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live-the-fangirl-life · 3 years ago

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Love is in the Lines

Nesta Archeron x Cassian - Tattoo Convention Oneshot

Nesta loses Cassian at a tattoo convention.

Written for Nessian month. @illyrianet

Prompt 1: Tattoo Artist

Prompt 2: We came to the…together, and now you’re lost.

Masterlist | Read on Ao3

Warnings: Language

2319 words

*******

“Cassian, I swear to the mother, when I find you…” Nesta grumbled to herself for the fourth, no it was the fifth, time in the last twenty minutes.

She pushed through the herds of people crowding the aisle, trying her best to scour every booth for her missing boyfriend.

One moment, he had been standing behind her waiting as she scrutinized a certain design, the next, she turned back around, and he had disappeared.

Deciding she wasn’t going to find him in this row, she turned the corner and began walking down the next aisle starting her search over again.

If she was lucky, she would spot his massive frame sticking out above the clusters of people, but so far luck wasn’t on her side because she’d been walking around the convention hall for almost half an hour now searching for him. Nesta passed each booth looking at the artists and the customers, but they were all strangers.

Getting to the end, she took one last scan over the heavily tattooed convention-goers—most having several visible piercings in their ears, noses, and sporadic other places on the face that she thought would be excruciating to pierce—and wondered what the hell she was doing.

Sighing heavily, Nesta turned and started walking down the next aisle.

Two years ago, if someone had told Nesta she would be wandering around a tattoo convention, she would’ve laughed in their face at the absurdity of it.

A year ago, she’d have rolled her eyes and said that even her ink-covered boyfriend who made her realized she didn’t hate all tattoos, wouldn’t have been able to convince her to spend a day surrounded by the buzzing machines and colorfully covered patrons.

Last week, she considered it.

Being with Cassian had made her learn a lot about herself; one of those things being the fact that she found all of his ink incredibly attractive.

There was something about the way the ink stood out on his tanned skin that made it look like it was supposed to be there. She couldn’t even imagine her boyfriend without his tattoos. The one time she tried, she made a mental image of his arms without the swirling geometric designs and his back without the large bat-like wings, not to mention all the other little designs he had strewn across his body suddenly gone—and she was surprised to find herself dismayed at the lack on ink.

One night, when Nesta was idly tracing some of the lines across his chest, she confessed to Cassian that she wanted to get a small tattoo of her own.

At first, he had been shocked. As much as she loved his designs, he knew she still looked at most people’s tattoos with distaste. In her words, “most of the tattoos I see look like someone stumbled into a shop at four in the morning, drunk out of their mind, and picked out the first thing they saw. And the artist just went with it.”

But Nesta listened whenever he talked about his own designs; about how they all meant something to him. How every design held a memory. Every time he looked at them—whether he was intentionally studying them or when he caught a glimpse of one out of the corner of his eye—he would think about why he got it. Each tattoo made him remember a story, or a person, or some sort of inspiration.

They were reminders, self-expressions, and memories.

Even the one he got when he and his brothers were wasted and thought getting matching tattoos—done by each other, of course—was an amazing idea. He always pointed out that particular tattoo whenever Nesta explained her disdain for the “impulsive permanent decisions” saying that even though the design isn’t great, every time he looks at it he laughs and thinks of the great time he has when he’s with his brothers.

So when Nesta told him she wanted to get a tattoo, Cassian was more than surprised. But as soon as his shock wore off, he got the broadest smile on his face and immediately started asking her questions. What did she want? How long had she wanted one? Color or Black and White? Where on her body? Question after question, and Nesta was glad that Cassian had been thrilled.

Smirking, she remembered what he had told her when she asked him if he thought she would look good with a tattoo.

“Good?” She’d never seen him look more ravenous, already picturing what she would look like with ink covering her body. He cupped her face and looked into her eyes. “Nes, sweetheart, you are already so gorgeous, but, fuck,” he groaned, “you would look so fucking stunning that I don’t know how I’d ever be able to keep my hands off you.”

Then he made sure to show her just how much he liked the idea of tattoos covering her body, using his tongue to trace potential designs across every inch of her skin.

The next day, Cassian showed Nesta the poster for the tattoo convention happening soon which brought dozens of artists together to showcase their work and allow for people to get tattoos done, and admire the different aesthetics and designs.

When Nesta agreed to go with him, she made it very clear she was just looking for inspiration. It was practical, she reasoned, to go to see all kinds of designs in one place so she could get a sense of what exactly she wanted.

She figured he would be attached to her side, wanting to show her everything and point out his favorites.

The last thing she expected was to lose Cassian in the crowd.

Nesta finished eyeing another row of booths, still no sign of her missing, infuriating, boyfriend.

“C’mon Nesta, he said” she muttered as she walked. “It’ll be fun, he said. You’ll get inspired and I’ll be right there with you, he said.”

Nesta just about turned the corner when a booming laugh caught her attention. Zeroing in on the sound she caught sight of Cassian—well, his hair really. The long, dark, wavy strands were pulled up into a bun on top of his head, making his strong jawline covered in artfully groomed stubble stand out.

Nesta sometimes found it hard to stay mad at Cassian because no matter what she was upset about, he always found a way to make her smile. Even unintentionally. Like right now, part of her wanted to strangle him for vanishing on her and making her scour the convention hall for him, but hearing the sound of his laugh softened her and she allowed herself to smile at him before quickly schooling her features and making her way over to where he was sitting.

Sitting.

He was sitting in a reclining chair while the booth’s tattoo artist leaned over him to draw a new piece of artwork on his skin.

Nesta was going to kill him. Seething, she marched towards him.

He brought her here, he disappeared, and then he went off to get a new tattoo—without her.

Cassian’s eyes lit up as he spotted her. “Nes! Check it out, look who’s here.”

For the first time, Nesta looked at who exactly was inking her boyfriend.

“Az?” She blinked, momentarily losing her frustration. “I didn’t know you would be here.”

Azriel dipped his needle into the ink again and let out a low chuckle. Once he deemed enough ink was added, he gave Nesta a rueful smile. “I assumed this one,” he nodded at Cass who was still grinning at her “would show up today, but I thought I could get a couple of hours of actual clients before he took over my booth. I didn’t expect to see you here, though” Azriel concentrated on tracing another line but raised an eyebrow in her general direction.

“Yeah, well, this one,” she imitated Azriel’s tone and nodded at Cassian, “wanted to show me what one of these conventions was like, but apparently he decided it was better to run off and get another tattoo.”

Setting her bag down, Nesta sunk into the chair beside Cassian and crossed her arms.

“I’ve been wandering around for more than thirty minutes looking for you, asshole”

Az snorted, but didn’t comment, just kept drawing something that Nesta couldn’t quite see.

“Aw babe, don’t be mad,” Cassian leaned over as best he could and gave her a quick kiss on the cheek before she could turn away. Not that she didn’t want a kiss from him, but she was still upset at his antics. “You were so absorbed looking at that lady’s designs I didn’t want to interrupt you.”

Nesta’s anger melted a little at that. They had been walking around for a while when Nesta spotted a particular design she liked. She dragged Cassian over to a booth hosted by a woman whose arms were covered in colorful images and had her hair pulled back in a bright bandanna. She had a handful of binders on the table filled with designs and photos of healed artwork.

It was the minimalistic stack of books that had caught Nesta’s eye from across the aisle. She followed the single line as it swirled around creating the image. She must have been more lost in thought than she realized if Cassian deemed it best not to interrupt her.

“And,” He gave her a wide grin, “I hoped I could find Az and convince him to tattoo me for free.”

Rolling her eyes at Cass’ satisfied look and Az’s long-suffering one, she watched as people passed by the booth. Some looked through the design books, others paused to watch for a moment as Az worked. Turning back to face Cassian, she saw he was already looking at her.

“Fine. I’m still annoyed, though.” She leaned in closer, “What are you getting?”

Now Cassian’s face turned a little nervous. He still looked excited and happy and keen in the way he always looked when he watched her, but now he started to look a little worried, too.

“Before you freak out or get angry, let me explain.”

Nesta’s mind immediately went to worst-case scenarios. What could he be getting that he thought she would be angry? What would Azriel agree to ink that she should be upset about? Was it—

“Great way to start.” Azriel muttered from Cassian’s other side.

“Shut up.” He rolled his eyes and turned back to Nesta just as she stood up and walked around to peer over Azriel’s shoulder.

Az was putting the finishing touches on but she could see exactly what the image was.

It was delicate ‘N’ on the inner edge of his wrist.

Nesta didn’t say anything—couldn’t say anything—she just stared at the design now permanently etched into her boyfriend’s skin.

Cassian cleared his throat and Azriel backed away to put his needles down and give them a moment of privacy. As much privacy as they could have in the small booth.

“It’s an N,” Obviously. “For you.” Obviously.

Nesta couldn’t drag her gaze away from the letter. All her anger and frustration faded away. She forgot how irritated she was with him, how upset she had been when she turned around and he was gone. She forgot the instant jolt of panic she felt when she thought she had lost him.

Nesta took in each line and curve of the tattoo and felt such an overwhelming feeling of love for this crazy, impulsive, wonderful man.

“You…” She finally looked up to see him watching her face carefully.

“What do you think?” He waited for her to say something, but after a moment of silence, he started rambling. “Is it too much? Do you like it? You don’t like it. It’s too much. If you don’t like it I can change it. I mean, I can see if Az can change it. I could get it covered up—”

“No!”

Nesta grabbed his worried face in her hands and kissed him fiercely. She tried to pour everything she was feeling into that kiss, and make him know that she did like it, she loved it. She loved him.

“No, don’t cover it up.” She pressed her forehead to his before pulling back and intertwining their fingers, using her grip to lift his arm to get a better view.

“So, you do like it?” A slow smile appeared on his face.

Nodding softly, she told him, “I do.” Nesta swallowed, another rush of emotion hitting her. “You really wanted to get something for me inked onto you? These things last forever you know.” She tried to make a joke, but she was still feeling overwhelmed.

She almost couldn’t believe that he wanted a piece of her, something to remind him of her constantly and forever. It was insane; totally impulsive and unbelievable, but the sweetest most loving gesture anyone had ever done for her.

Cassian used his fingers to tilt her chin up so he could look her in the eye. “Of course I wanted to. Every time I’ll see it, I’ll think of you.”

She kissed him again.

Breaking apart, Nesta slowly moved her finger around the letter, careful not to brush it and hurt him.

“Why here?”

He forced her to meet his stare as he said, “I wanted it over my pulse point because my heart beats for you.”

He kissed her this time and put everything he had into it. She brought one hand around behind his head, the other rested on his chest, and kissed him back with just as much passion.

“That’s so corny” she murmured against his lips

They broke apart, each breathing a bit heavily.

Cassian gave her a cheeky grin and winked.

“You love it. And didn’t you know, sweetheart,” he gave her one more peck on the lips, “we’re gonna last forever, too.”

*****

I know I’ve posted a lot of oneshots recently, but don’t worry, I’m absolutely still working on my longer fics. I’m just taking advantage of the inspiration as it hits me

Taglist:

@acourtofsnakes @allthebooksunderthemoon @astra-ad-mare @becarefuloflove @bisexual-genderfluid-loki @booklover41802 @charlizeed @cookiemonsterwholovesbooks @danibutterr @doubt-less @emily-gsh @enormousbooklover @foughtconquered @fromthelibraryofemilyj @hakunamatatazz @i-have-but-one-brain-cell @in-love-with-caramel-macchiato @jorjy-jo @lemonade-coolattas @mariamuses @mayhemories @midsizewitch @miserablesmusings @morganofthewildfire @nehemikkele @rowaelinismyotp @rowansfirebringer @sayosdreams @sheharahu @sleeping-and-books @stardelia @story-scribbler @superspiritfestival @surielandiareendgame @swankii-art-teacher @tomtenadia @westofmoon @whimsicallyreading

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ao3bronte · 4 years ago

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Butter

I have been utterly enchanted by the spoiler images Zag keeps posting of Chat Noir and Ladybug's rooftop dinner date in the movie and I simply had to write about it for Christmas because it's so darn romantic! I've also been honing my food writing skills, which I hope you'll enjoy as well! This story is part of the @mlsecretsanta exchange and I was paired up with a Tumblr user named @yuki-sukinomoto. I hope they like what I have put together for them. Also on AO3.

Like many people around the world, Adrien has a special place in his heart for Disney films. He and his mother had enjoyed many a fireworks celebration at Disneyland Paris, not to mention the mini-vacation he'd taken with her at Disneyland Hong Kong while they were there for Father's flagship store opening. Even now, he regularly enjoys flipping through the archives of Disney+ just as frequently as he does his other streaming services; there's nothing like a rewatch of a favourite film to get his mind off the bigger shadows lording over his life.

He's halfway through his last year of lycée when it occurs to him that he hasn't watched Ratatouille in ages. There are only a few animated films set in Paris that he can think of off the top of his head and he's always enjoyed the romance of Un Monstre en Paris more than the trials and tribulations of a rodent gourmand. It warrants a look though, especially since he's got nothing better to do; the glacial December rain is no place for Paris’ favourite cat.

“Anyone can cook, but only the fearless can be great.”

Something about that statement resonates within him, like the missing piece of a puzzle finally slotting into place. Adrien gawks at the screen, then down at his fingers.

“I’m pretty much fearless,” he murmurs, the cogs of his brain suddenly propelling into motion. “And if that Linguini guy can learn how to cook, then so can I!”

That evening, Sous Chef Maurice humours the youngest Agreste when he strides into the kitchen and affably demands to be taught how to cook. The spritely blond’s attitude has always been world’s away from his boss’ brusque, frigid demeanor and Sous Chef Maurice welcomes the change of pace, if only to lighten up the evening as the snowy skies grow dim.

“So, where do we start?”

“With the basics, of course,” Sous Chef Maurice responds, tapping away at the mounted iPad on the wall nearest to the pass. “Watch this video and familiarize yourself with the classical knife cuts of French cuisine. Once you’re finished, bring three large carrots and two bulbs of fennel from the garde manger to my station to practice.”

“Yes, Chef!”

And so, with all of the flagrant gusto of an Agreste on a mission, Adrien watches the videos and does exactly as he’s asked. Wielding the chef’s knife is a bit of a task but he manages not to amputate any fingers, much to Sous Chef Maurice’s relief. All in all, he ends up with a fairly decently sliced pile of carrot batonnets on one side of the cutting board and half a julienned fennel bulb on the other.

“That’s all? There are several other techniques you’ll be required to master if you want to learn to cook.” Sous Chef Maurice frowns beneath his wiry moustache. “Cut a medium and small dice from the batonnets. And as for the fennel, slice the rest of the bulb into wedges. Monsieur Agreste requested it braised this evening.”

Adrien’s tongue wriggles out between his lips as he hacks the carrots into even smaller pieces. “What’s braising?”

“A cooking technique,” Sous Chef Maurice replies, “One you’re about to learn in a moment. Now chop.”

“Yes, Chef!” Adrien flashes his million watt smile before diving head first back into the task that was given and quickly catches on. He’s no Guy Savoy, of course, but he manages well enough with the careful precision of a boy who secretly destroys things for a living. Once he’s finished, he watches as Sous Chef Maurice crafts the rest of the evening’s dinner beneath the copper hooded hearth, stirring and seasoning every dish. Spreads of freshly baked bread and Saucisson Sec jostle for space on the platter, nestled in among wedges of Crottin de Chavignol and small jars of stone fruit jam that remind him of summer. On the burner, Sous Chef Maurice reverently sautées tomatoes in a magnificent French oven until buttery tender.

“Why, exactly, have you decided to learn how to cook all of the sudden?” Sous Chef Maurice asks as he sprinkles a fragrant chiffonade of basil over the tomatoes. “Don’t you have enough on your plate, so to speak?”

Adrien shrugs. “I was watching a movie and realized that I don’t know how to cook anything.”

“And now you suddenly have the inspiration to become a chef?”

“Not exactly,” Adrien says, passing him the pepper mill. “Cooking is...daring. You have to be fearless to be a great chef!”

Sous Chef Maurice begins to chuckle. “You’re doing this to impress a girl, aren’t you?”

“I…” Adrien’s jaw practically drops to the floor. Why didn’t he think of that sooner? Ladybug wouldn’t be able to resist his Chat Noir charm if he could pull off the ultimate homemade dinner for Christmas! She’s always appreciated his do-it-yourself gifts over the ones he’s bought her over the years...he could ask about her favourite foods and create a holiday masterpiece for her to devour as the perfect Christmas present, just for the two of them! “Yes! How did you know?”

“I was a young man once too,” Sous Chef Maurice points out, shaking his head with mirth as he turns his attention back to the hearth. He pulls the olive oil braised fennel from the oven and slathers a huge spoonful of buttery fava bean purée onto the serving platter, smearing it across the china like a streak of bright green paint. Then, he artfully stacks the braised vegetables over the purée and drizzles the juices from the pan in haphazard circles from a height, dressing the dish like Father would a high fashion model. Adrien can hardly believe his eyes as Sous Chef Maurice sprinkles Maldon sea salt on top and places it onto the pass, ready for service.

“Like modelling, cooking is an art. It requires patience and mastery,” Sous Chef Maurice explains, turning towards the youngest Agreste with a smile playing at the edge of his lips. “If you’re serious about learning how to cook, I suggest you start studying the books of Paul Bocuse.”

“Do you think Father will let me?”

“I heard you discussing your latest school project with Mme Sancoeur just yesterday in the dining room. Perhaps you can change the focus of your study to better suit your interests.”

The lightbulb above Adrien’s head suddenly flickers to life. “Yes! Thank you so much! You’re the best!”

As Adrien races from the kitchen to the dining room in a frenzy of inspiration, Sous Chef Maurice simply wipes down his knives and smiles.

Cooking, as it turns out, is easier said than done.

The first task on Adrien’s check list is to find out what Ladybug likes to eat. She doesn’t really know what to make of Chat Noir’s sudden barrage of questions about what her favourite meat is or what types of soft cheese she likes to spread on freshly baked baguettes. But she’s spent years by his side at this point — his chaotic behaviour always seems to stem from some haywire plan to prove his worth — so she goes along with it as he goes along with her crazy ideas; trust has always been integral between the two of them.

The second task is to watch as many cooking TV shows as he possibly can. Adrien stays up into the wee hours of the morning bingeing Masterchef and soaking up every detail he can memorize. Always salt the boiling water before cooking pasta; add acid to bring out the flavours of your food; season, season, season! Instant coffee powder accentuates the subtleties of chocolate; toast the spices to release their full potential! Adrien writes it all down and figures that it can’t be that hard to break down a whole chicken for roasting — the judges make it look so easy!

“Merde! I am so sick of this stupid—Plagg, transforme-moi!” Adrien growls that very afternoon after mistaking the back of the chicken for the breast...again, “Cataclysme!”

(Sous Chef Maurice finds the smoking pile of chicken soot in the bin later that evening and doesn’t have the heart to ask.)

There are two weeks left until the beginning of his school’s winter holidays and Adrien is bound and determined to host an evening that Ladybug will never forget. Anaïs gives Chat Noir permission to use one of the transparent bubble tents on his restaurant’s rooftop patio as a favour after de-akumatizing him back in September; Le Cochon Joufflu gives him a live edge cheese board to use in exchange for getting his beloved kitten down from the chestnut tree hanging over the patio. Ladybug mentions that she loves strawberries the most out of all of the fruits and Chat makes sure to stop by the Dupain Cheng Boulangerie Patisserie to order a Frasier for pickup in two weeks time.

It’s all coming together...kind of.

The cooking bit is still an issue. Adrien has figured out the difference between the top and the bottom of the chicken (after an embarrassingly long time, though he’ll never admit it). Yesterday, Sous Chef Maurice taught him how to put the mirepoix on the bottom of the roasting pan first, then settle the chicken on top.

Seems simple, right?

Except how much of what goes into the mirepoix? What’s the ratio again? Adrien pinches the bridge of his nose and tries desperately to remember on his own, especially after Sous Chef Maurice nagged him for looking things up too often on the iPad. Cooking is supposed to be about instincts and...well, Adrien’s aren’t proving to be very reliable. Is it two parts celery to one part onion and carrot? Or does he have it all mixed up again?

“I have a secret to share with you,” Sous Chef Maurice says, standing alongside Adrien as they peel potatoes together. “It’s the secret ingredient to make a woman fall in love with you, even when you’ve made a mistake...what do you think it is?”

“Is it...love? Like, when you’re cooking from your heart?”

“That helps, certainly, but it’s not what I had in mind,” Sous Chef Maurice reaches into the wash basket for another potato, “Let me give you a hint. It’s as quintessentially French as it gets.”

“...camembert?”

“I—” Sous Chef Maurice takes a weary breath. “...no. It’s butter. All French cooking tastes better with butter. In fact, no meal is complete without it.”

“Don’t tell Father that,” Adrien says with a grimace.

“What Monsieur Agreste doesn’t know won’t hurt him.” Sous Chef Maurice raises his brows conspiratorially. “Besides, it makes a world of difference. It’s delicious. It’s decadent. It’s a chef’s little secret. And if you want this girl to fall in love with you, there’s no better way than with butter.”

“Really? She’ll fall in love with me right away?”

“I promise. It’s one hundred percent guaranteed.” Sous Chef Maurice plops a package of Charentes-style butter in front of him. “No woman can resist a homemade meal made with French butter. Just a little makes a world of difference to the richness of the taste and tonight, I’m going to show you how.”

To Adrien’s unlimited delight, Sous Chef Maurice teaches him how to make the creamiest, silkiest mashed potatoes to ever grace his palette. His knees weaken at the thought of Ladybug sliding a spoonful of his mashed potatoes past her lips...he can imagine the way she’d groan just like he had when Adrien had finished whipping what felt like an entire block of butter into the spuds. His body burns and tingles with the notion of her enjoying his creations and he doubles down in the kitchen, taking it upon himself to slather the skin of his chicken with an obscene amount of butter before popping it into the oven and hoping for the best.

It comes out perfectly.

“Happy early Christmas!” Chat Noir delights, opening the little door to their plastic bubble tent for Ladybug. “I know we promised to exchange gifts on the 23rd but I...I just really couldn’t wait any longer!”

“Why am I not surprised, Kitty?” Ladybug rolls her eyes and bops him on the nose. “Did Anaïs give you permission to use this?”

“Of course he did,” Chat responds, pressing his hand to his chest in mock-insult, “I am a cat of honour! I don’t just go stealing things without permission.”

“Mmhmm,” Ladybug teases him, tapping his bell as she climbs inside. The supporting structure of the transparent dome is decked out with sparkling fairy lights, adding a warm ambiance to the table and chairs set for two. “Is that a bottle of wine?”

“Yup,” Chat confirms, latching the door behind him and scurrying around her to pop the cork. “It’s a 2001 vintage. I picked it myself.”

“Fancy!” Ladybug’s smirking tone falters for a moment as she takes in the elaborate spread. “Did you...is Anaïs picking up the tab for dinner too?”

“Not exactly.” Chat pulls Ladybug’s chair out from the lip of the table and gently drapes her serviette across her lap once she sits down. “I made you dinner tonight.”

“Uh oh.” Ladybug starts laughing. “Is there an ambulance parked outside?”

Chat sticks out his tongue and sits down across from her. “I took lessons! And I had a little help from a professional.”

“So it’s safe to eat? Should I call the hospital just in case?”

“Very funny. And no. Everything here is edible. I know because I tried it.”

“Just because it’s good enough for an alley cat—”

“—hey now, I have a very sophisticat-ed palette!”

Ladybug’s eyes sparkle with mirth. “Come on then, Kitty. Show me what you’ve got.”

“As you wish, M’Lady.” Chat bows his head and pulls the aluminium foil off of the dishes with a flourish. “May I present to you your dinner this evening. It’s roasted chicken with mashed potatoes and a frisée and endive salad.”

Ladybug’s eyes bug out of her skull, much to Chat Noir’s delight. “You made all this yourself?”

“I did!”

“And you made this...for me?”

Chat practically preens with delight. “It’s all homemade. I’ve been practicing for weeks.”

“Wow…” Ladybug trails off, her stare bouncing from dish to dish. “I’m...I’m speechless, Chat. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome!” Chat whoops, jumping up to serve her. He carefully places a chicken thigh onto her plate and scoops a dollop of mashed potatoes beside it. “These are the best mashed potatoes you’ll ever eat, by the way.”

“I’ll be the judge of that,” Ladybug responds, her voice wavering a little as he spoons out the salad. “They smell good though.”

“That’s because they are good!”

“...I’m still skeptical.”

“Buuuug!”

The conversation between them flows like the wine from their bottle, leaving them both a little lightheaded and enchanted by it all. It’s warm in their garden igloo, an Eden of good company and beating hearts cocooned against the December chill and the gently falling snow cascading from the heavens. Chat wishes he could spend the rest of his life like this, laughing and joking with Ladybug over a homemade Christmas dinner made just for the two of them.

“Well?” Chat asks as Ladybug takes a dainty bite of his roast chicken. “What do you think?”

“It’s...it’s actually pretty good.” Ladybug chews thoughtfully, her cheeks flushing pink.

“Yes!” Chat narrowly keeps himself from pumping his fists into the sky. “Try the potatoes!”

Ladybug leans forwards to dip the tines of her fork into the exquisitely satiny spuds and Chat holds his breath as she brings them to her lips.

This is the moment she’s going to fall in love with him!

thump thump

Tentatively, Ladybug opens her mouth.

thump thump

She slips the fork between her lips.

thump thump

Chat can hardly breathe as her eyes flutter closed.

“Oh wow.” Ladybug moans, driving her fork into the potatoes and shoveling an enormous helping into her mouth. “Thish ish so goo!”

Chat truly can’t help himself and starts giggling with glee, every nerve ending in his body firing as his heart nearly bursts in his chest. “I knew you’d like them!”

“I love them,” she gushes around another mouthful. “You have to teach me how to make them.”

“Or I could just make them for you again.” Chat grips the edge of the table so firmly that the wood creaks beneath his fingers. “You know, next time I make you dinner.”

To his absolute elated delight, she doesn’t even sass him. “Deal. But bring your own bowl next time, this one’s all mine.”

Their Christmas dinner lasts long into the evening, their teasing and laughing comments as breezy as the winds coming off the Seine. It’s safe here, just the two of them together, tucked away from prying eyes and miscreant moths looking for trouble. Through it all, she talks and tastes and laughs like an indefatigable hybrid of Brigitte Bardot and Aphrodite. There’s no doubt she looks at him differently now, the stars reflecting in her eyes no longer just the reflection of the fairy lights in their snowy igloo. His heart beats a thousand times a minute as she snags him by the wrist while he tidies their empty plates, stopping him dead in his tracks.

“Dinner was amazing,” Ladybug says, still seated beneath him. “I can’t believe you made this all yourself.”

“Anything for you, M’Lady,” Chat breathes, his voice shaking from the heat of her touch.

“I’m not sure how to thank you.” Her eyes trail away for a moment and glance outside at the falling snow pooling around their dome. “Actually, I think I do.”

With a small, tentative smile, Ladybug tugs him down to her level and ruffles his hair when his jaw drops open at the sudden proximity. He’s helpless when she gets into his space and she knows it; it’s why she’s always got the upper hand whenever they’re together. He turns to jelly as her expression turns mischievous — he knows she’s up to something, but what? What could she possibly be thinking? Chat glances down at her lips before catching himself, dragging his eyes back up to meet hers once again.

“L-Ladybug?” Chat’s voice cracks, pitching up into the stratosphere. She giggles and he feels like dying and flying all at once.

“I think you deserve a well done kiss after all that hard work.” Ladybug tips her head to the side and grins as he begins to stammer and splutter all over himself. “But where? On your cheek? On your forehead?”

Gently, she wraps her fingers around his bell and steadies him, fully aware that he might just come crashing down on top of her. She hovers a hair’s breadth away and hesitates only for a moment before pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth.

It only lasts for a fleeting moment but Chat swears the world grinds to a halt on its axis, stealing the ground from his feet and the air in his lungs. She kissed him. She kissed him! She honest-to-goodness kissed him — by her own volition! On the lips! She kissed him on the lips with her mouth! Her lips touched his lips! They kissed! They kissed!! They kissed!!!

“Not that your reaction isn’t sweet enough,” Ladybug teases, bopping him on the nose to shake him out of his reverie, “But what’s for dessert, Kitty Cat?”

Chat Noir may be Paris’ number one cat hero, but tonight he’s nothing but a puddle in the wake of her smile. “One Christmas Frasier, coming right up!”

#miraculous ladybug #lovesquare #mlsecretsanta #ml #ladynoir

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prettylittlebrownskingyal · 6 years ago

Text

🌻 Happy Birthday🌻

Jason Todd x Reader

Request: hi um first of all i fucking love ur writing like girl,,,, ur genuinely so !! talented !! everything u write makes me feel either fuzzy and warm inside or like crying and i'm actually fine w both?? oof anyway wanted to ask u if u could write something about reader having her bday on valentine's day w jason maybe? idk sorry if i bother! been depressed lately and ur writing always cheers me up A LOT also i was born on the 14th and no one ever remembers bc of valentine's so anywayyy ilysm thank u🖤

Note: HAPPY EARLY BIRTHDAY SUNSHINE!!! Here’s wishing you a year of goodness and laughter. (Please imagine me singing Happy Birthday at the top of my lungs and embarrassing you because that’s what friends do.) I’m so sorry you’ve been down lately by the way, I hope this is a good enough birthday present and that it cheers you up a bit.

You have vague, fading memories of being woken up by someone singing ‘happy birthday’ to you. They’re old images, the last vestiges of childhood that stay dormant at the back of your mind. But as Jason stands before you— bed-headed and blushing with his baritone voice stretching the vowels in each word before he finishes in a large breath— you can’t help but feel the tingly warmth of nostalgia and the sheer love you have for him mingle together, coating your skin like champagne bubbles. He graces you with a slow smile that hooks from one corner of his mouth and then to the other, his eyes crinkling and his ears are pinkened still. Just looking at him already feels like the best birthday present.

“I made you breakfast,” he says, proudly. He leaves the room on light feet and comes back with a laden tray of your favourite foods, artfully laid out around a cupcake with a candle in it. “Make a wish, little bird.”

You’re rightfully a little speechless. He’s so sweet and while it definitely isn’t strange to feel him showering you with apt attention, everything feels more intense because you know he's trying hard for your birthday.

He chuckles when you blow out the candle. You stretch your arms out for him and he comes willingly.

“I love this so much, Jay. Thank you.”

“This,” he hums, pressing a kiss to your mouth. “Is only the beginning.”

“Oh Jay, We don’t have-”

“Yes, we do. Are you good with that? ”

“With what...exactly?”

He starts cutting small squares of food, places a cup of coffee into your hands and holds out a fork to feed you. “Well, you know how in the movies people plan surprises for their partners and then their like ‘get ready, we’re going to do stuff.’ It’s that but less creepy and not without consent. So I’m asking you…” he pauses, eyebrows raised. “Do you give me permission to take you out today to a bunch of surprise places?”

“Yes,” you say through a mouthful of food. He grins, soothing your hair back and reaching for another forkful. Your heart feels full and bursting. You don’t care what he’s planned or where he takes you, its enough that he’s remembered at all. You tell him this, and he rolls his eyes, pausing in his actions of feeding you to tug you to him by your waist.

“You deserve so many good things because you’re the best person. I wish I could give you the world but I can’t and it kills me. So let me just do this one thing, yeah?”

Except it isn’t one thing. It’s a day full of things he’s planned to make up for every single shitty birthday you’ve had. He could never get it out of his head after you told him about your birthday being forgotten or pushed to the side. It was a confession, a small one, and you laughed it off afterwards to chase away the rigidity of your spine. Your body language made it clear that you wished you hadn’t said anything and the moment closed with you quickly changing the subject. Because what you had with him was fleeting and fragile at the time, he let it go. But not without vowing to give you the best birthday ever.

He knew a thing or two about forgotten birthdays, and he also knew what it felt like to be given a grandeur celebration right when you started to believe that you weren’t worth it. It was a restoration of hope, albeit tiny, that he wanted to give to you.

“Can I ask what to wear?”

“Anything you want to, gorgeous.”

Gotham greets your birthday with a rare glimpse of sunshine that warms you to the bone. Jason holds you tightly in the middle of the street and kisses your breathless before the first stop of the day. It’s an antique bookstore hidden between the modern storefronts of high-end brands uptown. He trails behind you through the shelves, pointing out his favourites and whispering the best lines in your ear. He insists on buying you three books with soft, yellowed pages and thick spines; insists that books like that deserve homes and love and attention and you can’t but feel he isn’t actually talking about them.

There’s a concert in the park next. Some band that you love and he sings along to all the songs with you, at the top of his lungs. You get ice-cream afterwards. He smushes the vanilla cone you ordered against your nose and lets you chase him with his own strawberry one.

There’s a pink ice cream stain on his t-shirt when he pulls you into the city art museum that earns a few rightful stares. But you can’t care about that when he curls his body over your own next to the post-modern exhibition of the gallery. His mouth is cool and his kiss tastes sweet enough to leave you tangling your fingers into his dark hair to drag him closer. He spends the next few hours telling you that you’re the only true art in the building. You let him because it’s nice to hear and because he still flusters when he says it.

When evening sets, the sunset muting the bustle of the world, he wraps his jacket around you, handing you a warm churro as he marches you home.

“You tired yet?” he asks.

You hum into his shoulder “No.”

“Good, cause we have one more thing to do. But are you having fun?”

“I always have fun with you, Jay.”

His face goes still for a moment, and then he kisses you until you’re both smiling.

As the door to your apartment opens, you find a stack of presents waiting for you near the couch. Jason looks pointedly away when you stare at him with raised eyebrows. He deigns to direct you to the bedroom instead, leading you with long touches down your spine.

“Ok, you get a break from my annoying ass for ten minutes and then you meet me up on the roof”

“No,” you reach for him and he leans down to brush his nose against your own. “Stay, c’mon. You’ve given me a really great day. Let me say thank you.”

He chuckles. “Day’s not over yet. I have something to do. Go on, take a bath, put on something you like. You can thank me later.”

Intrigued, you wrinkle your nose at his instructions. But when he makes it clear that he isn’t budging until you comply, you dutifully go about sinking yourself into a tub of hot water and essential oils. It doesn’t fail to escape you how pampered you are. How truly understood and loved by Jason you are. You can’t think of anything else he could give you (also considering the heap of presents you’re yet to open) that could make you feel anything more than the luckiest person in the world.

It’s only until you’re dressed, standing in the doorway of the stairs leading to the roof, that you see where you’re wrong. The first thing that steals your breath away is the sheer intensity of the collective “Surprise!” you’re greeted with. Friends, family; anyone and everyone that holds you dear, huddles together under glittering fairy lights and warm lanterns. All smiling faces and tight hugs. With each enthusiastic birthday greeting, you grow a bit closer to tears.

When you’re finally in Jason’s presence, they threaten to come bursting out despite his sheepish grin. He’s the picture of elegance in a cobalt tux, brandishing a bouquet of roses almost as comfortably as they were his guns.

“Happy Birthday, little bird.”

“You did all this for me?” you ask disbelievingly. A towering cake stands nearby, and there’s more than a few members of the Justice League stumbling around, you’re sure.

“You deserve so much more than this.” He says it with such conviction, it’s almost easy to believe him.

You want to say thank you, but you find there aren’t enough words in your repertoire of language to express how grateful you are. You settle for kissing him instead.

“Can I ask one thing?”

“What’s that little bird?”

“How did you convince a bunch of couples to be here on Valentine’s day?”

“Oh, it was tough and I expect there’s going to be some making out on our furniture for sure.”

#jason todd imagine #jason todd x reader #jason todd smut #jason todd x y/n #jason todd x you #lilbrowngyal writes

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keevansixx · 5 years ago

Text

The Future Was Now...

I heard an interesting opinion concerning sub-cultures and why, in today’s age, you almost never see any sub-culture being represented on the streets anymore. When you do spy one of these rare individuals out in the wild, it’s like some rare mythical beast of a thing...fleeting, fierce, and wonderous.

Welcome to generation V (V as in “Virtual”, and not vain, vibrant, vitriol, vivacious, nor victor)

The sub-cultures of the past have all died, their digital ghosts haunt the databases like the proverbial zombies of old. Resurrected every so often to wistful nostalgia, and as meme fodder for the youth of today. Gone, are the days of artfully attired denizens of the world... languidly rambling to and fro across the surface of the land, spreading creativity in their wake like massive glaciers carving rivulets in the tapestry of the earth to be witnessed by eyes unseen, and thoughts unbridled. No....those days are long gone and forgotten.

Here I sit, alone in a box of my own design. Shackled to a monitor who’s glow is the only ambient light in the room, I watch the world scroll by in 1′s and 0′s rendered in pixel point perfection into images that my mind perceives as pictures of a world I no longer see, in a land I no longer feel, and a place that only resembles what one would call home. I no longer leave the confines of my prison. No toe crosses the threshold of my room....it’s safe here, and everything I need is in the box....no need to leave, no need to explore, no need to wander anymore.

I’m told what I should eat...and I do so. I’m told what I should be thinking...and I do so. Anything contrary to the will of the mob is quelled with harsh criticisms, threats, and heavy handed browbeating from the lowest common denominator. “No!...thou shall not think outside the box! Thou shalt follow the thought speak of the masses! Thou shalt not have an original thought or opinion! Those are reserved for the popular chattel that have earned their vanity marks in the digital realm.” I’m to remain a good obedient little digital puppet to the will of the masses. I’m told how I should dress....and I do so. The almighty digital overlords demand acquiescence, obedience, and submission to their cyber-hubris. “No creativity allowed that exceeds that of the common person, lest you offend...lest you shame...lest you make feel....the mighty digital overlords.”

“Sounds like a pretty shitty way to live.”...and you’re right...it is.

It starts on any given day, on any given week, of any given year...

I open the window. the moonlight pours in from a harvest moon I haven't seen since I was a kid, alone in the dark, watching the stars go by. I throw on some shoes that were the huge internet trend a few months ago, everybody just absolutely had to get them to be in the vouge of the moment, and walk to the door. Stepping out side, I hear the chime of the monitor, the chirp chirp of the phone screaming out for my immediate attention “Message! Alert! Come respond NOW!” the annoying braying pings, whistles, chirps, and bells that demand obedience and response.

I close the door behind me to the sound of stillness...the sonic detritus silenced by wood and glass, and I beheld the night in all it’s splendor...….glorious!

For the first time in a very long while....I have an original thought.

“What if I'm not the only one..?” “what if, there are others out there like me?” “what if...we found each other?”

Over the many weary months that followed, I slowly weaned myself, bit by agonizing digital bit, from the shackles that bound me to my electronic prison. As each day and night passed, I spent more and more time away. Wandering the empty paths I once trod in my youth. It’s empty now....very few wander anymore outside of those whom make the world turn through service, and the multitude of electronic zombies (E-Zomb’s) faces crammed into phone screens, that move back and forth following their scripted paths of life. Just grunts or the half-hearted handwave to acknowledge that they are still breathing and alive.

I sit alone beneath a large tree in the center of town, watching it all go by...a little notebook open in my lap, where I jot down the most interesting thoughts that pop into my brain from time to time, when I see a purple post-it note pinned to the tree with a thumbtack. On it is an artful picture of an eye wearing a butterfly wing in it’s corner crease, with a small address and time and no designation. I take the note, and put it into my notebook to await evening at the appointed time...curious, but still a little bit cautious.

the sky is a beautiful velvet purple and crimson as the sun sets and I near my destination from the note. I walk along a sidewalk counting the building numbers as I go by, various lamps and street posts begin to ignite into glowing life in the growing dusk. I stop between two buildings, note in my hand, I count the two and note that the number skips one between the two building fronts. I hear old music drifting on the wind between the two storefronts and notice a small painting of an eye with butterfly wings off a ways down the narrow alley between buildings. I step off the well trod sidewalk, and follow the sounds down the alley until I reach a courtyard....like the kind one finds in the special places of New Orleans that aren’t on the tourist maps, nor social media posts.

there are strings of lights everywhere, a few odd pieces of art statues, and wrought iron scattered across the courtyard. sitting on benches are kids in old hippie clothes, goth kids lurking near the stairwells, art kids wearing whatever the hell they stitched together out of a scrap bin and dancing in small groups to whatever was flowing out the speakers surrounding the area. I see street kids, and punk kids, rappers and writers huddled around tables furiously scribbling down lyrics and rhyme. Skaters talking about their latest gnarly shred, plain janes and joes talking about life and oppression....in a word...it was old scenes alive and well and very much kicking in a little courtyard in the middle of nowhere.

I get approached by one of the goth kids and a beautiful hippie girl. They both had smiles on their faces and a welcoming look.

The goth is the first to speak, “hey, new guy....you look a little lost. Anything we can do to help?”

I pull out the purple note and reply tentatively “Not all who wander are lost...”

“and not everyone who do are found....welcome!” beamed the hippie girl.

“well to be honest, it was blind curiosity that led me here, so far....*looking around*....I'm not disappointed.”

The goth dude looks sideways at me, then asks. “so....how long have you been unplugged?”

“About 6 months now, it’s not been easy.”

“Six months? Damn man.....you been alone all this time?”

“Yes....but it gave me time to think, to dream, to see a world I was no longer part of.”

“Wow....that’s deep, Mr. moody.....*eyeroll giggles* welcome to the club!!!” Hippy gal chimes in, “we all found our own ways out of the web in one way or another and sort of found each other by happy accident. You....well, you found one of our calling cards we throw up from time to time for a moot, just to touch bases and stay in touch.”

“Moot???” I reply.

The goth snorts a bit and broodingly says “Moot....a meet-up, soiree, party, get together, picnic, graveyard bash, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.” with profound dramatic hand waving. ”We meet up a few times a month in various locales to hob nob with the other unplugged, and share ideas or show off what’s been happening in our own scenes. Art, music, poetry, crafts...basically, all the best of us with none of the digital chains......everything’s on the table, and nothing is taboo. Within reason, of course *smirks* get too lewd and the community here is good about looking out for one another....fair warning.”

“Point taken. Understood. So, why the notes? Why not advertise on a board or through alts?”

Hippie gal grins, and says “Because, sugar, we’re old school.....analog, no digital...rockin’ the paper tags like the punks of old. Only those who unplug, and really start to notice the world around them will find us....like you. Notes on trees...that’s my contribution, people rarely ever look at the trees these days...too busy online with their faces crammed into their phones to notice. The goth crews tag the cemeteries and dark places, other kids leave clues in whatever scene they happen to be in, and we cross post the messages word of mouth in our own ways when we find out about the different moots going on across the cities. Tonight, it’s here in the garden with my tribe, next time it could be anywhere...you just have to keep your eyes open up for the clues as they place them. When in absolute doubt...always check the library...the dungeon/dragon kids always cross post every event they hear about in the stacks. We’re off grid baby! the ultimate “fuck you!” to the digital world. No chains, no obligations, 0 fucks given....living the life that was taken from us one soul at a time.

“Ok, so no online presence. check. Moots posted in randoms if I'm paying attention. check. If lost, check the stack for tags. anything else i’m missing?”

“Well, only thing else is snail....”

“Snail?”

“Snail mail....post office. Look, you’re going to meet people here...If you play your cards right, you might even get land addy’s from some of them. you want to stay in touch? Snail, or wait for the next moot to IRL face time. either way, you’re going to have to dust off those ancient writing skills if you want to stay in the loop. You don’t have to commit to anything...this isn’t an obligation, nor requirement, but it’s old common courtesy to reply when someone sends you a snail. Take a chance! you might just be surprised at what you get.”

“ummm, thanks?”

“No problem....and welcome to the revolution.”

I spend the rest of the evening being introduced to the different groups, watching the event as it unfolds. Being exposed to new ideas, and feelings I haven’t felt for a long long time. I get a few land addy’s from various patrons, and give out mine. It’s kind of nice, being here...in the moment.

the moot winds down, with groups and couples slowly wandering off into the night. I make my way over to a 24hr diner and grab a bite to eat. a few of the attendees are there as well grabbing coffee, or eats, and we continue conversations we had started a few hours earlier. It was a good night.

I make my way home in the early dawn, and for once, in my long life...I feel a sense of profound peace. Like everything, for just one brief moment in the world, is alright. A new glimmer of hope in my mind, and countless dreams just waiting for me to dream. life....is good.

I open the door to my home, the chimes of my digital masters fall on deaf ears for once, and I sleep the peace of the newly freed...

Sometimes, the most profound acts of rebellion involve the most simple of things, like removing oneself from that which binds you....

Welcome to a new sub-culture...may you free yourself from your virtual prisons, break the chains, and take a journey into the unknown.

this is Generation V.....signing off.....

#nightpost #randomthoughts

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artdjgblog · 4 years ago

Photo

Innerview: David Hudnall / The Pitch

August 2011

Photo: NA / Posters: DJG Design

Note: Featured news article.

Danny Gibson’s Quiet Contributions

Forty hours of Danny Gibson’s week are occupied by a data-entry job, but when he’s not at work, he’s often putting together an art project of some kind in the basement of his house, which sits south of 39th Street in the shadow of the old Loretto Academy building. Gibson is a collector of things — gloves, old toys, obsolete technology, office paper, corn husks, helicopter leaves — and he stores his prized finds in this colorful subterranean lair. That he is an artist who uses much of what he collects in his work cushions him from the label of the collector’s less endearing alter ego: the hoarder. But a case could be made. Gibson is best known for DJG Design, the name under which he has been designing poster art for local and national bands for the past decade. Starting September 2, he’s displaying somewhere in the neighborhood of 400 original pieces of work in an exhibition, Quietly Contributing, at 1819 Central Gallery. None of them are for sale. After the show concludes at the end of the month, he’ll haul them all back to his cave. “I’ve only sold a few originals,” Gibson says, sorting through a dusty stack of notes, sketches and old prints. “A lot of this stuff I don’t think I’ll ever get rid of. They mean too much to me.” Nosing around Gibson’s basement is like flipping through an old yearbook of the Kansas City and Lawrence music scenes. Anvil Chorus, In the Pines, the Stella Link, Namelessnumberheadman, Doris Henson, the Afterparty, and about a hundred other local bands’ names — many defunct and mostly forgotten — are inventively fashioned onto show posters. In this way, the 1819 Central show isn’t just a celebration of Gibson’s work. It also serves as a kind of retrospective of the past 10 years in our local music scene. “There’s a sort of timeline or history involved with these posters,” he says. “Lots of stories, lots of other people’s bands. Promoters, venues. Posters have such a short life span, and then they’re kind of forgotten. So it’ll be neat to line it all up.” This winter, Gibson made the decision to retire DJG Design in order to focus more fully on visual art, which also makes the show a bit of a memorial. “I had been wrestling with the design thing for several years. I’ve always been more into visual art than design,” Gibson says. “And I’ve been kind of moving out of the music scene in some ways. A lot of my friends in bands have grown up and moved away. I don’t get out as much as I used to. I woke up one morning in February and was like, ‘I’m done.’ It felt good.” Gibson grew up on a farm in north-central Missouri — barnyard imagery is a recurring theme in his work — then studied art and design at Missouri State University in Springfield. After four years, he dropped out and relocated to Kansas City, where he moved into a house (“a rathole by where Costco is now”) with some Elevator Division band members, whom he knew from Springfield. The house became a sort of revolving door for local musicians, and Gibson converted the basement, used by a previous tenant as a photography studio, into his own art studio. He started making posters for Elevator Division shows, which led to work with other bands. “A lot of people knew Elevator Division, so people would see my stuff and come to me and be like, ‘Hey, will you make us a poster?’ ” he says. “I got paid a lot of times in cheeseburgers. There’s no real money in making poster art for your friends’ bands. But it was exactly what I wanted to do. Make art, mix it with music. I had a really great time with it.” Working for design and advertising firms was never appealing to Gibson, partially because of his aversion to computers. (He has a very old-looking desktop in his basement that contains a version of Photoshop’s 1999 5.5 version, which he uses sparingly.) For many of his DJG years, Gibson was employed as a janitor at the Kansas City Board of Trade, an occupation that allowed both his collector’s instincts and his artist’s instincts to run wild. He once intercepted 15,000 sheets of office paper headed for the Dumpster and took them home. Plant clippings he discovered in a trash can were repurposed as the font for a Billions poster. “I’m big on process, and being a janitor allowed me to work out a lot of my daily thoughts and ideas,” Gibson says. “I’d end up writing and sketching things on paper towels. Sometimes I’d put the paper towels, or whatever I was writing on, into the final posters. I love midcentury Polish poster art and folk art. The hands-on, cut-and-paste approach. I like including my notes or even my e-mails on posters. It gives it a more human element that I think is missing in a lot of computer design stuff these days.” Gibson’s imaginative worldview makes it easy for him to artfully convert cat hair into lettering, but self-promotion comes less naturally. I spoke to a number of people who consider Gibson one of the most talented artists in the city. But Gibson largely lacks ties to the local art establishment. “I like to sort of exist in my own little world, I guess,” he says. “In some ways I don’t think I really understand the adult world. I can survive in it. But I prefer to be down here in the basement, working on my stuff.” Lately, though, some friends who believe strongly in Gibson’s work have emerged to assist him in getting his name and work further out into the public sphere. Some of them, not surprisingly, are musicians. Coinciding with Quietly Contributing is DJG Was Here, a 35-song compilation album (downloadable for free at noisetrade.com/djgwashere) featuring music from many of the musicians for whom Gibson has designed posters over the years: Darling at Sea, Max Justus, Sam Billen, the ACBs, Thom Hoskins, David Seume. “Danny puts sweat into everything he makes,” says Bryan Lamanno, whose band, the Tambourine Club, appears on the compilation. “He’s not just sitting at a computer. I always just let him do whatever he wants when he designs stuff because he always comes up with something fun and interesting and intricate.” Though Gibson is a collector, he also likes to share and is eager for others to see what he’s put together for Quietly Contributing. “There’s some great moments that I’m excited for people to see,” Gibson says. “Sometimes I look at these posters and I’m like, ‘What was I doing? How did that happen?’ There’s something much bigger to it all that I can’t really explain.”

We asked Gibson to pick a few of his favorite posters and talk about the process and ideas behind them.

001) Darling at Sea, Anvil Chorus (New Year’s Eve at the Brick) New Year’s Eve being such a big night, I wanted to shoot for an epic poster. I had an idea of the post-party: the contents of an insane partygoer’s stomach or the contents on the floor the morning of January 1. So, I set a rule for myself and just grabbed whatever I could at arm’s length around me at my studio desk. I threw it all on the scanner and created a sea of strange things swimming. The posters were printed in black on Wall Street Journals I saved from my day job, and I hit them up with a red heart rubber stamp. I’m pleased with the typography on these, especially for a computer font, which I’ve used very sparingly over the years. 002) Violet Burning, the Billions, Gabriel Yard I was working as a janitor, wondering to myself about a unique, springlike concept for a poster for this show. I had been away from my cart cleaning something and came back to it and found plant clippings and prunings anonymously placed in it. I instantly saw this poster. I pushed my cart down to my little dungeon desk, decided to go on break, and started making the typography. 003) Onward Crispin Glover, the People, Elevator Division At the time I made this image (2002), I was more aggressive about incorporating political-social messages into my work. It was my early 20s, and I guess it was the post-art-school political-poster-making in me talking? I think the news at the time had some major headlines about American importing and exporting. So, I have a backwards American monster eating a ship. The image was made in ink, and the boat was cut from a very old book. I ran this through an old fax machine to get the dirty look and then printed it on old green-and-white-striped computer paper. Notice this show was at the Pub, which is now the Brick. I always forget that. It’s interesting to see a bit of history in something as short-lived as a concert poster. 004) Flattery Leads to Ruins, James Dean Trio, Roosevelt I had a ton of fun with this one in a pop-art kind of way, I guess. I also enjoy a chance to throw celebrities or notable people into art. I was literal with playing off the band names James Dean Trio and Roosevelt. But the other, Flattery Leads to Ruins, came out of the headlines at the time. Martha Stewart was on trial, and I would watch CNN every day while cleaning a lunch area at my day job. This is a great example of taking visual liberty with a batch of bands on a concert bill. With the printing I made black-and-white photocopies and then ran them back through an oversized printer to get the color. 005) Atom and His Package, Brazil, Pixel Panda, Mail Order Midgets This is one of my personal favorites. I love a good visual pun, and I like to spin ideas off of band names. Here we have a guy named Atom carrying a package of Mail Order Midgets and a Pixel Panda (the panda is based from my childhood drawings of Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles). The original art will be on display at my poster exhibition, and it’s fairly big compared to the small print the final poster ended up as. I’d love to revisit these characters; there’s a good road-trip story there. I’ve always had visions of being cursed or challenged to journey cross-country carrying specific heavy things in my arms along the way. I think about that with this poster. Poor Atom.

#innerviews

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narniasummerexchange · 7 years ago

Text

For @hauntedthief

Title: Swanwhite

Synopsis: The rise and fall of Queen Swanwhite, both rose and thorn.

Word count: 3667

Year 628, Narnia

“All hail Swanwhite, Empress of The Lone Islands, Queen of Narnia. Long may she reign!”

Some say that if her image were reflected in a pool of water, it would stay for a year and day. Others proclaim she didn’t walk - she flew. Bloomed with a quiet ethereal glow no other queen had ever had.

Those less favourable toward the monarch said she held a heart of ice, ruthless in its judgement. That her hands were deadly, with a chokehold on her growing country.

All seemed to forget that she was but a woman with a debilitating responsibility on her shoulders.

Her acquisition of Narnia was amidst the disastrous power vacuum following the death of the 19th ruler, her brother. He bore no children, his wife passed due to illness. Swanwhite prevailed out of the rest of his siblings as queen, rising like a phoenix, brutal and burning in her possession of the land. Her beauty was unparalleled, much the same as her talent with it. Within a year of her 21st she was seated upon the throne, pale eyes set with fierce determination and wild dreams.

“Adonais, please send word to General Winterstrom to set up the appropriate defenses in the West. I fear the Great West is capable of anything. I’ve only just gained the crown - I’d like to keep it a while. Oh, and check with Cottonfoot that the Old Rites dance is still taking place at The Dancing Lawn.”

The cherry blossom dryad nodded and bowed, drifting for the window. “Of course, Your Majesty.”

The messenger whirled out the window in a blur of pink petals, leaving a strong floral fragrance in her wake. Sunlight streamed in the room, warming the dark wood of the desk to burning. Swanwhite heaved a sigh behind it, rubbing at her temples a moment before pushing away from the many documents screaming for her attention. She had watched her brother toil over documents and treaties for hours upon hours and honestly, she thought he was just being a slow reader. The beautiful queen had never anticipated that the paperwork was so tedious. But such was the life of a ruler. She wore the crown, so she too would wear the many responsibilities that came with it. Bar one.

Despite her long ice blue dress, she artfully avoided the other lords seeking her precious time in favour of hiding out in the blossoming gardens of Cair Paravel. The blonde preferred the exotic garden the most with its’ odd varieties, often from Archenland and Calormen and devoid of dryads and other messengers. A few moments of quiet bliss.

She idly twirled the pen knife she had accidentally taken from her office through her fingers. The swirling gilded silver reflected the sunlight and she couldn’t help but think about all the things she had left to do that day. Followed by the fact there were never enough hours in the day to fulfill all those tasks waiting for her, all classed as top priority. So much for quiet.

Swanwhite basked in the surroundings. In every blade of grass under her sandals and brush of spring breeze against her cheeks, running its fingers through her hair. Narnia. Her country. Even from her height she could hear the giggles and splashes of the young merfolk that liked to play by the shore. She had to talk with their king about border protection of the Lone Islands eventually. Avoid the topic of his eldest son being unwed and the implications it carried for her.

With that thought she shuddered, spinning on her heel to face the music of the court. A maid or two sweeping the stone hallways curtsied deeply in her presence, peeking up through their bewildered lashes at her effortless glide over the rough floor, her reflection glowing and holding in the armour lining the walkways. Said reflection mingled with the others, surveying the servants work in the castle with critical blue eyes and upturned button nose. A rotund Duke Bryers leaped out from nowhere, blinding the woman with his velvety red and gold attire. The apples of his cheeks were painted wine red, his dark sight keen as he wobbled on his feet.

He seemed to ignore the way she stepped back in shock, his bow legged limbs bare and in her face. Duke Bryers was too busy huffing his curly brown waves out of his flushed face while attempting to right his stack of parchment after his strenuous act. The maids down the hall turned away from the conversation to hide their simpering giggles.

“Your Majesty! Just my luck! I’ve been looking for you all day. May I have but a moment of your time? I wish to speak with you about the Archenland royal court.”

She bit the inside of her cheek to stop herself from glaring at him. Best to kiss her afternoon and all opportunity for signing and sending the Terebinthia Treaty goodbye. Swanwhite graced the stout man with a tight but pleasant smile.

“Of course, Your Grace. Come, let us speak in private.”

Swanwhite shook her long blonde strands over her shoulders, twisting her fingers in her lap tightly. If they were knotted anymore they would have surely been dislocated. Duke Bryers clapped his papers loudly against the table again to shuffle them straight.

“There is also the King’s nephew, Lune IV to consider. Young, strong, politically smart. Narnia would benefit greatly from his presence.” The short red man babbled.

She coughed delicately. “Yes, well we’ll have to see if he decides to send forth his interest, won’t we? Should we decide to send word first it would make us look nothing but desperate. We have just begun a new reign - we have pre-written policies ready to roll into place. If they hear anything else it may not send a good image.” Swanwhite sent the duke a look, a quirk of her pale brows. She was not red despite her delicate skin’s time in the sun. “One we all constructed together. Should it be impacted, Narnia may not look favourably upon the court.”

Her words implied many things. If the people perceived anything wrong with the court, there may be a coup, which many in turn send the country into turmoil that it may not recover from. It was etiquette that the suitor send forth his interests in courtship first anyway. Desperation was not a pretty trait in a wife, let alone a queen. But most of all, she didn’t want to outrightly say again that she was not interested in marriage at the current time. The queen had no cares for how it looked. The fact her 23rd birthday was breathing down her neck and she was blatantly unwed, no consort at her side to “anchor” her. Swanwhite had no need for anchoring - the overbearing weight of responsibility was enough to keep her grounded and head level.

The duke hung his head briefly, conceding defeat to the young royal’s crisp words. “O-of course, Your Majesty. I was only thinking ahead. For the benefit of our people. Pro-active than reactive is a very good policy to have.”

She smiled at him, trying to keep the ice from seeping into the curve of her lips. “Very good of you, my Lord. Thank you for considering it and constructing such a succinct plan for our country’s future. If we have nothing else to discuss though, I really must be getting to my next appointment. The seamstress gets very curt if she’s held up.”

“Oh, yes. Yes absolutely. Farewell, Your Majesty.”

Duke Bryers stood after her, bowing low in response to her kind nod of acknowledgement, holding his position until she left the room. The young queen seemed to suck all the light from the drawing room when she exits, the duke’s gold robes dulled in the mysterious shade.

Most private conversations with the lords follow in the same vein. All men attempting to gently - or less so - press marriage. Swanwhite spent most nights drained of all pleasantries, her snarl seeping into the following day. The servants hastened to hide when she swept through the halls. Not even Adonais, her messenger come lady-in-waiting can soothe the part-star.

She understood their motives and meaningful intentions. But the bitter queen was hurt by their apparent lack of faith in her solo leadership. It would have helped if she were married to Lune IV or his cousin and third in line, Aramis - their military and economic assistance would have been greatly appreciated. A union between she and Rabbash of Calormen would’ve been a dream for both countries. The trade benefits enormous.

But the court forgot how she gained her position. She fought for it, worked for every inch. Batted her lashes when possible and sliced with her blade when inevitable. Her words and her mere presence were her diplomatic keys. The only reason she hadn’t convinced these men was because they kept seeing their daughters in her eyes - a jewel to be protected rather than a relic to be revered.

The second anniversary of her coronation was nearing rapidly. The seamstress was getting irritated with her indecision on her dress design. Two things were for sure - she refused to look anything less than perfect nor would she look like a commodity to be bargained for.

“I really wish you chose something other than blue, Your Majesty.” The beaver tutted. “As flattering as it is, maybe something else this time. A crisp white, perhaps? Some gold?”

Swanwhite huffed in her shift, craning her neck to peer behind her. “Did the lords put you up to this, Helena?”

“No! I put myself up to this.You can’t cling to image of your mother forever.”

So she may be trying to emulate herself a little off of her unknown mother. It made for a memorable reign and a way to command presence. Swanwhite’s mother gave the queen her part-star heritage. The reason for her constant white-blue glow and ability to glide on air rather than walk. Her pale beauty and capability to better sense magic.

So Helena didn’t want blue? Swanwhite tilted her chin up. Fine then - so be it.

The seamstress was frankly a little bowled over when soon after Swanwhite demanded that her dress be a vivid indigo. Just as shocking was when Swanwhite considered venturing out of her comfort zone by going against the preferred fashion of the time.

But a few months later, Swanwhite is fitted with a long form-fitting dress a long train following onward. Flowers and branches are embroidered with iridescent thread along the hem and over the train in a natural, trellis pattern. The pattern continues throughout, framing the angular cutouts at her waist. The beaver can’t keep the uneasiness out of her posture as she checked the dipping neckline, or when she adjusted the horribly sheer fabric of the skirt that bared the queen’s asterisk shaped birthmark by her knee.

“Your Majesty, are you sure about this? As lovely as this is, it’s not very…conservative. This is a ball with everyone present. Not an opportunity to try out some fashion trend.”

Swanwhite grinned, a predatory look in her eye as she smoothed her hands over her long skirt. “Oh, I know.”

The day of the anniversary rushed into her. After a journey to The Stone Table at dawn and a bright festival in the town, she got ready for the ball. Long blonde hair weaved in elaborate braids, silver crown nestled carefully on top. Bangles and bracelets jingled up her arms. If Rabbash knew what she was wearing, he would be horrified - hopefully.

She had greeted all the guests that had filed into the gates that morning, sliding off of horse or out of carriages. Rabbash and the Archenland court included. All a very polite affair, of course.

The ballroom was decorated elaborately, with blue and gold ribbon twisting around pillars and sweeping over the ceiling. They shimmered gently with the sunlight, hopefully glowing with sunset. The room had been cleared of anything unwanted, such as excess tables as well as her throne. The dais empty, a podium shoved behind a baby blue curtain of silk. The face of Aslan tiled onto the floor had been scrubbed and buffed clean so he could roar beautifully at their feet.

When she arrived, the ball was in full swing, as intended, the group of musicians playing vigorous folk music that encouraged her favourite dances. Swanwhite was announced to the room and she watched with pride the wave of people who bowed in her presence. There was no need for a speech - the one at the festival was enough. This was but a celebration, not a time a of thought. The Telmar, Calormene and Archenland guests took turns greeting her, trying their best not to look like they were pushing.

Rabbash got to her first, flanked by two guards and another two advisors. As expected, rather than stumbling over themselves to flatter her with compliments, they stuttered to a stop, shocked. Again though, they bowed deeply out of courtesy, keeping their eyes to floor to stem the unspoken conversation ready to spill out.

He blinked at her attire, something unknown in his eyes. “Purple, Your Majesty. I-interesting choice.”

She beamed prettily. “Isn’t just? I thought something new was in order for my anniversary.”

He made a noncommittal noise as he pressed his lips to her knuckles and swiftly moved on. His advisors cast her shocked and scornful looks that slid off her ego smoothly. She knew this particular shade was bad luck in Calormene. It was the colour of black magic; of Tash’s robes and Zardeenah’s eyes in the darkest nights.

Lune IV and his family didn’t linger for long with her, no matter how much the lords and the king try. She must have said something wrong. Swanwhite danced for hours on end, the most joy she’d had in days. The fauns kept up with her exceptionally well, unlike Duke Bryers who bowed out after one song. In a very un-ladylike action, she scooped part of her dress hem up to better maneuver, shooting the crowd a view of her calf. Swanwhite caught a flash of dead black in the crowd but thought nothing of it - someone didn’t quite understand what a celebration entailed. It was nearing on midnight when the musicians suddenly changed the tempo of their set, against her wishes. Swanwhite thought she explicitly said as few slow songs as possible before one, so as to keep the mood high.

She was part the way over to the band when she was called at. Rabbash, outrageously pointed beard and all grinned and ushered her over to the dais. The dancing stopped as the ball guests started to focus their attention on them. The end of his sash kept slapping her hip as he walked, the heady scent of musk perfume surrounding him. Rabbash snapped his fingers in the lull of the ballroom, a servant scuttling over the smooth marble and depositing something into his grasp. His hands were veiny and spindly and Swanwhite was secretly thankful she hadn’t had an opportunity to dance with him yet. Being within arms length of them…she buried a shudder while waiting for his words. The tan man stepped up the few ledges of the dais to stand before her. Her mouth fell open of its own accord as she examined what he held in his hands. A ring? Binding ribbon?

He reached out for her hand, squeezing uncomfortably. The lords beamed smugly with their wives and children. The music finally fell silent. His dark beady eyes glittered and she tried not to fixate her sight on that one crooked tooth in his leering smile.

“My Lady - my Queen Swanwhite. Tash’s mistress. A figure of beauty and power. I would be honoured if you would consent to be my wife - my queen and mother to the heirs of our noble kingdom Calormene. Our countries would benefit so for our union - think of it! Our bloodline would be the strongest known. Our children blessed with your beauty and my intellect. So? Your Majesty?” He squeezed her hand tighter, panic blooming in his black sight.

She cleared her throat, tearing her hand away from Rabbash’s grasp. Her pale eyes blazed, insulted. She appeared gaunt and burning on the dais and he stepped down a step in shock. A shiver rippled down his back as he avoids her sight. Just as quickly as her hopes and spirits had lifted, they were sent crashing to the ballroom floor. How dare he put her on the spot like this, on her coronation anniversary? Her day of celebration alone. Expect her to say yes to save face and upkeep his pride.

“Rabbash, I reject your proposal. I am no one’s mistress. Nor am I anyone’s potential wife.” She says clear and quiet. “I renounce your gods. Tash, Zardeenah, Azaroth. All gods, bar the ones worthy of my praise. Neptune, guard of our waters. Bacchus, keeper of our rituals. Aslan, protector of all.”

Rabbash reared up like a horse, throwing his marriage gifts to the floor. The ring twinkled and tinkled as it ran across the floor between the guests’ feet. His wiry, pointy beard trembled with rage. Swanwhite jutted her chin up at him, glaring down her nose at him.

“I shall announce it now, one last time. I will not marry now. I don’t believe I ever will. Not for trade, not for unity or military advantage. Not for love or companionship. The next man who dares bring forth a ring will face more than this.”

She implied the embarrassment she has thrust upon the little prince. The Calormen were very arrogant and prideful people. She knew that this would not be forgotten - there would be consequences, which she would face in due time. Swanwhite danced down the dais, past the outraged prince and back into the crowd, stepping over the ribbon and kicking aside the ring.

After the celebration, Swanwhite’s reign hurtles downhill. The Archenland court turn away from Narnia; distance themselves. The rash and ruthless actions of Queen Swanwhite are too much to handle. The king is thankful she turned down the three proposals given by his family by letter - his sons and nephew safe from her heavy hand. She was pretty as a sword. Gorgeous and gleaming until it cut you.

The kingdom of Calormene say she is callous and stupid, turning down their prince in such a humiliating fashion and in public. The brash people call her blasphemous towards their gods, cut off unnecessary ties. Trade falls to a standstill between the two countries. The king withdraws his diplomats and the structural links between the nations whittles to nothing.

Telmar was never on good terms with the pale queen in the first place. Now her proclamation gave them the perfect reason to outright run.

The merpeople stop their singing, staying away from the shallows. The king withdraws his interest in assisting in protecting The Lone Islands.

The Lone Islands suffer, their queen and her attention land-locked to their motherland as she tries to regain her foothold on the world. The merchants become slave-drivers and the beauty of their ruler becomes a curse.

Ravenblack is her sister, the full-blood one of their deceased brother. Just as pale in complexion, but with rich, sable strands tumbling in thick rings down her back. She is sick of the turmoil her stubborn ruler portrays, endangering the future of their country. Besides, the lords much prefer her simpering ways. Enough to take charge but not enough to always dig her heels in.

It takes months to plan the coup. Under the cover of night, behind closed doors, in unsavoury corners of the town. Aslan and his wise, good words are forgotten in these small moments in which she plans her sister’s downfall.

And isn’t it a terrible one. The scribes stop writing her name. The stonemasons stall in their making of her inaugural statue to be placed with all the others in the catacombs of Cair Paravel. The lords pledge their allegiance to Ravenblack, as do the mermaids under a full moon. Whatever has Swanwhite’s name on it is either removed to some place easily forgotten or destroyed. Right under her nose. Too busy trying to grapple with the other nations to worry about what is happening right under her nose.

Soon, she is cast off her throne in a loud, messy affair. Screaming and curses fly from the pale queen’s pink lips as Swanwhite watches her sister take everything she’s worked for. The former queen is squirreled away to the mountains that bridge Archenland and Narnia, a hop skip and jump away from the sea. Adonais follows loyally after her, despite Ravenblack’s words of encouragement to stay and serve as her own personal messenger.

Cottonfoot for all his grouchiness, is a loyal subject to Her Majesty Queen Swanwhite. Loyalty is valuable in this business. He is one of the first people the younger ebony haired princess tries to sway. And he’s not stupid. Intelligence ran in the Frank bloodline. So the hare knew that whatever it was that the redhead was doing would be devious and traitorous - the highest form of treason, no doubt. With his exceptional hearing, the brown hare soon finds out her plan and makes his own to counteract it.

He is a guardian of the Old Rites. The story of the beginning. So he will write his own. Of Swanwhite, the queen who would not bow to a man even at the unknown cost of her country. Who possessed beauty far beyond anyone ever known - an image to be remembered long after it had gone. Pass it down through his family. Ink staining his paws for many years to come. His queen shall have the last laugh, he would make sure of it.

“Long live the queen.” Cottonfoot mutters under the light of a burning candle.

#narniaff #narnia #tcon #2017

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