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jumping in the murray x king gus ship! ( I know my king gus is shit, he should be way more buff.
I didn't have enough time to properly design him between work, ToT will do better next time...
Thank you so much for all the comints after the last chapter!! Istg I was GIDDY. I love you guys.
Also, have you seen this super cool magazine cover? Heheheh thank you so much @givieart <3
I was so mushy I even wrote a cute chapter! It's right after last chapter's Varese Film Festival
Enjoy <3 <3
HER DRAMA. HIS DOWNFALL. Click to See How Aelin Turned a Clean-Living Champion into a Wine-Buying Wreck!
It was a bit disappointing to leave the party without showing Aelin my dark green GranCabrio, but her security team wasn’t keen on letting her drive in my convertible car, and I’m up for whatever’s safest for her.
Now, at the private elevator that takes her straight to the penthouse, and I’m all wired up. I’ve never brought a girl here before. I don’t bring casual flings into my personal space, and I haven’t had the prospect of a girlfriend ever since signing with the White Hawks and moving back to Doranelle City.
Every comment the women in my family ever made about this being a void bachelor pad rushes to my mind. I wipe them away—at least it’s neat.
The elevator dings loudly when it opens its door—a personal touch I asked management to add because of unasked visitors. I hold the door open for her to cross. “You ready?”
Aelin eyes the paper bag I’m holding. “I should ask you the same question.”
She didn’t want to go out for dinner—and face another public space, I presumed—and I didn’t want to send her home hungry. So we settled into eating whatever my chef has made—Emrys never leaves my fridge empty. But since my food’s meticulously measured to fit my personal taste and my work demands, I still stopped at a French place to buy wine, croissants, chocolate and whatnot.
We walked in, and her eyes wandered over the dark wood, blacks and deep greens of my living room. The extensive area with floor-to-ceiling windows happens when you tell your real state agent you just need a two-bedroom apartment, so she makes up for it by finding a penthouse with a living room the size of five bedrooms. I love it, though—especially the railed mezzanine overlooking the living room, a more private area where my bedroom is.
Aelin doesn’t comment on it, but she keeps her posture straight, chin high as she surveys the room with a twinge of satisfaction. I know better than to expect her to stroke my ego by complementing my apartment like everyone else does, so I’ll have to do with reading her small cues.
I offer to set her up with some wine in the living room as I get things ready, but she prefers to accompany me in the kitchen—so I maintain the plans and switch her location.
“So...” She elegantly sits by the black kitchen island, and I can’t stop staring at the beautiful contrast that her golden gala dress makes against it. Her gaze travels over me, lingering as she searches for what to say. “How many Michelin stars does this chef of yours have?”
“All of them.” I grin, joking. “I gave them to him myself.”
Emrys has no Michelin stars yet because we don’t want those fuckers sticking their noses in our business. The day I invite them for a post-game cheat meal, it’s over for those posh downtown chefs.
I take off my jacket, lean it over an empty stool and say, “Steak or salmon?”
“I like steak best.” I’m elbows deep inside the fridge when she adds, “So let’s see what he does with the salmon.”
Snorting, I reach for the other container and take it out, along with two pans and two bowls.
Aelin doesn’t look impressed when I empty the rice into the pan and turn on the stove. I remind myself she’s not a random girl I picked, about to ooh and aah everything I do—which can be pretty annoying—but I still feel a twinge of unease; am I doing something wrong?
If anything, my pan reheating will do Emrys’ food justice. The microwave is my most used method, but a pan and a tablespoon of water—or oil for the salmon—will make sure the food stays fresh and doesn’t dry out. It’s how my mom would reheat dinner for Dad when he got home late from work, and it’s how, twenty years later, I’m trying to charm my way into Aelin’s pants.
This same kitchen could work if that’s what she’s into; anywhere, really. Gods—celibacy doesn’t suit me. It’s been almost a month, and I’m crawling up the walls.
The tux collar poking into my neck makes me regret I didn’t fully change before, but I’m focused on dinner now.
Aelin disrupts my focus by saying, “I still mean to have the salmon with you, but I’m starving.”
I crane my neck to peek at the scene unfolding behind me.
One croissant I brought got torn in two; the smaller half in her hand, bitten. Her other hand is also full with a glass of wine.
I smirk. “The food’s there to eat—you know that, right?”
She gives me the smallest, pleased grin, and it puffs my chest with pride.
In this moment, I decide I like that she’s not at my feet, eager to please me. I’m enjoying the mental challenge of the chase, and I like how these moments feel earned, even if that’s kind of messed up.
When the food’s ready, the salmon and jasmine rice are already in the bowls, but I stop short when it’s time to add the veggies.
“No kale for you, I take it?”
Her burst of laughter erupted, rich and unrestrained—beautiful. “Thanks, but I’d rather not.”
I’m still adding some final touches when she gets up and asks, “Who dressed you?”
“I—” Before my words come out, Aelin has her eyes narrowed on my throat. My bow tie hangs untied around my collar, and she gently removes it. Her fingers on my neck—I feel it in my spine, in the tips of the hairs on my forearm—are back to fiddle with my collar. She explains, but I can barely listen to her; her fingers weave thickness in the air, a weight made heavier by my month of inertia.
It feels like forever until she detaches the wing collar from my shirt.
“Gods,” she breathes, too close to my skin. “Your collar was loose on the left side. It must’ve scraped your neck all night long.”
“Huh,” I say, my mind foggy from her closeness. “so there was something wrong besides the general discomfort that’s wearing a tux.”
“Yeah, that was a rookie mistake.” Her eyes examine the assaulted area of my neck once more before straying to mine. “Who dressed you?”
I make a face. “So… that would be the work of my sixteen-year-old cousin.”
“You’re joking!” Aelin’s jaw falls, eyes widened. “Rowan, the size of that event… you’re joking.”
I raise both hands, palms forward in surrender. “She’s great! She knows what’s trending, has good taste, and she did some closet witchcraft that now all my clothes match, and I don’t have to think much when I’m getting dressed.”
“So you hired a sixteen-year-old to work as a professional stylist.”
It’s not a question, but I answer anyway. “Pretty much, yes.”
Aelin face-palms herself; I stiffen and reevaluate my words, wondering if I said something offensive to the fashion people out there, when I notice the shaking on her shoulders. My own loosen up on the spot. She’s laughing at my expense.
“Alright.” With one deep breath, Aelin resets herself, gripping the counter. Her lip twitches, threatening to mock me further, but she didn’t let it happen. “Well, for someone who’s severely underqualified, I think your cousin’s doing a great job.”
“I think so too.” My tone remains light as I move both our bowls to the dining area between the kitchen and the lounge.
She follows behind me, wineglass in hand. “But if you ever consider finding more… experienced help, I know a person or two to recommend.”
“I’m doing good, but thanks. If I ever win a Balloon d’Or, though, I'll double-check with someone else.”
I place one wide, shallow bowl at the head of the table and the other perpendicular to it, by the closest seat—the one Aelin directs herself to. I pull out the chair for her before she gets there.
Now sat, I say, “I don’t think I have candles here.”
Aelin has her head tilted, inspecting me, when I open the freshly downloaded candle app on my phone, letting it rest upright against her wine bottle. The fake, digital flame even flickers, closer to the actual thing than I’d figured.
With that, her snort quickly becomes a giggle. “It’s just the two of us now. It doesn’t have to be a romantic dinner.”
“I know.”
She eyes the small glass bottle beside my bowl. “Is that…?”
“Tart cherry juice.” I spin it so that the label faces her. “It’s gonna be some more months before I can drink with you.”
For a minute, I think Aelin looks disappointed, but it’s gone before I can register it. “Thank Mala I’m not shy, then.” She raises her glass, shrugs and takes a sip. “More for me.”
Aelin takes a forkful of the crispy salmon. I try to act nonchalant, but I’m too eager to know what she thinks of Emrys’ cooking. Leaning closer, I watch her every move, such as her wide-eyed expression that leaves me guessing if it's a great or awful sign.
“Mala’s tits, I—” Aelin mindlessly dabs her lips with a napkin, her eyes vacant with puzzlement. Then she blinks, giving herself a moment before she looks at me. “What’s your chef’s name again?”
“I won’t let you steal him from me, but nice try.”
Truth is, Emrys’ already stolen. He used to work for the White Hawk’s training center, and it was one job offer after another until I made one that was too good to pass up.
“Damn.” She fakes a pissed look and pretends to slap the table. “It was worth trying, though.”
I’ve got my mouth full, but I manage a close-lipped smile.
“Can I ask you something?”
Still chewing, I nod. Gods, I was starving.
“You mentioned something about a balloon. What’s up with that?”
I raise a single finger, a silent request for a moment to finish chewing before I speak. In the meantime, I watch the smallest of frowns on her face, and she really has no clue what a Ballon d’Or is. Adorable.
It’s obvious that not every single person in the world knows about it, but it’s always been such a big deal to me—even when I was a kid, and especially now that every single person in my life is even remotely engaged with football.
Her cluelessness is… cute? Kind of. Refreshing, for sure.
“A Balloon d’Or is the biggest award a football player can receive. Once a year, journalists elect the best player based on performances—individual and team—plus fair play. It's got its issues, and the decision process isn't that fair, but it's still a big deal.”
“So it’s like football Grammys?”
I snort mid-sip. “Kind of, yeah. But just one category.”
“Nice.” Aelin closes her eyes to chew, her body visibly melting onto the wooden chair. I owe Emrys a solid.
I dimmed the lights to make it feel cozy and private, but my windows—wall?—are open, the city lights doing their own job of lighting things up. Whenever Aelin’s face moves, some tiny particles catch the light and flicker on the highest points of her cheekbones. I’m not sure if putting glitter on your face is part of women’s dress code for gala attire, but I like the golden shimmer. It suits her.
“Is that a dream of yours? The Balloon d’Or, I mean.”
“Nah, not really.”
She giggles at my blunt response, already affected by the wine, and her surprised reaction makes me give it some more thought before continuing.
“I mean, many other players would consider this to be their ultimate dream. Receiving one would obviously be an honor for me. But a dream?” I shrug. “I think I’ve achieved all of those already.”
“Oh?” She straightens, a smirk on her smudged lips. “Sorry, Mr. I-achieved-all-of-my-dreams-at-twenty-eight.”
“Eighteen, really.”
“Is that so?” Aelin prompts me further with the heel of her palm supporting her chin, eyes keen on me.
“I—”
I take another forkful of the salmon while I process what to say. It's a widely known fact about me that others often point out; I rarely bring it up myself.
“Did you look me up online?”
Aelin bites her lower lip, playing coy. “Would you believe me if I pretended I didn’t?”
I duck my head, hoping she doesn’t notice my lip twitch. So, she has at least an idea of what I’m about to say.
“My first and biggest dream was always to get the hell out of the slums. Get my family a better life, y’know?”
I’ve dreamed of that considering both the family I have and the one I’m yet to build. Taking longer bus rides because I lived far or not having cool stuff, that’s one thing. I can live with that. But not being able to afford a safe place to live, wondering if my mom would be alive today if we had access to better healthcare—that shit tore me up.
“My second, less achievable dream was to do it as a football player.”
Aelin gives me a close-lipped smile. Squeezes my hand on the table. “I’m glad you worked that out.”
“I mean, calling it a dream is too much of a stretch, but there’s more I want to do, goals I’m going after.”
“Like fake dating a pop star?”
I chuckle. Like actually dating said pop star, but I won’t bring it up now.
She says, “My work life might be shit these days, but I’ve really lucked out in the fake boyfriend department lately, with you and Dorian.”
I stop. Blink. Perhaps I misunderstood.
“What?”
“Obviously, it’s still work, but it’s nice when the people I work with are good to be around.”
“No, the thing you said about Dorian. The two of you…?”
“He’s very sweet, and a good friend of mine, but you know…” She gives me a pointed look. If I could speak, I’d remind her I do not know. “It wasn’t all fake—I wasn’t pretending to have fun or to enjoy his company. Our feelings for each other just weren’t romantic.”
“And you never dated.”
“Not one kiss off-camera, no.”
The fuck?
I get up, the scrape of my chair loud against the floor. I look away to the city, then back to Aelin.
“And kale?”
“Real—unfortunately.”
With my hands braced on the back of the chair, I lift a finger, asking her for a minute. My eyes zero on a blank spot in front of me as I gather my thoughts, ears ringing.
She frowns. “Why are you all pissy? We’re doing the very same thing.”
Because Aelin and Dorian never dated.
So Chaol was never her boyfriend’s best friend, just a friend’s friend.
Which means Aelin had her reputation ruined because of something she didn’t even do.
From her eyes, narrowed at me, I know she’s at least flustered with my reaction. Not wanting to delay this further, I spit the words out in the least articulate way possible.
“Oh.” She blinks. Relaxes back into her seat. “I mean, that pisses me off too, but that’s business. Besides, I took that risk with Chaol myself, knowing full well what could happen. If anyone’s at fault, it’s me.”
Still braced on the chair, I lean my face closer to hers. Why is she so nonchalant about this?
Unfair isn’t even a strong enough word for what’s going on with her.
Slut-shaming women—that’s unfair. Cruel and wrong too. But making Aelin’s life a living hell over a guy she never even dated? Come on.
And she dares to laugh. Pats the seat I was in before, inviting me over.
“Your dinner’s getting cold.”
She has the faintest smile on her lips, one that doesn’t reach her eyes the way it did when she found out my incorrectly pinned collar had stabbed my neck all night long.
But I comply.
Because this isn’t about me, I follow her lead. She’s the one who was wronged, and maybe the last thing she needs right now is to be alone with a raging man.
So I sit next to her, take a deep breath and command my boiling blood to calm the fuck down.
“If you ever need someone to beat the shit out of those people, I’m your guy.”
At that, she grins.
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AWWW rowan's a feminist! I'm obsessed:))) this chapter was amazing I was hanging on to every word...your writing always feels so immersive, I get completely lost in the story. it's genuinely amazing. it makes me feel like a kid again.
And yes!! I’d say Rowan’s an empirical feminist? He’s not reading Angela Davis or anything, but my boy has his principles (and plenty of people in his life to set him straight)
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality
Anya is LIVE right now
FREE
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality
Anya is LIVE right now
FREE
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
I'd like to dedicate this chapter to @pricklyypear. The lack of feedback has been quite disheartening for me, and I don't think I would've continued this fic if you hadn't reached out 💗💖
Anyway, maybe smaller chapters will be better for consistency? We'll see
Warnings: none
Words: ~2k
Even though I understand the amount of camera work that goes into live broadcasts of these kinds of events, I’m still taken aback by how they’ve been filming Aelin and me non-stop.
None of us work in the film industry—I’m sure my appearance for my former team’s documentary doesn’t count. Shouldn’t they have better people to film?
Our publicists sent us here with a few of our friends as a “fun soft launch”—their words exactly—of our relationship. However, wearing this bow tie hasn’t been fun for me, neither is this relationship launch soft.
So far, it’s been a barrage of photographs and inquiries about our love life, despite her odd policy about not doing red carpets with men, just her girlfriends—I don’t get it, but it didn’t bother me either, so I let this rule slide.
Aelin tugs my arm. Sat beside me, she leans over my shoulder with one hand cupped to cover her mouth and whispers, “We’re supposed to be having fun, remember?”
I nod, find her hand and squeeze it. I take advantage of my height to press a kiss to the crown of her head, draping my arm over the back of her chair.
She freezes, the thin straps of her dress exposing her tight posture.
I chuckle and whisper in her ear, “We’re supposed to be having fun, remember?”
The delicate tremble that marks her shiver is more than enough to lift my mood.
“Are you cold, baby?”
She squints her eyes at me, defiant and stubborn despite not being able to vocalize it. Tomorrow, there’ll be tons of lip readers going through our footage of tonight, trying to piece together every conversation we’ve had.
I cup her face, my thumb idly tracing her chin and cheek. “Lovely,” I say without cupping my mouth this time, and I mean it. She’s adorable when she’s mad or flustered over being attracted to me.
Aelin sighs and leans on me, focusing back on the host making a joke I should understand about a director with a funny name I should know.
I lean closer to Vaughan on my left and ask, “Who’s that?”
“He’s this super niche director from Eyllwe. Makes underground stuff.”
“Have I watched any of his stuff?” I ask, already sensing the answer.
“I don’t know, dude.” Vaughan laughs into his hand. “He doesn’t film cars blowing up, so I don’t think you have.”
My elbow meets his side; I’m now snickering as well. “Fuck off.”
Sinking back into my seat, I appreciate its size. It’s ironic; I’m usually the one who’s too big for the seats, but today I’m okay—it’s the tiny women in massive gowns trying to squeeze in.
The venue is so spacious, yet it feels cramped with the amount of people here, turning it into a fog of strong perfume and hairspray. When I checked out these events from the outside, people seemed chill and put-together—I’d never have guessed the atmosphere here is so thick with anxiety.
Some veterans easily sail through, but there’s always someone fighting their outfit, people tripping on gowns. Men with starched collars or women with too-heavy diamond necklaces, their necks being chafed raw.
The cameras and red-carpet journalists don’t make it any easier.
I wonder if the cameras can catch the damp mark on the host’s leg from wiping his sweaty hand. To his defense, stage lights’s warmth can be brutal.
“But hey.” Vaughan juts his chin towards my date. “What’s up with your girl’s girl?”
Ansel, who’s sat on Aelin’s other side. Aelin and I weren’t invited to this event, so technically I’m Vaughan’s date, and she’s with her actress friend.
“We just met.”
I’ve seen some of her movies and know she started out as one of those child stars, but I’m pretty sure my cinephile friend knows that too.
“Is she single?”
“Dude.”
“What?” Vaughan says in the same disbelieving tone.
He can call me selfish all he wants, but my chances with Aelin are slim; it’s not like I’m messing things up by introducing her friend to Vaughan. I've never seen him be serious with a girl. He'd say the same about me, but I'm not risking others for my shot—I went up to her myself.
“I’m not setting you two up. If you pull her, I want no part in it.”
“Come on.”
“No.”
“Just do this one thing for me. I’ll cover your ass in the last 10 minutes of the next three matches.”
I cross my arms, not quite believing him. But Vaughan’s not budging, and I’m almost believing he’s for real.
“You’ll do my defensive work? All the running?”
“Yeah, you can just chill there.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose—I’m actually going to do this, aren’t I? “Just don’t be a jerk, okay? I don’t want to piss Aelin off.”
“I’m a gentleman.”
“Dude, I swear to God, if you ghost this chick—”
“Okay, okay! Got it. I won’t ghost her, geez.”
I squint at him again, studying his earnestness. Vaughan looks serious enough, so I lean into Aelin’s side.
“Hey.”
Her eyes remain locked on the stage, but the tantalizing curl on the corner of her red lips tells me she’s listening.
“So, is Ansel single?”
Her mouth flattens. “How does that concern you?”
“Because Vaughan’s interested, and he won’t leave it alone.”
“Oh.” Her chin dipped down for a second before she said, “She’s single, but she might not be for your friend. Let me ask.”
Aelin shifts away. Without skipping a beat, Vaughan pokes my side in a sequence of aggressive jabs.
When I comply and lean closer, he adds, “But don’t be too obvious.”
I nod and tilt towards Aelin, to my right. “Let’s not be too obvious,” I whisper.
She snorts. “Smooth. Got it.”
I give Vaughan a curt nod. He does the same.
As the night drags on, I get more and more antsy, and I’m doing my best to quit fussing with my collar. Perhaps I don’t appreciate how great my work uniform is, because I’d hate to wear a fancy suit all the time.
“And Aelin Galathynius is with us tonight, ladies and gentlemen,” the host says.
More cameras shift towards her. She gives a close-lipped smile, polite but not warm.
“I was going to ask if she plans to stay single, but her relationship status changed before I had the chance!”
My brain needs a beat to process what he said, that he actually said that on a live broadcast. My eyes dart back to Aelin, but she doesn’t flinch. She raises her eyebrows, unimpressed and with a bit of an attitude.
Why is she being so chill about it? In the field, my homies and I raise hell when someone’s half as snarky to one of us.
I’m keeping quiet because that’s what she’s going for—if a silent rebellion is what she wants, that’s what I’ll do. However, she can’t stop me from cradling an arm around her. I don’t look at any cameras or video walls with his face; my focus is on him alone when I tilt my head, staring like I could draw blood with my eyes alone. The posture I maintain is a threat and a dare: he can’t come because I’m bigger than him, and he can’t run because I’m faster than anyone inside this venue, even Vaughan or security.
Peripheral vision allows me to see my face plastered on the venue's wall-sized screens, which also means it's on millions of screens worldwide too. My focus remains on him alone.
It’s uncivilized and ridiculous in modern society, but triggering a primitive part of his brain is how to stop men with a way of thinking like his. I can be pretty intimidating—scary, even—when I need to be, and I'm hell-bent on making this creep wish he never brought her up.
“Uh-oh.” An uneasy laugh. “I think I pissed off her boyfriend, and he’s twice my size. Moving on…”
He quickly finds another celebrity to hassle, but my arm remains around Aelin.
We only relax when everyone’s attention moves forward—cameras and guests alike.
“You didn’t have to do that.”
“It was nothing.” And I mean it. Her team clearly didn’t show her the brawl I was in when that preppy little shit from Bellhaven United called Connall a ‘faggot’. I never apologized—not to that fucker nor to the team suits and coach when the disciplinary committee expelled me for the next three games.
“Are we close to your bedtime, old man?”
“Past it, actually.”
“Wanna get out of here?”
“Yes, please.”
Aelin smirks at me and leans over toward Ansel.
My jaw sets again when her attention is elsewhere, and I barely have time to brood over what happened when Vaughan scoots closer to me.
“You really like her, huh?”
I haven’t really thought about how much I like Aelin—the person—rather than the prospect of finishing what we started on the night we met, but yeah. Depending on what ‘like’ means to him, I do like her.
My friend wiggles his eyebrows. “When are you bringing her to a game?”
I cock my head, surprised because I thought my answer was obvious. “Never.”
Vaughan doubles over, and I’m not sure what he’s laughing at.
“Dude, have you seen her? She’s like, Miss Universe type of shit. I’m not taking her anywhere near those fuckers.”
Vaughan’s not laughing anymore, but you can tell he’s about to crack up again. “Don’t you wanna see her cheering in your jersey?”
Shit.
Yes, I do.
In a short skirt, if I have any say in it.
Damn, I need to reconsider this.
Before I can continue my reevaluation, Aelin leans in once more.
“If we go now, do you think Vaughan can keep Ansel company till the party’s over?” Aelin grins. “She decided she’s single.”
My heads up and warning to Vaughan doesn’t last half as long as Aelin’s goodbyes to Ansel, and I can’t help but overhear them.
“Do not. Disappear. Again.” Ansel has a firm tone, her hand on her friend’s shoulder.
“I won’t.”
“I can’t believe you disappeared for a couple of weeks and came back with a whole boyfriend!” It’s hard to say if Ansel is distressed, confused, or amused. Maybe all of them. “You said both your dads are friends, right? Did he wait for you to be single? Was it a friends to lovers thing?”
Aelin has her face turned away from me, but I can see her shoulders shake with laughter.
“Every relationship I have is an enemies to lovers. I hate men.”
Her friend cackles at her antics, and I can’t help but chuckle as well. My hand gently skim over Aelin’s bare shoulders as I call her attention.
“I’m ready if you are.”
We both get up and push our way through the packed venue, my palm on her back. It doesn’t take long for us to grab the host’s attention.
“…and Aelin and her double-door-fridge-sized boyfriend are leaving. Tough crowd tonight, huh?”
That fucking host has the gall to address her again.
“I can’t hear you,” I yell, tapping my ear with my index finger. “Misogyny too loud.”
If the live footage didn’t catch what I said, I’m sure the lip readers will.
I pull her closer, wrapping my arm tighter around her, and guide her out.
It crosses my mind that I might never get invited to this again, but then I remember I wasn’t even invited to this one. It’s not like I’ll ever miss attending those things, anyway.
A Feminist King in the Making? Rowan Whitethorn Calls Out Misogyny During Varese Film Festival’s Opening Ceremony
Is Aelin Galathynius Reforming our Favorite Playboy?
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I'm obsessed with this chair. The artist takes a flimsy hunk of injection-molded plastic that's been cost-cut to hell and back, and insists that we look at it with fresh eyes and understand its beauty. And they went about it in the most labor-intensive way I can think of.
Absolutely nothing about this design is convenient to execute in wood. Every piece is curved, most have compound curves. This is artisan craftsmanship: it's inherently slow, manual, and skilled. Notice, also, that most features of this chair must be thicker and heavier than on the plastic chairs being imitated. Injection-molded chairs can be produced in this shape in a matter of minutes with far less material at very low cost.
If these flowing, organic curves are so beautiful in polished wood, perhaps they are also beautiful in the mass-produced chairs that are far more accessible. Perhaps we should remember to admire designs that succeed enough to become ubiquitous. I don't know about you, but I'll never see injection-molded chairs the same way again.
I agree with all of this, but YOU HAVE HIT UPON A FORGOTTEN TRUTH OF PLASTIC CHAIRS!!!!!
The standard one-piece injection molded plastic chair is referred to as a "Monobloc", literally just describing it as a single piece. The history of this chair is fascinating, and it all starts back in 1946, with the D.C. Simpson Monobloc.
Douglas Colborne Simpson was an architect mostly active in the 40's and 50's, designing a lot of classic mid-century style buildings in Vancouver, Canada(1). In 1946, as part of a government project to find new uses for materials developed for WWII, he and engineer James Donahue developed the design you see above, simply called the Monobloc(2). Unfortunately, we don't know a lot about this chair as it was only ever a prototype, and no modern examples have survived, nor have most of the records surrounding it(3). To my knowledge, we don't actually know if this was technically injection molded, or crafted some other way. We can't even be sure if it was technically the inspiration for the designs that followed, but no matter the case it has lent its name to the entire genre.
Plastics technology was simply not what it is today back in the 1940's. Most people would have had very little plastic in their homes, most likely just a few pieces of Bakelite (the first commercially viable plastic, made from a formaldehyde based resin in a Bakelizer, the best name for any industrial manufacturing equipment ever). Over the following few decades, however, as a wider variety of plastics were both developed and came down in price to the point of commercial viability, the concept of the plastic chair was revisited, and the first folks to revisit it were Helmut Batzner, in 1964, and Joe Colombo, in 1965.
This, is the Bofinger chair, Batzner's design:
The elements of D.C.Simpson's Monobloc were pretty alien compared to todays mass-manufactured plastic chairs, but here we start to see some more modern elements come into play. The first thing you probably notice is the front legs, which have that characteristic visible 90 degree bend in them for added rigidity, plus a much more comfortably leaned back and slightly scoop-shaped seat. We also see much more support in the back rest, with broad triangles allowing for a more efficient use of materials without losing back support.
Similar to Simpson, Batzner was not an industrial designer, but an architect, and this chair had a very specific purpose. Batzner and his team designed it as part of a project to build a new theater in Karlsruhe, Germany, which required a large amount of additional seating which could be easily packed away into storage or distributed around the theaters rooms by the staff (4). As such, it was designed to be both lightweight and stackable, so several of them could be moved by one person, and they could be stored compactly. This piece of furniture was a huge hit a the theater, and was so popular that 120,000 units would ultimately be manufactured and sold around the world, with each one taking just 5 minutes to produce (4).
Around the same time, Joe Colombo enters the scene with this:
Colombo was an artist in several mediums who, after taking over his families appliance company in the 50's, made the shift towards architecture and interior design, and started designing a wide array of trend-setting furniture(5). The chair shown above is known as the Universale (sometimes referred to as the Chair Universal 4867), designed in 1965. This chair differs pretty greatly from the ones that came after it, it many ways it represents a different path that could have been taken, but it's also very widely referenced as an inspiration for what is broadly considered the origin of the white plastic chair the world over.
Enter: the Fauteuil 300
This is, arguably, the first iteration of the white plastic chair we all know today. Designed by Henry Massonnet in 1972, the Fauteuil 300 and it's imitators are, collectively, the single most widely used piece of furniture in the entire world(6). Before that, however, it was something else entirely: works of art.
What might be hard to recognize in hindsight is that all of these chairs described so far were not everyday objects. They were on the forefront of modern design, they made use of brand new materials and manufacturing processes, and at the time they were each made, they were slick, stylish, and fairly expensive. Despite the speed at which they could be manufactured, these innovative, high-end chairs rose sharply in cost up through the early 1980's due to the sheer demand for them. They weren't cheap spare seating you stuck in the garage, they were placed at dining tables and on fine patios, and they were a wildly popular talking point. That's not to say their expense justified their artistic value, but rather that their expense and popularity was a product of their status as highly contemporary and boundary-pushing designs.
With the price of plastics declining after the 70's, the increasing accessibility of injection molding to manufacturers, and the widespread popularity of these designs, copycats proliferated rapidly, and eventually drove the price down. This era, in the 80's and 90's, is when these chairs became cheap an ubiquitous, and where they became manufactured the world over.
And here is where we reach this piece, "Plastic chair in wood", by Maarten Baas, and a piece of the history I've left out so far. The Monobloc was designed to be made out of wood. Like the the other chairs designed by Joe Colombo, like the chairs that predated the Simpson, the Monobloc was designed with the intention of using laminated plywood, but as the artists and designers behind them began to experiment with new materials they fell in love with the idea of making them from plastic, and so they did. They redesigned and redesigned until they made something that would be impossible to make in wood at a price most people could afford, but which could be made from plastic in mere minutes. The organic curves and thin profiles would take so much time, so much waste material, so much skill and effort to create if made of wood that they could never be furniture, they could only be art. Baas' chair is a perfect, beautiful reflection of that.
That, in brief, is the history of the design of the white plastic Monobloc chair, but it's not all there is to know. In fact, it's kind of just the start. I've linked my sources below, but I would strongly recommend checking out the German documentary Monobloc, by Hauke Wendler. It goes over the history, but it's far more interested with what the Monobloc means, and what it's place is in our world today. The impact it's made, the better and the worse, and what it says about us. It's fascinating, and well worth your time.
"Familiar Ground"
Dropping the latest Sketch-a-Wish voted on by my lovely Patreon members for November! Featuring Iris and Roman from Divine Rivals by Rebecca Ross! (whom I just recently met while she was touring with Isabel Ibañez!)
This has been a long-requested scene, and a twisty way to sneak in the 'there was only one bed' trope, hah!
I had the weirdest nostalgia rendering the duffle bags, because I remember from my childhood my dad having one when he was in the military. It was just a giant 4 x 1 ft denim tube sock with a string closure at the top, and I thought it would have been the worst digging out whatever was at the bottom.
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My take on the absolute chaos that was the bridge fight of episode 14
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It's more vibes than 100% accuracy, please don't judge too hard 🙏😅
But I hope you can enjoy it nonetheless 🙃
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