#they had the gall to fuck while john was running for his life!!!!

[maleficent088]

I think Lord John should get to smash and bite, be petty and mean, and even kill.

[reciprocityfic]

#5 for amylaurie

5. that emotional moment that you can't find a plot for.

He’d never had a particularly happy life.

From the beginning, it had been marked with tragedy. He adored his mother, from what he can remember. But his memories, unfortunately, are few and far between. He tried to keep her smile, her laugh, the feel of her hugs and her hand wrapped around his tiny one locked away in his brain and his heart, but over the years, they inevitably began to fade. Before he knew it, he couldn’t quite get the tenor of her voice right, couldn’t remember the sweet words she used to whisper in his ear. She was like a beautifully painted picture, rather than a human being.

If there was someone who adored his mother more than he had, it was his father.

His father took her death the hardest. He tried to find a salve for his broken heart in all the wrong places, began gambling too often and drinking too much, frequently leaving his son alone late into the night to go out and drown his pain in whatever way he could. When his father was home, he could hardly stand to be around him. Everything about Laurie reminded him of her - his eyes, his hair, his nose, his smile. He reached his breaking point eventually, and then he sent Laurie away.

School had never been particularly hard for him. He was smart, he supposed, and he didn’t mind the company of his tutor. Boarding school was different, though. He never quite found a way to fit in. He was too quiet, not quite as rich, and Italian, which mattered in a way he didn’t understand. He always found himself at the center of negative gossip, the butt of too many jokes. He hated it, so he stopped trying to assimilate and let himself fade away into the peripheries of his peers.

When his father died, it was almost a relief; at least the man wouldn’t suffer any longer. But again, it threw him into a world of uncertainty and unfamiliar territory. It sent him to America, into the hands of a grandfather he had never met. As he grew older, he’d come to subtly resent his extended family for disowning him and his parents, and wondered if this grandfather would resent him back.

He didn’t. But his grandfather also wasn’t warm, a product of living so many years alone, Laurie supposes. He knows Mr. Laurence has experienced his share of heartbreak as well; there’s a beautiful piano that sits untouched, that the servants tell him belonged to the old man’s late granddaughter. The few times he tried to play it he’d catch his grandfather looking at him in a way that wasn’t particularly pleasant, so he stopped.

John Brooke - his new tutor - was pleasant enough, earnest and determined to please his grandfather by giving him the privilege of an excellent education. They often butted heads when Mr. Brooke tried to teach him; he couldn’t find him in himself to care much about learning anymore. Couldn’t find it in himself to care about much of anything.

Then, he met Jo March.

His grandfather had noticed his melancholy and sent him to a party to try to lift his spirits. He doubted it would work - how exciting could a party in Concord, Massachusetts possibly be, after all - and quickly found an empty side room to disappear in for a while until he’d spent enough time there that he could plausibly tell his grandfather he’d made an effort to be sociable.

It was there that Jo literally stumbled into him, and changed his life forever.

He’d never in his life met a girl like Jo March, one that was so boisterous and bright and unapologetically herself. In his world, every girl was trained from an early age to be prim and proper and polite, so that someday she might make a good wife and a fine young woman. Jo was anything but, and when he met the rest of the March family, he learned that they all were, in their own way - whether it be Meg and her unabashed love for dramatics and pretty things, or Beth sitting at her piano, playing until her fingers ached.

Or Amy, marching around in a pair of fairy wings and declaring that one day, she would be the best painter in the entire world.

His childhood memories of the Marches were all Jo, her fire and harsh edges and iron will, but Amy was always there at the edges, making herself known. She always seemed to be at odds with her older sister, but he thought that was because the two of them were the most alike in a way, like two opposite ends of the same string. He would always take Jo’s side when she recounted their latest feud, of course, but he couldn’t help his amusement at some of Amy’s antics. He remembers, when Jo told him that Amy had burned her novel, how his sympathy for Jo had existed right alongside of his wild amusement that little Amy March had the gall to even come up with such a thing, let alone follow it through.

But even though Amy was there, along with Meg and Beth, Jo was undoubtedly the main attraction, the sun at the center of his universe. His world was filled with her, with her smiles and laughs and hair and voice, with her words and her thoughts and ideas, and soon his heart was, too. He didn’t know much about love, but he knew he loved her. He knew he wanted her to be a part of his life always.

So, he’d asked her to marry him. It was the only thing to do, wasn’t it?

When she turned him down, he almost hadn’t been surprised. A part of him almost expected it; he hadn’t been particularly excited to ask her, after all. Rather, he’d dreaded it, dreaded the moment that the delicate balance they had built would have to tip one way or the other. He’d always known there was a chance she’d reject him.

That didn’t mean it hurt any less, though. He thinks it hurt even more when she left; he’d always known Jo to dive into every challenge head-first, but then she ran away to New York. She ran away from him. So he followed her lead, as he had learned to do so well over those years with her.

Heading back to Europe was much more bitter than it was sweet, and even the grandeur of cities like London, Paris, and Rome couldn’t stop the vibrancy from slowly bleeding out of his life. What had become a kaleidoscope of colors was now just grays and blacks and whites.

So he drank, and smoked, and gambled, and fucked his way through life, and in a macabre way, never felt closer to his father. Except he wasn’t heartbroken, not anymore - he realized more and more that he never expected her to say yes, not really. That she was right, as she usually was - it would have never worked.

He just felt lost. Unmoored, with nothing to anchor him. And he started to believe that maybe he was simply supposed to live his life this way, alone and adrift and apathetic.

Then, Amy March came barreling back into his life.

She was different, of course - namely, she was no longer little. She had traded her fairy wings and braids for beautiful gowns and carefully coiffed updos, and all her lofty childhood wishes had been replaced with a stoic, resigned realism. It would have worried him, that the world had taken her and hardened her, but he knew that the woman that threw her arms around him and happily shouted his name on that Parisian street, the world around her momentarily forgotten, was the Amy he had always known and cared for, however proper she might be now.

And she was proper, but he found it didn’t bother him like he thought it would. Instead, he admired her for it, that she had managed to grow up so gracefully. She was lovely, he decided. Lovely and refined and determined, so much so that it got him in trouble with her, sometimes. She was constantly after him to be better, to stop his drinking and laziness and make something of his life.

She wanted him to respect himself. He’d never really done that; all his life, he’d known himself to be a bother or problem, a thorn in someone’s side. He didn’t really know how to respect himself, but for her, he wanted to try.

The problem was, it was getting harder and harder to leave her side. She painted in his life with strokes that were insistent, but soft, and he found that her world was just as colorful as her sister’s. It was her own, of course; if Jo had been a red flame, then Amy was a golden glow, like sunshine. But he found that he didn’t mind the differences, that he maybe even preferred Amy’s version. It made him warmer than anything he’d known before.

He doesn’t know exactly when he fell for Amy. It happened slowly, gently, and before he could stop it, she’d taken up all the emptiness in his heart, filled it with light and life and love. Not that he would’ve wanted to stop it; he found he was quite content belonging to her. Even when she rejected him that first time, he didn’t try to remove her. He didn’t resent her, as he had temporarily resented Jo. He knew it was futile, that he was irreparably hers, and he decided that if he couldn’t be with her, he would at least make himself someone she could be proud of. He wanted to be someone she could respect, if he couldn’t be someone she loved.

But then, God had smiled upon him - for perhaps the first time - and she’d changed her mind. She loved him, she wanted him, she loved him. And when he kissed her that first time, she ignited something in him that no woman ever had before. He loved her, he wanted her, her and her only, he loved her, he loved her, he loved her.

His heart sang for her with its every beat. Every breath she took gave him purpose, every smile gave him joy, every kiss and moan and tug on his hair made his blood run hot through his veins. He was so full inside, wanted for nothing. He felt like all his life he’d been trying to shove himself into places where he didn’t fit, whether it be at school or with his father. With Jo. But there was a spot beside Amy, one in which he fit perfectly, like it was created with him in mind. And as long as Amy was beside him, he could do anything, be anything, survive anything.

One of the things that he loves most about her is her beauty. He can’t help it; he is only human. A weak one when it comes to Amy. When she hugged him that first time in France, he’d noticed how the autumn sun had caught the strands of her blonde hair, her cheeks flushed from the way she ran to him. He first let himself realize it in her studio, when she went off to meet Fred Vaughn. There was something about the way her cream-colored blouse laid against her pale skin, the way the blue accents brought out her eyes. How her pinned-up hair showed off her neck. He could do nothing but smile shyly at her, any coherent words suddenly caught in his throat. And every time he saw her, he noticed something else that added to her beauty, whether it be the delicate way she sipped her tea, her lips a pretty pink against the white china, or the way she blushed when he complimented her. Eventually, in a room full of women, she was the only one he could see, as captured as he was by her.

Almost three years later, nothing has changed.

He wakes up in the middle of the night to find her side of the bed empty. He’s almost positive he knows where she is, and almost rolls over and closes his eyes. But he can’t get her out of his head, so he gets up and throws on his robe. The moon shines bright enough that he doesn’t need a candle, and he leaves their bedroom, creeping to the next door down the hall. It’s ajar just slightly, and he slips inside.

And there she is, just where he thought she would be. Standing at the window, staring out into the night. She’s barefoot, dressed in a white nightgown, long hair cascading down her back. The moonlight illuminates her hair and skin. She’s breathtaking. More beautiful than any painting he’d ever seen.

Cradled in her arms is their newborn baby girl.

He doesn’t want to startle her, so he knocks gently against the door. She looks over her shoulder and smiles at him, but quickly goes back to gazing at the newest addition to their family.

He walks over to the two of them, placing a kiss on the top of her head before wrapping his arm around her shoulder and embracing her. There are a multitude of reasons why she might be in here - the baby could’ve been crying, it could’ve been time for a change or a feeding, or Amy simply could’ve missed her, could’ve wanted to hold her and watch her breathe. He suspects it’s the last one, but he doesn’t ask. He doesn’t want to disturb the peaceful scene in front of him.

He reaches a finger down to their baby, taps at her hand, until she opens her fist and wraps all of her tiny fingers around that one of his. Amy turns her face and nuzzles his shoulder, relaxing against him.

He’d never had a particularly happy life.

But standing here now, both his wife and his daughter in his arms, he knows nothing but.

send me a number and a pairing (preferably laurie x amy) and i'll write you a mini fic!

[wyn-n-tonic]

I Don't Count

Word Count: 1,479 Warnings: Drinking. Mentions of a car accident (briefly). Soft caretaker baby Will Miller. It's just fluffy. Author's Note: Fully formed this out of my need for a hug and comfort and decided I wanted to write it for the only blonde haired, blue eyed man I'd ever let get in these guts.

MASTERLIST

The Millers still had a landline. Of course they did. Benny’s big brother was very staunch about his boundaries. If he wasn’t going out after work, his cellphone went off as soon as he walked across the threshold. If you needed to reach him for any reason after that, you could call the house phone.

“But it better be a goddamn emergency,” he’d always say.

She bit her thumbnail as it rang, leg bouncing to a nonsensical rhythm. A drumming only she could hear. Once, twice. It was her last ditch effort to reach her best friend, to hear his voice telling her everything is okay. Three times and,

“Hello?”

Not Benny.

She contemplates hanging up, her voice stuck somewhere in her chest. This was most certainly not an emergency no matter what the bottle she’d been nursing had to say about it. But she can’t. Can’t speak. Not to Will, not about this.

Can’t let the phone fall from her ears. Can’t even breathe.

“Shane,” he sounds concerned, “are you okay?”

“I uh—“ the breath releases, “I was looking for Benny.”

A small laugh on the other end, “it’s Tuesday, Sunshine, he’s at the gym.”

Sunshine, his nickname for her. It started out as Sunshane but he got pissed at the autocorrect of his own brain, stopped fighting it after a while.

A sharp sound rings through, a whistle to get her attention.

“You didn’t answer my question,” it’s warm, “are you okay?”

She sniffs, “yeah, Billy—“

Another laugh, both disbelieving and amused, “you can’t lie to me. What’s going on?”

“Just…” another swig, “have Benny call me when he gets home, okay?”

“Are you drinking?” Not amused.

“I’m an adult, Miller, I drink.” It’s harsh.

“Yeah,” another disbelieving laugh, this time at your boldness, “but you sound like shit. Why are you drinking?”

Because I’m forcing my feelings for you onto others and I have the gall to be shocked when it blows up in my face.

“Look,” she’s pacing the kitchen, “just have Benny give me a call when he gets home. I’m really sorry t—“

“Did that fucking boyfriend do something?”

There it is, the sob she’d been swallowing.

“Give me half an hour,” he whispers down the line, “I’ll have my cell if you need anything, okay?” —————

The bottle’s gone when there’s a knock at the door.

She jumps but settles back against the couch, believing it must be coming from somewhere deep within the wine soaked sponge of her brain.

But there it is again, “it’s me, Sunshine,” coming from the other side.

She stands too quickly, blood rushing to her head as her right foot struggles to come back to life. He knocks again, nothing if not persistent.

“Don’t make me bust down this door, you know I can do it.”

She fumbles with the chain lock with wildly inebriated fingers, scratching desperately with her nails to get it through that little fucking hole. It springs free and she’s working at the deadbolt, much simpler, before throwing the door wide to the man on the other side.

“Would you really have busted down my door, Miller?” She slurs out, ever the lightweight.

He shrugs, “yeah but… I would’ve built you a new one so…”

“What's that?” She notices the bags for the first time, swinging idly at his side.

“I figured you were about halfway through the bottle earlier when you called, based on how the swish of liquid sounded on the pho—“

She rolls her eyes, “it's fucking creepy how you do that.”

“—so I brought cheeseburgers.”

She launches unsteadily toward him, wrapping her arms around his midsection.

“May I come in?”

His scent fills her senses, fresh laundry and a hint of Tom Ford as she nods against his broad chest.

Letting go, she stumbles back into the tiny apartment, the couch taking over the entire wall of the living room, and plops back down with her feet tucked under her as she makes grabby hands for the bag in Will’s hand.

He catches her out of his peripheral while he refastens the lock on the door, “can you be patient?”

“Absolutely not,” she whines out, “I'm starving.”

He toes his shoes off at the door and pads to the front of the couch, in front of her, and kneels down. He reaches into the bag and hands her a burger, “I got you two singles because I know you feel self conscious when you try to eat a double. Even when you’re alone.”

“But I’m not alone,” she mumbles through a bite, wrapper torn in half as soon as it touched her hands.

“I don’t count, I’m just Will.”

She almost chokes at that, because he does count.

“I'm really not trying to deep throat a fucking Big Mac in front of my best friend’s older brother.”

“Oh,” he stands and kisses the top of her head, “Is that all I am?”

Absolutely not.

She watches him walk into the kitchen, the clinking of glass and the sound of the tap rushing back out to meet her.

Thoughts swim in her drunk mind, the events of the day—the phone call, the fight, the follow up text messages. Colin’s raised voice still ringing through her ears as he accused her, “I don’t know if it’s Will or Ben but you’re fucking one of them and I’m done!”

“You wanna tell me what happened?” He’s soft, pulling the wrapper from her hands and pushing a glass of water in place of it.

“Um, ya know,” she swallows hard around the lump building in her throat again, “just what typically happens with men in my life.”

He looks defeated, apologetic. Colin’s not the first to accuse her of being with a Miller. It’s been a theme of the last three—Ryan, John, Adam—and this makes four. Four men that William Miller wishes he could add to his confirmed kills list.

That’s not what she wants to hear right now though, no matter how safe his words of protection always make her feel. Because it doesn’t matter.

“I'm sorry,” his heavy hand falls on the bare skin of her calf, sending a bolt of electricity through her body.

She was relieved.

Colin wasn’t right but he wasn’t far off from the truth she’s been hiding.

She’s in love with William Miller.

“Hey, Sunshine” his rough thumb across the smooth skin guides her back, “where are you?”

The alcohol has her still, a looseness in the hurt of her heart that makes up her mind before she fully realizes the words are already coming out of her mouth.

“He’s not wrong, Billy. None of them have really been wrong.”

He laughs, fingers stilled on her leg and she is aching for the movement to return as his stare seeps through her pores.

“You and Benny got something you need to tell me?”

Her breath is shaky.

She trails her fingers along his wrist before placing her palm on the back of his. Now or never.

“I think it’s more like you and I have something to tell Benny.”

He pulls away, blue eyes piercing through her, “you're drunk, Shane.”

“Just enough to not give a shit anymore,” she whispers, lifting herself up to her knees and pressing closer to him, “I know how we look at each other, Will.”

“Benny will kill us.”

She giggles, “I’ve been to his fights, my money’s on you.”

His heart swells as his laughter jumps up to meet hers. This is the first time they’ve been alone together, properly alone, since he realized his love ran deeper than that of just a friend.

When he realized on the last mission that he just really missed the smell of her hair when she gives him a hug. Or the way she laughs the hardest out of everybody whenever he tells a dumb joke.

He came home and, to stop himself from being reckless, made sure that he was only ever around when Benny was. He didn’t want to fuck up Benny’s friendship, that was something his little brother could excel at on his own.

But now, with her full lips inches from his, he decides.

It’s a decision he made less than an hour ago when her name popped up on the caller ID—she’d only called the house phone one other time, a car accident, and that same worry seeped beneath his skin again.

Her fingers run through the soft hair on the side of his head, his lips heavy against hers as he pulls her in and pushes her down.

He breaks away, “Are you sure?”

A question that dies with a crash as she tugs him back to her and he melts against her warmth when—

Her phone vibrates.

Got a figure like a pin-up, got a figure like a doll…

Benny.

TAGLIST: @justanotherblonde23 | @greeneyedblondie44 | @icanbeyourjedi | @princess76179 | @bbuckysbeardd | @notcookiebelle | @knivesareout | @phoenixpascal | @lexi-b-writes | @empress-palpat1ne​ | @starlightmornings​ | @soyelfuegoquearde​

[ginger-snap-talkin-nonsense]

Girl. You gotta. The saw community has lain dormant for too long. It's time for us to rise up and start our bitching!

Okay fucking, here’s incoherent ramblings from me cause I’m thinking about it now and I’m fucking steamed this isn’t getting proof read.

John Kramer is a bitch ass cunt boy who’s motives change every fucking movie like this movie will be like “he’s survived a cpsuicide attempt and now thinks life is precious which is why he’s killing a man with a barbed wire maze who self harms instead of getting him help” sometimes it’s like “someone opened a door on my wife (honestly not even that hard from what we see) that immediately causes a miscarriage like literally her stomach bleeds through he dress what the fuck is that about someone hit her with a door they didn’t fucking shoot her but go off I guess so anyway his marriage fell apart and now he’s bitter” OH AND THE FUCKING HYPOCRISY OF THAT BULLSHIT HOLD UP STOP WAIT A MINUTE CAUSE WERE GONNA TALK ABIUT THE THIRD MOVIE

Okay so in the third movie the main trapped mans 3 year old son got run over by a drunk driver and he died and it’s a year later and (understandably!) he’s not quite over it and imagines what it’d be like to get revenge not he people that allowed his sons killer to walk free AND THE WHOLE TIME HES BEING FORCED TO SAVE THESE PEOPLE TO “FROCE HIM TO MOVE ON” OR HIS DAUGHTER WHOS LIKE 9 WILL BE LEFT IN A ROOM WITH LIMITED OXYGEN (by the way second time he nearly suffocates a child to get to their parents while waxing poetic about how he’s never killed anyone). The man has to cause permanent and physical damage to himself as well as burn his child’s possessions to save these people and doesn’t for most of them because the traps are ducking difficult like on shit he had trouble AND THEN AT THE END HE COMES ACROSS JOHN KRAMER WHOS BEEN HELPED BY HIS WIFE (there’s a B plot where the guys wife is doctor who John kidnaps and he puts a bomb around her neck that will explode if he flatlines so she gives him surgery to help with a tumor idk) This motherfucker has the gall to ask if he’s learned about forgiveness and he rightfully answers by killing the old bastard WHICH MAKES HIS BPWIFE BLOW UP AND THEN HE DIES IN THE NEXT MOVIE LEAVING HIS DAUGHTER ORPHANED

BECAUSE HE COULDNT FORGIVE

EVEN THOUGH THIS ENTIRE FRANCHISE IS PRESUMABLY CATALYSTED BY JIGSAW NOT FORGIVING THE DOCTORS WHO DIDNT CATCH HIS CANCER OR THE DRUGGIES WHO OPENED A DOOR TOO HARD ONE TIME AND KILLED HIS BABY

And he’s constantly going on and on about how his methods instantly rehabilitate people like Amanda who was a junkie. ONLY PROBLE, IS EVERYONE WHO WAS SUPPOSEDLY “SAVED” BY JIGSAW WINDS UP DEAD BECAUSE JIGSAW FUCKED THEIR BRAINS UP SO BAD.

MOST PEOPLE (not all there’s a few genuinely evil people who get their due like the main guy in the healthcare one or the rapist that one time) HAVE DONE NTOHING TO DESERVE WHAT HAPPENS TO THEM IN SAW, AND JIGSAW ACTS LIKE JESUS MOTHERUFKCING CHRIST AND SOME PEOPLE STILL THINK HIS PHILOSOPHY HOLDS ANY WATER

FUCK

[thepeakyfckingblinders]

White Lies || Thomas Shelby x reader

⤠ MASTERLIST⤟

Anon requested: “ Can you do 10&13 with tommy please? I obsessed with your writing” (Thank you honey, hope this won’t let you down ♡ )

Summary: n.10 & 13 from prompt list: “I swear to God, I’ll blind you” + “Don’t leave” Warnings: swearing, May Carleton insert, basically jealous reader, Tommy being the absolute cocky bastard he always is, me loving him even more

Author’s notes:

Behind each one of these works there are sleepless nights and something really close to multiple mental breakdowns, so, please, take a minute to send me a message about it, I need actual feedbacks to understand how to improve my skills and grow ♡

So, May appears in this piece too, even if she’s never been his lover.   Is Tommy Shelby going to generate a mass murder with his cock? Maybe.

I’m sorry for being this late, but I’ve been really busy in the past days and writing is never just easy, it demands concentration and effort, plus I don’t want you to be disappointed, so I’m always extra accurate while working. I hope this is worth the wait!

If you want to be added to my tag list, please, directly message me

I’m Italian, English isn’t my first language, so I apologize for every possible mistake I made. Also, please, help me improve my writing by telling me if there’s something wrong

ENJOY!

Your sugar paper dress in lace and tulle gracefully fluttered in the wind, as you walked towards the Garrison, head up, a kind smile on your face and your right arm firmly placed on John’s left one.  That same morning, Tommy’s new horse had won his third race in a row, for which reason the Shelbys had decided to have a little party at their pub, so that they could celebrate those amazing successes with their friends and closest fellows from Birmingham, seizing, at the same time, the opportunity to show to the whole town how the family was getting more and more powerful. Therefore, Finn, Michael and John were now escorting you and Polly to the tavern, where the rest of the Peaky Blinders had already got the festivities started. “If you ever get tired of Tommy, keep in mind that I’m here waiting for you, darling” The middle brother playfully whispered those flirty words into your ear, even though he was truly enchanted by the way you looked that night; you immediately glimpsed in his direction, seeing him keep an alluring smirk on his wonderful face and a toothpick held between his rose lips, just like always. A genuine chuckle spilled from your mouth because of his joke, a slight blush instantly covering your sweet face, while your lips promptly left a noisy kiss on his cheek. “Don’t worry about him, Johnny, we can keep it as our little secret” You blinked at him, still giggling out loud, as you entered the Garrison arm in arm, finding a whole crowd of half-drunk people joyfully cheering for the increasing greatness and fortune of the Shelby Brothers Limited. “And that’s Thomas’s definition of small refreshment?” Polly’s usual sarcastic tone prickly referred to the massive amount of guests your fiancé had apparently invited; she lit a cigarette, carelessly throwing the used match on the floor, before her free forearm fondly stretched out to Michael, in a silent invitation to accompany her towards the table where Arthur had already made himself comfortable. Finn, on the other hand, immediately spotted Isaiah amidst the throng, for it took him a scant moment to literally run in his direction, eager as he was to finally spend a night out with his best mate, forgetting about work for a while. “Would you mind helping me find your perennially busy brother, mh?” You asked John, since you were now alone, standing at the entrance like two complete idiots, withouth a clue about what to do next. “Why don’t you come home with me instead?” His eyebrows quickly raised and lowered several times, in an intentionally droll attempt to make that indecent proposal sound tempting, his usual cocky smile never leaving his face. “Oh, shut up now!” you heartily laughed, jokingly punching his shoulder in the process “Let’s just find him, and then you’ll look for a pretty girl to dance with”

“No need to look for girls, love, they throw themselves at me” Your almost-brother-in-law defiantly stated that, while adjusting his houndstooth suit in one swift move, his large shoulders lifted along with his lower lip, giving life to an expression of pure smugness, which esponentially boosted when he found his way to the middle of the pub, performing his usual, cheeky, extremely bold walk. John’s lean and solid body shielded yours as you passed through that enormous amount of people, until you eventually reached for the cluttered counter; your watchful eye immediately caught Tommy’s figure standing with his back turned, a loving grin inadvertently springing upon your red lips, for he had left early that morning without waking you up, and, although it may seem corny, you had shamelessly missed him. Nevertheless, your jaw nearly dropped when, taking a few more steps in his direction, a beautiful woman entered your line of sight: she was talking to him, her clearly infatuated stare burning with desire, one of her palms randily caressing his bony cheek, but the worst part was that Thomas didn’t make a single move to stop her, he just stood there, listening to what she was saying, letting her pet his face. “Oh, fucking hell” John muttered, foreseeing a catastrophic epilogue to that risky situation, indeed, he was perfectly aware that you had no idea of who May was, moreover he could plainly tell she was without a doubt attracted to his brother, which meant no good, considering that you were in the same country as her. Still, before he had the chance to stop you from doing anything, you had already covered the gap between you and them, approaching your fiancé and heavily tapping on his shoulder covered by an elegant black jacket.

Tom’s icy eyes imperceptibly widened as he turned to you and realized how misunderstandable that scene could look; however, within a fraction of a second, he composed himself and regained all of his customary confidence, curving his mouth into an impertinent smirk and placing a hand behind your back, so to guide you in front of the mysterious lady. “Oh, you must be y/n, Tommy’s told me a lot about you! I’m May, May Carleton” Her falsely excited voice brusted out, preceding both of you, and that alone could’ve been enough to set you off, you were aching to ruthlessly punch her in the face, right there and then, yet your strong common sense led you to simply send her a long, eloquent death glare. “Well, he didn’t tell me anything about you, not a word” Perceptible hostility towards that woman infected your tone, still, while you spat that rancorous reply, your killer attention was utterly focused on Thomas, who, for his part, kept looking at you with amusement, blatantly revelling in your jealous little scene. “I didn’t have a chance to” His husky voice nonchalantly spilled from his full lips, whereon he was unchastely sliding a cigarette filter, his piercing black pupils continued to defiantly nail yours as he aimed to provoke you with that silly, senseless remark. Teeth sinking into the warm flesh of your inner cheek, while you tried your best to avoid a beastly outburst in front of everyone; sadly, hardly any moment later, May unwisely decided to throw more salt on your already stinging wounds. “How funny, I’ve been training your horses for three months now” a galling laugh of mockery eurpted from her throat and, once she was sure she had your attention, you noticed raw mischief twinkling in her brown irises “With excellent results, I might add”

She raised the glass of champagne she was holding, along with a hint of her head in Tommy’s direction, inviting him to make a toast to their incredible series of victories; a shrill tinkle filled your ears when his crystal cup joined hers, almost making your skin crawl, you watched speechless and powerless as a seductive expression deliberately contaminated his stunning features. “Obviously. Nothing but the best for my horses”

You just couldn’t believe your eyes, nor your ears; an alarming amount of emotions assaulting your defenseless mind, as you eventually figured out how many lies he had been feeding you during those past months. Soon after he had brought his first mare at the auction, Tommy specifically talked to you about how many expectations and resources he had placed on that brand new project, to the point of actually enlisting an expensive horse trainer, one of their comrades from France, a man they could trust, he did say. Your brain franticly reviewed all of the episodes in which he had called you to inform that he would’ve been late, for he had to stop by the stables in order to check on his beasts; a grievous boulder growing inside your chest, brutally crushing your heart, at the very thought of what could’ve effectively happened in those evenings, your breathing sharply stopped for endless instants, until you regained control of your body, blinking a few times to stop the world from spinning around you. Not a single world escaped your mouth, you only looked at them for one last time, before you hastened to turn tail and run away from that obnoxious situation. Only then, Thomas factually realized he’d gone too far with you, his vigilant stare followed your silhouette quickly moving amidst that mob of drunken yokels, while he briefly took leave of May, without even glimpsing at her once. Pushing and kicking his way through the crowd, he reached for you when you were practically one step away from the main door.

“C’mon, y/n, wait! Hey, don’t leave” Tom delicately grabbed your forearm in an attempt to hold you back, but, as soon as you saw him touching you, a calamitous rage exploded in your belly, leading you to violently yank your arm away. “Take your hands off me, or I swear to God, I’ll bind you with your own fucking cap!” Eyelids squeezing with autentic ire as you snarled in his face, fiercely smacking his hand several times and managing to get out of his grasp; yet, when you tried to leave the pub afresh, his imposing frame promptly interposed between you and the exit, his left palm firmly leaning against the jamb, so to cover the whole open space and preclude you every possibility to find your way out. “Get out of the fucking way, I said!” Frustration filled your yells, you had recourse to all your strength in a restless effort to shove him off, continuing to insult him and punch his chest, still your blows felt like nothing more than tickling to him. Thomas rolled his orbs and, at the same time, raised both his eyebrows, in a plan expression of his nuisance. “I think you’re being a bit overdramatic, love” Thomas was perfectly aware that he was being a total asshole, afterall, he had never even thought of May in such a way, but, for some strange reason, he wanted to tease you that night, he wanted to see you detonate. His imperturbable tone, together with his absurd words, totally made you lose your temper, you sensed your knuckles itching to crash with his perfect jaw, again and again and again. “Overdramatic?!” your voice raising of a couple octaves “You bloody bastard! You lied to me, God only knows what the hell’s been going on between you and that bitch. What’s more, you let her fucking flirt with you, in front of me!” Hot tears were now forming in your eyes while you kept shouting till you felt your throat hurt, Tommy simply kept watching you, not daring to pronounce a single syllable, but never changing his stoic countenance, nor moving from the doorway. “You were flirting back, letting her touch you that way, you fucking humiliated me, Thomas! In my place, you would’ve killed any man, without even thinking ‘bout it!” Tom’s look somehow softened as he observed your features contract with anger and sorrow, he knew he had unnecessarily and foolishly hurt you, he only was too proud to say it out loud; so, he kept his mouth shut and just came closer to you, carefully attempting to stroke your shoulders with tenderness. Nevertheless, you were too full of wrath and delusion to let him make it up to you that easily: actually, you desperately needed to cry, your cheeks were flushing with resentment, blind choler streaming in your veins. And, suddenly, a dull smack resounded in your and his ears. You slapped him so hard, that his head automatically tilted in the opposite direction, leaving both you and him speechless for a full minute; Thomas remained in that forced position, frozen, without going back to face you, consequently giving you the opportunity to finally pull him aside. “You don’t fuck with me, Mr. Shelby” That was all that you hissed, then leaving the Garrison and not looking back.

tag list:  @spidey-pal, @shadow-of-wonder, @mclfoybaby, @peachlle, @livvtheangel, @myjbphase, @namelesslosers, @crazyonesarethebest

[autumnblogs]

Aside Glance: The Palpable Absence of the Dubiously Canonical

So you might have noticed throughout my writings that I have at the same time avoided directly talking about any of the expanded universe material while also occasionally alluding to it just enough to make it noticeable. At least, probably.

So to nobody’s surprise, let me say;

I don’t like the Homestuck Epilogues.

Before I dig into why, I wanna dig out what I think I actually do like about the Homestuck Epilogues. CW: for mentions of suicide, sexual violence, fascism, genocide, etc. Spoiler Warning for the Homestuck Epilogues, although if you haven’t read them by now, good; don’t. Keep reading for my thoughts on the Epilogues.

I do like that the Homestuck Epilogues say quite loudly and clearly that Fascism Is Terrible, and that Neo-Liberals are often Discount Fascists at best in terms of the material effects they have on the world that we have to share with them. They can often end up being interchangeable, and events can cause someone with a temperament predisposed toward Neo-liberalism down the path of bloody reactionary sentiment the way it did with Jane.

Homestuck has always been a pretty soundly anti-authoritarian work, and pretty aggressively contemporary work, so it makes sense that Homestuck^2 would reflect an internet culture rabidly obsessing about the politics of the Trump-Era United States, cast its villains as parallels to the Trump Administration, the grody religious movements it catered to, and the hyper-rich dingalings who benefited from it.

I do like that the Homestuck Epilogues develop the theme of criticizing the author and continues to call attention to its narrators, this time by explicitly casting them as villainous, and morally ambiguous/incomprehensible respectively. A central idea in Homestuck is the relationship between Author, Audience, and Characters, and the blending of the lines between them.

I like that it calls attention not just to the idea that a story’s narrator is an agent themselves, but also to the reality that the narrator may not have the best interests of either their readers, or their characters in mind. I like that the authorial powers of these characters are represented as overtly dangerous and evil when they are addressed at all.

I also like that the Homestuck Epilogues are rather brutally honest about the fact that sometimes, the people that you grew up with - your close friends - grow apart from you, and turn into kind of bad people. I’ve watched that happen in real time, and have had to stop hanging out with people because they just kind of... turned evil. That’s something that needs to be discussed more in fiction, and more honestly than the usual way. When the most visible example of like, someone you knew and loved turning into a bad person is like, Anakin Skywalker, maybe the world needs more stories about that.

So good, that’s what we’ve got for things I think were good to say. Well done.

What don’t I like about the Homestuck Epilogues?

In a word, I think, they are cruel. Relentlessly cruel. Even actively malicious.

Homestuck has, of course, always been rather mean-spirited and adversarial, pretty much since page one. And really, so has Andrew’s writing in general, since the days when he ran the site Team Special Olympics. His humor walks a fine line between and outrageous and genuinely offensive, as he dares you to say, “That’s fucked up!” so he can respond “it was just a joke, where’s your sense of humor?”

But the Epilogues transcend the usual sardonic envelope-pushing we can usually count on Andrew for, and instead opt to sink their teeth into the readers in an assault on the senses, and on the sensibilities. Reading the Epilogues is a brutal experience to endure emotionally, and in a lot of places, morally offensive.

And they are this way practically from the first page; our very first impression of the Homestuck Epilogues is a content warning that presents itself in such a way as to be almost unmistakably parodic. The stylization as an AO3 work, particularly in the context of Homestuck, where these sorts of overzealous content warning pages are associated with preachy jerks like Kankri, it comes across as a direct challenge to the viewer, and by a challenge, I really mean an attack. It is a mean-spirited joke at the expense of people who have a desire to curate their media experience - and then the authors have the gall to say that the one of the goals of the Epilogues is to challenge people to curate their media more.

Every time a character could conceivably make a bad decision, or become a more ill-conceived version of themselves, they somehow manage it, which becomes all the more unbearable because of the identification of character and audience that has been the case throughout all of Homestuck. If Homestuck introduces us to this entire cast and says, this is you, the Epilogues seem to follow up with and there is nothing good about you. Jade Harley somehow transforms into a grotesque caricature of a trans-woman, a girl who is sexually incontinent and predatory in a way that is directly tied to her having a dog penis - a state of being which the text variously slut-shames her for in Meat, or alternatively uses to blame her for ruining Dave and Karkat’s relationship in Candy.

John Egbert is severely depressed and dysfunctional, and this leads him either to go off and kill Lord English to chase the thrill of adventure and his own sense of purpose (in direct opposition to the all-but-explicitly-stated takeaway from Homestuck which Dave gives us, that the better option is to just leave the story alone altogether - explicitly the worst decision he could make according to the rules of Homestuck) or descend into decades of nihilistic solipsism while the world disintegrates around him.

Dirk’s worst natures take over him and transform him into a person who can only conceivably be satisfied either by becoming an arch-villain, or by murdering himself.

The Epilogues are aggressively cruel to Jake English, choosing to double down on the lack of emotional resolution he suffered from at the end of Homestuck, and squarely placing the blame for his own misery on his own shoulders, in a way which is pretty hard to read around, which is part and parcel of the general malice which Homestuck has historically treated mentally ill characters with. Nearly all the kids in Homestuck have suffered incomprehensible levels of mental and physical abuse, and the text expects them to simply overcome it sheerly by force of will. Sure, Jake is miserable but it’s his own fault, the text seems to say; if he’d just get his act together, like Dave, maybe he could get on with his life without being mind-broken by Dirk, or raped and whipped by Jane.

This isn’t even to delve into the flagship reveal of Homestuck 2, that Rose and Jade in the Candy Timeline have not only had a daughter of their own (without telling Kanaya), but that furthermore they have replicated their own trauma in her. Rose and Jade’s daughter has grown up completely emotionally alone, in the care of her Moms’ archenemy.

The point in all of this is not that the Epilogues have made everyone behave out of character or anything like that - I think it’s clear after a re-read especially that all of this is a conceivable direction that these characters could have taken. Rather, the Epilogues reliably choose to believe the worst of the characters of Homestuck in terms of their writing decisions. Everyone always makes the worst decision that they could make, or at the very least, nearly the worst. And because of the identification of reader and character, we can’t help but take away from that a sense that this is what the authors think of us as well.

And in case it wasn’t stated explicitly enough, a running theme throughout the Epilogues is that all this conflict and badness taking place is, to some extent or another, because we the audience are looking at it. As Andrew stated in relation to the Epilogues, there’s a kind of Happily Ever After possibility bubble around the characters that intrinsically collapses into conflict the moment we observe the events again - in other words, by participating in a story, we the audience members are somehow complicit in the characters’ suffering. Yet not all stories must be driven by conflict - and who triumphs and who fails in that conflict says a lot about what a story has to say about real life.

The Epilogues engage in a kind of voyeuristic cruelty, a kind of pessimism and cynicism, a kind of relentless ugliness that I have seldom seen, and to what end? The whole thing seems to me an attack on the audience.

Aside from general, abstracted claims toward authorial intent (which I think is there), I also want to say that, I can’t emotionally engage with the Epilogues, for a personal reason; as somebody who has struggled with almost daily suicidal ideation for most of my adult life, the way that the Epilogues deal with that subject goes from troubling to malicious and hostile in its treatment of Dirk’s suicide.

And staying personal, while I haven’t had to deal with some of the other sensitive topics that the Epilogues handle recklessly, handle them recklessly they do - Jake is serially raped by Jane, and in a way that he serves as a vehicle to move the plot forward, rather than with any kind of compassion for Jake’s condition. The possibility that Tavros Crocker might be being molested by Gamzee is brought up flippantly in one scene and played off as a joke.

The Homestuck Epilogues play at maturity through handling dark themes and sensitive topics, and reveal a profound immaturity in their authors because of the ways in which they are cruelly, insensitively handled over and over again.

I guess I’ll close with the least egregious thing. The Homestuck Epilogues just aren’t funny. Even at its bleakest, Homestuck has always been funny. In their relentless pursuit of cruelty, and the shared misery of their audience and characters, the Homestuck Epilogues forgo even this most basic element of Homestuck, which Andrew has always described as being basically a comedy.

Anyway; I will not be doing a thorough analysis of the Epilogues. I hate them too much and they suck.

[saltfics]

“You’re panicking?! I’m the one who got fucking *insert injury*!”

Blood, Gore & Injury Sentence Starters Thanks for the ask @bibliothesoph !! I made an Ao3 work for this and future sentence prompts here! But the whole fic is posted under the keep reading as well!

If you want to go really hard on the appreciation, you can tip your fellow writer here. Hope you enjoy!!

 Having famous last words is one way to go down in history. It’s not even just the profound ones that get all the credit. Sometimes, the ones remembered are those that were so cocky and topped with just the right amount of irony to be rendered iconic.  Alex has never forgotten John Sedgwick since he learned about him, not because of his great work as a military officer, but because he had the gall to say ‘they couldn’t shoot an elephant from that distance’. And then they did. 

Alex thinks he has a high chance of going down the same way. In fact, his last words might turn out to be, I can run that fast.

The light for the pedestrians switches from green to red just as he steps on the crossing, but the cars are still far away. Henry’s waiting for him outside the university library, and Alex is already twenty minutes late. I can run that fast, he thinks and dashes instead of stepping back. He doesn’t notice the car that’s mid-turn, a turn that’s far closer thanwhat he based his calculations on. I can run that fast. 

Famous last words.

There’s a precise moment when he realizes he’s completely fucked up, and he wastes one whole sixteenth of a second hoping it’s not the last time he ever gets to fuck up like that. He’s in the middle of the street, too far in to back away, too far away to make it to the other side. It’s a two-car lane. If he takes a step back, there’s something coming his way. If he takes a step forward, there’s another car coming his way. If he stays there  … Fucking fuckity fuck.

If he dies, Henry’s going to murder him.

Metal connects to his side and all that crap about your life flashing before your eyes? It’s still crap, but later he’ll swear time does slow down for him to think. Or his mind goes into overdrive. Same difference. He feels the first slam and he thinks, hey that wasn’t that bad.  He can’t see around him, can’t register his surroundings but he still manages one single, impossible thought in the middle of disaster: Brace yourself. You still have to land.

And maybe that’s why when he does fall on the asphalt, a good two feet away from where the car hit the breaks, his hands are out to protect his face. When his vision returns, he’s on his hands and knees in the middle of the street, his palms stinging from the rough slap against the asphalt. His legs are spread behind him and his backpack is too heavy on his back, pulling him to the side.

Alex is breathing hard, trying to take mental stock of his body. He’s afraid to try moving his legs, but he’s still in the middle of the fucking road, one of the lanes paused because of his stupidity. Okay, okay, he has to move.

He searches his body for any extreme aches that should cause him to panic, but the adrenaline must still be pumping through him because he doesn’t feel any pain. Relief spikes through him for a second. He’s fine. He’s actually fine. Henry’s not going to kill him. June is not going to have his head.

Then he actually tries pushing himself to his feet. Shit, nope, he’s wrong. He’s very wrong. Fuck.

Pain strikes, angry and bright like lightning up his leg, the second he considers putting some weight on it. The effect on him is still blurred, his mind reeling too much to properly panic or wonder what that means.

He doesn’t register the people walking towards him until two sets of hands grab his arms, while a third pries his backpack from his shoulders to lessen his load. Together they guide him to the nearest sidewalk. Alex is sure he says something to them. Thank you, or sorry, or an endless stream of both mixed together into a string of mumbled nonsense.

“Dude, are you okay?” one of the guys supporting him says.

“You should have been more careful,” reprimands the lady who’s still holding his bag. “Why did you cross like that?”

They lower him down into a sitting position again now that he’s not obstructing traffic anymore, and Alex’s head is starting to return to him. A small crowd is gathered around him, talking to him, asking him if he needs anything, but mostly just looking on, curious and worried in equal measure. He looks around for his backpack again, just to make sure it’s nearby. His laptop, including his fresh 25-page paper is in there and he has his priorities straight, damn it. 

He catches a glimpse of what he’s pretty certain is the car that slammed into him drive away as soon as the street is free again. Fucker.

“We should call an ambulance!”

“Should we drive you somewhere?”

“Is there anyone I can call for you, honey?”

That’s when his mind actually connects. “Oh, shit! Henry! Where’s my phone? I-I was holding it? Fuck, is it still on the street?” One of the guys who helped him pushes his phone into his hands. Alex is pretty sure he’s in his class. Shit, he needs to learn his name. Why is he such an ass with this stuff? “Thanks, man,” Alex offers him a guilty smile. “I’m—I’m good. I’m good, everyone! Thank you so much! I’ll just call my boyfriend to-to pick me up! It’s—”

“Alex?”

“Or he’ll find me first.”

The crowd parts as Henry pushes his way through, and soon starts to scatter. The lady hands his backpack to Henry as she leaves, and he accepts it, confused. Alex watches as Henry’s eyes roam over him, widening as he takes him in, sitting on the dirty sidewalk, his leg spread out carefully, his clothes rumpled. And he’s grateful there’s a lack of carnage on him, no blood or torn clothes, that he’s just mildly disheveled, because he can’t imagine putting Henry through that.

Well, he’s also grateful he didn’t die, but again, priorities.

“Alex, what happened?” Henry asks, crouching next to him. He pushes a tangled mess of curls away from his face, letting his hand rest on his cheek. “Why are you on the ground? Are you okay?”

Okay, shit, how does he tell his beautiful, barely calm boyfriend that he was stupid enough to get slammed by a car in one of the busiest streets in New York? “Uh, okay, don’t freak out.” Which is the wrong thing to say, and the fastest way to get Henry to do just that.

“What? Why? What’s wrong? Can you get up? Are you hurt?”

“Yes. And yes. Actually, I think. I don’t know.”

“Alex…  what?”

Alex groans. His leg is still throbbing in a steady pulse, but that’s about it. Even his hands have stopped stinging. “Help me up? Please?”

Henry nods, still confused and Alex doesn’t want to exchange the confusion with whatever’s going to come next. He wonders how much he can play the injury off. He can say he tripped, and with his level of injuries it’ll probably be believable but he doesn’t want to lie to Henry. If it was the other way around…

Alex hisses the moment he’s on his feet. Henry fumbles to readjust his grip on his arms, squeezing a bit too tight as if Alex might break if he doesn’t hold on with all he has. “Shit, sorry. I, uh, okay. So, I had a little accident.”

“You—what kind of accident?” The color washes from Henry’s face as he pulls him closer, shifting his arms so one of them is around Alex’s back instead. “What happened?”

“I’m okay, I promise! I was just really stupid. And crossed the street too carelessly and well…” he shrugs, giving a vague gesture towards his left leg.

Henry looks back towards the street for a moment, and when he turns back to Alex he looks like he’s the one who got struck. “That street?” he asks, voice small. “Are you okay? Are you—Okay, we need to go to the hospital. I’ll call Shaan to come pick us up, do you want to sit down again? Does it hurt? I’m sorry, I—”

Alex places both palms on the side of Henry’s face, stroking his cheeks with his thumbs. “Hey, hey. Look at me.”

Henry hesitates for a second. When those precious blue eyes turn to meet his own, hints of moisture linger in their corners. He’s much paler than he was when he arrived, and Alex wants so desperately to kiss some color back into those lips, watch a rosy pink dust his too cold cheeks.

“Baby…” he coos. “You’re panicking? I’m the one who got ironed. Breathe.”

Henry flinches, his face inching away from Alex’s hold. “Don’t use that word. That’s not funny.”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he chuckles. “Would it help if I went to the hospital with you?”

“Would it help? Of course, you’re going to the hospital! ‘Would it help’, he says.”

There’s no chance in hell Henry is going to take no for an answer, so Alex waits for him to call Shaan, lets him help him to the car without any protest. On the way there he gets three phone-calls, the level of exasperation increasing with each one. Apparently one of those kind passerbys was also kind enough to post a photo of him on the sidewalk on his Twitter. His dad calls first to make sure he’s okay. Then June, who upon learning the location of the accident just responds with ‘and you’re still alive?’, which is fair but also very rude, though when he complains to Henry about it, he’s sure he must be using all his patience not to glare at him for the nonchalance. He’s definitely glaring when Zahra calls and Alex just hands the phone over to him with the biggest, most pleading eyes he can muster.

Other than that, Henry stays quiet, eyes glued up ahead and staring at nothing. One of his hands is holding Alex’s own and he squeezes it every few minutes like he’s trying to make sure Alex is still there. It’s scaring him a little, but no matter how many times he insists he’s okay, that it barely even hurts, Henry doesn’t relax. He turns to him, gives him a small, tense little smile, then resumes looking at nothing ahead of him.

It’s fine. They’ll go to the hospital, they’ll get some tests done, and Henry will see he’s in perfect health. Then they’ll go home and cuddle until he forgets how much his leg hurts.

Unless he has some internal bleeding. That would be unfortunate.

The hospital visit passes faster than even he could have predicted. After describing his symptoms, Alex is quickly examined by an orthopedist and taken for x-rays to make sure nothing is broken. Everything comes out clear and in an astonishing show of competency, they’re out of there less than two hours later. Hell, the waiting room took twice as long as the tests themselves.

They stop for some painkillers on the way home, and he’s all set. He won’t even have to miss a class.

But Henry doesn’t perk up with the news. His breathing calms and he gets a hint of color to his cheeks as they drive home, but he’s still quiet. Withdrawn. It hurts more than the leg.

David rushes to greet them when they return, all little jumps and wagging tails. Alex feels a pinch of hurt when Henry grabs the puppy before he can jump on him. He doesn’t reprimand him, of course. Henry never yells at David, not even when he chews on pages of his work that he was foolish enough to leave out, but he’s too listless to play with him either, and it’s that apathy that finally breaks Alex’s heart.

“Henry? Baby, talk to me,” he pleads, leaning on his good leg with one hand against the nearest wall. “I’m fine, so what’s wrong?”

Henry doesn’t look at him. “I’m going to take him out for a bit. We won’t take long. Maybe I can bring food on my way back? What do you feel like having?”

“Henry.”

“Is there anything you need before I leave? Water? Tea? Do you want me to help you up the stairs? Maybe we should just fix up the couch for tonight…”

Alex sighs, limping over to where Henry is still looking away from him, bent over to secure the leash on David’s collar. He wraps his arms around his waist and pulls him upright. “Sweetheart…” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to the back of his neck, as he’s still turned the wrong way. “Please.”

It takes a lifetime to hear his voice. “You’re such an idiot,” Henry breathes, too shaky to hold any bite. He lets Alex turn him around and leans forward to press their foreheads together. “You’re such an arse.” He’s not crying, though he’s shaking, and Alex rubs some warmth up and down his arms, along his back. “Do you have any idea how lucky you got? That was a dangerous fucking street, Alex.”

It’s the lack of anger that truly does him in. Henry might be mad at him but it’s not enough to overpower the fear that’s been rooting within him for hours. “I’m sorry. I know. I’m so sorry.” Alex pulls back slightly to give him a soft smile. “Would it help if I said I was rushing because I was so desperate to see you?”

“Alex. ”

“Nope, I made it worse. Got it.” He presses a chaste kiss to his lips. “You’re right. I’m sorry. It was stupid, even for me. It won’t happen again, I promise. I’ll look both ways. Twice. I’ll fucking study physics to calculate the speed of cars versus my chance of running into them if I have to!” A smile trembles at Henry’s lips and Alex grins. “Watch me! Hey,” he says, softer now. He presses another kiss, this one to his cheek, smiling against him when Henry tilts his head towards the touch. “Anything to wipe that look off your face, and never have to see it again.”

“Thank you.”

“I’m sorry I worried you.”

“I know.”

David squeezes between their legs, pawing at Henry, nudging him with his nose.

Alex smiles. “It’s okay, buddy. I upset your daddy a little bit, but we’ll be fine. Right?”

Henry nods, bending down to scratch the top of David’s head, before heading for the door. “He doesn’t like it when I’m upset.”

“We have that in common.”

Henry makes sure to wrap him into the biggest hug before he leaves, even though he’s all kinds of dirty from lying on the road, and probably still smells like the hospital. Alex presses his face into the crook of his neck, breathes him in. Guilt churns in his stomach when he really stops to think about it, how stupid it was, how Henry must have felt. He squeezes a bit tighter before letting go.

And because he’s a total hypocrite, but he got himself too worked up not to, he calls out after him before he shuts the door.

“Hey, look both ways before you cross the road!”

Henry loves him, anyway.

[ceruleanchillin]

I Missed You/I’ll Miss You

Arthur Morgan x F!Reader

Warnings: “light” smut, slight spoilers of chapter 2

A03

There was true irony in the fact that you’d dramatically flitted about the camp comparing it to a prison prior to getting a horse, but you’d spent the last three days in camp doing less than you had before. It didn’t take the best of learned men to figure out what your problem was. However, only the women had the gall to call you on it.

Arthur had been gone for three weeks, and while bounty hunting was rarely a quick job, you were still worried. You were sure everyone was worried in their own way, but the the simple fact that it was their way of life, softened the edge of said worry. You understood that yourself, it was your way of life too. However, you had something new and fragile with Arthur, so it wasn’t quite the same as it was before. You hadn’t expected that either. The bounties had been particularly nasty, and thus worth a decent penny, the only way Arthur would consider taking them. He was a capable man, that you knew, but you were a well traveled woman. You’d seen enough to learn, even for yourself, that no one was a god.

Miss Grimshaw tried to busy you with chores, “What’s a wandering mind ever been good for besides trouble? That boy’s too stubborn to die. Now, clean laundry is a different story and I got a wagon fulla potential”.

Karen had suggested going into town to play the ‘Chaos Game’, something you and she had invented on a whim to drive the men in camp crazy when they had to “save” you. It was especially fun when it was John and Arthur. Start a major saloon fight here, plant an idea in a girl’s head about her fella to start a screaming match there, sloppily pick pocket and pin it on someone else, steal a horse, etc.

Of course, how much fun could that be when the best part of the game, for you, was being ‘punished’, and you didn’t think it appropriate to ask John to fill Arthur’s shoes.

Abigail told you it was downhill from there. Now that you and Arthur had fallen into something resembling being together, you should expect the aches of disappointment more often. “They fuck you so good you think the next time might be different, but nope. That’s about the highlight of their use.” And no, she wasn’t “bitter” she’d quickly informed you at your side glance of her.

Mary-Beth had tried to get you to see it as something romantic and adventurous. “Just imagine when he rides up like a knight, and sweeps you off your feet.” she sighed, a wistful smile playing on her lips. “Then you’ll be able to make some more of that pretty soap with the flowers in it that you make. We’re running low.” Ah, thanks for caring.

The men had been the ones to pussyfoot around the topic. They just wanted to entertain you in the moment, never mentioning or hinting at what was wrong. John suggested you take him spearfishing, “For your benefit of course.”.

Dutch sat audience while you sang a duet with Uncle, and was kind enough not to comment when you kept falling out conversation with the two men. Uncle wasn’t.

Tilly was the one to really snap you out of it though. You two were playing poker for candy with Karen, and where you normally walked away with a store’s stock full, that game wouldn’t make the books as one of your best.

“If you ask me, Arthur wouldn’t even recognize this mopey piece of furniture. I mean what happened to the girl who jumped off the top of a cliff into a lake for fun?” Karen reclined in her chair in time to her unapologetically sharp statement.

Tilly snorted. “Poor Arthur, may as well have climbed into a coffin his damn self as close to death as you took him that day.”

“You two could make sitting on the pot a headline. I’ve just been taking things easy for the past few days. I’m still me.” you knew what she meant, but she’d essentially called you boring. For you, that was worse than the ugliest of vulgar insults that could be hurled at you.

“Girl you better stop lying like an old rug,” Tilly crossed her legs in a matter-of-fact way. “You miss your man, and that’s ok, but you can’t get down everytime things look dark for him. You’ll kill your spirit and not even realize it!”

You heard, rather than saw, her kick Karen under the table for attempting to peek at her cards.

“And I swear if you kill that crazy spirit of yours, and make laundry some horseshit chore again, I’ll murder you myself.”

“Hey!” Karen nearly lowered her cards out of indignation, recoiling at the last second. “I make laundry fun too. I make all the chores more fun.”

“You make us have to do them all over again the same day. The second time being set to Grimshaw’s fussing.”

“Fun!” Karen rocked the table with her boisterous laughter.

Tilly’s response was lost to you, because you were starting to focus more on what she’d said before. You didn’t think it had been that serious. You were fine with him accepting the job, just when it started to approach a month since having last seen or heard from him, it hit you in a way you hadn’t been expecting. You’d been fine when you two were just friends who flirted a little too much.

It was far past that now. Arthur was the first time you weren’t flirting and fucking for fun. The new territory excited you, and you’d went in head first, but this wasn’t a part you’d been informed of.

That being said, you had to admit Tilly’s statement struck you because there was some truth to it. It was a matter of when, not if, Arthur would get into another harrowing situation. You couldn’t lay around in bed, or half ass your way through the day, every time that happened. It wasn’t you, and replaying the last three days to yourself turned your stomach.

“Well Tilly, you went and broke her.” Karen snapped her fingers in your direction.

“Opposite actually.” you shook your head with a grin. “I fold.”

“Look at that hand!” Karen gestured to the cards you’d placed down. “You definitely broke her. Oh well, can’t be helped. Whaddya got?”

“Fold.” Tilly rolled her eyes.

Karen hooped loudly as she pulled all of the candy that made up the pot to her side of the table. “Thank you kindly ladies, I do so hope we do this again soon.”

“Yes ma’am, I intend to get my title back. Enjoy it for now.”

“So that means you’re back?” Tilly swatted at Karen’s teasing pokes and jeers of ‘loser!’.

“I told you I never left. Now I’m going to make a kite, who’s in?”

Both women exchanged looks of pure puzzlement, before turning those looks to you. Unlike most people you were comfortable with being looked at funny. It occured to you, that no one had looked at you that way in days without there being an air of sympathy behind it.

“How adventurous.” Karen replied sarcastically. “I think I’ll retire for the evening and enjoy my winnings instead.”

She not-so-quietly made her way back to her tent with an armful of sweets. Stopping every so often to inform a camp member she had beaten you at Poker.

“Don’t worry, when she’s drunk I’ll steal it all back.”

“It’s Karen, so by morning then?” you grinned while Tilly snickered into her palm.

“She’s right though. A kite? For you that’s pretty tame...unless you’re planning on jumping off the cliff here with it.” her widened eyes indicated she wasn’t joking about thinking you capable of that. “Tell me you’re not planning on jumpin off the cliff with it.”

“Of course not,” You said, though the thought was a fascinating one. “It’s only tame because you haven’t seen where I’m getting the material.”

----------

In a testament to your revelation the previous night, you were up before the camp even began to stir. You’d been up for most of the night with Tilly working on a complicated kite. You’d learned how in a caravan comprised mainly of Chinese men and women, and regaled Tilly with tales of their beautiful culture. The longer the conversation went on, the more the tense anxiety that’d filled your being lessened it’s grip. You were still worried, incredibly so in fact, but you weren’t going to let it take you out of character another minute.

You scribbled a quick note for Miss Grimshaw, knowing she’d be among the first to wake soon, and set out a little ways from camp. Finding a spot where the forest danced along the edges of plains, you tried recalling everything you’d been taught about catching the wind.

Such a seemingly simple activity could demand so much of your attention, that you might miss the sound of a horse’s light trot behind you. You might miss the softening gaze of a rugged cowboy once he spots you. You might even miss him dismounting and hitching his horse in favor of sitting back against the base of a tree to watch you.

“Beginning to think I’m never gonna come back to find you doing something normal. Like baking a cake...or cleaning a rifle. Anything else I suppose.”

You froze, your grip tightening on the fishing line you were using for a kite line. You turned carefully, mindful to not bring your hard work crashing to the ground. Arthur gave you a lopsided grin, and though you couldn’t see his eyes beneath his hat, you were sure his smile reached them. He didn’t look worse for wear that you could see, but you couldn’t be sure until he undressed. Just to look him over of course….

“Then you’re beginning to realize who you hitched your wagon to.” you finally found your voice, though it cracked under the pressure of euphoria. “Arthur Morgan I would both hug and slap you, if my magnum opus wasn’t at risk.”

He laughed, from deep in his chest. “My hats in the ring for first one.”

A quiet moment blossomed between the two of you as you readjusted to being in each other’s presence. It was beautiful to you, and better than any fantasy scene a novel could propose. You wondered if it was putting him at ease to be back around you the way it was for you.

“It wasn’t my intention to worry you my lady, things got crazy out there. Did my best to get back at a reasonable time.”

“Well I figured that, I wasn’t that worried.” you fingered the fishing line gently. You were suddenly embarrassed to tell him you’d moped, and defaulted to lying.

“You’re lucky you’re so damn beautiful, even when you lie.” he chuckled. His smugness let you know the camp had already told him everything.

“Ok, I missed you and I was worried. If you make fun, I’m leaving you on your own horse. She likes me better anyways.”

“Fair enough I think. I’d have to keep the winnings from the bet though.”

You knew immediately what he was talking about. You, unintentionally, provided many opportunities for the gang to make quick money off of your antics. You didn’t mind the audience, it amused you.

“What’s the bet this time?”

“Whether you can fly that thing or not.” he nodded up at the kite, that while lower than when he first got there, was still still sailing through the air. “I reckon some of them are gonna have to learn about betting against you the hard way. Like I did.”

You grinned, and ducked you head at the slight compliment. Arthur had a way of empowering you that you were sure he wasn’t even aware of most times. He swore he wasn’t a romantic, and to some degree he wasn’t, but in his own way he was better. Genuine.

“Well, you won. How are you gonna prove it?”

The sound of rustling caused you to turn halfway to face him again. He slid his camera out of his satchel and patted its top.

“I’ll be ok giving up the winnings to you if I can keep the picture.”

That was how Arthur Mogan obtained a photo of his sweetheart after he’d redenered her a bashful mess. Every other photo of you he had, drawn or otherwise, you were confident and radiant. This one felt different, and perhaps why it would go on to become his favorite.

“Now,” he carefully packed the camera back in his satchel. “You gonna keep putting that before your own feller? For shame Miss (L/N).”

“Jealous of a child’s plaything? That’s a new low Mister Morgan.”

Arthur made a noise of mock surprise. “Child’s plaything? Well what are you doing with it then? The things you’re capable of certainly are not childlike.”

Hard work be damned, you turned on your heel, yanking the kite down after you. In a swift, and for you, unsurprisingly graceful movement, you’d tackled the man to the ground. You laughed at his hearty grunt, eyes following the bouncing movement of his now dislodged hat. The kite came crashing down near you, but neither of you were too focused on it.

“Someone should shut you up Arthur Morgan.”

He shifted to allow you to fall into a more comfortable position on top of him. “If anyone’s gonna try I’d rather it be you.”

Up close, hat gone, you could see evidence of his journey. You gently ran the pad of your thumb over the bruise under his right eye. He closed his eyes, cheeks reddening under your loving gaze. Unspoken words traveled through touch instead. Your soft examination admitting you were worried, his gentle lean into you a form of apology.

You pressed your forehead to his own, and let your lips collide. Soft hands slid up his neck, over his stubble, and into his light locks. You shivered when you felt the combination of warmth and rough texture, that was his hands, grip your waist under your shirt. You felt him standing at attention, straining against the fabric of his pants. You gripped his shoulders to fight the urge to grind down on him.

He broke the kiss, and your lungs greedily took the opportunity for air. His lips roamed your neck with no particular destination in mind, simply trying to soak up the feel of your skin. Distracted by his mouth, you jumped feeling his hands travel beneath your skirt to grip your thighs. A dizzy laugh left you when he roughly lifted you up to remove your panties.

A mewl escaped you when his thumb carded through your folds. The tiny pricks of pain his stubble caused, juxtaposed against the soft touches to your heat, made you see in tunnel vision. You needed him.

“Ar-..Arthur…” you voice was a husky, broken whisper that indicated you were having trouble gathering your words.

Arthur understood. “Drawn out?”

He broke the kiss breathing harshly against your cheek. Your hips jumped after a particularly swift swipe over you.

“No,” you shook your head. “Been such a good girl since you’ve been gone. I won’t last long.”

His deep chuckle against your collarbone drew another moan from you because of the sound alone. “I have not been that well behaved, I must admit.” his lips split into a sheepish smile. “But it’s about the same for me too.”

His dirty admission drew a laugh from you. You began covering his face in kisses while you released him from the confines of his pants. “It’s fine.”

His hands captured your hips and carefully lined you up. You inhaled sharply once he was inside, overloaded by too many feelings. Arthur’s hands trembled, and you imagined it was the same for him too. He waited patiently, painfully, for a sign from you to move.

You rolled your hips once, and he went from there. The two of you worked out a rhythm and fell into it rather quickly. Your hands found purchase at the base of neck and held on tightly. Every night you two had been apart, the frustration of not knowing if he’d come back, the sheer loneliness neither of you could fix without the other. It all came out in the shared act.

You’d both been correct when you admitted you wouldn’t last long. You lost it first, having been more tightly wound, and you weren’t quiet about it. Your raw moans spurred Arthur on, and he drove you through the blinding heat coursing through your being. You cradled his head and whispered loving words of encouragement to push him to his own release. He dropped his forehead to your shoulder and bit down, as a fierce shudder ripped through his form. You rubbed his back and guided him through it.

A final kiss was shared between you two, one that spoke of a love growing between you two. It said there was plenty of space for it to fill, and that was something you both wanted. He cupped your face, about to speak, when something caught his eye.

“Did you use one of Dutch’s silk shirts for your kite?”

---------------

The two of you walked rather than rode back to camp, and it was filled with effortless conversation and teasing. You came so close to blurting out that you loved him, but bit it down every time. You’d never had anyone in your life to say that to, and weren’t sure if it was too soon. You weren’t too sure about Arthur, but it terrified you to think about sending the words out there only to have them hang alone.

“We should go to the lake.” you commented as the camp came into view.

“To bathe.” you emphasized when you saw his wolfish grin.

“I’ll meet you there, Miss Grimshaw wanted to see me. Sounded pretty important, but I wanted to see you first.”

“Flattery may change your luck.” you winked at him and headed for your tent to grab your bathing kit.

Arthur never met you at the lake, and you went forward with bathing, figuring he’d fallen asleep. Possibly one of the cold souls you now called family had roped him into an errand. Either way, he was making it up to you later.

The first thing you heard when you got back to camp was the distinct sound of an annoyed Miss Grimshaw, and a firm toned Dutch, coming from the direction of Arthur’s tent.

“Let the boy make his own decisions Miss Grimshaw.”

“Boy is exactly right!” Grimshaw’s hands shot up as if to ask ‘why her’. “Only a  boy could make such a foolish decision. You don’t line up for a second helping of disrespect with a side of humiliation Arthur. It ain’t right….she ain’t-”

The others in the camp pretended to be busy, but kept a decent distance away. You frowned and sped up your pace.

“A man has to learn on his own,” Dutch shook his head in Grimshaw’s direction. “You can’t make this choice for him. Accept that.”

Arthur, meanwhile, hadn’t said anything. He simply continued his task which, as you got closer, you discovered to be packing.

“What’s going on?” you walked past Dutch and Grimshaw, straight for Arthur himself.

You felt the heat of numerous gazes on your back, but you stayed focused on the only one you needed to see at that moment. Arthur hands slowed, enough to see the tremble, but not enough to stop his task.

“Where are you going?” you asked, your tone carrying more edge than you wished had escaped.

“I gotta go into Valentine on some business. I’ll be back in a day or so.” he still hadn’t met your gaze which started to upset you.

“Tell her where you’re going Arthur. The girl deserves that much. She’s so sweet on you she nearly rotted thinking something bad had happened to you.” Miss Grimshaw crossed her arms, eyes locked on Arthur’s tense form.

“Grimshaw!” Dutch barked taking her by the arm to lead her away. “Leave.It.Alone.”

Whatever she said in protest was lost to you. Everything else may as well have fallen off the face of the earth for all you cared at the moment. Every perceptive instinct you’d honed in your nomadic life was screaming so many possibilities at you, that you almost shook Arthur to demand an answer simply to make them stop.

Instead, you reached for his hand and grasped it. “What’s wrong? You know you can tell me.”

Arthur pulled away from your touch, still refusing to meet your gaze. “I believe I did tell you, business.”

“I’ve robbed coaches with you, setup hold ups, spied for information. What kind of business can’t you say all of a sudden?”

“The kind I don’t have time to get into right now. I’ll explain when I get back.” he placed a few small supplies into his satchel, carefully fitting his journal in after them.

“So you were just gonna...just gonna leave and not tell me? What the hell is that Arthur Morgan?” you snapped, stubbornly blocking him from going for his clothes chest by sitting on it.

“I wouldn’t have done that to you.” he lifted you from the chest with ease, ignoring your cry of indignation.

He got a few articles of clothing while you cycled through what to say. You had so many questions and he was moving so quickly. By the time you figured out what you wanted to say, he was already moving towards his horse.

“I’ll go with you,” you jogged to keep up with his pace.

You expected him to snap at you, with how tightly he was wound up, but you didn’t care. You weren’t afraid of him, he couldn’t brush aside your concerns so easily.

He stopped in his tracks and turned to you. “(Y/N). I’ll be back, I promise. I’ll tell you everything then, just let me handle this on my own.”

One hand cupped your neck, while the other gently grasped your cheek. You leaned into his touch and nodded. You would trust him, and pray he didn’t give you a reason not to.

[seromreven]

I’d love an early 66 John x F!reader. He’s feeling bad about his body and the reader does some body worshipping and rides him. If you’re up to it, of course!

ngl, when i read ‘and rides him’ i understood it as when kids play horse with a parent and rides them on their back and i was trying Really Hard to connect it with the body worshipping. eh, i’m a big old dum-dum nothing new in that

anyway! here ya go, love ♡

You were in the kitchen making yourself a nice, simple, cup of tea when suddenly a loud barrage of cursing erupted from the living room, almost causing you to drop your yet empty mug.

You recognized the yelling voice as John’s, your boyfriend, and hurried into the living room; beyond worried that something had happened.

But all seemed fine as you stepped into the cosy room. All except for John. He was alone. Nothing was broken. No-one had broken in. No crazy fans. No fire or anything like it. But he looked visibly stressed out over something and your heart sank at the sight.

You stepped over to the couch and gently sat down next to him. You placed your soft hand on his but it was immediately pulled away.

“…John?” You whispered, hurt at his rejection. Something was definitely wrong, you thought. He typically was always more than happy for any physical contact from you.

“Leave me alone,” he muttered at a volume you almost didn’t hear. You shook your head, even though he were looking down at his folded hands in his lap and not at you.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you resigned to gently place your hand on his shoulder, “please… tell me what’s wrong.

He muttered something. Something you didn’t hear this time.

You leaned closer to him, “I’m sorry, what?”

“I said I’m fat!” He sneered at you. Finally looking at you, you could see the tears he was fighting hard to keep back. He had never been one for open vulnerability or crying. Especially around you. Even after the many times you reassured him and told him it was natural and healthy and alright; he still fought hard to maintain a tough exterior.

“I’m… ugly,” he said, this time quieter.

You frowned, “whatever gave you that idea?”

His eyes landed a crumpled up newspaper on the coffee tabled. Concerned, you leaned forward to grab it and once it was in your hands; you slowly unfolded it.

You were confused at first. The front page was about some royal wedding in Europe so you flipped through it and it was when you reached one of the last pages that you stilled and slowly started to feel the overwhelming sensation of disgust and anger.

It was a large enhanced picture of the two you on long-awaited your vacation to the Caribbean only a few days prior. He was in his swim trunks, you in a suit. The captured moment was of the two of you goofing around and running into the sea while laughing incredibly.

It was a good memory and one you would’ve smiled at if it hadn’t been for your incredible worry. A sweet picture through your eyes, though you could see why John might have found it unflattering. Still confused you looked on and finally got to something that really got your blood boiling.

In a bold font underneath the picture it said; THE SMART ONE? BEATLE LOOKING PORTLY DURING BEACH TRIP WITH GIRLFRIEND.

Shit.

The text went on to describe your vacation but with large overtones of what felt like patronising and dismissive comments of your relationship. Of his weight and appearance.

The gall of these so-called ‘journalists’. How dare they?  Who the hell did they think they were? Joking about how you’re with him for the money and fame and that it couldn’t possibly be due to his look. That the size of his thighs, belly or even his goddamn jaw was something undesirable!

And to indicate the change of nickname due to it too? Unbelievable!

You shot up from your seat on the couch and with staunch steps went and threw the now crumpled newspaper into the lit fireplace; it was accepted with a roaring blaze.

You took deep breaths as you stared into the fire. You willed yourself to stop shaking. For your blood to stop pumping so furiously in your veins. Because, for John to calm down, for John to relax and know that nothing was wrong; that it was all bullshit. You first calm down yourself, and breathe fucking evenly.

You closed your eyes and sighed deeply before turning back around to face John.

He was staring at you. His face unreadable, except for the clear pain of the moment. His hands were still in his lap, trembling. His comprehension of his own appearance and self-worth had always been shite. Sure, he often joked about his desirability and luck with the ladies (and sometimes men) but it was never anything but a facade.

You knew better than that. It was just about how to show him. Of how you felt and thought about him. About how handsome he was. How sexy. How cute. He rarely took your words for it. Always deflecting the compliments with jokes or sarcasm.

But not this time. This time you would really show him how you felt.

You slowly made your way towards him, keeping constant eye contact, and only stopped when you stood in front of him. Towering over his crumpled posture as he sat on the couch, crippled with self-loathing.

You went to your knees and captured him in a warm embrace. The hug was awkward at first; his hands pressing into your stomach as he hadn’t managed to get them away in time. But soon they were gone and you immediately hugged him closer as his arms slowly made their way around your waist.

“It’s garbage. All of what they wrote. Pure unadulterated shite,” you leaned away from the hug and captured his cheeks in your hands. “You are the most gorgeous man I know. You’re talented, funny, and incredibly attractive. And if I have to devote my whole life on making you realise how handsome you are then so be it.”

His eyes darted around your face in a loss for words as tears slowly formed under his eyes yet again. “It’s okay,” you whispered and repeated it as you kissed him lightly on his mouth.

“John, please, let me show you how much I mean my words. And how much you mean to me. You don’t need to say anything. Just… please, let me,” you fought back a sob.

He nodded and you met again for a slow kiss. A kiss that slowly evolved into something more heated. Quicker. And wet. Tongues met and your hands started to roam on his chest, seeking something to hold and to tear open.

His shirt was soon torn open and discarded. You parted and your quickening breathing stilled as you looked upon his bare chest. And as you softly placed your hand over his heart, feeling the beating of it and of the small hairs on the warming skin; you breathed out a “gorgeous”, before your hand started to slowly travel further down as your mouth was recaptured.

You moved to place kisses on his chest and stomach as you slowly made rid of his jeans.

And once it was gone, you stilled whatever actions you had done previously and looked up to John. Silently he had begun to cry and slowly crawled unto his lap and wiped the tears away. Caressing his cheek you asked him, “do you want to do this?” You wanted- needed to know for sure. That something hadn’t got lost in translation.

“Yes,” accommodated with a meek nod before he gently pushed you closer to him and meet you with a kiss. And as you moved around on his lap to better position yourself; you felt his growing erection and smiled.

Your hands moved down his arms, feeling up the soft warm flesh, as you kissed and soon settled on his hips and over the white briefs he wore. You moved circles on the tender skin and he sighed into your mouths as tongue met tongue.

“My beautiful boy,” you whispered, “lie down for me, please.”

And you stopped off of him, he whined at the leaving touches, but soon did as you said and laid down unto his back on the soft couch. You looked him over; over his half-naked body, the only thing that was covered was what you were most excited for.

You started from the bottom; tickling his feet, causing a snort, and slowly caressed his legs and thighs as you reached closer and closer to the prize. You knew if you took it too slow he would get impatient but there was so much you wanted to do. To take time with. You slowed down and felt the soft flesh on his inner thighs. And realised; it might possibly be the physical part of him you loved the most. The stark pale flesh. Soft and warm to the touch. And thick. You kissed the thigh, so near the ultimate goal and yet so far.

It earned you a shiver and an almost inaudible whine of ‘please’. For which you smirked and gave small nibbles to the skin as you moved up. “Patience, love,” you whispered into the skin accompanied by small kisses.

You hooked your fingers unto the edges of his briefs and slowly, but surely, pulled them down and off his legs. His erect penis sprang unto his stomach. You rid yourself of your skirt and panties as you crawled further up and positioned yourself over his hips and gently felt his cock with light touches.

“Gorgeous,” you muttered and bent down to kiss him on the jaw.

You ground your growing wetness on his dick and felt it as it twitched. It wasn’t the most comfortable position, with you leaned over to kiss him, but it was also only short term as you soon got back to a straightened posture. You quickly got rid of your shirt and threw it carelessly over your shoulder.

You closed your eyes as you cupped your breasts, giving them a squeeze, and moved down at a relaxed pace until you reached your vulva. You rubbed and gently massaged it; to make sure it was ready to take in the length that was John. You heard him groan as you took a hold of his cock and positioned over it and started to press down unto it. You joined him in groans of your own as you felt its heat enter you.

And so you started to slowly ride him. You went up and down as his hands firmly took a hold of your hips, helping you in guiding you at a comfortable pace. It was slow and just want you wanted. And as you looked down at him; you were sure it was just exactly what he needed too. Moaning loudly, wantonly as your bodies met.

You leaned forward with stifled moaning to meet him in a heated kiss. Your forearms rested on each side of his shoulders on the soft couch to keep yourself up as you deepened the kiss.

A hand of his had moved to cup one of your asscheeks, squeezing as you both continued to move in a shared rhythm. Something was hit deep in your core and you moaned loudly as an incoming orgasm hit you hard. Your body shook and quivered. And you moved your mouth away from his and softly bit into the skin of his shoulder as you gave in to the overwhelming sensation that overtook your body. The bit something he liked you to do and this one was definitely hard enough to leave a mark.

Soon he joined you in a chorus moaning as his cock twitched and filled you up as you had foregone the use of a condom. He continued moving you at the same pace as previously as he pumped into you. Finished with a sigh; the hand that had been on your hip let go and left a warm feeling in its place. The hand came instead to your cheek and moved you up to look at him.

He had tears in his eyes as he moved you down to tenderly kiss you. It was filled with love and gratitude and nothing else was said as you felt it conveyed exactly what you both felt.  He gently helped you lift up and over his hips to lie down beside him on the narrow couch. Ignoring the mess; you looked up to him in your mutual embrace with a loving look and smile as he did the same.

It was getting dark but neither on you moved from the warm spot on the couch. “I love you,” you whispered as you drew circles on his chest. “And I you,” he whispered back.

[avanneman]

How gay was Tom Wolfe? Well, pretty goddamn gay

Looking at the many pictures that have been published of Tom Wolfe in his white suit glory years, one has the strong sense of seeing something rare: a male anorexic. In what was surely his best book, The Right Stuff, Wolfe paid homage to “real men”, men who didn’t go the opera and couldn’t order a meal in French to save their lives, but could and did risk them for nothing more, and nothing less, than glory, men who put the pedal to the metal and kept it there, come Hell or high water. Yes, Wolfe loved “real men”. There was only one drawback: real men don’t fuck queers.1

Wolfe grew up in Richmond, Virginia, in the 1930s and 40s, a setting that he described as “paradise”—a paradise which he left as soon as he could and to which he never returned. Wolfe arrived in New York in 1962, quickly making a name for himself at the upstart New York magazine, part of a stable of crockery breakers collected by editor Clay Felker intended to take on the reigning literary establishment.

Wolfe bewildered one of the reigning grand old men of literary New York, Dwight MacDonald, because he seemed to have an entirely negative sensibility: everything struck him as ludicrous and contemptible, while nothing was worthy of praise.

In fact, Wolfe had an informed contempt for the old leftist intelligentsia of which MacDonald was one. His Ph.D. thesis at Yale had been The League of American Writers: Communist Organizational Activity Among American Writers, 1929-1942. He interviewed many of the members extensively, men who he surely knew regarded his own background—“southern bourgeoise*”2—with the same contempt with which he regarded them. Like many another curmudgeon—Malcolm Muggeridge, for example—Wolfe knew how important success is in this world, and how hard it is to obtain, and he hated people who pretended to despise it and in fact did despise those who labored to obtain nothing more than a middle-class place in life—those sweaty, common types devoid of grace and style and passion.

Unlike Muggeridge, however, Wolfe had no “Church”,3 no positive set of values to set up against the vast wasteland of literary Manhattan. Wolfe’s great handicap was that he simply wasn’t very smart. He couldn’t understand a great deal of what was being said and done in New York, and he wanted to dismiss it all as nonsense, but he lacked the intellectual vantagepoint and tools to do the job. He was smart enough, I think, to realize that the literary prestige of southern writers of the previous generation, who were both numerous and highly admired, was dependent on their imaginative power and not on any coherent set of values. The myth of the “Old South,” which defined and obsessed them, he discarded like like a cheap suit. But he found nothing to replace it. He could tear down, and he did, but he couldn’t build.

It’s not surprising that perhaps Wolfe’s most successful works were the famous essays “Radical Chic” and “Mau-Mauing the Flak-Catchers”, which allowed him to give liberal hypocrisy on race the beating that it so richly deserved. The sight of the over-privileged Manhattan elite elbowing each other aside in order to prove who loved the “oppressed” the most—people with whom they had nothing in common and did not understand and whom they would not like if they did understand—was made to order for a bitter southern boy who could never express what he really felt—that things had been better for everyone under segregation and that these Yankee “geniuses” were destroying everything worthwhile in New York—everything that made life living—in order to pretend to a tolerance they neither felt nor practiced.

It still strikes me as curious that Wolfe remained resolutely apolitical. He certainly had a lot in common with the National Review’s hatred and contempt for “modern times”, and one would have thought that the advent of “Cowboy Ron” in the White House would have brought him out of the closet, as it were, but that didn’t happen. He seemed to prefer the company of the people he made fun of, the chattering class who ruled the Upper West Side. They were the in crowd, the fun crowd, the cool kids. It’s a pure guess, but perhaps his closely closeted homosexuality had permanently alienated him from conservatism—and religion in particular—while still a boy.

Wolfe’s fondness for the male form was openly on display in The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test (1968), about Ken Kesey, author of One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest4 and leader of a gang of LSD dropping “Merry Pranksters”. Kesey, Wolfe informs us, had “a helluva build”, as did several other merry pranksters. I don’t regard “helluva” as “good writing”, and I don’t think “helluva build” is “guy talk”, as Wolfe wants us to believe. Do construction workers say stuff like “You know, Bob, you’ve got a helluva build there”? Or “Thanks, Jim. You’ve got a helluva build yourself”? I don’t think so.

I never read a piece by Wolfe that didn’t run too long. His books should have been magazine articles. Article length quickly became an exercise in literary dick measuring, and this was one area where Wolfe could keep up with the best of them. His famously florid “style”, which he used to “expand” his work, I found tediously mannered, repetitious, and predictable—his painful lack of imagination made more and more manifest even as he labored to conceal it.

In 1975 Wolfe took the bold step of being directly serious rather than satirical when he wrote The Painted Word, an attack on what was then the modern art establishment. There was certainly much to criticize, and in fact many of the critics that Wolfe attacked, rooted as they were in the essentially romantic notion of the artist as hero that flourished down through the 1950s, were as unimpressed as Wolf with the artists like Andy Warhol who detonated it in the sixties.5 But Wolfe unconsciously revealed himself as the earnest philistine he was, wondering why these goldurned fancy folk couldn’t paint a goldurned apple that looked like a goldurned apple. After all, everyone knows that Michael Angelo was the greatest sculptor ever, so why don’t modern sculptors sculpt like goldurned Michael Angelo?

Wolfe had much better luck with The Right Stuff, a series of essays on those ballsy bad boy patriots risking their asses for the gold old USA that originally ran as articles in Rolling Stone before being published as a book in 1979. The book was made into a widely heralded film that was a big flop, but Wolfe was sitting on enough cash, and enough acclaim, to attempt his great dream, a big novel in the style of the 19th century realists whom he (I guess) loved as a boy.

The result was The Bonfire of the Vanities, published in book form in 1987, a huge critical and financial success that I barely examined before concluding that the point of the book was to allow readers to hate black people in good conscience while allowing Wolfe to give full rein to his misogyny.6 The book is filled with conniving black hustlers and slutty rich bitches—though much if not most of the critical praise for the book assumes that Wolfe’s “real” target was Wall Street greed.

If that were not enough—and, of course, it is—Wolfe was a terrible novelist. “If you start with a type you end with a stereotype,” as F. Scott Fitzgerald explained.7 Wolfe started with a stereotype. His idea of character development was to say things like “he was a typical Wall Street lawyer”, followed a deluge of label dropping. Wolfe knew, and cared, far more about clothes than any straight man would.8

The Bonfire of the Vanities made Wolfe the most famous novelist in America in one stroke, to the helpless rage of geniuses like Norman Mailer and craftsmen like John Updike, Wolfe’s success doubly galling because it made them realize how much they wanted to be, not “great” writers, but rich and famous ones.

Like The Right Stuff, “The Bonfire of the Vanities* was made into a widely heralded film, directed by Brian De Palma and loaded with big stars, that was a massive flop—much more of one than The Right Stuff, because expectations were so high. It was expected by many to be the definitive putdown of Reagan-era excess, Hollywood somehow erasing Ronnie from America’s memory. Wolfe didn’t like the film—whether he started disliking it before or after it flopped isn’t really important. Anyway, he had the cash, and the book’s reputation—and Wolfe’s—was intact.

Unsurprisingly, the rest of his career was an anticlimax, though, if anything, Wolfe worked harder than ever. For the truly driven, work, not success, no matter how obsessively it be desired and pursued, is the true purpose. Only continuing labor can assuage the nameless fears that provoked the desire and the pursuit in the first place. Wolfe labored almost 12 years to produce A Man in Full, a stunningly awkward (awkward and bad) doorstop about a Georgia good old boy, Charlie Croker, who very unsurprisingly sports a “helluva build”, about which Wolfe finds it difficult to shut up. Critics, as they invariably do when confronted by a much heralded dog, struggled to avoid noticing how bad the book was. As I remember, no one had the nerve to actually call Wolfe a homo, but many did quote, at length, Wolfe’s obsessive and overwrought descriptions of pecs and abs. Six years later, in an even more absurd novel, I Am Charlotte Simmons, Wolfe tried to write himself into the persona of a young woman, somewhat in the manner of Henry James in Portrait of a Lady and The Wings of the Dove, but with less success. Neither of these books made it onto either the big or the little screen.

I only read one piece by Wolfe that impressed me, and I was amazed at how good, and how unlike his standard work, it was. I’ve forgotten the title, but it probably ran in New York magazine sometime in the eighties. The “frame” was standard Wolfe, about an obese homeless man who terrorized respectable folks (to Wolfe’s immense delight) rampaging around the Automat9 in Times Square at six in the morning on Christmas day. What’s interesting is not the bread but the sandwich meat in between.

Wolfe very uncharacteristically offers some autobiography, reminiscing about his early days in New York, how he’d always volunteer to work when other people didn’t, at night and on the weekends and holidays, a good way to avoid having to socialize and, above all, an excuse to avoid meeting mom and dad. “I’m sorry, mom, they’ve got me working both Thanksgiving and Christmas again this year.” This schedule left him free, free to wander the streets of the great big toy that was New York at all hours all by himself. Amazingly, Wolfe tells us that he had a romantic notion of himself as the protector of the city, who kept an eye on things while everyone else slept. Imagine being in Times Square at six in the morning on Christmas Day! You can’t get more alone than that!10

Wolfe’s solitude was his freedom. The city itself was a never-ending spectacle, but the greatest spectacle of all was the people at the top, the endless struggle for status, the women struggling to be beautiful so men would find them attractive and the men struggling to be “great” so that women would find them attractive. Buildings are built, novels are written, home runs are hit, fashion shows are held, bonnets are purchased, eye shadow is applied, and all for what? All in pursuit of a simple biological function that can be performed, in the nude, actually, with none of these grandiose trappings whatsoever! This enormous structure, ever changing and brilliant, and infinite in its variety, built entirely on fucking! How couldn’t you laugh?

Afterwords The city that Wolfe enjoyed as a young man, where you could wander at all hours through many sections of the city with no fear of molestation, was destroyed by the great urban riots that followed the assassination of Martin Luther King. I lived, not in New York, but in Chicago from June 1967 through February 1968. In those days, the Loop swarmed with people until midnight during the week and later on Friday and Saturday (everything was closed on Sunday). When I visited Chicago years later it was deserted after the evening rush hour. Times Square in the seventies was devoid of commerce except for porno, prostitutes, and three-card monte dealers.

I hold the fact that Wolfe had a wife and two children to be irrelevant to my thesis. ↩︎

Wolfe graduated from St. Christopher’s, an Episcopalian prep school in Richmond, sure to provoke a smirk from any “committed” intellectual. He supposedly turned down an offer to attend Princeton in favor of Washington and Lee University in Lexington, Va. I’ve been to both towns, though not as a student, and it’s hard to imagine someone as ambitious as Wolfe choosing Lexington over Princeton. It’s not unusual to meet people who tell you they switched from Amherst to the University of Maryland because they couldn’t stand the cold, or had to turn down a football scholarship at Ohio State because of a bad knee. ↩︎

Like Wolfe, Muggeridge started out as a “modernist” critic of modernism, but unlike Wolfe became tediously medieval, much in the tradition of more august figures like T. S. Eliot, W. H. Auden, and Evelyn Waugh. ↩︎

One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest was made into a once legendary 70’s film, starring Jack Nicolson and directed by Milos Forman, which no one seems to talk about any more. ↩︎

What was the “message” of a work by Andy Warhol? “Thanks for the moolah, sucker!” ↩︎

In the book, Wolfe sniggers at fashion models as “boys with breasts,” a gibe that strongly suggests how much he preferred boys without them. ↩︎

Wolfe, who was as light-fingered in his fiction as his non-fiction, “borrowed” the final twist for The Bonfire of the Vanities from Fitzgerald’s classic The Great Gatsby—the hero takes the fall for a charge of vehicular manslaughter even though a woman was behind the wheel. ↩︎

I always felt—in an unkindly way—that The Bonfire of the Vanities was popular among journalists because they could understand it. ↩︎

The Automat, basically a self-serve cafeteria, was a classic “only in New York” item. They were driven out of business by “modern” fast food outfits like MacDonald’s, but I believe they’ve been reinvented. ↩︎

Of course, with its massive Jewish population, and a sizable Chinese population as well, Christmas was not nearly as big a deal as in the “real America” that Wolfe had so gladly left behind. ↩︎

[dawnajaynes32]

Inside the Mind of Aaron Draplin

Aaron Draplin will be judging PRINT magazine’s 2017 Regional Design Awards—now open to both professionals and students. Enter today before it’s too late! 

Words by Rebecca Bedrossian

  Surprise.

Poster design by Aaron Draplin for the 75th anniversary of PRINT magazine.

That was Aaron Draplin’s reaction when he got the call from HOW—to feature him again. According to the Portland, OR, graphic designer, the story hasn’t changed all that much. And to his point, there’s no lack of Aaron Draplin or Draplin Design Co. coverage on the World Wide Web. So much so, that I felt a bit of trepidation about the interview.

What could I unearth that hadn’t been covered before? And why would someone read this story?

My trusty go-to list of questions weren’t going to work for me. I didn’t want to write something that’s already been published. And I certainly didn’t want Draplin to roll his eyes during our chat. I realized I needed his help to build a new narrative. So I came clean and asked: What do you want to say that hasn’t been said before?

Art by Aaron Okanaya

It broke the ice and set the stage. We didn’t focus on his work for Nike, Ride Snowboards, Sub Pop Records, his numerous posters, album art and logo designs, nor his personal Field Notes brand, and we deliberately avoided his Lynda.com logo design tutorial that went viral last year. Been there, done that, and he designed the T-shirt. Instead our organic, candid and, as you’d expect from Draplin, entertaining conversation covered age, gratitude, family, and a book. While it sounds more Kumbaya than you’d expect from this born-and-bred Midwesterner, it comes with its fair share of self deprecation and the occasional f-bomb.

Draplin doesn’t beat around the bush. “How much more of this story do you want to hear?” he asks, honestly curious. “I’ll just never really be comfortable with being some kind of commodity.” He wonders about the saturation level, and admits that the pressure’s on, because the big names in design reinvent themselves. “Every three years, there’s a new talking point, taking a year off, a documentary,” he explains. “I’m just trying to get away with shit—that hasn’t changed.”

Art by Aaron Okanaya

At 41, Draplin wears his “middle age” as a badge of honor. “Every year I know myself a little better. Every year, there’s a refinement process.

“I can remember being 20 and talking to a 45-year-old. They were old. They were different. They wore a different type of clothes. They were beat down and said things like ‘my old lady,’ ‘those bastard kids.’ It was really cliché. Now I can’t tell when a guy is 55. It’s just how they carry themselves and how they laugh. My favorite rock ‘n’ rollers are 55 years old and you wouldn’t know it, because of the way they run their lives. That’s inspiring.

“There are weeks I work every day. You don’t get to put them in the bank. That goes to Uncle Sam. And they go and drop fucking bombs on developing countries with it or whatever the latest bullshit they’re doing. It hurts. I would hope they’d go build homes for people. I’d feel a little better about that.”

This three-pack of Aaron Draplin’s pocket-sized Field Notes includes one graph, one ruled, and one plain paper notebook, each with 48 pages and a craft paper cover. Get yours in MyDesignShop.

With age comes self-reflection, and Draplin is grateful. “Aren’t we lucky to be alive, to punch into design every day? As I get older, it’s better to be chill about stuff.”

And chill he is. He didn’t get to be design’s big draw without his share of critics along the way. Finger-pointing is a waste of time, but the web hands everyone a bullhorn, and it’s frustrating. “That’s something that people expect from me, to be an incendiary character just for the sake of doing it. That is not the case, I wouldn’t do it,” says Draplin, throwing in a technical term for good measure. “You don’t want to shit where you eat.”

Draplin’s genuine love for design surfaces when he speaks about life after the limelight fades—and make no mistake, he knows it will. “When all this stuff fizzles, I’ll go back to living the life of why I got the call in the first place. Working on my own, loving it, and not knowing any better. That’s kind of a cool thing.”

His gruff demeanor, plain speaking, ball cap, and healthy beard led one wag to call him the “Yukon Cornelius of American Design,” but, Draplin says, “there is nothing blue collar about what I’m doing. We live manicured lives.”

Yes, he likes to work with his hands, mocking things up, the very analog and tactile qualities of design, but the reality is Draplin can usually be found pecking away at the computer in his shop, a hotel room, or on a plane. The prolific designer makes his way to design events large and small across the country. He travels on Wednesdays, speaks on Thursdays, and returns home on Fridays. “The more I get done on the plane, the more time I have free on the weekend,” Draplin says with a chuckle, “to have fun like normal people.”

  TIME OUT

Though he loves what he does, he’s tired and questions how long he can keep up the pace. “Why are we working so much? Because we don’t know any better,” he says adamantly. “It’s all we know how to do. The world just holds us down. I got ahead by working a ton. And then what? How much more money do you need?”

He’s finally stopped worrying about money, because—honestly—he doesn’t even have the time to spend it. This has been tough for Draplin. He grew up in Traverse City, MI, and has seen people struggle. “And I have these carrots dangling in front of me,” he explains, “how can I say no to any of it?

“You’re taught to budget, to be smart and to keep everything in the positive. Then you wake up and realize, uh-oh, that wasn’t the way to do it.

“I don’t know how to solve becoming smaller. I don’t know how to solve becoming healthy. I don’t know how to solve not working so goddamn much.”

But he’s trying. Draplin now leaves the shop at 8 instead of midnight. It’s baby steps. And it feels like a luxury.

“I don’t ever want to worry,” Draplin admits. “I know what it’s like to have nothing. I haven’t had to think about buying a record for about seven years. That to me is such a success.”

  WIRED FOR SOUND

“I know Aaron hoards music of all kinds,” says Robin Hendrickson of ATO Records. “I get to see him flexing and working out album art that bounces off the classic tradition of record covers. His first comps are a thrill. He’ll show you a wide range of possibilities, some you asked for and some you didn’t. It’s like the ideas are exploding out of him, almost too fast to capture. His work is clean, but never sterile or boring. Somehow it reflects his personality, which is gruff but never unkind.”

Hendrickson continues, “He’s clearly studied—and absorbed—the language and history of 20th-century American vernacular graphic design, but his work never devolves into retro pastiche.”

You can’t have a conversation with Draplin without sensing his respect for design—its history, its unsung heroes, and his contemporaries. He stays on the prowl for overlooked graphic treasures and celebrates them. Sure, he’ll drop the occasional Saul Bass or Eames reference, but he’s not precious about it. “I don’t want to be too professional, too serious, too on point or on strategy, because people choke on it”

This is unusual—when there’s so much value placed on how you present yourself to clients and where there’s no shortage of articles touting five ways to be more productive, make a good impression, or look smarter in meetings—but it’s pure Draplin. It’s part of his allure, refreshing, and he owes it to dad.

  LIKE FATHER LIKE SON

Visit draplin.com and you’ll find an entire section—an anomaly in the business of design—dedicated to his father, Jim Draplin. You see the love, and then hear it when Draplin speaks about him. “We lost my dad a year and a half ago. I don’t want to be the person who doesn’t talk about this shit. He died. I’m trying to make light of it, because he used to make fun of that shit.”

Draplin’s tone is light as he describes his dad as an incredible character, larger than life, who sometimes opened his shows for him. He admits sometimes the crowd didn’t know what to make of him. “He was as comfortable in front of a tool-and-die shop as much as he was in front of a bunch of nerdy designers, telling crass jokes, Don Rickles style. I’m so thankful I celebrated him viciously while he was around.

“I mimic my dad in terms of my design career: the business practices of how to enjoy your life and how to make things—how to laugh. That’s what I took from him,” explains Draplin. “It’s been cool to apply it to the stuffy thing of design. It’s been refreshing to defy some of that shit with it. People don’t know how to laugh.

“Dad kept me on my toes. He always made time. So getting in front of a client just reminds me of how my dad could loosen things up.” Draplin laughs, then continues.

“And look at me talking so much about my dad all the time. He always hogged the limelight. Still is! I need the world to know that without my mom, I’d be nothing. Fact.”

  ON PAPER

That practice of loosening up came in handy when John Gall, creative director at Abrams, called about making a monograph. Draplin countered with, “Don’t you do this at the end of your career?” Excited and equally leery to get a big-league call, Draplin plans to keep it little league—as authentic and naive as possible. “It’s got to feel real to me,” he says.

Abrams has a history of publishing books by great designers and, though it’s early in the process, you can bet the Draplin book will be a bit of a departure. It won’t be a typical design monograph. How could it be? And Gall recognizes the value in that.

“I’ve been looking at younger/mid-career designers and wondering why they don’t have books, and if there is even an audience for such a thing,” Gall explains. “Most graphic design books we see are super expensive monographs by older or dead designers. I started looking at people the same age as Stefan Sagmeister was when Abrams published his first book. These are designers who came of age during the internet and social media era. These are voices we haven’t really heard from in book form yet. And they have a lot to say about how to make it in the design world today.

“Aaron’s style is rooted in utilitarian American design, but not totally as he’ll happily incorporate a lovingly designed Swiss grid. He’ll pull from the cool overlooked moments of the 1970s, but then something like Field Notes comes from another place entirely,” continues Gall. “He’s the designer all the kids want to be when they grow up. He has opinions and he’s willing to express them (even if he has to step on some toes), but he’s also a really nice guy with a strong sense of where he came from. He’s an inspiring speaker and entertaining graphic design raconteur. He makes beautiful things that you want to have. Beautiful lovingly printed objects. Aaron makes being a graphic designer look like the best job in the world.”

When I asked Draplin about the book, he goes straight to the Abrams site and tells me that it will live in close proximity to the Eames book. E follows D after all. Draplin says, tongue in cheek, that though the book will make him look “smart and articulate,” he’s not going to pass up this opportunity. It will be his guide to messing with the world of design.

“I take it very seriously how I don’t take it seriously,” he says.

After all, entertainment is a tricky business.

This article is from the Summer 2015 issue of HOW. Since it was published, Draplin’s stellar “Guide to messing with the world of design” earned a place on our sister site PRINT’s 25 Best Design Books of the Year.

The 2017 PRINT RDA: Extended Deadline. Enter Now!

Enter the most respected competition in graphic design—now open to both pros and students—for a chance to have your work published, win a pass to HOW Design Live, and more. 2017 Judges: Aaron Draplin / Jessica Hische / Pum Lefebure / Ellen Lupton / Eddie Opara / Paula Scher. Student work judges: PRINT editorial & creative director Debbie Millman and PRINT editor-in-chief Zachary Petit.

Draplin image: Leah Nash. Hische: Helena Price. Lupton: Michelle Qureshi. Scher: Ian Roberts.

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