#unlike angel sans does pay attention and he knows for a fact what she was imagining

[angelbitezzz]

Y'know, on the flip side what do you guys think Sans would be like as a human?

Angel's eyes stray to where Sans is sitting to her right.

Now you are not privy to this, but you are once again granted a glimpse into a character's head for the sake of comedy.

Angel suddenly avoids eye contact with his general direction, turning her face away from the skeleton and the phone he's using to stream.

There's a brief pause. Sans hesitates for a moment.

Angel takes a long moment to think, raising a hand to her chest as her head tilts.

She seems to catch herself mid thought and suddenly shakes her head, brightening again.

[trippydooda]

,,,idk what to say for myself at this point :^) a preview for a slow burn fic get ready again bois

Fandom: ATEEZ

Pairing: Jung Wooyoung/Choi San

Rating: blurb is G unless you don’t like cursing

Word Count: 2,040

Jung Wooyoung, in some people’s eyes, has royally screwed up.

Now, there are levels to that statement, and you can really close your eyes and take a pick at this point. Is it when he flunked out of university? Ran away from home? Didn’t take his dog out when he was ten, and so when he beloved Coo shat on the carpet he was scolded for being a terrible dog? Or perhaps it’s where he finds himself now, pinned to a wall in an alleyway while a stranger humps his leg. Well, he’s hesitant to say “stranger”. They met on Tinder (another screw up to pick from), talked a few days and when Wooyoung got sick of masturbating, agreed to dinner. The thing is, he should have been more careful. The thing is, Tinder doesn’t really have a “swipe left on serial killers” options. Not really, anyway.

He has his reservations about sneaking in an alleyway to make out, but desperation and loneliness made him forget reason. So now his Tinder date’s tongue is down his throat, the taste of wine smeared into his conscience at this point, and a reluctant erection growing in his pants. This is, of course, until his date speaks.

“You humans are all so easy to rile up,” his date whispers into his ear, and Wooyoung can actually feel the ferocity in which his dick deflates.

And Wooyoung tries to respond, push back, has the indignant “Excuse me?” in the forefront of his mouth, but that’s before a sharp piercing is driven into his neck. Precisely two piercings. Followed by the feeling not unlike getting his blood drawn. So maybe he realises it a bit too late.

His Tinder is apparently some kind of vampire, and he’s being murdered. And Wooyung being Wooyoung, his last thought as he crumples to the ground is at least he doesn’t have to pay off his student loans anymore.

                                                           -

There are a few things Wooyoung thought being dead entailed. For one, he was pretty sure it didn’t involve being carried away by a stranger (another one, he reminds himself), nor did it involve the distinct feeling of humanly and living sensation of waking up. Yet he blinks all the same, albeit slowly, staring at a ceiling that looks right out of an Italian romance novel. It’s got carved ivory on it in the shape of angels, so Wooyoung is fairly convinced himself at this point he’s dead. Died, whatever.

“Ah, you’re awake,” a soft voice says, and Wooyoung tenses. He doesn’t look away from the ceiling, tries to figure out if it’s too late to pretend he’s still asleep (if dead people did that) when the voice continues, “I was worried you were too far gone.”

And… What? Wooyoung tears his gaze away from the rather pretty ceiling, sitting up to see an even prettier man. He has soft eyes raven black hair. Pale skin, but there’s still a hint of bronze in the undertones. Yet the nagging feeling of being distinctly dead pries at his conscience, so of course the first thing he blurts is, “Are you an angel?”

The man immediately erupts in a laugh that makes Wooyoung flush. He tells himself it’s from embarrassment and not the way the man laughs, like it’s from the back of his throat. It’s too endearing. Far too. “I’m not sure that’s what mortals call me,” he says, and Wooyoung can feel the precise feeling of the flush disappearing. 

He lowers his shoulders. Mortals, the pretty man had said. That seems to really prove everything Wooyoung needs to know, so he ends up saying out loud, “So I’m really dead then.” He flops back down on the bed, glares at the ivory angels and tries to will his heart to beat slower. But then it strikes him. His heart… Is beating? Do dead people do that? Man, he wishes he had paid more attention in church. 

“I suppose in a sense, yes you are.”

Electing to ignore the hot angel-not-angel, Wooyoung rolls over. He buries his face in the silk of the pillow and pulls the covers up so his head pokes out of a hole like some form of undead burrito. He can hear the man sigh and feels the mattress adjust in the weight of him sitting down, but Wooyoung ignores that too. He feels tears prickling at his eyes and tries to blink them away, but all that serves is to make one fall. And then he feels a hand on his shoulder, which just sends the flood gates open wide. Thankfully Wooyoung has mastered the art of crying silently, but he can still feel the betraying sensation of himself shaking. He hadn’t quite mastered that bit yet.

“I had considered letting you die truly,” the man says, rubbing small circles on Wooyoung’s shoulders. “Your blood was impossibly sweet, it’s hard to get blood like that. But… You had managed to open your eyes, and I just. I couldn’t let it go to waste.”

Wooyoung blinks in confusion. For one, this man is talking rather nonchalantly about Wooyoung’s blood, and in the same breath… Did he compliment him? Still, the man called him dead by all means and so he’s only harbouring a little animosity, so he stays silent. The man sighs, removing his hand. Wooyoung won’t admit he’s a bit sad at it. “I suppose it was a bit selfish of me,” the man explains, “But it’s not like I could have really asked if you wanted it.”

Confusion gets the best of him, so Wooyoung shoots up. “If I wanted what?”

“To be a vampire,” the man replies instantly. 

And Wooyoung just stares. The man stares back. It gets a bit awkward, if he’s honest. “A what,” he finally says, presenting it more of a statement rather than a question.

The man (vampire…?) answers anyway, “Yes.”

It doesn’t help. In fact, none of this is really helping Wooyoung so he just nods silently, lifts a finger. “Right, well, your bed is very comfy and the ceiling is pretty, but I’ll just be… Leaving.”

“I wouldn’t leave the room,” the man says as Wooyoung ungracefully untangles himself and nearly falls on the floor. He ignores the warning anyway, stumbling as if he’s hungover as he makes his way to the door.

He can hear the man let out an exasperated sigh behind him as Wooyoung swings the door open. He meant it to be not as dramatic as it turns out to be, what with the door practically cracking the wall with the force in which it slams against it. Under normal circumstances he’d say sorry, but instead he feels like being a petulant child and stomps out into a barely lit hallway. The whole house seems to scream Victorian, he notices, and is apparently too distracted by a rather regal painting of his angel-vampire, slamming into a hard object. As it turns out, when he looks up, “object” really isn’t the right word, as he comes face to face with another stunningly gorgeous man, one with slightly curled silver hair this time (he’s not sure when he started to categorise hot men by their hair colour, but it seems to fit so far). Gorgeous man number two’s eyes are a deep red as he peers down at Wooyoung.

“Well, it seems San wasn’t exaggerating when he spoke of you,” number two says, flashing a smile and… Fangs. Wooyoung would call them sharp canines, only they’re honestly not and he knows this. It doesn’t stop the undignified squeal of terror that erupts from him anyway. “My, what a voice too,” he continues as Wooyoung swings himself around, darting down the hallway.

More tears tug at his eyes and he hates it, hates how confused he is and how gorgeous men aside, he’s not getting any answers. He eventually slips and falls as he now realises he’s running barefoot, and comes crashing to the ground and through another door. Pain radiates through him, particularly on the side of his neck, and when he looks up he can’t help the, “Oh fucking hell” that falls from his lips.

A whole congregation of people stare at him, dressed in everything from what he swears his grandmother wore in her casket to some God awful neon crop top and matching shorts. They all sort of share this awkward blink session before the neon wearing woman comes up to Wooyoung, who is definitely still sitting ass on the ground, and she leans down. Her eyes are a deep red as well, and at least he’s somewhat prepared for when she exposes fangs as well. 

“You smell awfully pretty, mortal,” she coos, stroking a clawed finger along Wooyoung’s cheeks. 

“I don’t really like girls,” Wooyoung blurts, and the woman just laughs. It’s devoid of any true humour though, especially evident when she cuts into his cheek, drawing blood. Wooyoung is a little glad he still bleeds (he doesn’t think dead people would), but any good feeling is washed away when the woman licks his blood rather enthusiastically off her finger.

What were once red eyes now shift into pitch black, no whites visible, and her fangs protrude more than before when she looks back down. Wooyoung is pretty sure he should get the fuck up even before she snarls, “And to think San would hide such a delicious meal from us.”

So Wooyoung does what he assumes any sane person would do at such a sentence as that, and punches her right in the nose. As she stumbles back and shrieks, Wooyoung springs to his feet with his hands balled up in fists in front of his face, gets ready to run, but someone grabs a fistful of his hair and yanks. He shrieks this time as he’s raised several inches off the ground, and he flails trying to break free of the rather painful grip this person has when he’s twirled around and comes back to face with someone else with black eyes. 

“Some beta bitch isn’t going to drink you, allow a nice alpha to take her place,” this one growls and Wooyoung whimpers. 

He’s promptly dropped on the ground when another person roundhouse kicks this one in the side, but before Wooyoung hits the floor he’s caught, but when he peers down at another clawed hand he’s pretty sure he’s not saved by any means. “Hands off you filth,” his catcher growls right back, “Something as precious as this one needs to be drank by royalty.”

“Royalty!” The woman from before barks, “I’ve never heard such bullshit before! Unhand the omega and I’ll consider not killing you too.” 

Wooyoung doesn’t get much of a chance to ask why in the hell these people are talking about ranks of wolves before the whole room erupts in screams and arguments. He catches some rather unsettling words such as “halfling”, another “omega”, “virgin”, before they all just fall silent. Wooyoung, who was being passed around like some crude game of hot potato, is finally let go in earnest, although the only thing it gifts him is a hard drop on the ground again. His neck pulsates and he brings a hand to it as he swivels around to see why he was finally spared.

It seems two people have rather dramatically entered the room, and Wooyoung sort of hates that he recognises them. It’s Gorgeous Number One and Gorgeous Number Two, and the first looks only a little displeased. Wooyoung isn’t sure how he noticed before, but this man has brilliant red eyes as well. Only they flash to a piercing yellow when he peers down at Wooyoung, who suddenly feels just so small. The second one trails slowly behind, hands in his pockets as he nonchalantly looks around at the room of people who Wooyoung was sure were just arguing at who got to kill him. Nothing is making sense.

He barely notices when the first man kneels down at him, eyes back to a softer shade of red. They stay that way only a moment before they fade now into a more normal looking brown, and he smiles. “I told you it wasn’t a good idea to leave the room.”

[gwinnetts-archive]

♦️♦️◇◇ ! [bellamy!]

headcanon meme ;; accepting | @daggersandsparks

♦️ random headcanon — fallout

bellamy owns an unspeakable number of gas masks in all shapes and styles, stashed away in his various bolt holes. he loves wearing them, even when it isn’t strictly necessary — it’s a nice feeling of anonymity, and he may or may not have several with voice modulators modded into them, both for the sake of different disguises and also just plain for funsies

♦️ random headcanon — modern

bellamy has a number of cars stashed away in various parts of san jose and los angeles, and it’s unlikely he paid for at least half of them. which isn’t to stay he stole them, which... isn’t to say they aren’t stolen at all, but y’know, trade is still a thing. “you scratch my back, i scratch yours” is a very common concept that he makes use of, especially when his savings are comfortable enough that he doesn’t have to worry about money just yet

◇ mairwen & bellamy headcanon — fallout

despite the fact that it seems like bellamy doesn’t take anything mairwen says seriously at all, he  pays real close attention to what she says versus what she does versus what her history says versus her relationships with abner and nathan

he knows she’d fuck over nathan in a heartbeat, and he knows she has a soft spot for abner, but that still doesn’t tell him if she’d sell out or otherwise screw over the remnants as a whole. she won’t purposefully hurt abner, so he doesn’t have to worry about that — which means the threat she poses to the remnants as a group is the threat she poses to bellamy himself, and until he has that figured out, she has no chance of ever getting anything remotely real out of him

◇ mairwen & bellamy headcanon — modern

they’ve heard of each other long before they ever actually meet. it’s just a price when you live this kind of lifestyle. the criminal underworld is all connected if you know where to follow the lines, and networking like that is literally how bellamy’s lived his entire life

[ladyofthecastleproject]

[Angel of Miracle] 307 - What Makes You Fair?

“We’re still looking and looking and nothing!” - Dai sighed - “Are you sure there’s something in this book??”

“Affirmative” - Warlock said - “Just keep focused, we might find something.”

“Those pictures have nothing calling my attention, I’m sorry” - Iori seemed sad, it was like he couldn’t do that much since none of those were in Japanese or English (though his English was very limited compared to the other kids).

“No need to apologize, sir Iori” - Warlock has been nice to the youngest child since they had met - “Your motivation is enough. You should rest a bit.”

“Like we could help something” - V-mon kept complaining - “Hmph, we’re just sitting here doing nothing than… Oi, Armadimon? Are you listening to me?!”

Armadimon had fallen asleep. Iori walked towards the digimon and sat with them on the couch. Yes, Warlock’s castle was very VERY different from a medieval story. It was like… Steampunk.

“This is…”

The kid was still amazed with that place, enough to go investigating the library. Something caught his attention… It was a book, with its own way to shine. Warlock and Dai were too busy looking at the other book, they didn’t pay him attention. He needed someone’s help to get that one, since it was out of reach.

“V-mon” - and he had only one boring digimon to resort - “Can you help me here?”

“What is it?” – and Vee was too bored to refuse - “Oh I see… That shining book. You want to look at that book?”

“Yes, can you help me to get it?”

“Evolving could’ve been the best idea, but…” - the blue digimon looked at Dai - “Daisuke is too busy to evolve me.”

“Armadimon is sleeping and I do not want to bug him… And he couldn’t be able to help as Digmon. Evolving him to Akylomon could’ve destroyed the room.”

“True…” - Vee nodded.

“We need to find someone who’s able to help us, V-mon.”

“Sure, I’ll help you,” - He gave an annoyed gaze at Dai and Warlock - “It’s better than waiting for YOUR PARTNER do something more than reading books!” - But Dai ignored him.

“He’s trying his best, and I want to be able to do something too” - Iori muttered, but V-mon was too upset with Dai to pay attention.

The duo left the library, searching for Black Tailmon. V-mon was sure she could help them, but she had disappeared since the time he and Daisuke had returned to the castle, way before the actual events. Amis could’ve been a good choice, but he was with Ken and Boniface at the moment. Flannery too, but she was with Hikari and Takeru. Looking for someone in the surroundings to help get a book is a hard task, especially when your partner is sleeping and your companion is your friend’s digimon.

Iori had no idea how to solve his problem.

Until… He and Vee met a white cloaked Wizarmon.

The digimon seemed lost, searching for something outside. Iori and V-mon looked at each other and decided to investigate that digimon. They left the castle and went to his encounter, trying to not scare the poor wizard-like digimon.

“Um, are you looking for something?” - Iori engaged the conversation.

The digimon had strange eyes, but V-mon was too bored to notice that.

“Ah yes” - the white Wizarmon replied - “I’m looking for the Mystic Library of Scientia Terra.”

“Mystic library?” – both Vee and Iori repeated, exclaiming.

“It’s said to be in this castle, and I need to find it as soon as possible” - he explained - “There’s something I have to fix, and only a book’s spell can do the job.”

“Maybe Warlock knows” - V-mon talked to Iori - “He’s in the castle’s library right now.”

“Maybe?” - Iori rested his chin on hand - “I think the library is this ‘Mystic Library’, so we should help him.”

“Can you?” - the lost digimon smiled - “I’m Sorcerymon, I came from another kingdom.”

“I’m Hida Iori, and this is V-mon” - Iori introduced themselves - “The castle’s entrance is this way, please come with us.”

Once Iori and V-mon turned back to Sorcerymon, the digimon smirked… But why?

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It was getting late. All the kids were at home now, only Taichi remained in Koushiro’s room and he was pretty silent… Watching the D-terminal.

Koushiro was again talking to Tentomon and telling him to gather the other digimon, to tell them keep an eye on something suspicious… To find the younger kids. He also had to deal with this chat with Jun and keeping her updated about the mystery. But he was sure he will have to ask the younger ones to explain themselves about their silence.

He decided to not be rude, because depending on their story he wouldn’t be that mad. But he felt they didn’t trust him. That they could’ve talked to him and he would’ve helped them at the best…!! He wasn’t angry at all! Just… worried.

“Maybe you should go home.”

Koushiro broke the silence between them.

“You have to, you need to keep giving support to Hikari-san and Daisuke-kun while they’re not around.”

“Ah. I know” - Taichi didn’t want to leave. His body couldn’t move, he was too petrified at the moment. He was waiting for her answer. Her? Hikari.

“Taichi-san, this is not a game.”

“Yes, I know that.” - Taichi replied, but inside his mind.

“You need to go home, I will keep working on it here. If I find something, I will contact you immediately.”

“... Right.”

He got up from the bed and left the room. When he was on the streets, he was pretty lost and not paying attention at all… All he did was hear someone screaming at him to stop because the signal was red for pedestrians.

He gasped, he looked around and saw of that girl, Geijutsushi, behind him. He used to know thanks to the fact she was the granddaughter of Jou’s cram school’s teacher. Yes, she… She lived in the same apartment complex of his, but mostly…

“You… You’re from Daisuke’s building right?” - he asked.

She kept in silence.

“Did you see him lately?” - Taichi insisted.

“I don’t know, I don’t talk to him” - she looked away - “Just because we live next to each other, and study in the same class does not mean I know.”

The pedestrian signal turned green and she left him alone. Taichi followed her, but not because he was chasing the girl, but mostly because he was heading home. He noticed she was holding some groceries, so he believes she was going home as well. But why had he thought she would’ve known something about Daisuke’s disappearance?

Yet, they followed each other for a while… Until they got separated, going to their own buildings.

For some reason, Taichi was bugged by the girl’s answer. Or…How she changed since the last time he had seen her with her grandma.

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“This way” - Iori guided Sorcerymon to the next corridor, leading him to the library’s door. when they arrived, Iori and Vee opened the door, but the wizard-like monster closed it - “Huh?”

“I’m sorry but… The guardian of the Mystic Library never let intruders in.”

“You’re not an intruder” - V-mon babbled - “You came to ask for Warlock’s help, right?”

“Actually… I’m interested on a shining book. He might not borrow it to me.”

“But taking it without Warlock-san’s permission is theft!” - Iori argued - “We must tell him--”

“I’m unwelcome here. I used to work in this castle, but I got banished and went to live in Purezza. I just want to take a look in that book, please.”

“You will give it back to us once you’re done, right?” - the youngest Chosen Child tried to negotiate with the digimon - “I… I was interested on that book too, but I can’t read…”

“We can make a deal: I get the book and the spell and I read the book for you.”

“Would you do that for us?!” - Vee gasped.

“You’re too generous unlike the cruel mage there” - Sorcerymon smiled - “I will do anything you want, young human and blue monster.”

“I don’t think we should do this without Warlock-san’s consent…” - Iori seemed uncomfortable with that, but the book… He wanted to see THAT one, he wanted to help them…!!

“I give you my word that I will give it back to Warlock” - the white cloaked digimon made a vow.

V-mon and Iori open the door a little, and Sorcerymon used his staff to attract the book to his hands. The book flew gracefully from the shelf to the digimon’s hand. Dai didn’t realize that at all… But Warlock.

“Gotcha!” - Sorcerymon winked to the kid and blue digimon - “Now let’s go… I will recover Master’s powers…”

“Wait… What?!”

Sorcerymon shoved Iori and V-mon aside and ran away. The two got up and chased him, Iori now regretting for making a deal with that digimon… But he was nice…!! Why??!

Armadimon woke up with the sound outside, and looked around. Where did Iori go?! Also V-mon… They weren’t there. Warlock glanced at the shelf and finally understood… The shining book…!!

“Armadimon, can you find them??” - both Warlock and Dai said, panicked.

“I got it, dagya!”

They left the library and followed the armadillo-like digimon.

 “This is all my fault!!” - Iori was desperate - “I… I wanted to help Dai-san and I ended up messing it up!!”

“Oi, not your fault!” - V-mon shouted - “Time for some… V-MON HEADBUTT!!”

V-mon hit Sorcerymon with his head, making the enemy drop the book, but the digimon was still stronger than Daisuke’s partner. He was grabbed by the tail and thrown against Iori, knocking both down.

“Do you think a small monster like you can beat me? The grand Sorcerymon?!” - the wizard-like digimon laughed and started to float - “Now then… You’re going to suffer!”

“I-Iori, are you o-okay?” - Vee asked, jumping straight to the floor and helping Iori to get up.

“I… I am… B-But we need to retrieve the book…!!”

“This book?” - Sorcerymon snapped his fingers and the object flew directly to him - “This is the key to recover Master’s powers. You helped, little human.”

“Iori!!” - Armadimon shouted and stopped by Iori’s and V-mon’s side - “Are you okay, dagya?”

“Where’s Daisuke?!” - Vee snorted - “We have a thief! We need to kick some--”

“V-mon!! Iori!!” - Daisuke came next, with Warlock behind him - “Are you okay??”

They were outside now, with an eerie Sorcerer-like digimon threatening them all. The book in hands made Warlock gasp.

“That book… Get that book back, please!” - he told Dai and Iori - “It has too powerful spells… It can create another shining light like the one Lia did!”

“Got it. Take the book back, dagya” - Armadimon nodded, then glanced at the opponent - “Iori, evolve me!”

“R-right…!” - Iori agreed - “Knowledge Digimental Up!!”

Armadimon armor evolve…!! Steel Knowledge, Digmon!!

“Let’s settle this on one-a-one, Sorcerymon!” - Digmon shouted - “Gold Rush!!” - and he shot his drills from his nose and arms against the enemy, who dodged - “Give it back!!”

“You will perish here!” - Sorcerymon raised his hand - “Crystal Cloud!!” - the clouds began gathering, covering the sky. Suddenly, a blizzard fell up them all… With Sorcerymon laughing maniacally about his victims.

“I’m freezing…!!” - Dai glanced at his feet - “I’m literally freezing!”

“Digmon, we need to do something and quickly!” - Iori gasped - “Or we will all be frozen!”

“I wish I could do something, but the enemy is pretty strong!” - he replied.

“No. We’re stronger than him!” - Iori raised his voice - “Because we fight fair and square!”

A light came from Iori’s chest, filling Digmon with strength. The symbol was just like one of the symbols from the manuscript. A Burgundy light… Digmon’s eyes were glowing in the same color.

“What’s is it…?!” - Dai blinked - “Is that…?!” “The symbol of Fairness” - Warlock was surprised, with wide eyes.

“That’s my crest…?” - Iori blinked.

“You’re done for, Sorcerymon!” - Digmon shouted, and then he shot his drills against the enemy again. This time those were faster and hit the wizard monster, who dropped the book on the floor - “Get over it, dagya!”

“N-no!!”

“Now, Digmon!!”- said Iori, Dai and Vee all together.

Digmon broke the ice from his legs with the drills and flew, and in the air… The digimon released a wave of the same color of the light shining in his eyes. Instead of killing Sorcerymon, the digimon got a purification hit… Eliminating the darkness in his heart.

The blizzard stopped once the sorcerer has beaten. The ice freezing them also disappeared magically.

“Digmon… you did it!” - Iori smiled - “You saved us! And retrieved the book!”

“That’s nothing, dagya” - Digmon said and then reverted to Armadimon form - “But what happened, why were you and V-mon with him?”

“A-ah, I’m sorry Warlock-san!!” – Iori bowed his head at Warlock - “I… I’m sorry! Deeply sorry! I wanted to read what was inside that book, but… I ended up letting it to be almost stolen…!!”

“It’s okay” - he smiled - “You did the right thing, sir Iori. You recognized a mistake and went to fix it. If you had said beforehand that you wanted the book, I should’ve gotten it for you.”

“But I didn’t want to disturb you and Dai-san!”

“Eh, it’s okay Iori” - Dai chuckled - “No sweat!”

“Heeeeey, we’re baaaaaaack!!”

Miyako appeared in the horizon, with a large group of people. Helios, Diomedes, Lia, Ken, Amis, Boniface, Sienna, Takeru, Hikari, Flannery and Zuzen. With them, Hawkmon, Tailmon, Patamon and Wormmon.

“They’re all here,” - Warlock was surprised - “Incredible…!”

“Yo, guys… You missed Iori’s greatest act ever” - Dai put a hand on Iori’s shoulder - “Ah, playtime is over. Let’s talk.”

[tamboradventure]

The Life of a Travel Writer with David Farley

Updated: 8/24/20 | August 24th, 2020

When I started in the travel industry, one writer came up often in conversation: David Farley. He was a rock-star writer who taught at NYU and Columbia, wrote for AFAR, National Geographic, the New York Times, and many other publications. I always wondered who this guy was. He was almost mythical. He was never at any events.

But, one day, he turned up and, over the years, we became good friends. His writing tips and advice have helped me immensely, and his impressive résumé and keen sense of story are why I partnered with him on this website’s travel writing course.

Unlike me, David is a more traditional magazine/freelance/newspaper writer. He’s not a blogger. And. today I thought interview David about his life as a travel writer.

Nomadic Matt: Tell everyone about yourself! David Farley: A few interesting facts about me: My weight at birth was 8 lbs., 6 oz. I grew up in the Los Angeles suburbs. I was in a rock band in high school; we played late-night gigs at Hollywood clubs, and we weren’t very good. I travel a lot, but I have no interest in counting the number of countries I’ve been to.

I’ve lived in San Francisco, Paris, Prague, Berlin, and Rome, but I currently live in New York City.

How did you get into travel writing? The usual way: by accident. I was in graduate school and my girlfriend at the time, a writer, proofread one of my 40-page research papers — I think it was on the exciting topic of the House Un-American Activities Committee in the 1950s — and afterward she said, “You know, don’t take this the wrong way, but your writing was better than I expected.”

She encouraged me to write stuff other than boring history papers. I heeded her call.

One of the first stories that got published was about a pig killing I attended in a village on the Czech-Austrian border. After that, enough of the stories got published, mostly in travel publications, that by default I became a “travel writer.”

I ended up breaking into Condé Nast Traveler, working my way all the way up to the features section, as well as the New York Times. Eventually, I wrote a book that Penguin published. Then I expanded my field of interest to food and now I often combine food and travel.

Having done this for about two decades, one thing I’ve learned is that the “expectations of success” is really just a myth in our minds. I always thought, for example, that once I write for the New York Times I’ll have “made it.” Then it happened and didn’t really feel like I had done so.

Maybe when I write a feature for a big travel magazine? Nope.

Maybe a book published by one of the biggest publishing houses in the world? Not really.

The point is: just keep striving in the direction of success and forget about various plateaus you want to get to. I think it’s a much healthier way to go.

Do you have any favorite experiences/destinations that you’ve been able to write about? I’d long been wanting to go to Hanoi to investigate, report on, and write about the origins of pho. I finally convinced the New York Times to let me do it in February. It was amazing and delicious.

But then, as we all know, the pandemic decided to swirl its way around the world, and, as a result, most travel stories—including this one—are rotting away on editors’ hard drives for the time being.

I’ve been really lucky to convince editors to let me delve deep into some things that I’m fascinated with and/or love such as spending two weeks hanging out with the guys who cremate bodies on the banks of the Ganges River in Varanasi to see what I could learn about life and death.

I got to spend a month volunteering in a refugee camp in Greece and write a dispatch about it.

I went cycling across southern Bosnia with four great friends following a bike trail that was carved out of an erstwhile train track.

I got drunk on vodka with old Ukrainian ladies in their homes in the Exclusion Zone in Chernobyl.

And I hiked across a swath of Kenya with my uncle, sister, and brother and law for a good cause: we raised thousands of dollars for an AIDS orphanage there and also got to spend a few days with the children.

I could go on and on — which is precisely what makes this a rewarding profession.

What are some of the biggest illusions people have about travel writing? That you can peel off a feature story for a travel magazine just like that [snaps fingers]. It takes so much work for each story to get to the type of experiences we end up writing about — a lot of phone calls and emails to set up interviews and to get your foot in the door some places.

When a magazine is paying you to go to a place so you can come back with an interesting story, you have to do a lot of behind-the-scenes work to ensure that you’re going to have a good story. It rarely just happens on its own.

Travel stories are essentially a fake or altered reality, filtered through the writer and based on how much reporting she or he did on the spot, as well as her or his past experiences and knowledge about life and the world.

How has the industry changed in recent years? Is it still possible for new writers to break into the industry? Very much. In the last few years, we’ve seen an industry-wide push to be more inclusive of female and BIPOC writers, which is a great thing. The publishing industry – magazines, newspapers, books – is always ready to accept great, new writers.

The key is that you, as a writer, need to learn how the industry works first.

So, how do people even go about breaking into the industry? In the decade or so I taught travel writing at NYU and Columbia University, the students of mine that went on to write for the New York Times, National Geographic, and other publications were not necessarily the most talented in the class; they were the most driven. They really wanted it.

And that made all the difference.

What that means is they put enough energy into this endeavor to learn how the game is played: how to write a pitch, how to find an editor’s email address, how to improve your writing, learning the nuts and bolts of writing, and expertly knowing the market that’s out there for travel articles (i.e. learning the types of stories that various publications publish).

It seems there are fewer paying publications these days and it’s harder to find work. How does that affect new writers? What can new writers do to stand out? I realize this is a hard one, but living abroad is really helpful. You end up with so much material for personal essays and you gain a knowledge of the region that allows you to become something of an authority on the area. It gives you a leg up on other people who are pitching stories about that place.

That said, you don’t have to go far to write about travel. You can write about the place where you live.

After all, people travel there, right? You can write everything from magazine and newspaper travel section pieces to personal essays, all about where you’re currently residing.

How do you think COVID-19 will affect the industry? There’s no doubt that the pandemic has put a hold on travel writing a bit. People are still writing about travel but it’s mostly been pandemic-related stories. That said, no one knows what the future holds. Which in a perverse way–not just about the travel writing industry but in the bigger picture as well–makes life and reality kind of interesting too.

And while many people are losing their jobs and magazines are folding, I have a feeling the industry will bounce back. It just might not be over night. Which is why it’s a perfect time to build up those writing chops. You can also shift your focus for the time being to writing about local places and about other niches (food, tech, lifestyle) based on your expertise and interest.

What can new writers do now to improve their writing? Read. A lot. And don’t just read, but read like a writer.

Deconstruct the piece in your mind as you’re reading.

Pay attention to how the writer has structured her or his piece, how they opened it and concluded it and so on. Also, read books on good writing.

This really helped me a lot when I was first starting out.

For most of us, talking to strangers is not easy. Plus, our moms told us not to do so. But the best travel stories are those that are most reported. So the more we talk to people, the more likely other opportunities arise and the more material you have to work with. It makes the writing of the story so much easier.

Sometimes you’ll be right in the middle of a situation and think: this would make a great opening to my story. My good friend Spud Hilton, former travel editor at the San Francisco Chronicle, says that the dirty secret to good travel writing is that bad experiences make the best stories. This is true, but please don’t put yourself in a bad situation just for your writing. You can write a great piece without having to get your wallet stolen or losing your passport.

What books do you suggest new travel writers read? There are a few books out there on how to be a travel writer, but they’re all embarrassingly abysmal. For me, I write William Zinsser’s “On Writing Well” and James B. Stewart’s “Follow the Story” when I was first starting out and they were very helpful.

For a memoir or personal essay, Anne Lamott’s “Bird by Bird” is excellent.

For great travel books, it depends on what your interests are. For history-laden travel, anything by Tony Perrottet and David Grann are incredible; for humor, David Sedaris, A.A. Gill, Bill Bryson, and J. Maarten Troost; for just straight-up great writing, Joan Didion, Susan Orlean, and Jan Morris.

I highly recommend reading your way through the series of annual Best American Travel Writing anthologies.

Where do you find inspiration for your articles? What motivates you? I get my motivation and inspiration from unlikely sources. I think about the creative masters and wonder how I can tap into their genius.

What did Austrian painter Egon Schiele see when he looked at a subject and then the canvas?

How did Prince put out an album a year from 1981 to 1989, each one a masterpiece and each one cutting-edge and like nothing anyone else at the time was doing?

Is there a way to apply this creativity to travel writing?

I’m not saying I’m on par with these geniuses — far from it — but if I could somehow even slightly be inspired by their creativity, I’d be better off for it.

More specifically for the articles that I end up writing, a lot of it just falls into my lap. The key, though, is recognizing it’s a story. A friend will casually mention some weird facts about a place in the world and it’s our job to take that fact and ask yourself: is there a story there?

What’s the most difficult part about being a travel writer?  The rejection. You really have to get used to it and just accept that it’s part of your life. It’s really easy to take it seriously and let it get you down. I know — I have done this.

You just have to brush it off and move on, get back on that literary bike, and keep trying until someone finally says yes. Be tenacious.

Writing is a craft. You don’t have to be born with a natural talent for it. You just need a strong desire to become better at it. And, by taking writing classes, reading books about it, talking to people about it, etc. you will become a better writer.

If you could go back in time and tell young David one thing about writing, what would it be?  I would have taken more classes to both keep learning — one should never stop learning about writing — and to force myself to write when perhaps I didn’t want to.

I think we can all learn from each other, and so putting yourself in that kind of instructive environment is helpful. I took one writing class — a nonfiction writing course at UC Berkeley — and it was super helpful.

***

If you’re looking to improve your writing or just start as a travel writer, David and I teach a very detailed and robust travel writing course. Through video lectures, personalized feedback, and examples of edited and deconstructed stories, you’ll get the course David taught at NYU and Columbia – without the college price.

Additionally, David will be doing a FREE webinar this Thursday, August 27th on travel writing as part of our Nomadic Network series of free events.

For more from David, check out his book, An Irreverent Curiosity or visit his blog, Trip Out.

Book Your Trip: Logistical Tips and Tricks

Book Your Flight Find a cheap flight by using Skyscanner or Momondo. They are my two favorite search engines, because they search websites and airlines around the globe so you always know no stone is being left unturned.

Book Your Accommodation You can book your hostel with Hostelworld as they have the largest inventory. If you want to stay somewhere other than a hostel, use Booking.com, as they consistently return the cheapest rates for guesthouses and hotels.

Don’t Forget Travel Insurance Travel insurance will protect you against illness, injury, theft, and cancellations. It’s comprehensive protection in case anything goes wrong. I never go on a trip without it, as I’ve had to use it many times in the past. I’ve been using World Nomads for ten years. My favorite companies that offer the best service and value are:

World Nomads (for everyone below 70)

Insure My Trip (for those 70 and over)

Medjet (for additional repatriation coverage)

Looking for the best companies to save money with? Check out my resource page for the best companies to use when you travel! I list all those I use — and they’ll save you time and money too!

The post The Life of a Travel Writer with David Farley appeared first on Nomadic Matt's Travel Site.

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[hardcorearchitecture]

I was recently interviewed by Kira Schneider for the German website Intro. If you can read German, check out the interview here. For English readers, here are the responses that I sent Kira before they were edited and translated. It’s a pretty long read for a Tumblr post but it was nice to be asked some new questions about this project. Enjoy! Kira Schneider: Since a lot of things are now mostly happening online for young bands, do you think digging through online archives will be equally as alluring in, say, 2050 as looking at their old homes? All we are potentially going to be left with is ancient bandcamp.com accounts, if you look at today’s Maximum Rock’n’Roll (MRR) website.

Marc Fischer: It's true—you can't do a project like this with most new demos; what used to be a tape you mailed away for is now a link on Bandcamp or Soundcloud. There's no home address and often no need to contact a band to hear their music. I'm not optimistic about a lot of web-based content still being accessible online 50 years from now or even 10 years from now. I do like the idea, however, of a bunch of 65-year olds reaching out to people forty years from now to ask if they happened to download some band's stuff off Bandcamp back in the year 2017 and if they could share it with them. People will always want to hunt down sounds that excited them in the past or that they are curious about based on hearing something many years after the fact. Many accounts or websites for all sorts of things have vanished once the people that made them lost interest and moved on. The web isn't being archived all that well.

If you want people to uncover your work in the future, turn it into something tangible. This is part of why I make printed things and not just web-based projects. I like posting things on Tumblr but I don't trust it to be around 30 years from now.

Has anyone ever reached out to you from a town you posted about, someone who recognised their neighbourhood, or maybe even a resident of one of the houses?

I try to pay attention to comments people make when they reply to a post or reblog things on Tumblr. Some cities are fairly well represented but for other places that had far fewer bands, it's a big deal to people from that region when I uncover a band from their town in Montana or North Carolina. People that live in smaller cities get excited to see their town represented at all. I've seen cases where people recognize a house as being within blocks of where they live, even though they've never heard of the band.

I have learned that some band members still live in the houses that are included in the project from a cassette they released in 1986. In some cases, people's parents have either died or moved out, and left or sold their homes to the children. So someone's house from when they were 17 years old, may now be their house once again at the age of 47. Some people's parents also still live in these homes. I have yet to receive any emails from current residents that are not a member of one of the bands. I love when Google Street View reveals current residents and neighbors hanging out on the lawn or sitting on the curb in front of a house that someone from a band like Rotting Humans once lived in.

Have you talked about the project with any of the people who ran Maximum Rock’n’Roll back in the day?

Not really. Back in the late 1980s I corresponded with Martin Sprouse and Chris Dodge from MRR but I lost touch with both of them. I did get a nice note from Chris asking me to let him know when I started finding houses associated with his record and demo tape reviews. Chris was one of the funnier and more creative reviewers for MRR and a number of his reviews from the late 1980s are quoted on the blog.

What are your thoughts on what MRR is doing these days?

I have done a poor job of keeping up with the music that MRR covers, and there have been long stretches of time when I did not pay attention to MRR itself. This project made me curious again, and I recently met and interviewed Grace Ambrose (one of the current coordinators) for a Hardcore Architecture publication. I think she's been doing a fantastic job and talking to her helped clarify how the magazine has evolved during the years when I wasn't reading it much. MRR looks better than ever, the quality of the writing and depth of the interviews is generally improved, the reviews are longer and more detailed than the issues I was reading in the 1980s and early 90s, and the array of people that are making the magazine is far more diverse. My project, so far, has focused on the 1980s, which means that it's from the period when MRR was almost entirely white guys writing about music made by other white guys. This is much less the case now, which is refreshing. 

Did running the Hardcore Architecture blog ever result in anything unexpected?

I assumed that Hardcore Architecture would be interesting to people that listen to this music but I did not give much thought to what the people that played in the bands might think, or even if they would find out about the project. I was pleasantly surprised to see so many members of these bands talking about the project on social media. It was an unexpected pleasure to see how much they enjoyed being included. I was worried people would be angry to see their childhood homes shown and that has not been the case. I also did not expect to have so many email exchanges with band members. I've made some great friends through doing this work.

Hardcore Architecture, to me, establishes a completely new visual narrative around youth and subcultures - we get to see the roots of those bands completely detached from the aesthetic and the message they choose to convey. How does this change the perception of those bands, what are your observations?

One has to be cautious in making assumptions about bands and their music based on images of where they lived that were captured 25-30 years after the fact. Some parts of the country have changed very little, whereas other cities like New York and San Francisco have since become so expensive that certain neighborhoods are impossible to imagine as places where underground music might take shape. America is a huge country and a home that looks extravagant in one part of the country might cost 1/5th of what a home 1/3rd the size might sell for in Los Angeles.

That said, it's also true that kids in affluent suburbs may have had more time, space, and resources to do things like play in a commercially unviable hardcore band - sometimes with a lot of support from their parents. I wasn't in a band but I published a music 'zine as a teenager and it was mostly printed on weekends on the photocopier at the brokerage firm that my dad worked for. My dad and I didn't agree on much politically, or when it came to music, but he was supportive of my art. He also mailed out most of my 'zines using the firm's postage meter. I think he liked scamming his employer for my benefit. Anti-authoritarian art and music happens in a lot of curious ways, with some unlikely forms of support. I think the project has teased out more of these stories about how parents sometimes encouraged this music, which is something that's very unpopular to talk about and almost never shows up in bands' lyrics. I currently work with public high school students in Chicago and some of them like music and play instruments but their lives are much too hard for them to also be in a band. Simply surviving and helping their families takes all of their energy.

Something about Hardcore Architecture is so incredibly nostalgic - how would you pinpoint where exactly that stems from? The fact that the cradles of bands we know and watch today are still out there, somewhere? Or some palpable evidence that all those bands, known or not, were once just small-town teens at some point, something we blend out when reminiscing over stylised concert photographs?

Music fans love geeking out about the past and hanging on for dear life to memories of bands they got to see 'back in the day' and records they bought when they came out, before they became rare and expensive. I don't think people that listen to hardcore and punk rock are immune to that, and they are probably even worse about it than the average person that loves music. I think it's healthy to remind people that the dudes in that legendary rad band you love had someone in the group that grew up in a big fancy house in a scenic suburb with lots of nice trees. Maybe it helps shatter the romantic stuff a little bit? Everyone is from somewhere, and it's not always as interesting as people like to imagine. Or maybe it's more interesting that they could make something extraordinary and angry in such uninspired or comfortable conditions?

Hardcore Architecture is, in a sense, also a testimonial that your origins don’t necessarily define you, and in this, a bit of a monument for DIY culture. Where do you see the same kind of rebellious, anti-authoritarian DIY spirit in today’s young people?

I live in Chicago, which has a thriving DIY music scene that is doing some radical things, but I tend to think more about the fearlessness of the young people of color here that are protesting police violence, protesting the current administration in the extremely White House—that they were not old enough to vote against—protesting immigration laws, and putting their bodies on the line to disrupt business as usual. I recently took part in a youth march against the racist, rapist that was elected President and I was one of only a few adults. At one point a kid who was probably 12 years old was leading a march, which certainly had no permit. These kids figured out how to get downtown (many of the high school students I work with have never been on public transit because their parents are afraid to let them leave their neighborhood) and—without any parental guardians—they are out protesting and leading protests. That was an amazing thing to experience. One of the chants I particularly love is, "We're young. We're strong. We'll be here all night long!"

What’s also interesting to me as a European is that we see lots of intensely American suburbia on Hardcore Architecture, and to most people outside the US, the American suburbs are a dreamscape of their own since we only ever come across them in movies, in art or in literature: the suburbs are either the all-american, sunny paradise, or a nightmare in disguise alà David Lynch or Gregory Crewdson, so there is a whole new dimension to your project if it’s viewed from an non-American perspective. Have you ever thought about this aspect?

I grew up in the suburbs of Philadelphia and a lot of the houses on the Hardcore Architecture blog could be something like my parents' house. There are regional differences in some of the kinds of architecture and living situations, however, and I think the project helps reveal that to people that may have never visited or seen much of the US. I never thought of the suburbs as a dreamscape, or a paradise, or a nightmare. All of those things are more interesting than the suburbs I grew up in! The problem was always to dig for the imaginative, radical, subcultural weirdness - which was usually hiding in record stores in the 1980s, or in bookstores and maybe in college libraries, or in video rental stores that had non-mainstream films and documentaries. It is very different with the internet. In the 1980s I primarily escaped the suburbs by corresponding with people all over the world who shared by values and interests, via postal mail. Taking the train into downtown Philadelphia also helped.

Since hardcore and punk music is inherently political, I hope you don’t mind this (probably) painful question: how do you feel about 2017s USA? Is there any hope for the States?

Some of these struggles are not new, but a lot of people with terrible beliefs are now feeling galvanized by the new administration. Living in Chicago, there is a ton of resistance to the recently elected fascist fuck, and that gives me hope. I see a lot of people all over the US, including my mom and sister, becoming more politically active than they have ever been. It is very disturbing time, however, make no mistake. I don't sleep well. Most of my friends can't sleep either. Protest and organizing meetings have become a more normal part of my life. When people in stores ask how I'm doing, I'm more inclined to admit that I feel sick and will tell them why. People need to share their anger and not pretend that things are okay. We need to rearrange our lives, and help the vulnerable. Immigrants and refugees particularly need our support. White Americans needs to step up and fight for those who can't resist as safely. 

[phantoonsoftheopera]

PotO London Forster/Schoenmaker/Naaman – 10 October 2016

My friends and I were incredibly fortunate to attend the 30th Anniversary performance of my favorite musical, which just happened to coincide with my 50th time seeing the show overall. It was a pleasant consolation prize considering the Paris production -- which we had long since purchased tickets to see the following week -- had recently been cancelled due to the fire that damaged the Theatre Mogador.

I've been a Phantom of the Opera fan since the early 1990s, but I wasn't a megafan until several years later. And while I did visit London back in 1993, I only made it as far as the lobby of Her Majesty's to buy a souvenir brochure (My Phantom would have been Peter Karrie. INORITE?!?!?!?!?!?!?), so this trip was my first experience seeing the show in its original home (which we wound up doing three times in all – with the good fortune of seeing a different Phantom at each performance). And between a 2 and 1/2 year break from Phantom and all the little nuances that differentiate the London production from the US versions, it was like seeing it with fresh eyes.

(FYI: for those who don’t know, I write REALLY long reviews)

There was a bit of a crowd in front of Her Majesty's as part of the "Red Carpet Pre-Show" that was broadcast live on Facebook. My friends and I stuck around for a bit to check it out but the only Phantom celebrity we saw was Sierra Boggess (formerly of the Paris production) who spoke to the reporter briefly. Eager to get to our seats, we made our way inside to the Royal Circle and discovered that all attendees received a free souvenir brochure with a special 30th Anniversary wraparound cover and insert. Yay free swag!

Prologue: Some of the things that set the London production apart from the US versions I'd seen previously in the Royal Albert Hall 25th Anniversary production. The more formal and stuffy Auctioneer was definitely a jarring change from the creepier ones that open the show in the US, and set a slightly different tone to the proceedings. While the US version has the feel of an abstract dream (perhaps a dream Raoul has as he himself passes away), this was more literal auction– even to the point that the Auctioneer interrupted himself when a higher bid is placed for one of the items. Also Porters? Spoke like they were super-bored, which was amusing all on its own.

Nadim Naaman's Raoul may not have looked decrepit -- I could barely tell from a distance and lighting if he was wearing any aged makeup or not -- but his delivery of, "Boy…" was tinged with great pain, like it took a great deal of effort to speak which made it convincing.

Overture: Has the lightning effect always been part of the chandelier rising?

Hannibal: Direct quote from my notes: "Princess is super-cute. BUY a programme to find out who that is." And, "Dude, how many bottles of baby oil did they use on the Slave Master?"

So unlike in the US, London Christines dance the whole ballet (or at the very least, the majority of it), because I spotted Celinde Schoenmaker right off the bat. Hard to miss her, actually, due to her height. I don't know if it's just a Dutch thing, but she's like, REALLY tall. Like, the kind of tall that makes less-than-average-height folks like myself angry. Makes us want to punch things. How dare you hog all the height for yourself. The rest of us have needs too, you know. Like actually making use of the top shelf of a cupboard without having to use a stepladder.

But I digress.

Celinde entered with the rest of the ballet chorus and did a good job intentionally making Christine NOT look like the best dancer, her movements slightly less polished and behind tempo, sometimes looking to Meg to follow the choreography.

Piangi, played by Paul Ettore Tabone (who, when squinting, reminded me of a cross between comedian Gilbert Gottfreid and "Red Dwarf" actor Craig Charles), had a memorable entrance, coming out as he does but pausing and flicking his eyes up and to the side as if he had to take a moment to remember his line. I also enjoyed Philip Griffith's Reyer, his loud and demanding delivery living up to Lefevre's "tyrant" moniker moreso than any Reyer I've seen previously.

And bonus points for Christine having to lean out of the way of Piangi's cape after it flutters into her face when the slavegirls are all lined up at the footlights.

The talking by the ensemble when Lefevre tried to get their attention was amusingly extended in London, with him asking Reyer for help (who promptly ignores him) and then sputtering about for a few moments before Madame Giry aided him with a single thump of her cane. It's a very subtle difference, but the cast milked the moment just enough to make it more humorous.

Mark Oxtoby's André was a definite standout amongst the cast as well, kissing Carlotta's hand rather loudly three times when he is introduced to her and later, when she puts one end of her scarf in his hands while singing "Think of Me" and lets it trails through his fingers as she walks away – his expression of longing as his eyes never left the scarf was priceless. And it definitely had an effect on Piangi, who glared at him while snatching up the scarf and placing it back on Carlotta's shoulder as she walked back around to center stage.

Speaking of Carlotta, I really enjoyed the little things Megan Llewellyn brought to the role as well, particularly her penchant for slapping other performers who displeased her. In this scene, it was swatting the Soldier who was reading a newspaper while she was singing. Her incredulous delivery of "These things do happen?" and diva-esque "THIS thing does NOT happen!" were the right amounts of over-the-top without spilling over.

Think of Me: London Reyer snaps his fingers to bring Meg to his side after she hands Christine Carlotta's scarf, and doesn't offer to show her the score prior to her impromptu audition. This omission actually makes Reyer a bit nicer than his US counterparts, who often use that moment to be a bit of a dick, either showing it to her for less than a second or presenting it to her only to close it in her face.

I felt overall that Celinde's performance was more vibrant in delivery and acting at this show compared to the matinee a couple nights previous. I'm not sure if it was because this was THE 30th Anniversary performance or because she was saving some of her energy for a 2-show day, but regardless she was really at the top of her game here. Her first line was very quiet and timid (almost inaudible), becoming slightly stronger with her second line as she kept her eyes on Madame Giry after she thumped her cane, and her third growing word by word into full voice, eliciting a reaction from the rest of her fellow performers, including Reyer, who looked pleasantly surprised at the fresh new talent hiding under his nose for who knows how long.

Celinde's voice is sort of contemporary-meets-classical. Although I haven't been keeping up with casts, I've always had the general feeling that London Christines tended to follow the Sarah Brightman "dewdrop in a still pond" quality to their voices, but Celinde's seemed to have a bit more of the deeper fullness common to most US Christines. Physically, she tended to skip a lot when she walked, and her strides took up a lot of distance across the stage. One would think that she was taking smaller steps because two normal strides downstage would have sent her straight into the orchestra pit.

#tallpeopleproblems

Angel of Music: Christine's reaction to hearing the Phantom's, "Brava, brava, bravissima…" is usually quite telling of what the actress's take on the relationship between the two will be like. Celinde's was a mix of wonder and fear, leading me to believe she would have a more thoughtful spin on the role. I liked the relationship between her and Daisy Hulbert's Meg as well – definitely a big sister/little sister kind of feel to their interactions. Even the fact that Meg switches position with Christine by sitting on her stool rather than remain standing like she does in the US staging gave the scene a warmer, friendly quality. A moment that I really enjoyed here (which was consistent amongst all of Celinde's performances that we saw) was how she tries to hide a smile when Madame Giry admonishes Meg – as if it was a very common occurrence that she's been privy to.

Little Lotte: Nadim and Celinde had a nice rapport in this scene, the former having an air of titled formality with an underlying warmth and the latter evoking a feeling of content nostalgia as they reminisced about their childhood, Celinde's expression only faded back to a more serious and slightly wary one as they recalled the story of the Angel of Music.

It's interesting how after you've heard something over and over again done the same way, that when something changes, it knocks you out of your complacency and makes you pay strict attention. In this case, it was Christine's line, "Things have changed," which I've always heard her say after Raoul has left. And maybe it's just a London thing, but Celinde said it twice, and the first time was much earlier in the scene, which precipitated Raoul's, "No, YOU must change; I must get my hat." It works either way, but this felt a little more naturalistic, and made Raoul feel less like he was ignoring Christine's protests.

The Mirror: I came into the London production cold, not having heard any clips of the principals performing beforehand, so Ben Forster's Phantom came as a bit of a shock.  His "EEN-solent boy!" struck me as a bit too Ren and Stimpy in pronunciation, but vocally he reminded me very much of Franc D'Ambrosio (former San Francisco Phantom) – sort of the same pitch but less operatic and more pop/rock in flavor. He also had a unique reaction to Christine's response after seeing him in the mirror. While at first, she ran to the door as if to flee (another first for me), when she turned back to him and sang, "Angel of Music! Guide and guardian, come to me strange angel!" he was almost surprised at her reaction, his poise visibly broken for a moment before he went into his, "I am your Angel of Music" shtick.

Phantom of the Opera: Okay, there is NO WAY the Christine double thing was going to work with Celinde as principal. None of them have her European supermodel-esque proportions.

The boat scene is always a thrill and really encapsulates the aura of magic that I love so much about this show. Ben's labored breathing really gave the climax (so to speak) of the scene a distinct feeling – one that it was like the Phantom was getting off on Christine's high notes. And I'm not sure if this is London or just something of Celinde's, but Christine was a lot more physical here compared to US Christine who mostly just seem to stand and the voice comes out of them. Celinde appeared to take a page out of Rebecca Caine's playbook from the Toronto official music video, using her whole body – especially her arms and hands – to emphasize and underline the ecstasy that is usually just the subtext of the scene.

Music of the Night: Aside from committing the same crime as Phantom swing Luke McCall days earlier by just pounding on the organ and not moving his hands up and down the keyboard as dictated by the notes in the pre-recorded music, overall, I felt Ben's Phantom was very unique. While all Phantoms I'd seen prior have exuded a great deal of confidence from their first appearance in the mirror up until the unmasking, Ben's was more in-the-moment, seeming to act based on Christine's reactions to him (think, "Okay, that seemed to go well, umm… let's try this"), which gave a naturalistic quality to the scene.

Celinde's Christine was engaged as well, which I enjoyed (never been much of a fan of Hypno!Christine), and there was more of an attraction between herself and the Phantom than I'm used to seeing in this scene. For instance, when she ran from him while he was sprawled against the portcullis, she did so almost giddily rather than fearful as has always been the norm for me. She was the same opposite McCall, so I assumed it was her de facto interpretation.

The MotN choreography is essentially the same in London as it is in the US, with the exception of the quirky "Close your eyes, let your spirit start to soar" bit where the Phantom clutches his hand in front of Christine's stomach and then raises it above her head, making her posture lift and tilt her head back like she's on strings or something. There's also a moment here and there where Ben would caress her cheek with the back of his hand or inhale the scent of her hair that isn't in the US version that gave the scene a bit more intimacy.

Stranger than You Dreamt It: Ben again played things down the middle – not as manically into composing as Luke McCall was previously, but more naturalistic. Like: playplayplay – pause – "Okay, that's good, let me write that down." Very grounded. I liked Celinde's approach to Christine awakening the next morning – singing the first couple of line while still laying down with her eyes closed, only sitting up (with a start) when she remembers the lake, and then slowly turning her head in the Phantom's direction as she sings, "(…) there was a man…" I also liked Celinde's reaction to the unmasking in how she raised her hand up as if to shield herself like Mary Philbin did in the 1925 movie as well as how, when he crawled towards her for his very Karimloo-esque STYDI, she scurried all the way up against the proscenium until she couldn't get any farther away.

Magical Lasso: No ballerinas screaming at the top of this scene, but more music/swooshing melodic instrumentation. And Hadrian Delacey's Buquet (whose bald head reminded me of a less intimidating Vinnie Jones) didn't seem very scared of Madame Giry – more like annoyed that she was spoiling his fun.

Notes I/Prima Donna: I was pleased that our Firmin (Siôn Lloyd) wasn't the tipsy drunkard that Barry James was in the RAH performance. Siôn's was much more amiable (well, as amiable as Firmins get) and seemed rather happy with all the free press the Opera was getting from the recent backstage drama. And some of Megan's Carlotta was rubbing off on Oxtoby's André because he took to irritatingly slapping Firmin's shoulder for his business obsession of how Carlotta's return to the stage would result in "queues 'round the theatre."

This is, of course, one of the scenes where Megs get the opportunity to do the most to flesh out their character. Daisy Hulbert's Meg is totes adorbs – played very youthfully and sprightly, and with a curious streak that her mother seems to constantly have to keep in check with a tap of her cane or a finger to her lips in a silent "shhh."

Il Muto: Somewhere in the mid '00s the humor began to fade in the US versions of Il Muto, particularly in how Don Attilio was portrayed. So I was pleased to find it wasn't so in London – where he still had those sustained low notes and took his time to play his role for laughs. A lot of this was the same as in the RAH 25th performance, so it's nice that it was recorded for posterity.

Megan's physically abusive Carlotta was back in great form when she knocked the Hairdresser's powder shield away from her face while singing her line to Don Attilio and batted him again with her fan afterwards. Her wig did look like it was in danger of falling off after Celinde took her down to the mattress – and based on Megan's look of surprise, I don't think it was planned – and it never quite recovered (she even brought her hand up a couple of times afterwards to steady it).

Ben's "Perhaps it is you who are the TOAD!" was delivered with much more venom than other Phantoms I've seen in the past. Practically spitting the last word at the diva, it definitely leaned towards anger rather than sneering disdain. And when she did start croaking and the chandelier started to rock, Celinde had a very strong reaction – rushing back and curling up in a frightened ball on the bed – not unlike her reaction in STYDI.

If his practically drooling over Carlotta wasn't enough to endear his André to me, Oxtoby's super-awkward introduction of the ballet sealed the deal. Entering nervously, the spotlight momentarily shooting past him before focusing properly, his quick and discreet hand and eye gestures to get the conductor to hurry up and switch over to the ballet, nervously parroting the laughter coming from the real audience, some more eyebrow waggling at the conductor, and finally running into three ballerinas on his way out made for a tremendously prolonged and hilarious moment for his character.

All I Ask of You: It took me awhile to really pin down what Celinde's take on Christine was, and ultimately I think it's far from the shrinking ingénue that many others tend to lean towards. She's more her own woman, as exemplified in the beginning of the rooftop scene where she's not your typical frightened damsel. Celinde sang her lines with a furor, like she was angry at the Phantom's control over her and angry at herself for letting him have that power. It's a definite departure from Christines prior and for the most part it works.

And then Ben's disembodied "Christine" line came in sounding like a barely-decipherable tenor foghorn and you're yanked out of the scene.

The rooftop duet itself was good – Nadim took great care in removing Christine's hood and lifting her long locks out of them to flow down her back attractively before singing his first verse with great earnestness while Celinde took every opportunity to hold/stroke/adjust Raoul's coat lapels whenever she was in his arms. As far as the rooftop kiss went, I kinda preferred Celinde's performance from the previous day just because prior to the initial kiss, she sort of flipped one side of her cloak over her shoulder with this sort of smoldering "C'mere baby" look in her eyes which made me think, "Oh, this is a Christine who knows what she wants. And apparently what she wants is to eat Raoul alive," but other than that, it was pretty similar to other more proactive Christines: first kiss is mostly Raoul, second kiss she really goes in for it. Celinde finished off the song cupping Raoul's face and planting several little kisses. The song also got applause, which apparently only happens during event performances, which held the scene before Celinde dashed off singing, "I must go," with a giddy laugh which brought a lot of warmth and intimacy to their relationship.

Reprise: Because this was the first time I actually noticed it, watching this scene also made me realize how small Her Majesty's auditorium is – almost as small as The Curran where Phantom played in San Francisco back in the '90s – with the Angel lowering to the level of the Royal Circle. Ben did the "hand first" entrance into the scene, which is the version I've always preferred, and his delivery overall was very Karimloo (one of the few moments in the RAH that I actually enjoyed Karimloo's performance).

Masquerade: Hey, Firmin and André got their masks from the same store! And a nice "Boo!" Firmin threw in there at André at the end of the intro. In another character moment I enjoyed, Meg's eyes turned into saucers when she was presented with the tray of champagne flutes. Madame Giry's baby girl's gonna get hammered tonight!

Okay, given that I was seeing the show for the first time in years from a higher angle, I was convinced that I was seeing Gillian Lynne's new Masquerade choreography. I mean, I don't recall ever seeing Meg and the Goldfish running their hands down the managers' bodies before or Christines ballet-like moves during the bridge, but apparently it's just another one of those quirky differences in the way they do things in London (and speaking of Christine, turns out that eyesore of a Star Princess dress doesn't look quite as garish onstage as it does in photos).

Giry's Confession: No big changes here. Jacinta Mulcahy was a good Madame Giry (who, for the Whovians out there, was giving me kind of a Tasha Lem vibe), and I understand she used to use an accent that she apparently has since dropped. If I had any comment, I would have liked to have heard a bit more fear or apprehension in her voice when she confessed what she knew of the Phantom's background, but there was nothing that stood out as bad about the scene.

Notes II/Twisted Every Way: One of the benefits of watching from the Royal Circle after so many performances in the stalls is that you get a better overview (literally) of the action onstage. For instance, in all the times I've seen the show, I've never noticed that while Madame Giry is walking behind the rest of the group, as they go about their business, one of the Phantom's notes slips out of the Don Juan score she is looking at. She then picks it up and reads it as she moves into position at stage right to give everyone the news. That's probably not a revelation to most people, but it's a detail that was new to me.

Celinde solidified her modern, strong Christine in this scene with how she approached the Carlotta/Christine confrontation, delivering a very powerful and forceful, "How DARE you!" to Carlotta's accusations (I mean it easily could have morphed into the Javert/Valjean confrontation). And her "I can't!" as she exits – so often an upset, almost overwhelmed outburst by others – was much more of a firm, declarative statement from Celinde's Christine.

Another moment that I always try to observe in this scene is Carlotta's reaction to "Twisted" with her line, "She's mad!" It can be played many different ways, from snooty to concern, and how the actress delivers it can potentially impart a deeper portrayal of the diva. After Celinde sang, "He'll always be there singing songs in my head…" as if she was realizing the fate ahead of her, Megan's take was dismissive and a bit comical, entrenching her Carlotta as unfeeling. A perfectly valid interpretation, although I much prefer Carlottas that show a little bit of sympathy in this moment.

Also of note here, Nadim's Raoul was very forceful and assertive when he devised his plan on capturing the Phantom. It was a nice shift in his performance.

Don Juan Rehearsal: The ensemble member whom I shall now refer to as, "The Man Who Laughs" had a nice machine-gun staccato laugh that he sprayed in an arc until his eyes met Carlotta's cold glare. He even got singled out by Reyer; who directed his "Nearly" line more towards him than Piangi. Something about him also made me think of John Cleese, which is always a guarantee to make me laugh. Carlotta also showed great concern for Piangi, looking over the score with him and bringing a genuine sense of support.

Wishing You Were Somehow Here Again/Wandering Child: Celinde served up a very good graveyard scene, starting off composed but soon faltering into silent tears as she recalld her father's promises just before segueing into Wishing. It was sung mostly straight, not a lot of ups and downs in the emotions, but her voice did tremble a bit when she got to the, "No more memories, no more silent tears" lyric, and ended it looking physically drained, which put her in the perfect position for the Phantom to step in with his hypno mumbo-jumbo.

I sort of was on the fence about Celinde's reaction at the top of "Wandering Child." When Christine stopped and heard the Phantom's voice, Celinde had sort of this, "Fuck this/Not again" body language, as if she was aware of who this was and was too exhausted o keep resisting anymore. It seemed a bit extreme but at the same time, sort of felt right in a weird sort of way for her interpretation. And hey! I forgot there was a trio here (I believe this was my first time seeing the graveyard trio performed live ever).

Of the difference between London and the US productions, there's one thing I'll say for sure: the US productions are certainly a lot more paranoid about potentially injuring their performers.

MotN catch? US: Nope, might throw the lead actor's back out. London: HELL YES!

Graveyard fireballs? US: Okay, but shoot them sideways into the wings. London: Aim DIRECTLY at your co-stars.

Before the Premiere: Best part of this scene? Nadaam's deadpan delivery of "Idiot" to the marksman. It was like the posh translation of, "Da fuq dude?" and got a well-deserved laugh from the audience.

DJT: London's DJT is definitely feels more lurid in its choreography than its US counterpart, especially with Carlotta backed up against Passarino and both sort of grinding their hips suggestively to the lyric, "tangled in the winding sheets." Meg also crooked a finger at Passarino before twirling and running off, to which he got up and started to follow after her with hands reaching out in what I'm going to call a Trump-like manner.

Point of No Return: No table dancing (thank God), but London's PonR does push the envelope, nonetheless. It's basically the same choreography you see in the RAH 25th Anniversary, although Karimloo and Boggess were extremely tame in comparison (like they were toning things down for 8pm broadcast television). Here, Celinde gave a decent amount of apple!ponr – running the apple down her cheek with a sensual expression on her face as she sat on the bench and later her half-lidded eyes looking out at the audience as she slowly brought the apple to her open mouth before the Phantom snatched it out of her hand (she only did that last one at the Saturday matinee, though – and for that I'm glad because I have enough Catholic guilt as it is, thank you very much). But the most scandalous moment here had to be when the Phantom joined Christine on the bench. This moment used to be infamous in London for the "grab" the Phantom did – but, as in the RAH performance, that wasn't done here. Instead, when Christine was sitting, her weight shifted to her right so that her left leg was fully extended to one side with her hand resting on her knee, Ben took a seat next to her and when he placed his hand over hers, he picked it up and planted them on her inner thigh (and I don't mean he subtly slid them over – this was a big, obvious movement up and off her knee and then back down into her skirt) before guiding it up her hip and torso until she suddenly pulled away in surprise and stood up.

Once Christine got her bearings, so to speak, Celinde sang her portion of the song very aggressively, the confidence she projected making her Aminta pretty much Don Juan's equal in power that gave the scene a more interesting dynamic. She did a couple of showy skirt swishes and a full 360 spin at one point that I thought was a little too over-the-top, but other than that, everything else worked fine. I also liked how she cried out, "NO!" when she realized it was the Phantom she was onstage with and tried to run off only to be held fast by her wrists, finally wrenching them free when they reached center stage. Once unmasked, the Phantom was shocked, of course, but Ben portrayed it through heavy, ragged breaths and erratic looks around him rather than the stunned silence many other Phantoms I've seen do.

Down Once More/Track Down This Murderer: More differences between the US and London productions: London Christines don’t have a cloak thrown over her in this scene and US Phantoms don't yank Christine up by the arm (and even grabbed her by the hair at one point) and throw her back down during his ranting and raving.

Final Lair: Just as in the First Lair, both Ben's Phantom and Celinde's Christine seemed to be of relatively equal power. While Ben stumbled back at Christine's verbal assault at the start of the scene, Celinde did the same when the Phantom lashed back at her. And with his line, "the joys of the flesh," Ben stepped toward Christine with his hands reaching out at her – causing her to back away quickly which makes him freeze, his expression changing to that of understanding the inappropriateness of his actions and then backing down, his head lowered slightly as if to reassure her that he was sorry for his impulsiveness. Ben's overall performance here was pretty classic, incorporating things like giggling to himself when Raoul demanded he free Christine while he's impotently blocked behind the portcullis and verging on tears when he cried out, "Make your choice!" that I've seen Phantoms over the past twenty years use to great effect.

I've always enjoyed when Raouls really show frustration/desperation when they arrive, probably because I've seen a few who seem WAY too casual about the whole situation. Nadim had the right amount of heightened emotion in his voice, and he mimed trying to lift the portcullis with his bare hands to try to get inside and even did an action roll under it when the Phantom allowed him in. During the kiss, he even struggled in the noose and clearly did not want to watch his fiancée kissing this man who he felt was a clear and dangerous threat.

Everything post-kiss was interesting, particularly in how Celinde brought a few new twists to it. When the Phantom freed Raoul, Nadim fell to the ground but, unlike many other Raouls who almost immediately pull the Punjab lasso off and try to get up, he did not – instead just laying there as Celinde rushed to kneel over him. They remained there for the Ben's next few lines, but when they did finally got to their feet, Raoul seemed very agreeable to leaving as the Phantom told them to, but Celinde's Christine held her ground when he moved to get them out. He tugged at her a second time, almost trying to pull her along with him but she refused to leave, defiantly saying, "Wait!" and never taking her eyes off the Phantom. She only relented when Ben turned and chased them out, screaming before falling to his hands and knees once he was all alone. When she returned and held out the Phantom's ring, Ben took her hand as he sang, "Christine I love you…" and after a quiet moment, she placed the ring in his palm, closed his fingers over it and then softly kissed his hand before leaving.

Post-Show: Curtain call ended with ushers passing out bottles of champagne to each row in the audience for us to fill our previously distributed champagne glasses while we waited for the 30th Anniversary Act 3 special presentation to begin. It took awhile, so there was a lot of photos and chatting until the Anniversary video abruptly and without announcement came up on a big video projection screen onstage. It was for the most part the same video as I remember from the Broadway 25th Anniversary performance, and by now we've all seen the excerpts of the special numbers they did. I will say that AIAoY featuring Michael Ball and ALW then segueing to include Celinde and later Nadim was hilarious to watch unfold, and having Sierra Boggess perform "Wishing" in French was a lovely and bittersweet consolation prize for those of us who upset about the disaster that abruptly cancelled the Paris production. The multi-Phantom PotO number was slightly improved by having two Christines, but it still felt a bit haphazard since the Paris Phantom, Gardar Thor Cortez, happened to be one of the Phantoms and he wasn't even introduced (the only clue for the audience as to who he was was probably the couple of lines both he and Sierra sang in French). Having members of the original London cast appear to take a bow was also much appreciated. Sarah Brightman was on tour I believe, so didn't make an appearance, Michael Crawford's appearance again was a silent one, and Hal Prince was sadly nowhere to be seen (although he was mentioned by name at one point), but they were still represented well. The grand finale itself, with the entire ensemble (multiple ensembles, it seemed) coming out and singing Masquerade was something of a letdown – not really building to anything in particular.

All in all, I thought it was a great show with great energy coming from everyone onstage. And finally seeing the show in London was like a fresh jolt of energy for me as a phan. Happy 30th Anniversary, Phantom London – may you haunt the West End for many years to come.

[anavoliselenu]

Relase me chapter 18

The corner of his mouth quirks up. “I told you that, too. We’re kindred spirits. And you’re strong, Selena. There’s a core of strength and confidence in you that’s damn sexy.”

I don’t meet his eyes. As he always does, he understood the heart of my question. “Have you not noticed the scars?” I ask. “I’m not strong, I’m weak.” And I can’t shake the fear that it’s because I’m weak that he wants me. Justin likes to be the one in control, after all.

“Weak?” He’s staring at me like I’ve gone a little crazy. “The hell you are. You’re not weak, Selena. You’re powerful. You’re a survivor. When I hold you, I can feel the power in you. It’s like holding a live wire.”

He moves closer, then cups my face gently in his palm. “That’s why I want you, baby. I’m not weak, either. Why would I want a woman who is?”

I tremble. He sees in me what I find so attractive in him. Power. Confidence. Ability.

But are those really my traits, or is he only seeing the Selena I show the world? Or is that Selena part of me, too?

“You know so much about me, and I hardly know you,” I say. “Do you know this is the first time I’ve even seen your bedroom?”

“There’s not much to see.”

“That’s not the point.” I tilt my head to look up at him, and find his eyes fixed hard on my face.

“Selena, I need to know that we’re okay.”

I have to fight not to nod. I so desperately want everything to be okay between me and Justin. But it’s going to take more than just wants and wishes. “Will you try?” I ask. “Try to share more with me?”

“I’ve shared more with you than I have with any woman,” he says.

I think about what he’s told me about his dad and his tennis career. “I know. I just—I just really want to know you. Does that make sense?” I don’t say that I know he has secrets in his past; it is those secrets I want him to share. I force myself to smile brightly. “Unlike some people, I don’t have the resources to find out on my own.”

“I thought you had Wikipedia,” he deadpans.

I make a face, and he bends down to kiss my nose. It’s playful and erotic and I realize that my fears have evaporated. Has he soothed them? Or am I simply unable to think clearly when I’m close to this man?

“It’s not easy for me,” he says, the intensity of his words surprising me. “I’ve never wanted to share the bits and pieces of my life before.”

“Do you want to now?” My words are a whisper, as if truly voicing them will kill that little bit of hope.

He strokes my cheek, making me tremble. “Yes.”

The relief that floods my body has a sensual, fiery quality. “Then you’ll try?”

“I’ll try,” he confirms. He steps into the bedroom, then holds out his hand. “Come with me.”

I put my hand in his, feeling the familiar tingle as my skin brushes his. He leads me to the window, then takes my hands and presses my palms against the glass. He stands behind me, his arms around my waist, the strong length of him tethering me to the earth as the darkening city opens up in front of me.

“Selena.” His voice is low and needful, and my body responds automatically. My breasts feel heavy, my nipples are tight nubs. Between my thighs, my sex quivers. I want him. Dear God, how I want him.

“Why?” I whisper. “Why does everything fall away when I’m with you?”

“Because there’s nothing else,” he answers. “Nothing but you and me.”

He keeps one arm around my waist, but removes his other hand. He trails his fingers up my leg, then pushes up my skirt until it’s bunched around my waist and my bare ass is pressed against his trousers. I feel him against me, his erection straining against a piece of cloth that is undoubtedly worth more than my car.

“Please,” I say. I want it fast and hard. I want to feel the passion that burns between us. I want it to erase all the doubts I’d come in with until there truly is nothing but me and Justin and the world outside. “Please fuck me.”

“Oh, God, Selena.” His voice is a groan, and I hear him fumbling with his trousers. I feel him shift behind me, and then the press of his erection like velvet steel against my bare rear. “Spread your legs.”

I do, and he slides his fingers over my cunt, stroking me, teasing me, making me writhe against him. But this isn’t what I want. I want him inside me. I want him now, and I tell him so.

He takes my hips and positions himself. I ease up onto my toes, then lower myself as he thrusts inside, but I have no control in this position. It’s all Justin, thrusting deep inside me, the power of his strokes pushing me forward. My palms are still on the glass, and with every stroke I’m pressed closer and closer, the wide void calling me, and nothing but Justin keeping me there.

I take one hand off the glass and reach down to stroke my clit as Justin fills me.

“That’s it, baby,” he whispers. The world is getting dark outside, and I can see our reflections now in the glass. I meet his eyes as the orgasm rockets through me, making me clench tight around him, drawing him out, making him come in deep, long spurts inside of me.

I gasp, shaken by the power of the orgasm, my body still pressed slightly forward, my hips still high, and Justin’s cock still deep inside me.

“Look outside,” Justin whispers. “What do you see?”

“It’s sunset,” I say playfully as I look over my shoulder to once again meet his eyes.

He presses his mouth to my ear, and there’s nothing playful in his tone. “Never, baby. Between us, the sun is never going down.”

“No,” I whisper, feeling safe and satisfied. “Never.”

25

Because Justin has to spend the next day in San Diego and Blaine is off dealing with some sort of gallery crisis in La Jolla, I’m back at my apartment before eight in the morning, and am surprised to find Jamie already awake.

“What the hell?” she says, by way of greeting. “You just vanished into thin air.”

“I know,” I say. “I’m a terrible roommate, but I’ll make it up to you. Breakfast. My treat.”

“And you’ll tell me everything?”

“Swear,” I say. And I cross my heart for effect.

We end up at Du-par’s on Ventura Boulevard, and after I tell her about Bruce and about what Ollie said and about Justin’s explanation, she proves that she is in fact worthy of best friend status by siding with me one hundred percent. “Ollie’s like an overprotective brother. And Justin’s just too damn hot to stay mad at. Besides, it’s not like he told Bruce to hire you. He just told Bruce about your resume.”

“Exactly,” I say. And since Justin and I worked through our issues rather thoroughly last night—as my soreness this morning can testify to—I shift the conversation. “This is my last week among the unemployed,” I say. “Wanna catch a movie?”

We end up seeing two, because what’s the point of being a lazy bum if you don’t do it up right, then head back to the apartment in a popcorn-and-soda-induced haze.

Jamie immediately heads to her room to change into pajamas even though it’s not yet four. I’m about to do the same when I’m stopped by a sharp knock at the door. “Hang on,” I say. If it’s Douglas, I’m totally shooing him away. For that matter, Ollie will get shooed, too.

It’s neither. It’s Edward.

“Ms. Fairchild,” he says, and though he keeps his professional face on, I see the smile in his eyes. “Mr. Stark asked me to deliver a personal apology that he wasn’t able to spend the day with you in celebration of your new job.”

“He did?” I bite back a grin. We’d done a bit of celebrating last night. Celebration sex. Make-up sex. We’d pretty much run the gamut.

“And may I extend my congratulations on your new job as well?” Edward adds.

“Thank you,” I say. “But he really didn’t need to send you. He already congratulated me when I saw him last night.”

“Yes, but I’m to deliver your gift. Or, rather, deliver you to your gift.”

I narrow my eyes at him. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m afraid I have very specific instructions that forbid me from actually telling you.”

“Oh. Um, okay. Let me just tell my roommate.”

“Ms. Archer is invited as well, of course.”

“Really?” This was getting interesting. I give a shout toward her room. “Hey, James. Change of plans. We’re going … somewhere.”

She pops her head out of the door, while still only half in her T-shirt. She tugs it down, and peers at Edward. “Huh? Where are we going?”

“Edward won’t say. But it’s a present. From Justin.”

“And I’m invited, too?”

“Absolutely,” Edward says.

“How fab is that? Well, shit,” she says to me, “I’m not turning down a mystery present from a guy with billions. That’s just not something I’m programmed to do.”

“Fair enough. I guess we’re going,” I add to Edward.

Jamie switches the pj bottoms out for jeans, and we grab our purses and follow Edward down to the limo. I wonder if Justin requested it, or if Edward decided to drive the limo instead of the Town Car simply to give Jamie a thrill. If so, it worked. She’s checking out every seat, poking into the bar, and examining each and every gadget on the console.

“Wine?” she asks, finding a chilled bottle of Chardonnay in a mini-refrigerator. Shows how much I pay attention. I didn’t even know the limo had a fridge. Then again, I was a bit distracted each time I took a ride in it.…

Edward takes us out onto I-10 and then heads east, which surprises me, as I’d been expecting us to head for the beach. “Where do you think we’re going?” I ask Jamie, who’s riffling through the CD collection that I’ve never bothered to look at.

“Who cares?”

I consider that, and decide she has a very good point.

Fifteen minutes later, it’s clear we’re heading out of Los Angeles, I’m on my second glass of wine, and Madonna is belting out “Like a Virgin.”

“So totally retro,” Jamie says, half-dancing in her seat. I consider overruling her choice, but it’s fun and loud and what the hell.

By the time we pass the windmill farms that mark the desert near Palm Springs, we’ve played classic rock, classic country, and a varied selection from current artists. We’ve danced—as much as you can in a limo—and sung and have basically turned the limo into party central. We’ve laughed so hard we’ve almost cried, and I think it’s the best time Jamie and I have had together since we skipped out of Friday classes our freshman year and drove from Austin to New Orleans.

I am so going to show Justin my gratitude when I see him.

Finally, Edward exits the 10 for a smaller highway, then a regular street, then a caliche road. I’m beginning to think that our destination must be a campsite when I see the sunset glowing against the white stucco of a low building nestled near the foothills of the rising mountains. We pass through a security gate, and I realize that what I thought was one building is a collection of several smaller ones, all surrounded by palm trees reaching up to brush the sky.

Jamie and I are pressed to the windows now, and she sees the sign first. “Holy shit,” she says. “We’re at the Desert Ranch Spa.”

“Seriously?” I don’t know why I sound so surprised. The Desert Ranch Spa may be one of those insanely expensive resorts where celebrities go for a little alone time, but it’s not like Justin can’t afford it.

“Are we staying the night?” Jamie asks. “Or maybe we’re just here for dinner? God, I hope we’re staying the night. I’ve never stayed in a place like this.”

The limo winds its way to the front entrance, and I gulp down the rest of my wine and slide toward the door, so that I’m ready to go the moment Edward opens it. When he does, there’s a woman beside him in pencil-thin trousers and a silk tank top. “Ms. Fairchild, Ms. Archer. Welcome to Desert Ranch,” she says, with an accent I recognize only as Eastern European. “I’m Helena. Come. I’ll take you to your bungalow.”

Bun-ga-low, Jamie mouths with eyes wide. We follow her down a landscaped path, me doing my Worldly Selena routine—why, of course I get out of limos and go to expensive desert resorts all the time—and Jamie practically bouncing. “For the record,” she says as Helena opens the door and we get a glimpse of the inside of the bungalow, “I am totally in love with your boyfriend.”

Boyfriend. I grin. I like the sound of that.

The bungalow is small but exceptionally well-appointed, with two bedrooms, a kitchenette, a living room with a comfy couch and chairs, and a fireplace. But the best part is the back porch, which looks out on the mountains without any sign of the resort. “You will have dinner in your room, yes? And then tomorrow we begin at eight.”

I almost hesitate to ask, but I break down. “Begin what?”

Helena smiles. “Everything.”

We’re awakened by gentle alarm clocks at seven-thirty, and it’s surprisingly easy to wake up despite having stayed up late sipping wine and talking after the most amazing dinner of Chilean sea bass and some type of risotto. We mainline coffee, sip orange juice, and put on the spa robes that we’ve been told to wear today.

When our liaisons, Becky and Dana, arrive at our doorstep, we’re eager to see what’s in store for us. As it turns out, Helena wasn’t exaggerating. We start with dips in the mineral waters, then move inside for facials and waxing and—because Becky whispers to me that Mr. Stark requested it—I even submit to a little more intimate wax. Not Brazilian, because ouch, but by the time I leave the waxing room, I have a neat landing strip that looks more professional than the shaving and Nair job I’ve managed all these years. My legs are smooth, my brows are fabulously shaped, and we move on to our choice of mud baths or seaweed wraps.

I go with the mud, because my mother never allowed me to play in the mud as a kid, and the tubs are outside. Jamie does, too, and so we lay back in our squishy beds of mud with glasses of sparkling water in our hands and cool cucumbers on our eyes. We don’t talk—by this time we’re both limp and relaxed—but it’s amazing just soaking up the luxury. So much so that I almost moan in protest when they help us out, scraping the mud off us with things that look like miniature shower squeegees, and then lead us to another mineral spring, which relaxes us even more and cleans us off.

After that, a cold dip wakes us up again, and then Jamie and I are led inside for a delicious lunch. Afterward we get to sit side by side for manicures and pedicures.

The last official spa treatment for the day is a massage. After that, we’re told we can go back to our bungalow or look over the activity list. Everything from hiking to horseback riding to yoga to golf. Fresh clothes will be waiting for us. Linen slacks and tops courtesy of the resort.

We part ways to go to our private massage rooms, and the masseuse, a woman with arms so defined I’m sure she must have been a professional athlete at some time, guides me to the table. She picks out an oil with just a hint of spice and I nod agreement. It’s unusual, but edgy, and it reminds me of Justin.

Oh yes, he is getting such a thank-you for this surprise.

I strip down and slide under the sheet. The table is the kind with a cutout for your face, and I lay limp, eyes closed, my body more relaxed than it’s been in a long time. “Just my back and arms and calves, please,” I say. “Not my thighs.”

“Of course.” She puts on music, and we begin. Her hands are like magic, and as she works the tightness out from along my spine, I’m pretty sure that I’ve gone to heaven.

Her touch is strong, but not so much as to be uncomfortable, and soon I’m drifting. Not really asleep, but not really there, either. I feel it when she takes her hands off me, then hear the clink of bottles as she gets more oil. I hear another click I can’t identify, and I lay still, waiting for her to continue with the massage.

When she puts her hands back on me, they feel different. Larger. Stronger. My body realizes the truth before I do, and my pulse kicks up. Justin.

I smile at the floor but say nothing as his oiled hands glide over me, working the kinks from my body, making me relaxed, making me squirm with desire.

He works my arms, paying attention to each little finger, which turns out to be so desperately erotic that I feel the tug of each stroke between my legs. Then he eases his strong hands down my back and over the towel that covers my ass and thighs. He draws his hands firmly down the back of each leg, then strokes the sole of each foot, and now I do moan with pleasure.

He drives me just a little bit crazy before moving on to each toe and then, finally, turning his attention to my calves. Long, gentle strokes, higher and higher until I feel his fingers grazing the edge of the towel, then easing my legs apart so he can direct his strokes even higher.

I am going completely crazy now, and it’s all I can do not to lift and twist my hips. I’m wet and I want him and I’m determined not to say anything but to just lay there and enjoy the moment. But oh, God, I want to feel him inside me.

I’m sure he knows how much he’s teasing me, and he pushes the towel up to massage my hips with firm, even strokes. He does the same to my inner thighs, coming so deliciously close to my cunt that I think I’m going to scream with frustration every time he dips near but doesn’t touch me.

Then I feel the soft brush of his fingers against my sensitive clit. The firm stroke of his hand over my slick heat. His fingertip dances circles over my clit and I can’t help it, I moan with the pleasure of it. And then it’s as if the world has slipped away and I’m nothing but this tiny point of sensation concentrated between my thighs, building and building, higher and faster, until I can’t take it anymore and I shatter in his hand.

“Justin,” I whisper. I am spent. My body is liquid. There’s no way I’m ever moving again.

I hear his low chuckle, then feel the press of his lips at the nape of my neck. “I can’t begin to tell you how happy I am that you knew it was me.”

When I am no longer a limp noodle and can actually compel my limbs to function, I get off the table and back into my robe. Justin and I leave at the same time, and Jamie’s door opens as we’re passing. She looks between me and Justin, then glances sideways at her masseuse, a tall blond man with large, capable-looking hands.

“You know,” Jamie says dryly, “nothing personal, but I don’t think I got the same level of service that she did.”

To his credit, the masseuse smiles. “Come,” he says, gesturing for her to follow.

“That’s the problem,” she mutters to me as she passes, “I didn’t.”

Back in the bungalow, I start to change into the linen outfit, but Justin has brought a peasant style skirt and matching blouse for me. I put it on, enjoying the way the loose cut of the material feels over my newly polished and primped skin.

He taps on Jamie’s door and tells her that he’ll be seeing me back to Los Angeles. She’s welcome to stay another night. Edward will be back to fetch her at nine in the morning. Jamie’s thank-you is so enthusiastic it borders on embarrassing, but Justin just tells her she’s very, very welcome.

“What are we doing?” I ask as we walk the path toward the front parking area.

“Celebrating,” he says, and I can tell from his enigmatic smile that I’m not going to get more of an answer than that.

I expect to see his uber-expensive car with the odd name, but apparently Justin wasn’t kidding about having three Ferraris. A glossy black one is parked right in front of the reception area.

“I thought you might like to take her for a spin,” he says.

I gape at him. “Seriously?”

He nods.

“Seriously?” I repeat, and this time he laughs. He opens the driver’s door for me and motions for me to slide in. “Just start slow.” His grin turns wicked. “But it’s no fun if you keep it slow.”

The bucket seat hugs me and I sigh as I wait for Justin to get in on his side. “Is she new?”

“No, why?”

“New-car smell. Um, she’s not like some rare classic car that’s irreplaceable, is she?”

He reaches over and slides the key into the ignition. “Drive, Selena.”

“Drive. Right.” I take a deep breath, punch in the clutch, and fire up the engine.

The motor purrs, and it’s a sweet, sweet sound. Slowly and carefully, I move the car into first gear and ease out of the driveway and onto the caliche road leading up to the resort. “Go left when you hit the street,” Justin says. “There are no other homes or businesses past the resort. I doubt there will be any traffic at all.”

I nod and ease slowly over the caliche. I’m crawling, actually, and I think Justin may be a little frustrated with my snail’s pace, but there is no way I’m risking little rocks flying up and chipping the paint on this baby.

And, yeah, I’m freaking nervous.

When I arrive at the intersection, I pause. “You’re sure about this?”

“Hell yes,” he says.

“What if I strip the gears?”

“I hope you do. I think a striptease would be an appropriate apology for something like that, don’t you?”

I squirm, half-wishing he didn’t have such an intense and immediate effect on me. “Don’t talk like that,” I say. “I need to concentrate.”

He laughs, then takes my hand and puts it on the stick. “All that power in the palm of your hand,” he says, and now I know he’s just trying to make me wet.

“Boys and their toys,” I retort, then ease the car left onto the street. “Here goes,” I say, and accelerate. It takes me a minute to get used to the steering and the speed, but I have to admit it’s exhilarating, and soon I’m all the way into seventh gear—seventh!—and the speedometer’s hovering over one hundred eighty. The ride is remarkably smooth, and I think I could take it even faster, but the foothills are getting pretty big in the front window and I see the road curving up ahead and I’m still nervous enough that I can’t do this on a curve.

I ease up, downshift, and pull over to the side of the road. As soon as the car’s off, I peel myself out of the driver’s seat and climb over the console until I’m straddling Justin. “That was amazing,” I say. “Totally, completely amazing.” I kiss him hard and fast, then press his hand to my leg. “Am I trembling? God, I think my body’s still vibrating just from the speed of this car.”

“Boys and their toys?” he says with raised brows. “I think this qualifies as a girl toy, too.”

“Heck yeah, it does.” I kiss him again, and he opens his mouth, drawing me in. His hands ease up the front of my blouse to cup my breasts, and I moan and reach down for his fly. He’s hard—I can feel him against my leg—but he shakes his head, his grin mischievous. “I don’t think so,” he says. “I think I’m going to make you wait.” I run my teeth over my lower lip, because I don’t want to wait. And yet there’s something tantalizing about the idea of such sweet torture. To be hot and needy and anticipating his touch.

He slides his hand between my legs and strokes me quickly, just one cruel little tease. I buck up and tighten my grip on his leg. “Oh, baby,” he says, “tell me you liked our toy.”

“Oh, yes.”

“I have a new game.”

“Game?”

He kisses me. “I bet I can make you come without even touching you.”

“Let me drive this car a bit longer, and you won’t have to do a thing,” I say.

He laughs. “I don’t want to make myself redundant. Besides, I brought another toy.”

I ease back a bit and eye him. His face is lit with both amusement and passion. He’s got the devious look of a man with a plan, but I haven’t got a clue what it could be. “All right,” I say. “I’m curious.”

He reaches into his pocket and takes out a cloth pouch, then pulls a metal egg from it.

“What is that?”

“I’ll show you,” he says. I’m still straddling him, and he slides his hand between my legs, and as I gasp in surprise, he slips the egg easily inside me.

“What the hell?”

He laughs. “You’ll see.”

“But—”

“How does it feel?”

“I—it’s, um, interesting.” I feel full. And very aware. And very turned on.

“Interesting?” he asks, and before the word has even left his lips, the thing inside me starts to vibrate, teasing me from the inside and making me gasp.

“Holy fuck,” I say, and Justin laughs. Immediately, the vibration stops.

I gape at him. “Remote control,” he says casually, then opens the door and eases me off his lap. He gets out and I take his place. I’m quiet, contemplating this strange, exotic, enticing toy he’s brought for us. I have to admit, it feels nice. The idea is weird, but the effect? Well, I really can’t complain.

He peels back out onto the street with a hell of a lot more aplomb than I did. I’m pretty sure we cross the two-hundred-mile-per-hour mark before we slow down and get back on the interstate. We drive for about twenty minutes, then exit in a small town called Redlands. “There’s a restaurant here I love,” he says, and he drives me past restored Victorian homes and into the quaint downtown area. It’s eight o’clock on a weeknight, and there aren’t many people out. The restaurant itself is only half full. It’s in a refurbished warehouse, and has an air of elegance set against brick and stone and iron piping.

“I like it,” I say.

“The ambience is great, the food even better.”

We’re led to a quiet booth in the corner, and I slide in on one side, expecting Justin to sit next to me. He doesn’t. He takes a seat across from me. “I want to look at you,” he says, but I don’t entirely believe him. He has a remote control in his pocket, and I have a feeling that he has plans for this evening.

I lean forward. “Don’t you dare. This is a nice restaurant.”

But Justin only smirks. And, yeah, he turns it on just long enough for me to jump.

I lick my lips and look around, certain everyone has not only seen me, but knows what we’re doing. But there’s really no one in our line of sight, and none of the staff are looking our way.

I swallow and shift a bit in the seat. I try to focus on my menu, but it’s hard, because any moment Justin might turn that thing on, and I’m both dreading it and anticipating it.

“You’re very easy to read, Ms. Fairchild.”

I scowl at him and focus on my current conundrum of deciding between a martini and a bourbon, straight up.

The bourbon wins. There’s really no contest.

The waitress returns with our drinks and takes our dinner orders—we’re both having steak—then leaves us in our little corner.

“You’re torturing me, you know,” I say.

Justin laughs and holds up his hands as if in self-defense. “Hey, I’m not doing anything.”

“Hmmm.”

“Anticipation is the better part of pleasure,” he says.

“Anticipation is driving me crazy,” I retort.

He reaches across the table for my hand, stroking his thumb over mine. “Tell me about the job. What does Bruce have planned for you?”

I eye him suspiciously. “You really don’t know?”

He laughs. “I really don’t.”

I launch greedily into the topic, giving him a rundown of the parameters of my new job. “Bruce seems really cool,” I add. “I think I’ll learn a lot from him.”

“I’m sure you will, but I still don’t understand why you don’t just dive in and work for yourself. You said you have a product in mind to develop, right?”

“I do,” I admit. “Honestly, I think I’m a little scared. I spent five years in school learning all the technical stuff. I trust myself with the science and the engineering. But the business end …” I trail off with a shrug. “I feel like there should have been a class on how to find investors or how to raise capital or something.” I wave my hand, because I’m sure I sound like a total loser. “I just don’t want to jump in before I feel competent. I’m afraid if I do all your money will just slip through my fingers.”

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