#i have the unedited scans if anyone would like those to do their own editing on the photos

[cptnbeefheart]

Levon Helm and the RCO All-Stars New Musical Express Japan Interview 1978

[moondustaeil]

nct ⥂ twenty-one ways to kiss

⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ✧☾.·:·. twenty-one ways to kiss

⋅ genre: little soft hour collection w fluff, angst, a bit of everything

⋅ inspiration: here

⋅ members: taeil  →  jungwoo (in age order, pt2 soon)

ｍｏｏｎ ⋅ ｔａｅｉｌ

⠀〔 5 : 12 pm 〕

⋅ a kiss casually

“Come to me~” Taeil sang out loud as he opened his arms widely, ready to receive you like he would receive his birthday presents. His arms opened until you dropped your body in his welcoming arms, then his arms prevented you from walking out of them. “It’s Taeil time,” he said with a small grin as he thought about sitting on the sofa without doing any chores or other time-consuming things. “What about me?” you asked with a small smile as you turned towards him more, unable to hide your smile at the cute expression on his face. Taeil seemed to consider your words, even though you knew he would never have to consider adding your name right next to his. “Okay fine,” he said with a fake sigh, stealing a casual kiss from your soft lips “It’s y/n and Taeil time”

⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀

ｓｕｈ ⋅ ｊｏｈｎｎｙ

⠀〔 7 : 54 am 〕

⋅ a kiss to wake yours up

 Johnny’s fingertips burned against his closed eyes as he began to rub the sleep out of them, the bittersweet feeling caused a small groan to escape from his lips. Adjusted or not, Johnny opened his eyes to stare towards the other side of his bed, the place where you were still ‘gracefully’ asleep. “Morning” Johnny spoke out as tiredness was like a string of saliva that fell from his lips, his body turned towards you to admire you as you slept. As adorable as your cheek was when it was squished against the white pillow, you were even more adorable with your eyes open and a smile on your lips. The sheets shuffled quietly as he leaned over and pressed a delicate kiss upon your lips, a soft kiss to wake you up.

⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀

ｌｅｅ ⋅ ｔａｅｙｏｎｇ

⠀〔 5 : 16 pm 〕

⋅ a kiss on a scar

“They edited it out again,” Taeyong said while his eyes scrolled just as fast as his fingertips did through the collection of new pictures. It only took one look at the corner of his eye: he knew himself well enough, but at the same time knew photographers and magazines well enough. To others, it was an imperfection, and Lee Taeyong himself was a part of that group as well. To you, it didn’t count as imperfection, neither did it count as ugly or any other negative label. “It’s a shame, it only makes you more beautiful,” you pointed out, trying to catch a glimpse of the little scar but he was fast enough to turn away. “Don’t hide it, it makes you more you” you said soft, making his head turn towards you again as he listened attentively. Your lips placed themselves against the unedited scar, leaving a delicate kiss to linger there.

⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀

ｎａｋａｍｏｔｏ ⋅ ｙｕｔａ

⠀〔 9 : 03 am 〕

⋅ a kiss out of habit

“I have to go now y/n” Yuta complained as his arms crossed over his chest, his eyes were on you as you just nodded from your position on the sofa. Your response caused him to huff, staying frozen in his spot which made it seem like he wasn’t able to move. “y/n!” He said, his voice getting louder as his arms finally opened themselves up to give away what he needed before he could walk out of the door. “Quick kiss” he muttered once you were finally in his arms, his lips pressing some tiny kisses on yours. Yuta simply needed his usual kiss before he could leave

⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀

  ｑｉａｎ ⋅ ｋｕｎ

⠀〔 8 : 46 pm 〕

⋅ a kiss to shut them up

“Do you think we have everything?” Kun asked you as his eyes scanned the suitcase for the third time that evening, the slowness of his eye movement made it obvious how each object seemed to go past his checklist before he could move on.��“We already checked everything, I bet we do. It’s only a weekend away” you said, stating your point in a gentle voice before Kun got worked up over the many worries he had in his mind. You sat down behind him, your arms wrapping around his body as both of you now were crouched next to the suitcase. “Stop worrying,” you said, earning a small moment of eye contact from him. His lips parted as he was about to add another point to already long list, but before he could, you pressed a little kiss on his lips...perhaps to shut him up, or out of love...

⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀

ｋｉｍ ⋅ ｄｏｙｏｕｎｇ

⠀〔 7 : 55 pm 〕

⋅ a kiss virtually 

The waiting room was crowded: with eight other members and a bunch of staff filling every little bit of personal space Doyoung wanted. The time went by slowly as each time he unlocked his phone, only a minute or two had passed from the last time he checked. Another text caused his screen to light up: the standard iPhone wallpaper hiding his relationship with you, but then again, his notification space was now filled with the text from you.

y/n 💕 [7:55 pm] : I miss you but I hope you do well today. Don’t forget to have fun! 😘

doyoung [7:55 pm] : I love you 🥰

⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀

ｔｅｎ

⠀〔 10 : 01 pm 〕

⋅ a kiss as an apology 

“I shouldn’t have said that,” Ten said right after a small string of insulting words towards you had fallen from his lips, his eyes merely trying to come in contact with yours as he knew you would decline. Like he expected, you didn’t say the words he wanted to hear, nor the words he didn’t want to hear. Rather than looking down in sad silence, he gave up his pride and walked up to you, a hand reaching out for you. “I’m sorry, I really am. Sorry for saying those things and for hurting you with them” he said as his hand lifted your hanging one, holding it tightly to represent the bond you shared. The hint of a small and yet smile appeared on your lips, a hint he took immediately. He leaned towards you, pressing tiny kisses all over your face like he would usually spoil your ears with whispered apologies...

⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀

ｊｕｎｇ ⋅ ｊａｅｈｙｕｎ

⠀〔 00 : 14 am 〕

⋅ a kiss without motive

“Do I still look like your prince charming?” Jaehyun asked you teasingly as he looked at your face through the mirror, a small chuckle making bubbles fall from his structured face when he noticed how your face was covered in bubbles. A hum was heard in the bathroom as you had to fake your thoughts for a second but nodded your head almost right away. “Of course, wouldn’t want to do facemasks with anyone but my prince charming” you simply said, giving it no other explanation in the teasing moment. His face leaned closer to yours once you had spoken, tiny bubbles colliding and becoming one as your lips touched in a kiss...

⠀ ⠀ ⠀ 

ｄｏｎｇ ⋅ ｓｉｃｈｅｎｇ

⠀〔 8 : 29 am 〕

⋅ a kiss in secrecy 

“Good morning” Sicheng whispered to you after you had already said the words to him, a tired smile gracing his pink lips. He lifted the sheets from your bodies, pulling them up higher until they covered up your existence to the decorated room. A small laugh left your lips in confusion but didn’t question it further as you were enjoying the little bit of privacy, shielded from a new day that would start. Sicheng’s lips pressed over the soft skin of your face: from the tip of your nose, to one of your warm cheeks, ending with a kiss on your lips.

⠀ ⠀ ⠀

ｋｉｍ ⋅ ｊｕｎｇｗｏｏ

⠀〔 10 : 43 am 〕

⋅ a kiss in joy

“Where are we going?” Jungwoo whined out as he kept his eyes unnecessarily closed whilst he was walking hand in hand with you, through the streets of familiar Seoul. “It’s not a surprise, Jungwoo!” you said, playfully rolling your eyes now that he couldn’t see the gesture anyway. Though you rolled your eyes, you enjoyed the playful part of your boyfriend: the way he could laugh at his own silliness and make you laugh as well. Once you arrived at the destination you hadn’t spoken out loud of, you opened the door and led him inside. By then, curiosity had taken him over and made him peek lightly at what was in front of him. “The dog café? Seriously! We’re at the dog café” he said cheerfully as he grabbed your arms and pulled you against him, his eyes on the little puppies as he pressed his lips to your cheek.

[ofmythsandmadness]

The Night We Met.

PAIRING: Ben Hargreeves x Reader SUMMARY: Years after the lose of your childhood love, you decided to pay your respects, one last time. WARNINGS: angst. pain. lots of both. this is super sad, so read on well aware of what’s to come. there’s zero happiness in this, really truly (oops). WORD COUNT: 3000+

A/N: I was in a rough place and super sad and then I wrote this (like two nights ago), and then I didn’t have a chance til now to finish it up. It’s super sad and unedited, so I suppose read on at your own risk. Also, I don’t know if I really wrote Klaus well...I did my best. Again, this isn’t really edited and sort of just a toss away coming from an emotional me loving & missing Ben Hargreeves too late.

A LONG TIME AGO, she swore she would never step foot in that cursed house again.

But there she was, standing in the middle of the foyer, taking it all in as though it was her first time. And in a way, it was the first time she truly took in all the details, all the terrifying glory the mansion was, standing several metres below it all. In all her visits, Y/N had only once used the front door - and it was to exit, not come inside.

She tore her eyes away from the sky and shifted forward. In her hand were crumpled flowers, a rather cheap bouquet with wilted petals and a gaudy ribbon holding the stems together. Y/N was never a flower person and she certainly was not going to convert for the sake of a dead tyrant, and honestly it was all she could bother with. Not like the old man was going to see them anyways.

Y/N turned to place the bouquet on the front table, carefully tucking up the ribbons around the flowers, as though that was going to save the cheap, gross look. Without another thought turned to the ‘prison’s’ architecture, she was moving away, floating off and up the stairs. The house was silent, with ghosts of laughter lurking about every corner, but no familiar face to take in. Maybe that was best, too. She would rather be alone. Even just seeing Pogo again made her choke and struggle to even get a word out. The butler was polite enough to let her be, but there was no way to guarantee that for anyone else.

She stumbled down the long hallway, following a trial of memories, past the doors to nearly the end. It was shut, but not locked, and she was able to gently push it open and step inside, immediately coming to a halt at the entrance.

Nothing had changed. Not a detail, not a book changed from how it looked when she had ran out years and years back. Her hand shakily reached out to bump the light switch, heart beating even harder when the small room was illuminated with light.

The bedrooms of the Hargreeves children had always felt small, but as she stood in the doorway, peering about with tears in her eyes, the tiny space felt suffocating. Too many memories, too many reminders of a life she had buried deep, deep down a long time ago. Too much came back too quickly, and Y/N had to steady herself against the doorframe before continuing.

But she had forced herself all the way for a reason. Even if it was the last time she stepped inside, it was something and she had to pay her respects to him. And so, Y/N choked back her quiet sob and shut the door behind her, letting the past wash over her and engulf her beneath the inky black waves.

“Stay still!”

“I’m trying!”

A soft snort left the girl’s lips, followed by a muffled laugh. “You’re not trying hard enough,” she giggled, lunging so the end of her paintbrush could jab into his shoulder. “You gotta stay still, ‘else this drawing’s gonna be bad.”

“You’ve never drawn anything bad. It’s going to look great.”

Once more, she snorted. “Of course it will, Benny. It’s a drawing of you.”

In the dim light of the room, darkness only barely pushed away by a flashlight, his cheeks bloomed with rosy pink, a flush at the teasing compliment. Neither one addressed it, but both of them took note, and even as she studied the paper, the girl was smiling.

She had forgotten about the sketches she had done of him - but moreover, she had not realised he had made a point to keep each one. Her finger traced the thick stains on the paper, lines creating the pointed chin and soft, shy smile she had loved so much. Y/N had forgotten how much she loved to draw, especially him - she had not touched a paintbrush in years.

Not since.

Her eyes lifted and the sketch left her fingers, leaving them free to reach up and trail down his bookshelf. He always had far too many to count, and multiple times she teasingly questioned if he had ever even read half of them. But every time, he claimed that he had and honestly? Despite the poking fun, she had no doubt about it.

She shifted across the carpet, jean-clad legs coming to rest beside his. They were just barely touching, arms brushing every time she took a breath.

“W-what are you doing?”

“Shh,” she sleepily murmured back. Her head fell to his shoulder, eyes lazily scanning the pages of the book in hand. “What are you reading?”

Under her head, Y/N could feel him tense up, a common reaction she had become used to. She knew he was nervous around her, and could discern some sort of reason why - though there was no part of her courageous enough to truly act on it. No, her bravery extend to little actions like that, where she could cuddle into his side and blame her actions on something like weariness. 

“H-Diego got it for me,” he said softly. His trembling hand moved to her shoulders, draping across as a sort-of intimate support. All actions were hesitant and unsure, but when Y/N snuggled closer in, some of the shaking died down. “It’s about these elves? And all the races around them. It’s sort of badly done, but considering everything it’s good.”

“Can you read it to me?” 

“Yeah, uh - sure.”

Y/N stifled a yawn and moved even closer. Her eyes slid shut and she let her mind drift, focused only on his sweet voice recounting a tale she probably would not remember the next day. And all the while, she could feel his heartbeat just barely against her own skin. And…

She blinked away the glossy cover of tears and pulled away from the book in hand. It had meant a lot to Ben, she did remember that - Diego had got it from him and though it was one of those clearance buys, the sort that were sold at the lowest of bookstores because no one else bought them, he had cherished it because it was from his brother and it was an act of love. And in turn, he had shared that love with her, eventually striking up a routine between the two of them. Any time she came over and it was nice, he would read and her head would rest against his shoulder, eyes sleepily watching as he read aloud to her. Sometimes, she would adjust and press a soft kiss to his shoulder, or cheek if she was brave enough, and watched as his face exploded with a deep red in reaction. It had made her smile, to know even before they ever solidified a thing between them, that they were both madly falling for the other.

It had not taken long for them to break. It was her that made the first move, though immediately after came his eager response. Even through the pain, Y/N smiled, seeing those fateful moments flashed in her mind like a movie. She never forgot that night.

It was raining, and she had come to his window soaked right through. He had scolded her for coming at all in such bad weather, and her argument back was that it was a short walk, and she could just steal another one of his signature black hoodies. Ben still remained tense, arguing back to her that she could get pneumonia or something in the cold, and then...

-Y/N gently touched her lip, cold fingers pressed into the skin. It was their first kiss, and it was everything expected - short, awkward and surprising for both of them. But just as a younger Y/N had pulled back, unsure if her kissing him was even the right move, if he had wanted that to happen, Ben pulled her in and that was when, really truly her young, cold heart burst and bloomed inside her chest.

“He-Y/N.”

She whirled around, coming face to face with a shocked Klaus Hargreeves. Or at least, who she could assume was him - it had been too many years, and he had aged remarkably, but the dark, glittering eyes definitely matched with the boy she once knew. Though, wrapped in cheap fur and a black coat that hung from his willowy frame, with large bags under his eyes and shaking hands - it was clear life had not treated her old friend well.

“What a surprise this is…”

“Yeah, sorry,” she mumbled. Her hands found the pockets of her sweater, forming fists within the fabric. “I didn’t mean to come uninvited. I just...heard the news about your father. Sorry, by the way.”

Klaus snorted. “Please. I think this might just be the happiest day of my life, Y/N. Finally, I can walk through this prison and not have to worry where’s he’s lurking - a goddamn creep, our dear father was!”

That outlook was not so surprising. She could honestly bet that none of them would be too saddened by the news, but there was still a sting of guilt at her being there. She shuffled in place. “Right. Well, still, sorry for showing up out of the blue and intruding.”

“You’re not intruding at all,” he said. Klaus’ gaze had softened and he pulled forward to pat her shoulder. “But I do have to ask - why now?”

“Oh. Well, um...honestly,” she sighed, “I came purely for my own self. I know I said all stuff about never coming back, but I-I - when I saw that he had died, I mean...it felt fitting.”

Klaus knew exactly what was alluded to - it was not hard to remember Y/N and Reginald’s first and only interaction. A shudder ran through his slender frame, and his grasp on her shoulder tightened. “Are you alright?”

Y/N nodded, though there was no possible way for her to be ‘alright’, not there and not then. “Yeah. I just...wanted to pay my respects, see it all one last time.”

“Ah.”

“I still can’t wrap my head around it,” she murmured. Pulling away, she headed to the tiny desk and lifted one of her sketches for him to see. Rough charcoal formed a young boy’s face, frozen in a laugh, almost so real the two of them could hear the giggles fill the room. “I - for years, I couldn’t even think about it. Losing him...broke me so much, and I know - well, you get it. He was your brother, and I know that you two had such a bond. But I...I loved him, too.”

The room’s atmosphere suddenly shifted, a chill running through the and sending shivers down both individual’s spines. 

Klaus, for once, said nothing.

“I loved him so much, and I know he loved me. And I…” she stopped, wiping a fallen tear from her cheek. More followed swiftly, but those she ignored. “You know, we talked about what we could have, when he finally got old enough to leave. We’d run far, far away. Say a big screw you’ to dear old Reggie and leave to build our own lives. He wanted to go to school, you know? Dreamt of having a career of his own, something that helped the world. Something he got all on his own.”

“He was always the ‘goodest’ of us all.”

Y/N smiled softly at Klaus’ comment. Her face was alight with silver, and specks of black stained under her eyes, contrasting against the puffy red skin. But neither took note. “He was. He cared so damn much, about everyone. I could never understand how a boy that good could see himself as a monster, but I - I just wanted to tell him that he was nothing like what his father claimed him to be, he never could be.”

“Hey, no-” Klaus stepped forward then, wrapping his thin arms around her shaking frame. It was then that Y/N finally gave in and truly began to sob. Loud, broken cries that echoed throughout, filling the air. She tried to speak, struggling to say some sort of huffed apology, but he cut her off with a ‘you’re going to choke on your words, just hush!’. It was not that funny, but she did smile at that.

Finally, Y/N pulled away, brushing at her eyes and face with a sigh. “Thanks, Klaus.”

“Well, I’m not him but I am known for my hugs,” he grinned back, his own sadness staining his pale face. Still, he clung to the funny facade, twisting into a funny curtsy. “At your service.”

“Well, thanks.”

She moved back to the drawings, pulling through them with a frown, but Klaus did not take note of the art. Instead, his eyes drew down to the flash of light reflected on her finger. He gasped. “Is that--”

“-what - oh. Yeah,” she nodded solemnly. Her hand lifted and then he could see the slim ring on her hand, glittering in the light. It was plain, only decorated by a single diamond pressed into the precious metal. “S’a recent thing.”

“Well, congrats - whoever it is, they must be extremely lucky.”

Despite herself and the pain still wringing her heart through, Y/N smiled, thinking of who had put the ring on her finger. “Yeah...yeah, I think I’m the lucky one in this. I didn’t think I’d ever get the chance to be in this position, truly. But they’re...they’re good to me.”

“Well, I can’t wait for my wedding invite!”

“Ha - yeah. Of course, we’ll save a seat for you, Klaus.” The light soon faded in her eyes, though, as they lifted back to the surroundings and seemingly, she remembered just where she was. “This might sound silly, but...I actually came here, almost to come to terms with the engagement.”

“What do you mean?”

Y/N shrugged softly. “I don’t know. I just wanted a chance to say goodbye to him, one last time, let him go. I held onto him for so long, not accepting that he’s gone - and even now that I’m engaged to be wed, I still had this overwhelming guilt, like I was betraying Ben, somehow.”

“Well that’s not stupid, Y/N - you loved him. I don’t really know much about love, but I do know what the two of you had was...it was something,” Klaus said, almost wistfully as he looked at her hand. He moved beside her again, rubbing her shoulder with long, spindly fingers. She leant into the movement.

“We were supposed to get married, one day.”

“I know.”

“We were gonna have a big house, maybe take in a couple kids - we were both more into adoption, given everything.”

“I know, he told me. He never shut up about the plans, if you could imagine.”

Y/N shut her eyes, swaying ever so slightly where she stood. “I just wish...I wish I could see him one last time. Tell him I love him, that I always will.”

“He knows, Y/N. It’s okay.”

At that, her eyes sprung open, flitting over to stare in surprise at Klaus. “What do you mean by that?”

For a moment he froze, and almost looked through her, past at whatever could be behind. But just as she was going to question him and dig into whatever he could have meant by that, Klaus slipped into an easy smile and a shake of his head. “I just know, you know? Dear old Benny, God rest his soul.”

Her eyes remained narrowed in slight suspicion for a breath, but soon it slipped back into weariness and a soft, sad grin. She pulled him in for one last hug, clinging tight to him before drawing away. “Thanks for this, Klaus.”

“Oh, I - well, I haven’t done a thing.”

“No, seeing you again, getting a chance to get over myself and all the pent-up shit attached to him - it’s helped.” She patted his arm one last time before pulling away, brushing at her eyes on the way to the door. Her voice was choked as she spoke, but still clear enough to discern her words. “Goodbye, Klaus. Don’t be afraid to keep in touch.”

And with that, the door was shut and Y/N had vanished just as quickly as she had came from the room of her childhood love, leaving behind all the memories and pain of years long past.

Once he was sure she could not hear him, Klaus whirled around, glaring at the ghostly figure. “What was all that for?”

Ben’s pale face was stained with his own tears, broken by the image of Y/N. For just like for her, it had been years since he had properly seen her, aside from the glimpses of old memories he begged Klaus to bring out for him.

“Ben?”

“She’s found someone,” he said, barely a mumble into the silence. His hand rose to wipe at his face. “She’s happy, Klaus.”

“Well I know she’s said that, but-”

-he cut him off with a wave of his hand, running straight through his brother’s body. “She’s happy, and I want - I can’t just be selfish and not let her move on.”

Klaus rolled his eyes and moved to interject, but once more Ben cut him off. He could not touch his brother, but did make a point to try, waving a ghostly hand through the man’s arm and torso. “It’s not worth it, Klaus.”

Outside the Hargreeves house, stood Y/N, frozen just outside the large gates. Her eyes were trained on the paper in hand. She had stolen one of the sketches, one of her favourites that were ever done of him. He had not known she was drawing him, lost in his book, cross-legged on his bed with eyes focused downwards. She had taken the chance and sketched him loosely, drawing the boy in all his soft glory, the faintest of smiles resting on thin lips and the silky strands of hair falling freely across his forehead. It never had been her best work, but it had meant the most to him and years and years later, it was the most important to her.

Y/N sighed shakily through her sobs. Her hand pressed one last time to the drawing, tracing the lines before falling away. The drawing was folded back up and slipped into her pocket to be clutched tight by shaking fingers. And with that, she turned away and began her walk back to her new life, away from the one she had left behind.

Little did she know, Ben had watched her from his old bedroom window, craning until he could not see her anymore.

[inyournightmares97]

How to Be a Heartbreaker

Four simple rules to follow to break a persons’ heart. Should be easy enough, shouldn’t it? After all, it’s much easier to be a heart-breaker yourself than to have your heart broken. 

Warnings: Language, angst, one description of sexual assault (not rape). 

Word Count: 7.2k+

Based off the song How to Be a Heart-breaker by Marina and the Diamonds

(Unedited, I literally wrote this entire thing in a single sitting and now it’s 2 am so please forgive me, I’ll edit later. I don’t feel entirely sane right now.) 

This is how to be a heartbreaker

Boys they like a little danger

We’ll get him falling for a stranger,

A player,

Singing I lo-lo-love you

The lights at the club were terrible. You could barely see anything and you were practically tripping over your large heels as you climbed the stairs to the VIP area. You went out clubbing with your girlfriends often but tonight was a little different. Mina had recently met one of the city’s largest businessmen through work and he had invited her to bring her friends to one of the newly opened clubs in which he owned a stake. It was the sort of place you couldn’t get into with just money… you needed influence and apparently the men who owned this club had plenty of it.

“Wow, this club is amazing,” one of your friends cooed as your group entered the less crowded VIP area. It was still extremely dark but the music was pumping loudly. You raised an eyebrow at the terrible choice in music; why were they playing a song that was almost a decade old? But your friends were all gaping around in amazement. It wasn’t often that you got to come to the opening of the hottest new club and enter the VIP space. “I can’t believe we’re here; this is literally the hottest place to be in the city right now.”

You rolled your eyes. “You girls must be joking.”

“You don’t like this place?” Mina wondered.

“It’s not that bad. But the lighting is terrible considering that the floor has some stupid patterns carved into it; does nobody think about the fact that women need to walk here in heels? And I haven’t heard this song since I was ten years old. Somebody needs to fire this DJ.”

A deep, amused chuckle sounded behind you. You froze in your steps as you felt someone walk up to you from behind and caught a whiff of expensive, tantalizing men’s perfume. The voice made your entire body shiver as it spoke. “I’m sorry you feel that way. There’s nothing more important to me than making sure women are comfortable in my club,” he drawled. “Welcome, ladies.”

You whirled around to see the most beautiful man you’d ever met.

He was almost entirely dressed in black with silver hair falling into his dark eyes. You had never seen such an angular, perfectly shaped face or such luscious, pouty lips. They turned up into a smirk as he folded his arms across his chest lightly and introduced himself. “I’m Bambam. The owner of this club that you don’t seem to be particularly enjoying yourself at.”

Mina stepped forward flustered. “Hi. I’m so sorry. We were invited here by Jackson Wang-“

Bambam chuckled, his eyes never leaving yours despite addressing Mina. You had to admit that his dark gaze sent a tingle down your spine. You knew the sort of mind games men played and you knew that he was trying to get you flustered with the unwavering eye contact. His voice was low and smooth as he cut Mina off. “Oh, I know. Jackson is one of my investors. He should be around here somewhere, he never fails to find the ladies. But I have to ask. Did you mean what you said about the lighting and the DJ?”

You stared back at him, refusing to break eye contact. “I never say anything I don’t mean.”

“That’s a little upsetting,” Bambam admitted. One of his hands came up to rub his chin and you couldn’t help but notice how large they were; long, slender fingers that looked like they knew what they were doing. He chuckled when he noticed how your gaze had drifted down to yours hands. “I spent a lot of money on modelling this club and on hiring the best DJ. If my patrons aren’t enjoying themselves then something should be done about that. Don’t you agree?”

You smirked. “Some better music would make for a nice vibe.”

“In that case, would you ladies excuse me for a moment? I’m going to go see what I can do about the music. Please; have your first round of drinks on me.”

You rolled your eyes as he walked away, leaving you and your friends alone. One of them grasped your arm and squealed lightly once he was out of earshot. “Oh my God! Do you know who that was? That was Bambam! He’s that super successful model who quit his career a few years ago and became a businessman! He owns like, five or six clubs in the city, a bunch of restaurants and a seven-star hotel!”

You raised an eyebrow at her. “Yes, thank you Miss Wikipedia.”

She blushed. “I read an article about him in a magazine the other day. He’s one of those eligible bachelor types. How exciting! It’s like meeting a celebrity!”

“Stop embarrassing yourself. He’s just a rich man and not an actual celebrity,” you told her. Although you were unwilling to admit it, Bambam had aroused your interest. Nothing pleased you more than putting men who thought they were the shit in their place. “Now, come on. He says he’ll pay for our first round so everyone go order the most expensive thing the bar has. Let’s see how much money this guy is willing to spend on us.”

Tonight would certainly be fun.

--

Bambam returned fifteen minutes later. You smiled to yourself when you saw him scanning the crowd and you knew that he was looking for you. You had found a seat alone by the bar while most of your friends had chosen to either dance, or chat up a group of handsome men nearby. You didn’t move or react to Bambam; you just crossed your legs in order to expose more of your thigh in your risqué dress as he made his way towards you.

“How do you like the change in music?” he asked you, pouty lips twisted into a small smirk as he leaned against the bar.

You sipped your drink calmly. “It’s definitely better. What did you do?”

“Fired the DJ and had him replaced,” he told you.

You raised an eyebrow. Despite looking like a proud man in his expensive clothing and with his smoldering charisma, there was a hint of childishness in Bambam. You were in no doubt that firing the DJ had been a little stunt to impress you. You could see it in his eyes. His insecurity, and his need to inspire awe in other people.

“Interesting,” you commented lightly. “I suppose it’s a relief that you managed to find another DJ but I think if you’d really put some thought into your club then you wouldn’t have hired the first one at all.”

Bambam’s eyes wavered. He licked his lips before letting out a small chuckle and stepping a little closer to you. His leg was now brushing against your knee. You could feel the expensive fabric of his pants against your bare skin. “Wow, you’re not easy to please, are you?” he asked. “Not to worry, I like a challenging woman. Can I ask you to join me for a dance since the music has improved? Or maybe you would like another drink first?”

You smirked. “Depends. Are you buying?”

Bambam chuckled. “I’ll buy as many as you can drink.”

“And I’ll drink as long as you can keep up,” you replied with a smile. “How does that sound to you, Bambam?”

Bambam wasn’t sure exactly what it was, but he was completely enraptured by you. Most women either threw themselves at him blatantly or avoided him because he had a reputation for being a player. He had never met anyone like you; cool and confident, your words made you seem unimpressed yet your eyes were dangerously seductive. You were a challenge. A challenge that Bambam had to work for but he was fairly confident that the fruits would be sweet at the end. Women like you were never a disappointment.

“All right. What do you want to drink?”

You licked your lips. “Whisky. Neat.”

He couldn’t help but laugh in surprise. Wow, you were unpredictable. “Going straight for the hard liquor, are we? All right, then. Don’t get too drunk though, I’m hoping to get a dance out of you before the night is over.”

You smirked. “Let’s see if you’re up for it after the drinks. I’ll have you know that I have a very high tolerance for tequila.”

Bambam chuckled as the bartender bought you two glasses of whisky. He clinked his against yours before lifting it up to his lips. You lifted your own glass and let the alcohol burn down your throat, finishing it in one gulp. He seemed a little surprised and mildly impressed when he saw you set your empty glass down and order another one.

“Have I underestimated you?” he wondered.

“I’m afraid you have.”

--

You loved the pleasant buzz the alcohol gave you and you smirked while watching Bambam get progressively drunk. He was trying to keep up with you, drink-for-drink, but you could see how his eyes were becoming slightly unfocused and how he kept running his fingers through his hair. He kept making the silvery strands messier with each stroke. His cheeks were flushed slightly red.

“Are you seriously still sober?” Bambam asked you with a laugh as you gulped down drink after drink and merely smacked your red lips.

“Aren’t you?” you teased. “I’m not even close yet.”

“I don’t believe you. Come here and walk in a straight line,” he insisted, gesturing towards a small empty space in front of the bar. You rolled your eyes and stepped down from the barstool, landing neatly on your feet. You walked over to the other end of the bar and then strutted confidently back towards Bambam. You made sure to swing your hips seductively and you saw his intoxicated gaze scanning your body as you finally stopped a few inches away from him and flipped your hair back. You blew him a small kiss with your hand and then took your seat on the barstool.

“See? Perfectly sober. And I’m in heels.”

Bambam’s eyes had clouded over with lust. You could tell that the alcohol had an effect on him and whether he was only now realizing how attractive you were or whether his inhibitions had only now dropped, he stepped closer until he was inches away from you. His pouty lips were close to your own as he whispered. “That was a cute little show you put on, there.”

You blinked innocently. “Show? I was just showing you that I was sober.”

He chuckled. His voice rumbled deep in his throat as his warm breath tickled your skin. “And somehow, miraculously, you are still sober. But if I have another drink then I might not be able to control myself. I might just lean in and kiss those pretty lips of yours. So you tell me if we should have another drink or not.”

You smiled and leaned closer to him, placing a hand lightly on his shoulder. His gaze drifted down to your fingers as you stroked the front of his shirt. “I don’t kiss strange men in public,” you told him in a low, soft voice. Your lips were close to his neck but you never let them touch his skin. “I like to be wined and dined first. So you can have as many drinks as you want, but I won’t be going anywhere with you tonight.”

You expected that he would look disappointed, but to Bambam’s credit he only smiled.

“In that case, let me take you out on a date. Next week?”

You leaned back and looked at him, the challenge in his eyes present. No. You never let the man set the terms. Everything had to be on your own terms and at this moment, you suddenly decided that you didn’t really want to go on a date with this Bambam person. He was a little too pretentious and childish for you and you merely bit your lip and leaned back.

“I’ll think about it. If you’ll excuse me, I believe my friends are leaving…” you said, climbing down from the barstool. You were surprised when Bambam gently grabbed your wrist and stopped you.

“Wait. You haven’t given me your name or your number or anything. How will I find you again?”

You smiled and then leaned up, moving closer to his face before giving him a soft kiss on the cheek. You let your lips linger on his skin for a few moments so that he could inhale the sweet scent of your perfume and then you pulled back.

“Let’s trust fate, shall we?” you suggested cheekily, before walking away to rejoin your friends. Bambam watched you leave with his eyes fixed on you as his gaze darkened. You were much more of a challenge than he’d originally anticipated and he decided that he had to have you. Nobody in their right mind would lose a woman like you.

Rule number one

Is that you gotta have fun.

But baby when you’re done,

You gotta be the first to run.

--

Bambam found you in less than a week.

He was waiting outside your office building as you exited after work, and you spotted him instantly. It was difficult not to. The man wearing what was clearly a designer suit and leaning against a sleek black sports car was attracting attention from almost everyone on the street. Dark glasses were covering his eyes and he lowered them when he spotted you.

“Hey beautiful,” he called out to you with a smirk. “Have a nice day at work?”

You couldn’t help but chuckle. He really thought he was smooth, didn’t he? You folded your arms across your chest and nodded. “I did, I had a lovely day actually. And let me guess… you just happened to have some work right outside my office? Is this meeting pure coincidence?”

Bambam chuckled. “Not at all. I realized after you left the club the other night that I don’t like leaving things to fate. Fate isn’t how I made my fortune. I control my own fate so I decided to come and see you. It wasn’t particularly difficult. You signed your name on the VIP sheet at the club that night and Jackson told me that the girls he invited all worked in this office.”

“Wow. Excellent detective skills.”

“You’re laughing at me. I don’t actually mind,” he told you lightly. “In fact, I rather enjoy making people laugh. The question is whether you would be willing to come and have a coffee with me right now. I know a place where they serve an excellent expresso.”

You shrugged. “Coffee doesn’t sound too bad.”

Bambam smirked and held the passenger side door of his car open for you to get inside.

--

Bambam took you to a small café that he owned. You were surprised that he chose such a cute, humble-looking place for what was evidently your first date but he answered your questions before you could even ask him.

“This was the first business I ever opened,” he told you with a smile, as he pushed your chair in for you and made sure you were comfortable. The café had a very cute aesthetic with patchwork quilts on the walls and little artistic sketches framed around. The entire place smelled heavenly, of freshly-made coffee. “I opened this place with the savings from my modelling work a couple of years ago. I could have expanded it, but I chose to leave it as it is and open up other business ventures instead. Not many people know about it.”

“It’s very homely,” you admitted as Bambam picked up the menu.

“Do you want anything in particular?”

You placed your chin in your hand and batted your eyelashes at him seductively. “I think I’ll let you chose for me. Surely you must know what’s good here, if it was the first business you ever set up.”

Bambam smirked. “You won’t be disappointed.”

You weren’t. The coffee tasted amazing and Bambam was surprisingly relaxed. He seemed extremely different from the suave, rich club owner that you’d encountered the previous side. There was a fun, lighthearted and childish side to him that you saw as he joked with you and let loose. You encouraged him to open up; asked him questions about his family and his early modelling career. Bambam admitted to you with a laugh that he had once dreamed about being a singer but he’d ended up a model because of his height and body structure.

You exchanged stories in that cute, cozy little café all evening and got to know each other. You told Bambam a few things about your own life; about your work and where you’d grown up. You kept the stories lighthearted and funny and Bambam listened to you with a lot of interest. Now that you weren’t under the dim, colorful lighting of the club, Bambam looked surprisingly cute and friendly. He even took off his glasses after a while and his eyes were soft as they smiled at you.

“I’ve never enjoyed talking to a girl this much,” he admitted almost shyly, once you had both finished your coffee. “Do you want to get a refill or..?”

You bit your lip. “I have work in the morning. I should probably get home.”

“Right, of course. Let me drive you.”

You followed him out of the café, letting him put his arm around your shoulder as he led you to his car. You were surprised that he didn’t even attempt to ask you to invite him up to your apartment when he dropped you off outside your apartment. Bambam merely gave you a hug goodbye, his arms lingering around your waist briefly as he bit his lip.

“Here. Take my number,” he told you. He handed you his business card with his personal phone number scribbled on the back. “And let me know the next time you want to go out clubbing. I’m willing to challenge you to a few more drinks.”

You laughed and took the card. “I will. Bye, Bambam.”

“Bye.”

You leaned up and kissed his cheek lightly, giving him a sweet smile and a cute wave as you disappeared into your apartment building. You took the elevator up to your floor and then peeked out of the window in the hallway; Bambam was still standing on the sidewalk beside your building and smiling to himself stupidly. 

You turned and tossed his business card into the trashcan.

Rule number two

Just don’t get attached to

Somebody you could lose

--

You sighed as you stretched back in your stiff desk chair. Your boss had been pushing you to work longer hours this week and you were exhausted. There was no way out of it; you were due for a promotion to a rather attractive management position soon and you didn’t want to risk your chances so you worked about twice as hard as everyone else. It was getting dark outside when Mina came to your office and grinned.

“Hey, Miss busy bee. Are you staying late again or do you want to go clubbing with us tonight?”

You sighed and looked at the pile of work on your desk. It needed to get done but your brain simply refused to work. You could stay here all night and it probably wouldn’t get done. You needed a break. “Yeah, okay. I’ll come and get a few drinks with you girls tonight,” you replied. It had been a while since you’d last gotten out.

“Oh, good. Because the last couple of times the girls and I went clubbing without you, Bambam looked extremely disappointed,” she teased you with a giggle. “He came up and asked us why you weren’t with us. How the hell did you get a hunk of a man like that wrapped around your finger? He looks like a downtrodden puppy when you’re not there.”

You rolled your eyes. “Getting a man’s attention is easy. Keeping his attention once he knows that you’re interested in him… now that’s the problem.”

“Whatever. Hurry up and don’t be late. Bambam will be delighted to see you.”

--

The club was even more crowded than the last time you’d been here; business was clearly picking up but it didn’t matter to you. You and your friends headed straight to the VIP section courtesy of Bambam, who had put all of your names on the list permanently.

You saw a few of the bouncers whisper to each other as soon as they saw you. One of them went running off to the back room and emerged a few moments later with Bambam in tow. You couldn’t help but smirk to yourself. Had he really told his bouncers to keep an eye out for you? It was both flattering and cute of him. Maybe Mina was right; Bambam was more interested in you than you’d originally anticipated.

Lovely.

“So you finally showed up,” Bambam commented before he joined you, taking a seat on the sofa. His arm came up around your shoulders smoothly and you allowed him to scoot closer to you. He smelled wonderful and you let yourself relax against him. Bambam’s lips were pouting slightly. “You never called even though I gave you my number. I was starting to wonder if you’d forgotten about me.”

You giggled. “You’re not the kind of man a woman forgets easily, Bambam.”

His chest swelled up with pride and his arm around your shoulder tightened. His fingers gently stroked the exposed skin on your upper arm as he angled himself towards you completely. Bambam’s dark eyes were fixed on you and you knew that he’d been waiting for you to come back ever since your little coffee shop date. You could see how attracted he was to you; it was practically written across his face.

“Knowing you, you probably want a drink,” Bambam guessed with a smile.

You giggled. “Then you clearly know me very well.”

“Stay put. I’ll bring you something I just had added to the menu. If you like it, I’m thinking I might just name the cocktail after you,” he teased you, his thumb coming up to stroke your cheek gently. You merely blinked as Bambam stared into your eyes longingly for a moment before finally tearing himself away from you and going to the bar to bring you the drinks. He returned with two cocktail glasses.

“This one remind me of you,” Bambam told you with a smile, handing you the colorful swirling drink. It had tones of dark red and light pink and it had an odd taste; both sour and sweet with a sort of tangy edge to it. He smiled as he watched you sip it. “It tastes sweet one moment and then bitter the next; there’s both a soft cotton candy pink and a dark, seductive red swirling in it. A little bit like you.”

You chuckled. “Oh? Do you really see two such contrasting sides in me?”

Bambam leaned closer to you and placed his thumb on the corner of your mouth. His voice was low as he spoke. “It’s the way you smile,” he whispered softly. “When both your lips curve up like this in a genuine smile then you look adorable; like the most innocent and pure woman in the world. But then you turn those same, gorgeous lips down a little bit into a seductive smirk…” Bambam’s thumb gently brushed against the corner of your lips. “And all I want to do is devour them.”

You looked up into Bambam’s eyes in surprise. There was more emotion there than you expected to see. Had this man really fallen for you? You had assumed that a rich, conceited man like him would never fall for a woman so easily. But he seemed to be wearing his heart on his sleeve. Had nobody taught this poor, innocent man to guard his heart more carefully?

You reached up and gently pushed his fingers away from your lips. “You’re ruining my lipstick,” you told him with a teasing smile.

Bambam chuckled. “And you’re ruining the mood.”

“Well, perhaps the mood wouldn’t mind picking up after I go to the bathroom and fix my lipstick?” you asked with a small smile. You placed a hand on Bambam’s leg lightly before you stood up. His arm dropped off your shoulder reluctantly as he nodded.

“Hurry back,” he told you gently.

You smiled and nodded. “I will.”

You exited the cordoned-off area and hurried towards the bathroom. To be honest, you had suddenly started feeling a little uncomfortable. You had no intention of falling for someone like Bambam. The scars of your past were too fresh for you to even consider ever letting a man into your life. You always kept your guard up, never let yourself fall for someone who could potentially break your heart. The brief happiness that came from being in love wasn’t worth the heartbreak.

But you were doing the same thing to Bambam.

You had assumed that he was just as thick-skinned as all the other rich, self-obsessed men that you met and interacted with, but Bambam was different. He had a soft and sensitive side that wasn’t even buried that deep within him; it simmered just underneath his surface. Should you be playing around with a boy like that? Should you let him continue to fall for you despite knowing that you would never let him into your heart?

As you stared at your reflection in the bathroom mirror, you didn’t like the woman who looked back at you. This had gone deeper than you intended.

This needs to end.

You took a deep breath and re-applied your make-up and fixed your lipstick and your dress. You would walk out there and leave. It was better if you never came back to this club again no matter how much Mina and the other pestered you. Bambam wasn’t the sort of person to harass you. Maybe he would track down your phone number and call you a few times but even he knew that you had never promised him anything and so he would let you go even if it hurt him.

Yes. You can do this. Let’s not take things too far.

You walked out of the bathroom, but your heart sank into your stomach as a pair of hands grabbed at you. You opened your mouth to scream but a large hand came down over your mouth and shoved you against the wall. Your head throbbed from the hard contact and you looked up, your vision slightly dizzy from your impact with the wall. A strange man was standing over you with a lecherous grin as he grabbed at your body with a gleeful laugh. “I knew I’d find one of you tarts if I hung around the bathroom. Come here, darling.”

You panicked and struggled desperately, your eyes widening. This man was much too strong for you and you felt your heart sink. Is this seriously happening to me? Am I about to get raped in the middle of a crowded club? Your heart was thudding in your ears as the man tugged at your dress. You heard a ripping sound and you struggled even more, the adrenaline pumping through you. No, no, no, please…

You closed your eyes and sobbed as the man grabbed you more roughly. You had pepper spray in your bag but you’d dropped it somewhere in the struggle and your mind wouldn’t let you consider what your other options were. Tears streamed down your face as you felt the front of your dress rip off. You tried harder to scream.

Suddenly, the hand on your mouth was lifted off. Somebody had ripped the man off you and you were suddenly free. You wrapped your arms around yourself, sinking down to your knees with your back against the wall. Your eyes were blurred with tears but you could see what had happened. A pair of bouncers had appeared but Bambam was the one who was punching the man in the face.

“You-fucker-how dare you!” Bambam spat as his right fist met the man’s face again. One of the bouncers was holding the man down while Bambam hit him, his eyes furious with rage. “Don’t-ever-touch her again, do you hear me? Do you fucking hear me, you piece of filth?”

None of them were looking at you. You took a deep breath and tried to calm down your racing heartbeat. You’re okay. You’re fine. Nothing happened. Your dress is a little torn but nothing happened. Get yourself together. You shakily got to your knees and clutched the front of your dress to your chest to cover yourself completely. A few more deep breaths and you had finally straightened your shoulders and managed to stop the trembling in your limbs. You wiped the tears away from your eyes. 

Bambam finally stopped punching the man and yelled for the bouncers to drag him to the police. He turned towards you, taking off his jacket and handing it to you while averting his eyes from your body. You accepted the heavy black jacket and slipped it over your arms, buttoning it up so that it would cover your exposed chest. Once you were one, you turned and saw Bambam watching you.

“Are you okay?” he asked you gently, his arms reaching out towards you but stopping before he touched your shoulders. “Did he hurt you? Do you need to sit down? I’m so sorry that happened to you. I told the bouncers to be careful around the women’s bathrooms but one of them must have stepped aside for a while.”

You cleared your throat. “I’m fine, Bambam.”

Bambam didn’t look like he believed you. “Really? Are you sure? That man was scary.”

You laughed him off, although your voice sounded alien even to you. Your fists were clenched tightly to help you hold yourself together but you slipped your hands into the pockets of the Bambam’s coat so that he wouldn’t see them. You forced a fake smile onto your face. It looking surprisingly natural; fake smiles were pretty much the only way you ever smiled anyway, and Bambam wouldn’t notice the difference.

“I’m really fine, Bambam. He shook me up a little but I’m okay.”

Bambam reached out to touch your face hesitantly. When you didn’t flinch away from him, he cupped your cheek softly. “Are you sure? Look, you don’t have to pretend in front of me. I know that was terrifying, I would have been terrified too. If you need to talk to someone or… or if there’s something I can do… should I go get your friends? Let me call Mina down here...“

You pushed his hand down before he could lift his phone to his ear. “No. I’m seriously fine, Bambam. I’m just tired because I’ve had a long day at work. I don’t want to ruin the other girl’s fun but I think I want to get home and go to bed. Can you just let them know that I’ve left? I’ll catch a cab-“

Bambam shook his head. “No, I’ll drive you home.”

“You don’t need to-“

“Please. For my sake. Just so that I know you’re safe. Let me drive you.”

You forced another smile and let Bambam lead you out into the parking lot, where he helped you into his car. He kept looking at you and you could tell that he was worried about you but you kept your face emotionless. You weren’t going to break down in front of Bambam. You weren’t going to break down in front of anyone. You weren’t going to show a man your weakness and let him think that he needed to protect you from something.

As long as Bambam was watching you, you would pretend to be fine.

Rule number three

Wear your heart on your cheek

And never on your sleeve

Unless you want to taste defeat.

--

Bambam kept asking you if you were all right the entire car ride to your apartment. You were flattered by his concern but you answered his questions simply and without much fuss. After a few cold responses from you he fell entirely silent. But you could see him out of the corner of your eye, constantly checking to see if you were all right.

“Can we play some music?” you asked finally, deciding to break the awkward silence.

Bambam nodded and you fiddled with the music system in his car a little bit, before settling on a radio station that was playing a bright and upbeat song. It helped you relax and even Bambam calmed down once he was convinced that you really were okay. You made a casual joke about the lyrics of the song playing and Bambam chuckled, agreeing with you.

“I really did have a nice time tonight,” you reassured him. “The cocktail was lovely. I’m sorry it didn’t end very well.”

Bambam raised an eyebrow. “Why are you apologizing? I’m the one who should be sorry. I can’t believe I let something like that happen at my club. I never even imagined that an establishment that I set up could be used by disgusting men like that to get their hands on women. I’ve never been more ashamed in my life and I swear, I’m going to increase the security.”

You nodded. “That sounds like a good idea.”

“But I really should have done it before that happened to you, right? It’s too little and too late,” he muttered. His fingers were gripping the steering wheel tightly and his jaw was clenched. You could tell that he was extremely angry with himself. “I shouldn’t have let it happen in the first place. God, I’m such a mess. How am I ever going to manage this mess?”

You blinked at him. “Bambam, it’s fine. I won’t talk about it to anyone, your club won’t get any bad publicity.”

He looked at you incredulously and you could see the anger in his eyes; no longer directed at the man who had assaulted you but at himself. “I’m not worried about the fucking publicity! I’m worried about the fact that the woman I care about got hurt in my club and I don’t know if you’re ever going to forgive me for this. Fuck. I told myself that I would treat you like a princess if I could ever get a woman like you to agree to be mine and then I let this happen.”

Your breath caught in your throat. “O-oh.”

“I’m sorry,” Bambam apologized to you sincerely.

“I-it’s fine. I don’t blame you. Really, I don’t.”

Warning bells were screaming in your mind as you got out of the car and it was getting harder to hold yourself together. You bit your lip so hard that it almost started bleeding. Bambam refused to leave, insisting on riding the elevator up with you and dropping you off at your door. Your entire body was tense and when you finally reached the front door of your apartment, you turned and smiled at Bambam.

“Thank you for tonight, Bambam,” you told him softly.

Bambam stared down at you. His eyes were piercing into yours. You could see him trying to read you, trying to figure out what was going on in your mind. After a few seconds of tense silence he finally dropped his gaze. “No, don’t thank me,” he mumbled. “Just… just stay safe and call me if you need anything.”

You nodded. You stepped closer to him and leaned up, giving him a soft, lingering kiss on the lips before stepping back and smiling. “Good night, Bambam.”

Rule number four

Gotta be looking pure

Kiss him goodbye at the door

And leave him wanting more, more

--

As soon as you closed the door behind you, you felt yourself fall apart.

You leaned against the wall and sank down to your knees, sobs racking your chest. You weren’t even sure what you were crying about. Your palms had nail marks on them from how tightly you’d been clenching your fists and you simply let the tears flow down your face.

Your entire body felt dirty and disgusting. You could still see the man who had assaulted you in front of your eyes and you felt pathetic. Why hadn’t you been able to stop him? How could you have been so helpless and let yourself fall prey to a man like that? You felt hollow and pathetic. You should have been able to defend yourself. You’re so pathetic. What’s the use of a human being who can’t protect herself in this world? You felt scared and lonely as you choked out sobs.

Not only did your body feel disgusting, but you realized how much you hated yourself. How could you let yourself appear so weak in front of Bambam? He had gotten too close to seeing the real you, the vulnerable you that you struggled to hide from the world. Playing with him had been a stupid idea. You should have just stayed as far away from Bambam as you could. No matter what you did, in the end, you were the one who got hurt.

“Fuck.”

You heard Bambam’s low whisper and looked up to see that he had re-entered your apartment. You had forgotten to lock the front door and his tall, slender figure was standing in front of you. His eyes widened as he looked down at you pathetic, sobbing mess crouching on the floor.

“Fuck, I should have known you weren’t okay. Come here.”

You had no power left to resist. You let Bambam wrap his arms around you tightly. He hugged you to his chest and held you, whispering sweet nothings into your ear as your sobs calmed down. You felt safe in his arms despite the creeping, unnamed, terrified feeling deep in your heart. But as Bambam looked at you with his soft, gentle eyes and his lips whispered comfort in your ear, you couldn’t remember why you had to be scared of this man. His eyes looked just as vulnerable as yours, his hands were shaking the same was yours were.

You leaned up and kissed him while hoping to forget. Bambam kissed you back through your tears, his arms stroking your back in a gentle, comforting motion. He was strong and he held you up as you both stumbled into your bedroom, your knees weak and your mind blank. You let yourself melt under Bambam’s warm touch as your mind shut off and your body was left to take over your senses alone.

At least when you were in someone’s arms, the pain was a little more bearable.

--

You woke up with a warm body beside you, and to the sound of gentle snoring.

Bambam looked extremely peaceful in his sleep. Rid of the expensive clothing and the Rolex watch and with his messy silver hair flopping into his face, he looked like an innocent young boy and not like the rich business tycoon that he was. Your head felt heavy even though you hadn’t had any alcohol the previous night. You stared at Bambam’s bare face pressed against the side of your pillow for a few moments, a small smile gracing his pouty lips.

Then you got out of bed.

Honestly, you felt a little lost and helpless. What were you doing? How had you allowed yourself to sleep with Bambam last night? Something was muddling your brain and making you incapable of coherent thought. You brushed your teeth silently and then snuck out of the bedroom. You wrapped a robe around yourself as you went to the kitchen and stared at fridge.

You stopped straight in your tracks, feeling as though someone had dumped ice cold water on you.

There, on the fridge door was a single picture. It was held up with a small magnet and it was larger than the average picture because you’d had it blown up intentionally. Ordinary women deleted pictures of the men who’d broken their hearts because they couldn’t bear to look at them. You had done it too; you had cleared your entire phone gallery of years worth of memories with the man who had broken your heart and left you a shattered, sobbing mess.

Except for this one picture.

This picture you’d printed out and had enlarged so that you could stick on your refrigerator every day and look at it. To an outside, it was an ordinary picture of a rather handsome man but it meant so much more to you.

This was the face of a heartbreaker.

You looked at it every single day to remind yourself of the pain a single man had caused you. To remind yourself that even the kindest, sweetest and most noble men would leave you in a heartbeat if they were bored of you. That nothing lasted the test of time. Not love, not affection and certainly not a pair of kind eyes or a soft smile. The nicest men were the ones who pierced the hardest. None of them were to be trusted. They’re all heartbreakers, at the end of the day.

Bambam was no different. He might seem genuine and caring and innocent now, but you had also thought all these things about the man in the picture in front of you at one point. You had truly believed that he was the one for you but he had left you. So would Bambam, so would they all.

At the end of the day, it was much easier to be a heartbreaker than to suffer at the hands of one.

You heard the soft padding of footsteps and a small yawn as Bambam entered the kitchen and blinked at you sleepily. He leaned against the counter and gave you a soft smile, his silver hair a mess on top of his head and his eyes barely open as he squinted at you.

“Good morning, beautiful,” he greeted you in a scratchy, sleep=filled voice. “What are you doing?”

As you tore your eyes away from Jinyoung’s picture, you felt your entire mind clear once again. The cloud had been lifted and finally, you knew exactly what to do. You were not going to have your heart broken once more. 

You raised an eyebrow at Bambam calmly. “I think the question should be what are you doing here.”

Bambam blinked. “Sorry?”

“This is awkward. I was hoping you would have left by now. I mean… you really should have snuck out in the early hours of the morning so that we could have avoided this awkward encounter. I’m not in the habit of having breakfast and coffee with my one-night stands.”

He stared at you for a long moment. You blinked back, refusing to avert your gaze from his. As he stared back at you, you saw it through your eyes. You saw the exact moment that Bambam’s heart broke, that his eyes widened and realization set in. You watched in cold silence as your figurative knife pierced his chest and struck the soft, sensitive organ inside. Bambam stared at you for a long moment  

“I see,” he whispered. “I guess I’ll leave now, then.”

“That would be best.” 

--

Girls, we do

Whatever it will take

Cause girls don’t want

We don’t want our hearts to break in in two

So it’s better to be fake

Can’t risk losing in love again, babe

--

[mysisterclaire]

Claire’s everlasting bucket of kindness.

Apologies in advance for not sticking to either past or present tense, my brain is fried. I’m not entirely sure I can read it & edit it again... 

I try hard not to dwell on what I am missing out on, not having Claire around. What her interactions would be as Judy has gotten older & the relationship she would have had with Ada (For the record, she would have snorted gleefully at Ada’s cheekiness, egging it on & making my eyes roll - they would have got up to terrible fun together.) It’s a pointless heart wrenching exercise.

And whilst I find it easy to write about Claire’s bravado & gusto. Her sunshine energy, some silly funny story, what I struggle to write about is her innate kindness & softness. Because this is where I feel her loss the most. This is what kills me about her not being here. And to give time contemplating that, I tend to have to hold my breath to stop myself from hyperventilating. 

I need to write this particular blogpost. It is important I post it. I need everyone & Claire to know how much I needed her too, and how I wish I had said it when she was here. 

The place I want to go to is hers. I want to sit in her light green living room, take my shoes off, sit on my feet on her couch & be surrounded by the scent of green fig (’Smell it Sarah, SMELL IT, It’s green fig, its frigging green friggidy fig it smells amazing. I fucking love it. Look I’ve got the candle, the pot pourri, the sticks. Do you love it?’ Shaking each item with excitement & then forcefully sticking that shit so far into my face I can taste it.). I want her to ask me what brand of wanky tea do I want today. (She had a load of tea samples especially for wanky old me in her cupboard). I want her to make me Heinz Mushroom soup and fat sliced white bread or the egg mayo she had prepared in advance because she knew I was coming. She understatedly made a fuss of me. She always made my sandwiches. From when we were in secondary school, even when we both worked out in the big wide world. And I would always eat them at first break or by 10am because I couldn’t wait. She had put the love into them and a multitude of gooood ingredients. They were proper amazing full sandwiches not just a wafer thin slice of ham stuffed between two slices of dry bread because I couldn’t be bothered. I want to sit all cosy in her living room or loiter in the doorway of her kitchen & chitter chatter or tell her my current issues & for her to look at me with her huge empathic brown eyes, as she felt what I was going through & knowing that if she couldn’t make it better she could make me laugh just by saying something ridiculous or belching (she could sing ’Its all about the money, its all about the dum dum diddy dum dum’ in one burp). Hers would be the one place I could go to to make everything better. It is kind of where I need to go. But she isn’t there anymore.

I miss having her place to go, where I could fully be relaxed & myself, not care about offending, but perhaps even purposefully doing so. Just going somewhere to irritate someone. You can get away with that when it is your sister. And I miss being able to give that to Claire too. I miss her frequent pop ins, with the 10 minutes it took her to park her car & her silly faces at the window met with my silly faces walking to answer the door to her. The ability to talk about absolute boring weird shit or just sit in comfortable silence watching a film, legs entwined on the sofa, slapping her hand out of the sweets. I miss retelling a story & adding ‘and then I called BULLSHIT on everything they said & left’ and her face lighting up, asking ‘NO! Really?!?’ & me responding ‘No, but I wanted to.’ and we’d laugh and laugh and laugh. And then, in practisced synchronicity, we’d add a funny line from Todd in Neighbours from when we were 11/12 that made us laugh hysterically -  ‘Cos thats the kind of guy I am’ & dramatically turn on our heels. She just had to look at me & we’d laugh.

I miss the unedited unfiltered texts & messages. I miss the ‘tling tling tling’ of her sending me direct messages on facebook - her not writing paragraphs, she’d irritatingly press send after every fricking line - oh god it was annoying - especially at 6am when she was out walking Banjo & I was snuggled & rejoicing that Judy was sleeping in. But I miss it. I have wanted to tell her about Judy’s disappearing, reappearing outtie belly button - I’m not entirely sure why were so obsessed with belly buttons... but they always made us giggle, especially as Claire’s was so cavernous. I wanted to text her after giving birth to Ada ‘Ive done my first poo & haven’t frank & beans’ed my stitches - hooray!’. I mean - you can’t put that on Facebook (and there you were thinking I didn’t have a filter - I really really do!!) & you definitely shouldn’t tell your husband - but I did, because I didn’t have Claire - sorry Jamie! Songs, film quotes & impressions, shared memories just aren’t the same with out her. Its just another blow, huge emptyness washes over me. It’s shit. 

I am a little socially awkward & don’t really know what to say at parties etc - I always relied on Claire to balance that out. Always. I felt confident knowing she was there & I could call her over as soon as I started internally panicking with the conversation She was always so bubbly with something funny to say. I didn’t realise how much I relied on that. At her funeral talking to her friends & getting a bit tongue tied I was scanning the room for Claire. The amount of times I almost said ‘Claire will be here soon’ & had to stop myself whilst smuggling a gut kick was laughable. Perhaps with every single person I spoke to. I didn’t wise up to the permanence of it. Even when the subject was her loss. 

I miss the confidence of having someone who always has your back. Who will not give a shit & contraversially or not - go up to the person who had been subtley been making my life hell & have it out with them because I couldn’t do it. Even if its at my wedding party, under the radar, with a smile on her face - attack like for bloody like. POW! She was amazing. You can pretty much guarantee if anyone has a bad word to say about Claire, its because she’s had it out with them & they know they deserved it & they didn’t like it. Its a good feeling having someone who will stick up for you when you are down. Who will not let you take shit. Its actually great feeling & Claire was brilliant. She was Scrappy Doo.

It’s also the small things, like me being so concerned with sunscreen & sun hats for Judy, I forgot my own & that’s particularly stupid, being ginger & all. Claire turns up with a Factor 50 for me that won’t make me feel like I’m wearing a jumper as she has heard me complain about this all my life. She sees I’m constantly in a quandry about the baby’s dummy falling on the floor & whether I need to steralise it, so she gets a clip for it & now it won’t fall- I never even knew those existed. Every time she visits she brings me my favourite sweets & every couple of months she comes with a pink pen & the newest photos of Judy printed to put in her Baby Book. I get frustrated by the constant questions like who was the best sportsperson of 2012 but simultaneously there is so much love & thought & effort being put in. I feel ungrateful, I was ungrateful & took everything for granted. She had paid attention to every little passing comment & one especially where I had said the smell a particular handwash/handcream reminds me of my nan & I can’t stop sniffing my hands, it makes me feel nice. Months later that is what I unwrap as a birthday present. I gushed with tears at the time & again, now, recalling it. Practically, emotionally, spiritually, she was there for me. It was impossible to be incompetent with Claire catching the balls I regularly dropped.

Coming up to Judy’s birthday I’m reminded of my time in hospital being induced. Claire had turned up with bags of stuff for Jamie & I. Her brilliant sandwiches in her own home made soda bread. My favourite sweets, lucozade for energy, chocolate of every description, an ipod with a playlist she had put together especially for me giving birth. ‘Listen to this one Sarah, it has a lot of energy for pushing’ handing me an ear phone, everything had turned to zigzags & I strain ‘fuck off’ mid contraction. I quickly apologise after. She had put in some pretty crap womens weeklies which were there to remind me that no matter how shit I feel during childbirth at least I’m not in a sexual relationship with the family dog. (I mean what the hell with these magazines? hahahaha). Making Jamie & I a weeks worth of food to put into the oven once we are home with the baby. Fantastic stews, pasta bakes, breads. She was right there all the time with support & fun.

Our wedding party night. She got Jamie & I a nights stay in a posh hotel. My mum & aunt looked after Judy. Claire had made us a picnic for the hotel. Again, home made sandwiches with homemade bread, crisps, champagne, wine, chocolate, coke for our hangovers. She was always treating us, always looking after us. Always there to make everything 100% better. 

As part of my hen do celebrations, where it is becoming maybe customary to provide a photo & memories of time spent (or misspent in youth!) with the hen or indeedy some marriage advice, Claire had decided instead, to ask people for poo stories for me!!! Ask some of you for poo stories, some of you she didn’t know too well & asked anyway with no filter or hesitation. Imagine getting an email out of the blue from your mates sister asking for an embarrassing personal poo story!!! She asked family too, including my 85 year old nan in Ireland! ‘Nan, Sarah LOVES poo stories, c’mon you MUST have one’ All the stories collated & put with photos of my friends & family & presented to me at the most amazing Hen do ever! I could barely read it for tears, tears of laughter but also tears of recognising how much work had gone into this & how much Claire knew how much I’d love this! It was amazing! I had won the lottery with this gift.

I’ve described my tantrums in a previous post where dealing with the frustrations of Claire’s illness was the cause of some of them. There was one caused by work exhaustion. It was 2010 I was senior designer to a new music festival. The pressure was crazy, other members of the team had broken down already, left entirely, the hours were crazy, the sheer amount of work for months in advance of the event was horrendous (16 hour days 7 days a week in those last weeks) but it was also perhaps one of my greatest achievements. I am surprised I held it together - well I did until we were physically in the throes of the festival having fun. I couldn’t find Jamie & that was it, the straw that broke the camels back - the panic that induced was enough to send me over the edge. There I was in my red rain coat and wellies, wobbling forwards & backwards whilst simultaneously gathering pitch to a scream. I threw myself on the floor just outside of the crowd of the main stage (!!) & was pounding & kicking the ground. My brother picked me up, I was a sobbing mess. Claire, who ran to look for Jamie came running over & said she had found him, she was giggling & beckoning to me with her finger. I follow her with those loud hiccupy gasps & she leads me to this, humungous black guy - nothing like Jamie! He opens his arms & smiles this huge smile & tells me ‘I am your Jamie, come, give me a hug’. My sobs turn to uncontrolled laughter - It was a great hug - I can’t imagine the amount of snot I put on this guy! Finally, a very happy smily oblivious Jamie came bounding over & everything was grand. And this, just another funny mad story about how great Claire was. Below is the photo of the gang trying to cheer me up & me all soppy.

The hole she has left is indescribably immense. We were spoiled by having such a giving selfless person in our lives & I was lucky to have been so close for her 31 years. I have to tell myself that her love was so huge & generous that the effect will touch me forever more. And our relationship is something that I can only encourage my own two girls to have with each other. 

[williamalderwick-blog]

Love in the age of Facefuck: Iphigenia Baal’s Merced es Benz

Original unedited text; a poorly edited version appeared in Real Review issue 4, Summer 2017. I guess I always was a little bit in love with Iphigenia Baal. I remember seeing glimpses of a whirlwind careening through parties, pubs, gigs, the backstages of shows with all of London’s seedy nightlife scrolling behind her as if the rolling backdrop of a private theatre, moving like a comet burning its own path through the heavens, a singular orbit governed by laws all its own and beware all those that fall within its thrall.         I recall a hazy cloud of curling hair, gap toothed, cheekbones, eyes that I now want to say were green, deepest hazel green flecked gems. Eyes that burned right through you, unforgivingly. Contemptuously. They had an intensity, a holding you to something, whatever it was. That’s what I remember most, a kind of smouldering raging intensity to truth — the kind that no one can really live with.         She was staff writer at Dazed at a time when, on the dole in a band and sleeping on friends couches or at the studio, I thought being on staff to write was just about the greatest job anyone could have. Somethings never change. And she was simply beautiful. Beauty like in a Greek myth, with something timeless to it, otherworldly, at once raw and serene. All carried with such attitude, an always more hardcore than you kinda attitude. I guess I was struck. Intimidated.         From afar, a distance. I never really knew her, of course, friends of friends of an acquaintance, the occasional party, a couple of words here or there, nodded acknowledgement outside an opening, doorways, corridors, street-level passings by. Stories and rumours and gossips…I guess I was a little bit in love with the idea of Iphigenia Baal. I’m probably wrong about the eyes.         And so a decade later, in another life, Miss Baal’s second novel arrives in a package for me at the office sent by her publisher. Merced es Benz is a love story, a non-fiction novel charting the relationship between the author and one Ben Thomas — seemingly the love of her life.         Bookended by Baal’s own reflective prose, we’re witness to the relationship through a little over eight months of Facebook posts and chats, SMS, BBM, email, and google searches. It’s an exhaustive record of every digital exchange between them. From SMS setting up a date or time to meet, likes on each other’s posts or updates, arguments raging across different handsets, emails, sponsored posts, Merced Es’ google search results into drug networks, police informants, flights to Australia. A transcript of all the links and communiques between them logged in the system run out in chronological order. Objet trouvé. Print All.         It’s all text-speak dialogue, slanged abbreviations, the ping-pong chat messaging we’re conditioned to now. Bite-sized fluid snippets. Situated in the media that now frame our social exchanges, it feels utterly modern. And it reads quickly. Pages are scanned, scrolled rather than read. The layout echoes user interfaces — like the wireframes used to blueprint a webpage design. And yet it’s also antiquated, a rolling-back to an archaic version — Facefuck v1.3.2 circa 2011.         The drama is often in the details. You find yourself checking the timestamps of text exchanges, noting the gaps, the jumps, the ellipses. Merced Es traveling across London to meet Benz, only to be stood up, the messages repeating, ten minutes, twenty minutes, two hours no response, ‘where are you’s turning to anger then rage towards the other who only resurfaces the next morning. Everything feels real, and these are conversations, relationships, exchanges, acts of dickishness and inconsolable rejection that everyone can relate to, has been, played out. It’s London love baby, utterly relatable stories as old as the hills and bitched across spilling pints in pub corners across the capital forevermore.         As a teen, Baal was nicknamed ‘that Mercedes chic’ by her friends for wearing one of the iconic three-pointed-star-in-a-circle emblems snatched from the hood of a fancy MB motor around her neck. In Benz, she finds her completing half. Star-crossed lovers, a real-life Romeo and Juliette for the digital age. Merced es Benz has that touch of fate about it.         Love is a fiction, a story we weave, to entwine us together.         After opening with their first exchange online, Benz responding to a characteristically disdainful ‘Facefuck’ status update from Merced Es, the book jumps ahead to the immediate aftermath of Thomas’s untimely death from a drug overdose in July 2012.         Everything unfolds under the shadow of this tragedy — a death that perhaps if not accidental, if not a suicide, might awfully be wilful. Heartbreak even. A deep sadness pervades the reading of the couple’s exchanges. A constricting fatality born of the knowledge of what is to come. The whole book is a looking back, involving both a deciphering and an occlusion. You read searching for clues why, as well as vainly attempting to forget what you know so as to experience the couple’s shared moments in something approaching an authentic innocence. But death shadows, a constant companion inexorably pulling us back towards the curtain closed.         It’s a story of a doomed love told from the surviving half. A story of survival, of the telling required to ensure the other half lives on, can become full again once more. No longer simply that Mercedes chic.         There is of course the gap here between the author and her avatar or handle, between Ben Thomas and Benz. Merced Es both is and is not Baal. They elide, and this layering, merging, pulling away, leaving out, this différence, is dynamic.         In the same way, all the events and action of their relationship are absent. In between texts or emails we have to guess and imagine what transpired. Read between the lines, and project our own experiences into their exchanges, in order to make sense of the trace. A deciphering of what-must-have-to-have-happened to provoke this.         Thus as one looks for the source, for the reasons why, all we have are the traces of events that have always already happened elsewhere. Events that have been removed, isolated, quarantined. What we read is reductive — reduced to a trace that itself is raw, it’s copy itself, a copy of a copy, and we’re left with the bare bones. We see the outlines of rich media, image boxes with no filler, YouTube links vacant. Absentia in media res. Just like the object of love (Benz) himself.         Severed from both real life and the interconnecting digital web, the printed page is a mausoleum, but doubly here, triply even. Perhaps the only true archive or resting place of our online conversations is precisely offline — otherwise they are still live, active, full of potential to change, be rewritten, re-skinned.         I toy with the idea of looking up the video links on YouTube, copying the URLs out verbatim, for veracity, to establish the mood, to listen to the same track by The Rutts. But somehow that’s not the point. Memory, clouded and somewhat made up, filled in over the gaps, feels more authentic to this story.         Across the transposed Facebook group patter names are scratched out, effaced for anonymity but still recognisable, half legible, if you know what or who you’re looking for. Photographers, stylists, former colleagues from one magazine masthead to another, public house heroines and pinups. It’s a familiar world, that London of the turn of the decade.         Perhaps always in negative, Baal captures the nihilistic decadence of modern urban twenty-something living. Our protagonists are neurotic, directionless within a drifting affluence, never short of a party full of people they loath who are their best friends. Alienation for the trust-fund generation at the end of history. All this… and nowhere to go, nothing to do. Baal’s unforgiving cynicism and rejection of this scene shines through. The tawdry sub-gossip milieu of rich kids idling the world from party to party to beach to island to who cares where next with the touch of overly perfumed Louis XIV court intrigues in their drama and tousling themselves up with all the braggadocio of a rap promo. This centrifugal star-lit social scene is contrasted with hints of stunning dawn views from her 15th floor flat in a Bow housing estate tower block out in deepest East London.         But how much of all this is true I ask myself, is this real? I certainly remember seeing some of these posts on Baal’s Facebook, the letter that got her fired from Dazed, the ‘I fucked… and all I got was this petty vendetta’ t-shirt. Maybe one of those anonymous likes is mine.         Who was Ben? Did the author make him up? If not, what would his friends or family make of who you read about here? Did she write/ make all of this up? Within a couple of quick searches Benz is revealed in the tabloid daily reports of his death. But even these always by a kind of second degree, headlines that the friend of so and so rock star kid it boy died. His death simply isn’t the story, isn’t the news, it’s his associates. Even here we miss him.         I think perhaps Merced es Benz is an attempt to reclaim part of this person lost. A way of saying it did happen, that for all of everything else he was/is/was this, at least to me. The idea and love of a person is surpassed on all sides by them, until that love is all we have left.         How much of this is a transcript? Untouched, unedited, unwritten? To read is to be invited in to be a witness, but of what? All the events here, everything that happens, happens elsewhere, IRL somewhere, off read, off piste, off script.         Merced es Benz is an account from the aftermath of a cataclysm. It’s the act of piecing together how we got here, a looking back and re-reading of archives. It’s the act of the bereft that Baal puts us as readers into, into her shoes.         It’s also the act of writing today. Through technology tracing our every move, thought, exchange, calorie burnt, website visited, link clicked, the great book of being is being written by machines in a language we can’t read. What we mean is our trace, the trail we leave behind through the systems we traverse. In this way the writer is effaced from the writing. Baal tries to take herself out of the equation, effacing herself, by instead reaching towards becoming a pure conduit to this trace of her past. It’s an act of carrying that trace forward — an act of not acting, of not writing but rather of reading — the writer in negative. In absentia.         But in this way we become her — recalling and returning to the aftermath, trying to make sense of the event(s) of our lives. This non-writing — this archaeology, this digging up — this is ours, perhaps all that we have ultimately.         There is a great vulnerability and honesty in Baal’s non-fiction novel. It pulls no punches, about anyone, least of all herself. If we’re sympathetic to her characters, they’re not faultless. We’re welcomed inside the expressions of their neuroses, doubts and rages to each other just as much as any love between them.         And here’s the thing, thinking back I wonder if there is really love in this story, in so far as it’s a story of a failed, doomed romantic encounter. Almost as if the love each of our protagonists held for the other, living outside the book, the traces of its expression and thus their ability to communicate it to each other, couldn’t navigate these mediums between them — perhaps it’s a warning about love being innately atrophied in the age of Facefuck. You’ll only find love in the real world.         Recently I’ve been seeing clips of scorpions and crabs shredding their shells recur on my social feed. There’s something strangely satisfying in watching the disconnecting, withdrawing and pulling away under the hard surface, the reveal of the soft vulnerable pink fresh skin exposed underneath and then the empty husk left behind. The hollow shape of the thing, there but without substance, without content.         I think of this husk in relation to Merced es Benz. There is bravery in letting oneself be so laid bare, opening out the vulnerability and shape of oneself. An affirmation to say a kind of, I once was this.         To be a writer is to share of yourself, invite others to step inside this externalised piece of you. You can only really write what you know, or write to unlearn yourself. Perhaps in reaching for an already externalised trace of herself at the intersections with another person, Baal finds something that enables an authentic intimate encounter with an other for a reader, a kind of genericity that everyone can reach towards.         Ultimately, I think Baal suggests that writing today is neither simply the digital trace nor using that trace as a medium of expression, but lies beyond, within a composition or choreography that primes the possibility for encounter. And against the comforting alienation of our self-reinforcing media bubbles, her book asks how one can encounter the other, perhaps even how can one love today?         Told almost entirely through social media posts and digital communications, about love and about death, Merced es Benz is an uncovering of the past and a trying to come to terms with it; it addressing the nature, and thus future, of writing itself as confronted with technology and the mediations of today; and, for the old Badiouian in me, it is about fidelity to an event, twice over, that of their love encounter, and that of his death; the one nested in the other, for only by faithfully expressing the truth of the first can one face that of the second.         I guess I’m still a little bit in love with Iphigenia Baal, but not in the way I was before. Now, perhaps on her terms, in the way that she invites us readers all into a love that is forever lost, to step into these moments, and feel and watch and recall through the moments of our own lives, what it is to know, to love someone — if not the writer then perhaps her Benz.

Merced Es Benz by Iphgenia Baal is published by Book Works as part of the Semina series guest edited by Stewart Home. Order a copy here.