked in safe spaces, I take them to nude spas to show them we can be naked around friends and strangers and it can be safe and comfortable to be in just your skin. Afterwards they tell me it reduces body shame and the anxiety they feel when having sex. But. I thought that once you come to a conclusion or feeling it doesn't just change for no reason. Like, I'm comfy being naked and I will be forever weeeeeeee let's have fun. The summer passed by too quickly. I spent a lot of time in London this summer where the temperature rarely rises above 75 degrees. I've covered up my whole body in several layers almost all summer, and slept with hot water bottles tucked into lots of blankets. Once I got home to LA I forgot what it felt like to sleep naked. It feels amazing. Being naked and learning how to feel comfortable is so so important, and I didn't realize how important it was until now. I've been having nightmares. Horrible awful things happening to me while naked. Or I'll slightly wake up but still be dreaming where there are people in my bedroom pointing and laughing at my naked body. This has never ever happened to me before. I am so god damn comfortable in my body and in my nakedness, BUT I've always practiced. I didn't get to practice this year. And it all went away. I feel robbed. I feel stripped. My peace has been stolen just because I forgot to remind myself how good something feels. And now it feels bad. Soooooo I guess I am gonna crank up my heater and practice summertime in the fall. Because body shame feels like shit and does not fucking belong inside of ME, or you. 💋 📷: @jennajohns

[hoanq2802]

Bên trong nhà hàng khỏa thân ở London

New Post has been published on https://khachsanthanhdong.com/ben-trong-nha-hang-khoa-than-o-london.html

Bên trong nhà hàng khỏa thân ở London

Trước khi tới bàn ăn, gần như các thực khách không thể rời mắt khỏi cô phục vụ ngực trần đang dẫn đường.

Mở cửa từ năm 2016, nhà hàng Bunyadi nằm ở một góc phố yên tĩnh giữa trung tâm London, Anh. Nơi đây khuyến khích thực khách thưởng thức ẩm thực theo một cách tự nhiên nhất. Nhà báo CNN Barry Neild có dịp sử dụng bữa tại Bunyadi, đây cũng là lần trước tiên anh tới một nhà hàng khỏa thân.

Từ bên ngoài, nhà hàng không quá nổi trội với những khuông cửa sổ lắp kính đen hướng ra đường, nhịn nhường như đó cũng là dụng ý của ông chủ.

Bước qua cửa, thực khách được dẫn vào một quầy bar nhỏ như bao nhà hàng trong TP, điểm khác nhau chính là những phòng thay đồ nằm cạnh, với hàng tá áo choàng tắm kiểu hotel.

Quầy bar trong nhà hàng. Ảnh: Sam Pearce.

Khi bàn đã sẵn sàng, khách được đưa vào phòng ăn chính. Barry cho rằng, gần như các thực khách không thể rời mắt khỏi cô phục vụ ngực trần đang dẫn đường. vì họ bước đi trong mê cung những vách ngăn bằng tre, nhưng mà phía sau là những thực khách đang sử dụng bữa, không một mảnh vải che thân.

Một khi đã quen mắt với những viên chức phục vụ nude, thực khách sẽ thấy mọi thứ trở thành tầm thường – ít nhất là cho tới khi chính họ phải trút bỏ quần áo và khoác lên mình áo choàng tắm. 

Trong lúc hy vọng, Barry có thời kì trò chuyện với vài viên chức nhà hàng để tìm hiểu vì sao họ lại làm việc ở đây, môi trường như thế nào.

“Tôi muốn quanh mình có những người chung ý tưởng”, Eloise Knight nói. Cô sinh viên 20 tuổi này tới nhà hàng sau khi theo dõi tin tức. Những người đồng nghiệp cũng như Eloise đều mặc quần lót, trang trí thêm lá nho giả khi phục vụ khách.

Làm việc ở Bunyadi, cô cảm thấy an toàn hơn những nơi khác, vì bất kỳ thực khách nào cư xử không đúng mực sẽ bị mời rời đi ngay ngay tức thì.

Nhà hàng cũng có luật lệ nghiêm nhặt, yêu cầu khách không được mang theo camera hay smartphone. Điều này vừa để bảo vệ sự riêng tư của khách, vừa vì ông chủ muốn mọi người tận hưởng cảm giác về tự nhiên theo cách nguyên khách du lịch dạng nhất.

Khách nam hoàn toàn có thể sử dụng bữa cùng khách nữ, trong tình trạng nude. Ảnh: CNN.

Eloise cho rằng chính sách này sẽ giúp mọi người thoải mái hơn khi khỏa thân, và xóa bỏ thành kiến gắn khỏa thân với sex.

Thực tế, chính sách không camera – không smartphone cũng tỏ ra hiệu quả. cai quản nhà hàng Ignacio Jimenez Blanco tiết lộ, 80% khách đồng ý khỏa thân hoàn toàn trong thời đoạn chạy thử nghiệm, dù điều này không bắt buộc.

Ông Blanco coi khỏa thân như một liệu pháp ý thức, giúp nhân loại cảm thấy được phóng thích. “Nhiều người muốn làm điều này, chúng tôi chỉ lập ra một vị trí và cung ứng dịch vụ”, ông nói.

Blanco cũng song song là kiến trúc sư của Bunyadi, ông biến không gian nhà hàng gần như một spa, hơn là nơi để ăn uống. Thực khách có thể cảm nhận rõ điều này nhờ ánh nến, hương thơm dịu của tinh dầu và âm nhạc thư giãn.

“Tôi ngồi đối diện với một người lạ mặt và cả nhì đều trần như nhộng”, Barry viết. Anh nhận thấy cả nhì đều chung nỗi canh cánh: “Liệu có nên cởi bỏ tất cả khi sử dụng bữa hay không?”.

Thực đơn theo mùa, những món ăn hồ hết sử dụng thực phẩm tự nhiên, được đựng trong bát gốm, thậm chí thìa dĩa cũng được làm từ vật liệu có thể ăn được. 

Bữa ăn gồm 5 món chính có giá khoảng 100 USD, bao gồm cả tiêu dùng cho áo choàng và dép đi trong nhà hàng. Barry rất thích món súp kiểu Anh với táo ngâm và dưa chuột muối, tiếp tới là salad cá hồi rong hồ.

Thực khách có thể ăn cả thìa, dĩa sau khi sử dụng. Ảnh: CNN.

Tới khi bò bít tết tới được dọn lên, Barry và người ngồi đối diện nhấp ly rượu và đồng ý khỏa thân. Không khí rét mướt khiến áo choàng tắm gây khó chịu hơn. Không gian tối, những vách ngăn tre và nội thất gỗ giúp thực khách cảm giác hoàn toàn riêng tư và thoải mái.

“Đáng lẽ đó phải là một khoảnh khắc kỳ cục khi chúng tôi trần truồng trước một người hoàn toàn lạ mặt. Nhưng việc không thể trốn tránh bằng cách tìm tới màn hình smart phone khiến chúng tôi trò chuyện cởi mở hơn. Cả nhì nói về công việc, gia đình, tự hỏi những nữ nhà báo đi cùng đoàn trong phòng kế bên có bỏ áo choàng như chúng tôi không…”, Barry viết.

Seb Lyall, người đứng sau Bunyadi, cho rằng trải nghiệm tại nhà hàng giống như một “thử nghiệm xã hội”. Ông quả quyết đây là một cách thưởng thức trọn vẹn những món ăn tinh túy. 

Lyall hy vọng mô hình của ông sẽ truyền cảm hứng cho nhiều nhà hàng khác, ít nhất họ có thể yêu cầu khách không sử dụng những vũ trang thời tiến bộ, gây xao nhãng trong bữa ăn như smartphone.

Thấu hiểu ý niệm của Lyall, Barry và người khách du lịch mới nỗ lực tập trung vào mắt những nữ phục vụ khi họ đưa đồ tới và chỉ thì thầm về đồ ăn. Anh rất yêu thích với trải nghiệm mới mẻ này.

“Tôi không phải kiểu người sẵn sàng khỏa thân nơi công cộng, suy cho cùng thì tôi vẫn là người Anh cơ nhưng mà. Nhưng đột nhiên nhiên tôi cảm thấy như vừa bước vào một toàn cầu kín vậy”, Barry viết.

Khi anh khách du lịch đồng hành nói anh ấy phải về sớm, Barry có đôi chút thất vọng khi trở thành người đàn ông đơn chiếc trần truồng bên bàn ăn thắp nến. Anh quyết định mặc lại áo choàng tắm và thưởng thức nốt món tráng mồm.

Hiện Bunyadi đang đóng cửa và gây vốn để trở lại London trong thời kì tới. Nếu đặt chân tới châu Âu và muốn thử cảm giác ăn tối trong một nhà hàng khỏa thân, hiện du khách có thể tìm tới O’Naturel mới khai trương hồi tháng 11 tại Paris hoặc Innato trên đảo Tenerife, Tây Ban Nha, mở cửa từ giữa 2016.

Lần đầu sử dụng bữa trong nhà hàng khỏa thân

 O’Naturel là nhà hàng khỏa thân trước tiên tại Paris. Nguồn: BBC.

Phạm Huyền

Theo: https://khachsanthanhdong.com/

[angryhausfrau-writes]

I Travel Troubled Oceans: Chapter 19 - In Which Jack and Charles Secure Planning Permission and Max Micromanages

Mary had liked several of Charles's photographs of Jack and the workroom and the half-finished fashions enough to post them to Instagram. And she'd liked the photograph of Charles all decked out in silk and countless jewels enough to use it as the title page for a more formal press announcement of the upcoming fashion show. The word “DECADENCE” is emblazoned across a glossy version of the picture in a stark, masculine font.

And then, in slightly smaller font underneath: Jack Rackham – Fall/Winter 2009.

His name. His name. Not quite in lights, but there, for everyone to see. For everyone to know that he is the one who did this. That these accomplishments are his.

Not that he did it all himself, of course. Mary's role is obvious. Christine is indispensable. And it's Charles's face on the cover of his press release.

The may have called Charles his muse as a joke. It seems like the sort of thing a flamboyant fashion designer would call his favorite booty call. Just the right side of pretentiously obfuscating for the older guard who might not be ready for the party boy persona they've both adopted.

But the honest truth is that Jack's come to rely on Charles in a way he hadn't quite expected for this con.

It's not exactly in Chaz's wheelhouse, is the thing. But he's worked hard to learn skills outside bashing skulls, just as Anne has.

Not that he doesn't do plenty of that as well. And gotten some good information out of it. But he's more than the street thug he'd been for so long. And Jack can't say he misses those days – not when the days they have now are so much easier.

So much less full of fear and strife and poverty.

It's almost like an extended holiday, the way they live now. All getting to pretend they're rich and soft and genteel. Getting to walk among the special, the exalted, the beautiful people. The ones with titles and money and pedigree. The ones with names that mean something.

Well now Jack's name means something too.

And not through an accident of birth. Through cleverness and planning. Through luck, of course, but also through plain hard work. Something those gilded, pampered elite would never understand.

--

Charles has been given a slight reprieve in lugging armoires around. The old Hennessy house has been emptied of all the furniture, finally, and Mary's light rigs have all been installed. All the walls repainted and all the pictures of grand empty rooms taken.

But then Max sees the reaction the upper crust have to those pictures. All the ruined grandeur on display, just to be knocked over to make way for progress, for new ways of making money – they fucking love it, the rich brainless investment fuckers.

So now Max wants to take advantage of that greed she's awoken in the elitist twits in thousand pound suites. That desire for wealth, for faded grandeur, for a past of riches and glory and conquest. But brought into the future. Brought into the now. So they can pretend England isn't just some pretentious backwater with delusions of grandeur, with visions of glory (that was never all that glorious) long past.

So Mary decides, yeah, it would be a fucking great idea to do a little promotional photo shoot of all the models for Jack's fashion show in the house, before it gets demolished. Jewel bright clothes, sparkling gems, enough gold to sink a fucking warship, all juxtaposed – that'd been the word she'd used - all fucking juxtaposed against the backdrop of the ruined townhouse.

So Jack'd worked like a fiend to get the clothes ready. And Charles's break is over.

Now he gets to lug around garment bags and makeup trunks and jewelry chests and even more light rigs – all to be placed precisely where Mary dictates, and moved with the changing light or her changing whims. All that shit's fucking heavy. And Anne's no help this time because she's been set to wrangling all the models and making sure they're properly primped and preened and posed for the photos. All under Max and Mary's watchful eyes.

Cuz Max has apparently decided that she wants to have her hand in things personally.

Not that she hadn't kept things well in hand with Jack's other fashion show – finding the models, organizing the behind the scenes contracts. Setting Idelle up with Featherstone.

But now she's actually telling Mary how she wants the pictures to look. Or more specifically, that she wants some big fancy painting in all the shots. Not the whole paining, though. Just pieces of it. Enough to tantalize, to excite, but not to show the goods.

There's even a picture where the models are holding it at the front of the shot, but it's covered by a lacy black cloth, all except for one corner, which pokes out like a whore's ankle in some repressed 1700s pin up.

Charles thinks the whole thing's fucking unnecessary. Who gives a shit if there's a painting showing too much or too little in the shot? Why does he have to be the one to move it over and over again – sometimes millimeter by fucking millimeter – until Max deems it just right? He's got other things to do with his day, thank you very fucking much.

Like pretending to be Jack's ditsy muscular boytoy, and all the hours in the gym and gossiping by the pool that takes to maintain. He better get another fucking break when all this shit is over.

--

With investors sniffing at Max's skirts like rabid jackals, ready to rip each other apart for a chance at the Hennessy townhouse, Jack broaches the topic of planning permission to Councilor Featherstone. And he does it over dinner in a private room at a restaurant where the esteemed councilor could never have gotten a reservation – and especially not on such short notice. Because for all that he has power. For all that he attends all the right clubs – the same clubs Jack himself attends. Well, the councilor's a bit of a social outcast. A bit of a dud in the personality department.

Whereas Jack is all glib charm and meaningless flirtation. Jack knows how to play the sort of high society games that result in the private table on nearly no notice that the councilor is currently enjoying.

What is it they say? Always come to the negotiating table with the outcome already certain? Well, Jack's doing his damnedest to stack the deck in his favor. And if a little show of how well connected he is, how much more he belongs in this world of high-society fops and casual displays of obscene wealth, is what it takes to get Max her planning permission, then Jack will wine and dine Featherstone at the goddamn Ritz if he has to.

Although the slightly less-upscale, though no less entrenched in British upper-class hegemony, restaurant he's chosen for tonight seems to be doing the trick well enough. Councilor Featherstone is looking around with ill disguised awe.

If he were slightly more uncouth, Jack imagines his jaw would be actually agape at all the gilt and velvet and fine linens and sparkling crystal. As it is, it's more than obvious Jack has introduced him to a style of dining out that he's never experienced before. Perfect.

The entire point of this little excursion is to underline to Councilor Featherstone what a... fruitful... relationship they can have. All Jack's connections and wealth at the councilor's fingertips – and all he needs to do is pass the occasional planning permission for a project that otherwise may have languished in limbo for years. And to that end, Charles is doing his considerable best to bring the conversation around to where Jack needs it to go, namely planning permission for the Hennessy house.

A conversation that demonstrates that Charles has become considerably more subtle than Jack ever believed him capable of.

And perhaps that is an oversight on Jack's own part. Him never deigning to look past Charles's rough and unpolished exterior to hidden – really very well hidden – depths. Known for a straightforward style of smash and grab, Charles has really developed a mind for strategy of late. And something of a silver tongue, though it doesn't come close to rivaling Jack's own.

At any rate, Jack appreciates his efforts. Lord Hamilton may have been willing to come right out and ask for little favors, so assured of his power and his place in the London hierarchy he would eschew subtlety entirely - but there's such a thing as being too forward.

Jack finds that method rather gauche. And the last thing he wishes to be is gauche.

Plus, Jack would rather have the councilor's regard – his friendship, even if it is a tad one-sided – than his fear purchased compliance. Because fear may breed deference in the short term, but it leads to chafing at the yoke in the long run. And Councilor Featherstone didn't get to where he is today by being a complete pushover.

So Charles is sitting in this opulent private dining room, as the councilor sips champagne and enjoys expensive hors d'oeuvres, chatting to Idelle about a spa he went to with some of his “friends” from the health club. Which isn't even a lie. Charles had in fact attended a quote girls day unquote at an upscale spa courtesy of one of the women who lounges poolside and looks over her designer sunglasses at the tanned skin Charles is so very unconcerned with putting on display.

The fact that it was a nude spa may have had something to do with Charles being invited. But it sounds as if Charles had a nice enough time. Or at least he's talking it up to Idelle, who makes suitable sounds of impressed jealousy as the story unfolds. Commenting that she'd rather like to be taken to something like that – perhaps on a date?

Personally, Jack would pay enormous amounts of money to not see Featherstone in the alltogether – but Idelle is a consummate professional and lets no sign of displeasure at the idea show. Maybe Max ought to consider giving her a raise. Jack resolves to raise the issue once planning permission has been secured. Speaking of -

“The only thing,” Charles says, voice measured to ensure that Councilor Featherstone is paying the utmost attention. “The only thing I didn't particularly care for was how crowded the spa was.”

“Indeed,” Jack butts in, “that hardly sounds relaxing. Being surrounded by all the teeming masses.”

“Oh, the actual spa part was lovely. So relaxing after a long, hectic week...”

Jack can see Councilor Featherstone's scoffing disbelief that Charles could have anything resembling a hectic week – his schedule filled with nothing more than lounging in various decorous poses on various expensive surfaces, as far as the councilor is aware. But he has some long, hectic weeks at work...

“But as soon as you're back in the more public areas, all that work at relaxing and destressing – gone!”

“Oh, how terrible!” Idelle exclaims with just the right amount of dramatic disbelief.

“And it was supposed to be one of the more exclusive spa packages as well. You think money would go a bit further nowadays, is all,” Charles finishes. And now all that's left to do is set up the pitch...

Right on cue, Idelle chimes in with, “Too bad there isn't a more private spa. Someplace intimate.” The last is directed at Featherstone, who's blushing and looks primed for the sell.

“Funny you should mention that,” Jack says causally – but not too casually. That's the key. They have to think you're playing them a little so they won't look too deeply at how you're actually playing them. “I happen to have a friend who's looking to start up a little boutique hotel spa. You know where the Hennessy townhouse is?”

The councilor nods, although Jack doubts he was ever actually invited there.

“Well, my friend got it for a song. They were looking to move to warmer climes, you know. And she got an excellent deal for the whole package – house and furniture and everything. Which turned out to be a good thing! The whole place was falling apart, if you can believe. Just completely structurally unsound.” Jack says the last part as if it's the most boring thing in the world.

“So anyway, she's looking to rebuild. Plenty of investors already lined up around the block, of course. And there's mixed zoning, you know. And she doesn't exactly need yet another house to sit empty and eat up heating costs. Plus the cleaning service – you know how much they'll gauge you.”

Pretending that the councilor has a maid service – when Jack knows for certain he doesn't, which is why he doesn't entertain at home much – is another stab at just how different he is from the upper crust.

“Yes, of course,” Councilor Featherstone responds. “They'll take an arm and a leg.”

“So she came on the idea of the hotel and spa. For the country set, or celebrities, or whoever wants a little privacy when visiting the city.” Rich men with mistresses. Government officials with less than acceptable girlfriends. Whoever.

“That sounds lovely,” Idelle chimes in. “Perhaps we might do a spa day there sometime, dear.”

“Oh. Oh I don't know,” the councilor responds, obviously thinking of the enormous price tag attached to something like that.

“We could do a double date,” Charles gushes. “Oh, Idelle! What an excellent idea!”

“Oh, I'm certain I could arrange something like that,” Jack is quick to assure the increasingly panicked looking councilor. “Given that the proposal comes from a close personal friend. I imagine I can talk her into pulling a few strings with whoever purchases the building so we get first crack at it.”

A delicate pause. Calculated to be just enough to let the councilor experience euphoric relief that his problem has been solved - that Jack has been the one to solve it – before bringing it all crashing down.

“Of course, that's assuming the project moves forward any time in the next decade. You of all people know what London real estate is like.”

“You said the lot was zoned for mixed use?” Featherstone asks desperately. He's so close to giving Idelle her heart's desire of the current moment and he can see it slipping away.

Jack nods.

He's not even lying. There are several businesses on that street dating to just after the Great London Fire that necessitate the designation. Plus one unbearably posh cupcake bakery charging upwards of a tenner for a single cupcake.

“Well, then it should be no problem. I can even take a look at everything personally - just to make sure it's all in order, of course.”

“Oh, darling!” Idelle exclaims rapturously. “Would you?”

“Of course, dear. Anything for you.”

Perfect.

Charles grins at Jack, wolflike. And then steers the conversation to other idle gossip about the rich and famous.

Best not to let the councilor dwell too long on what just happened.

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[distinctgoldcalling]

ahaha I waited as long as I could but it’s the return of WEIRD MESSED UP THOUGHTS …

(tw)

i. I am making an effort to recover from my anorexia, pretty much for the 1st time ever, buuuuut it’s not easy & leads to situations like today where I was super conscious that I was only able to shower nude in the mixed-sex public showers of our hotel spa and wellness suite (lol) because I’m still underweight (even though obviously I feel fat af). Genuinely have no idea how I will cope with being a “healthy” weight when I get there. *eta: haha, not that I'm in the habit of taking so very many nude public showers.

ii. I have to do a small but intensely scary & important performance in Feb & I’m fucking terrified; it’s so triggering and frightening. aaaaaaaaaaaaah.

iii. I know it’s p a t h e t i c, but it’s triggering for me (EUPD/BPD-wise) being back on tumblr even though I am also enjoying it, because (yes I KNOW it sounds crazy) i feel so worthless and terrible over getting defriended. It’s utterly ludicrous (n.b. this is why I actively avoid looking at my follower numbers on any account…), but can I let it go? lmao noooo. Of fucking course I can’t. I know there is a good side to these extreme obsessive tendencies, but they’re so, so painful interpersonally. I feel like total trash much of the time anyway, pretty much, & I guess this was hard because it kind of ratified those feelings. I feel like the actual me, whatever that is - stares into void - is valueless, and except maybe a couple of people irl, like partner, people just put up with me because I … idk, give nice feedback? will listen? wtf is wrong with me tho.

iv. I legitimately feel so so unwell. I won’t get into all the disastrous medical mess of the past 2-3 months but suffice it to say, it has NOT been fun. Now I have to go to a private clinic in London because the area I’m in has such terrible care for my most dominant/problematic medical issue (a genetic condition). Over the next two months I have to make all these changes to my cardiac & nervous system medications which may cause a lot of side effects, but my nervous system just isn’t working properly at all and it’s making me feel absolutely horrible.

On the bright side: I love the mountains & snow. I’m sleeping better up here. Going to Paris and Venice over the next couple of months, I think, so that should provide me with lots of new material and take my mind off everything.