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shiningthroughthecurtains · 3 months ago

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Body Language Cheat Sheet For Writers

╰ Facial expressions

These are your micro-signals, like the blinking neon signs of the soul. But they’re small, quick, and often lie harder than words.

Raised eyebrows — This can mean surprise or disbelief, sure. But it can also be a full-on, silent “Are you serious right now?” when someone’s being ridiculous. Or even curiosity when someone’s too emotionally repressed to askthe damn question.

Furrowed brow — That face people make when they’re doing long division in their head or trying to emotionally process a compliment. It’s thinking, yes—but also confusion, deep frustration, or quiet simmering rage.

Smiling — Can be happiness… or total fake-it-till-you-make-it energy. Some smiles are stiff. Some don’t reach the eyes. Show that.

Frowning — Sure, sadness. But also: disappointment, judgment, or the universal “I’m about to say something blunt, brace yourself.”

Lip biting — It’s not just nervousness, it’s pressure. Self-control. Anticipation. It’s the thing people do when they want to say something and decide, at the last second, not to.

╰ Eye movement

The window to the soul? Yeah. But also the window to when someone’s lying, flirting, or deeply trying not to cry in public.

Eye contact — Confidence or challenge. Eye contact can be gentle, curious, sharp like a blade. Sometimes it’s desperate: “Please understand me.”

Avoiding eye contact — Not always guilt. Sometimes it’s protectiveness. Sometimes it’s “I’m afraid if I look at you, you’ll see everything I’m trying to hide.”

Narrowed eyes — Calculating. Suspicious. The look someone gives when their brain’s saying “hmmm...” and it’s not a good hmm.

Wide eyes — Surprise, yes. But also sudden fear. The oh-God-it’s-happening look. Or when someone just found out they’re not as in control as they thought.

Eye roll — Classic. But try using it with tension, like when someone’s annoyed and trying very hard not to lose it in public.

╰ Gestures

This is where characters’ emotions go when their mouths are lying.

Crossing arms — Not just defensive. Sometimes it’s comfort. A self-hug. A barrier when the conversation is getting too personal.

Fidgeting — This is nervous energy with nowhere to go. Watch fingers tapping, rings spinning, sleeves tugged. It says: I’m not okay, but I’m trying not to show it.

Pointing — It’s a stab in the air. Aggressive, usually. But sometimes a desperate plea: Look. Understand this.

Open palms — Vulnerability. Honesty. Or a gesture that says, “I have nothing left to hide.”

Hand on chin — Not just thinking. It’s stalling. It’s delaying. It’s “I’m about to say something that might get me in trouble.”

╰ Posture and movement

These are your vibes. How someone occupies space says everything.

Slumped shoulders — Exhaustion. Defeat. Or someone trying to take up less space because they feel small.

Upright posture — Not always confidence. Sometimes it’s forced. Sometimes it’s a character trying really, really hard to look like they’re fine.

Pacing — Inner chaos externalized. Thinking so loudly it needs movement. Waiting for something. Running from your own thoughts.

Tapping foot — Tension. Irritation. Sometimes a buildup to an explosion.

Leaning in — Intimacy. Interest. Or subtle manipulation. (You matter to me. I’m listening. Let’s get closer.)

╰ Touch

This is intimacy in all its forms, comforting, protective, romantic, or invasive.

Hugging — Doesn’t always mean closeness. Could be a goodbye. Could be an apology they can’t say out loud. Could be awkward as hell.

Handshake — Stiff or crushing or slippery. How someone shakes hands says more than their words do.

Back patting — Casual warmth. Bro culture. Awkward emotional support when someone doesn’t know how to comfort but wants to try.

Clenched fists — Holding something in. Rage, tears, restraint. Fists mean tension that needs somewhere to go.

Hair tuck — Sure, flirtation or nerves. But also a subtle shield. A way to hide. A habit from childhood when someone didn’t want to be seen.

╰ Mirroring:

If two characters start syncing their body language, something is happening. Empathy. Chemistry. Shared grief. If someone shifts their body when the other does? Take notice. Other human bits that say everything without words...

Nodding — Not just yes. Could be an “I hear you,” even if they don’t agree. Could be the “keep going” nod. Could be patronizing if done too slow.

Crossed legs — Chill. Casual. Or closed-off, depending on context. Especially if their arms are crossed too.

Finger tapping — Time is ticking. Brain is pacing. Something’s coming.

Hand to chest — Sincerity, yes. But also shock. Or grounding—a subconscious attempt to stay present when everything feels like too much.

Tilting the head — Curiosity. Playfulness. Or someone listening so hard they forget to hide it.

Temple rub — “I can’t deal.” Could be physical pain. Could be stress. Could be emotional overload in disguise.

Chin stroking — Your classic “I’m judging you politely.” Often used in arguments between characters pretending to be calm.

Hands behind the back — Authority. Control. Or rigid fear masked as control.

Leaning body — This is the body betraying the brain. A tilt toward someone means they care—even if their words are cold.

Nail biting — Classic anxiety. But also habit. Something learned. Sometimes people bite because that’s how they self-soothe.

Squinting — Focusing. Doubting. Suspicion without confrontation.

Shifting weight — Uncomfortable. Unsure. Someone who wants to leave but doesn’t.

Covering the mouth — Guilt. Hesitation. The “should I say this?” moment before something big drops.

Body language is more honest than dialogue. If you really want to show your character’s internal world, don’t just give them lines. Give them a hand that won’t stop shaking. Give them a foot that won’t stop bouncing. Give them a mouth that smiles when their eyes don’t. And if you’re not sure what your character would do in a moment of fear, or love, or heartbreak, try acting it out yourself. Seriously. Get weird. Feel what your body does. Then write that down.

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shiningthroughthecurtains · 4 months ago

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Let the Reader Know Something the Character Doesn’t.

Let them know the murder is waiting just beyond the door.

Let them see the traitor slip poison into the drink.

Let them watch helplessly as the character walks into a trap.

The best tension isn’t just about surprise, it’s about dread.

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shiningthroughthecurtains · 4 months ago

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I got 60 out of 1000 😂

#I hate how many of these were random children’s books #like yeah I fucking read one fish two fish you dumb bitch #I say dumb bitch without venom don’t hate me

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shiningthroughthecurtains · 4 months ago

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How to Write a Sick Character

╰ First of all — being sick is boring as hell

Nobody tells you that. You think it’s gonna be poetic and tragic and emotionally moving, maybe a few tears on the windowpane and a soft piano soundtrack? Wrong. It’s pacing in a waiting room for two hours to be told to come back next week. It’s reruns of trash TV because your brain fog is so bad you can't even process a podcast. It's Googling "why do my bones hate me" at 3 a.m. and finding nothing helpful, only vibes. So if you're writing a sick character and every scene is Deep and Heavy and Symbolic, I love you but no. Let them be bored. Let them be over it. Let them fall asleep halfway through someone’s big speech.

╰ Second — sickness is basically a toxic relationship with your own body

And wow, the drama is unmatched. One day your character wakes up and thinks, “Maybe today will be normal.” Their body: “Plot twist, bitch.” Now they’re sweating through a hoodie, canceling plans, and pretending they're “just tired” because explaining the truth is somehow more exhausting than the illness itself. Let your character hate their body sometimes. Let them feel betrayed by it. Let them mourn the version of themselves that used to just do things without needing a three-day nap after. But also—let them fight for their body, too. Advocate. Adapt. Try again. Because it’s not all despair. Sometimes it’s really freaking brave just to get out of bed and put on pants.

╰ Third — it’s not cute

Hollywood loves to write illness like it’s an aesthetic. Clean blankets, sad smiles, a gentle cough. Yeah… no. Sometimes it’s vomit in your hair. It’s medical tape pulling off skin. It’s being too tired to shower but still scrolling through memes like your life depends on it. Give us the gross stuff. The embarrassing stuff. The human stuff.

╰ Fourth — let them be funny

Sick people are hilarious. Mostly because we have to be. You’ve got two choices when your body is a disaster zone: laugh, or fully unravel. So we joke about our failing organs. We flirt with the nurse while on IV fluids. We name our medical devices. We send memes from the ER. Let your character joke. Let them be sharp, sarcastic, absurd. Not because they're “taking it well,” but because that’s their armor. Humor is one of the most honest forms of pain. Use it.

╰ Fifth — sick ≠ broken

Please hear this: your character is not less than. They are not just here to suffer and die and inspire others with their angelic perseverance. They’re a person. Maybe a chaos goblin. Maybe a genius. Maybe a mess. Maybe a lover, a fighter, a giant emotional raccoon with a heating pad. Let them live and have goals. Let them chase things. Let them screw up. Let them be loved and desired and complicated. Their illness is part of them, not all of them.

╰ Lastly — don’t wrap it up too clean

Recovery isn’t linear. Some illnesses don’t “end.” And that’s okay. You don’t need a miracle cure in the third act. Sometimes strength is just learning to exist in a different way. Sometimes it’s re-learning how to hope. Sometimes it’s finding a new rhythm instead of forcing the old one to work. Let your character find peace, not perfection. So yeah—if you’re writing a sick character, you’re doing something important. You’re making space for people whose stories rarely get told with truth and teeth and tenderness. Just promise me you won’t turn them into a symbol. Let them be a person. A funny, scared, strong, exhausted, hopeful person. Like the rest of us.

@katrein05 I Hope This Helps a little... :)

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shiningthroughthecurtains · 4 months ago

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shiningthroughthecurtains · 4 months ago

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We’re 1.3k into the rewrite let’s goooo

Finished the entire chapter for Two Sides of the Same Coin only to scrap it bc I HATED it

#I’m off this weekend

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shiningthroughthecurtains · 4 months ago

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Two Sides of the Same Coin Ch 3: Metamorphosis

Adrien woke with a jolt to a car honking on a nearby street. He opened his eyes quickly, pushing up to his elbows and looking around his room in alarm. The silence fell back into place as the honk faded, but still bore noises that seemed loud in the still of night: the distant hum of a fan, a gentle buzz of electricity, the movement of cars in a city that never slept. At his bedside, his clock blinked a steady 3:36, before switching to 3:37. The time stood in sharp contrast to the brightness of the room itself—he could see every corner clearly, as if dawn chose to come a few hours earlier than usual. The light bathed the room in a cool light, almost liminal in nature. The usually comforting weight of nighttime darkness was no longer present, swallowed up by a clarity that made Adrien feel nearly as if he’d put on a pair of glasses (despite the lack of issue with his vision normally).

The seventeen-year-old had gone to bed only a few hours before, held awake by anxiety’s poison-coated grip. While he was glad they’d been able to help that girl—Marinette—out of the Seine, it had resulted in his late return from his evening lessons. His father had been holed up in his study, the only evidence of his existence borne in the murmurs that he and his research assistant, Nathalie, produced as they conversed. Adrien had been confident that Gorilla would never rat him out like that, but his father hadn’t been… normal, in a long time.

Gabriel Agreste had once been the picture of a loving father. Adrien’s young childhood had been near perfect. Two loving parents, a warm home, a full belly. He wouldn’t have had any complaints, even if he’d been old enough to truly conceptualize them. His world hadn’t extended past the doors of his home until his mother had died, and his perfect little world along with her.

Something had… broken, in his father, when his mother died. Her funeral had been the last time his father had touched him, at least in any way that brought comfort. Adrien could still remember the way his father’s arms had tightened around his body as Adrien sobbed into his shoulder, staining his suit jacket with the sort of tears no six-year-old should ever have to shed.

After that point, it was as if even looking at Adrien caused his father great pain. The research that comprised Gabriel and Emilie’s daily work before her death became his father’s greatest obsession. Nathalie and Gorilla, who had lived with his family as long as he could remember, became his primary interactions outside of his private tutors. Neither were his parents and never would be, but their quiet presence kept Adrien sane in the quiet of their secluded home. Nathalie kept the place running with a militaristic efficiency, and Gorilla took over cooking for the five of them like he’d been made to do it. He’d even taught Adrien to make simple meals, through his silent, good-natured prodding.

In every way, Adrien was physically provided for. His father monitored him only for behavior and success, as if a toe out of the line of either were a slight to his dead wife’s name. Adrien had been on the sorry end of enough punishments by the age of eleven to understand not to speak unless spoken to, and to complete every task an adult asked of him, perfectly, regardless of his capabilities.

All in all, Adrien wouldn’t have been surprised if he had been watching him through cameras or had some weird notification system set up alerting him of Adrien’s coming and going. He’d gone up to his room with a simple nod at Gorilla, forgoing dinner and awaiting the moment his father came knocking on his door, for the quiet fury and restriction of his already tight freedom to follow.

In the end, Gabriel had never come to his son’s door. Adrien had fallen asleep long after the sun had set, curled up on top of his coverlet. It left him in a state of extreme confusion as he stared around his room, rubbing at his eyes and wondering if he’d somehow left a light on. But his bedside lamp and every overhead light were dark.

Letting out a soft grumble, Adrien reached up to rub his eyes, yelping as it resulted in a sharp pain just next to his eyebrow. He let out a hiss, yanking his hand away and crawling out of bed towards his bathroom. The door opened easily enough, exposing a room that was equally as bright as the rest of his bedroom. His feet slapped on uniform white tile. Adrien swiped at the cool wall, seeking to turn on the light more out of habit than function.

It was a mistake.

The light punched through his skull with a spike-covered fist, encompassing his senses with bright, bright, BRIGHT!

Blindly, Adrien slapped out at the wall again, managing to turn the light off and plunge the bathroom back into that weird, not-quite-darkness. What had felt so odd before now felt soothing, and he carefully opened his eyes, bringing away the hand he’d slapped over his face.

The mirror that took up much of the bathroom wall at first displayed nothing unusual: Adrien, complete with sleep-mussed hair and the simple outfit he’d thrown on after showering off the river water he’d come home damp with. The cut next to his eye was nothing concerning at first, at least, not until he lifted his hand to prod at the edge of the cut.

His nails.

Adrien was clean-cut, at all times. It was one of his father’s many requirements: looking presentable was an essential part of any respectable individual, he’d claim (his own haggard look after long hours of studying, or days without sleeping, was beside the point, and something Adrien would never dare bring up. As such, Adrien was fully aware he’d gone to bed with his usual neatly trimmed nails, not the claws that currently protruded from his skin, curved just slightly to a razor-sharp point that made it obvious how he’d cut his face.

Wide-eyed gaze moving from the mirror to his hands, back to the mirror, Adrien took a step back, breathing rapidly. Was he sick? Was the Seine truly as toxic as people claimed? No, he felt fine. Mostly. Unless growing claws counted.

But he’d never heard of anything like this!

Hands shaking, Adrien yanked open the closest drawer, scrambling for his nail clippers and dropping them entirely in his haste. As he bent down to grab them he saw his feet in a similar state, shorter but just as sharp as his fingers.

It took nearly an hour, a file, and careful maneuvering before Adrien was able to get his hands and feet in a somewhat similar state to his usual appearance. They were still thicker than before, noticeable if you really looked, but overall the same. He examined them in front of the mirror a final time, glancing up to find his eyes a sharper green, pupil’s slit like a cat’s.

When he blinked, they were back to normal.

***

The body of the kappa slapped to the stone floor of a warm and dusty tea parlor, causing its previously-sole occupant to jump in surprise. The Turtle opened his eyes, turning a curious gaze towards the door with a frown. The parlor had long since closed, and he’d grown complacent in his eagerness to enjoy the evening. He must have if she caught him by surprise so easily.

“A share of the hunt is not something I’d expect from you, Fox,” the man said without greeting, choosing not to move from his chair. A cup of tea steamed in front of him, accompanied by a much smaller version that contained the same brew. The kappa didn’t move, its mudlike ichor leaking onto the floor in a slow drip. The plate atop its head, usually filled with the water of its home water source, was empty. Its shell was cracked, and the rough, slimy skin was coated with blood and mucus, glistening dully in the mute glow of the fairy lights that hung between the flickering, ever-glowing lanterns in each corner. The scent of aged tea leaves mingled, incongruously, with the coppery tang of blood and pond rot floating from the creature.

A young woman moved into the shop, the orange, black, and white shades of her armor and clothes dimmer in the yellow light. Despite the state of the kappa, she was clean, amber eyes keen as she stalked around the body. It was a sharp contrast to the Turtle’s casual clothing, a red mandarin-collared shirt and loose black slacks.

“It wasn’t easy to get it back here without drawing half the city's attention,” the Fox replied, using her foot to brush a webbed paw out of her way as she pulled a chair from the old man’s table and took a seat. One of her tails curled around to settle in her lap, and she idly finger brushed through the fur as she leaned back. The wood creaked with her movement but remained steady, just as it had through the last hundred years of occupants. “Hello, Wayzz,” she offered as a green zip blurred into the wood-paneled room, carrying another tiny teacup in small green paws.

Another zip of movement and a second kwami, orange in color, settled in front of the teacup as it was placed adjacent to the first. “It may have been difficult,” Trixx started, “but the Mouse’s skill in distraction was respectable, even for a master of illusion such as I. I’ve decided to respect her a bit more,” the kwami punctuated the statement with a sip of tea nearly the millisecond the Turtle finished filling it. The Turtle, used to the antics, simply sighed, setting the pot aside.

“I would have prepared you a cup as well, but I do not have your preferred brew prepared,” Wang Fu stated, wrapping his hands around his cup to take in the warmth. The tea set was old, an antiquity of the Gate that he’d only just managed to grab along with a few other heirlooms during the flight from Shanghai to Paris. It bore a cup for each Guardian, Circle member, and each of the Keys. Of the nineteen paired cups, only six bore signs of recent use, four of which sat with the others behind the bar, dust-free.

“Coffee wouldn’t agree with me this late at night anyway,” Alya replied, waving her hand as if to dissipate the notion. “Besides, even with the new privileges I’ve acquired, my family still expects me to show my face often enough to confirm my existence.”

“I was never blessed with children myself,” Fu replied, gesturing at the parlor around them, “but after shepherding some of the new generation of Guardians, I can understand the perspective. Mind your family, Fox, for they are the first target an enemy of the gate will go after.”

Alya reached out, running a gloved finger carefully over Trixx’s back. The kwami let out a little chirp of happiness, leaning back into the touch. The fairy lights overhead blinked slowly, like tired fireflies, casting flickering halos on the floorboards. “Not anymore,” she replied, cocking her head in a gesture to the rotting kappa on the floor. “I tracked this thing to the other side of the gate. It tried to drown the Ladybug.”

Fu and Wayzz’s gazes snapped to Alya, eyes wide in a near-perfect imitation of one another. “What?” Fu asked quickly, sharply, spoken over by Wayzz’s quick, “How did it cross to the human realm?”

“We don’t know how,” Trixx replied, waving his tiny tail. “Its trail simply picked up on the other side. No evidence of where it had come from within Santuaire, if it even came from the city itself.”

“What’s more important,” Alya cut in, eager to get to the chase, “is who saved her. It was the Black Cat. I watched him jump out of a vehicle to do it.”

“How romantic~” Trixx clasped his paws together with a dramatic sigh. Alya snorted but flicked his head lightly.

“The fates designed their meeting, then,” Wayzz stated, picking up his little cup.

“We knew it would come to pass eventually,” Fu replied, eyebrows close with worry. “We will need to keep a closer eye on them. Both of them. If they have met, my spells will start failing, and quickly. They may risk their own exposure.”

“The Ladybug is easy enough to track,” Alya frowned, “but the Cat barely leaves that big house of his.”

“We’ll have to start with the Ladybug, then,” Fu replied. He stood, though his height hardly changed from a seated position to standing. He moved to the counter of the parlor, shuffling behind it and returning with what appeared to be a recipe book. Alya smiled at the sight, having long since seen past its glamour. “Have you been studying the human realm, as I asked?”

“What sort of hunter would I be if I didn’t learn my prey?” Alya replied, leaning forward to rest her head on her palms. “What’s your plan, Master?”

***

Marinette sat in a locked bathroom stall of her lycée, watching the clock tick by with unerring focus. The faint smell of bleach and over-incumbent varieties of perfumes clouded the space. The inside of the stalls, usually cleaned of graffiti between breaks, already bore signs of the recent start of the semester: a broken heart, names or love notes, rumors. Though classes had only been in session for a week, she had fallen right back into her time-tested methods of avoiding Chloe for as long as possible before the bell striking. If she stepped into class only moments before the bell rang, it was more likely the teacher would be present, and more likely that Chloe wouldn't be able to pull any antics. She’d already checked her locker, which meant Chloe was most likely to try something in the classroom. Thankfully, the teachers at this school were far more strict on bullying than they had been at Collège Françoise Dupont, but they couldn’t do anything if they weren’t there to witness it.

This meant waiting in the bathrooms until exactly 2 minutes and 30 seconds to the bell, which gave her enough time to walk from the bathroom to the classrooms with only a few seconds to spare.

Not that she’d timed it, or anything.

Glancing at the clock one final time, Marinette stood, brushing off the day’s ensemble carefully. She’d chosen a sleek tan blazer and paired it a with black turtleneck atop a pair of slacks. A soft pink scarf offered the outfit a pop of color that she thought blended the look nicely. She kept her head down as she made her way out of the bathroom, glancing carefully around for any sign of artfully curled blonde locks among the throng of students rushing for class. The first hallway was nearly entirely in the clear before a hand wrapped around her elbow, drawing her to a stop. A sense of dread immediately washed over her, a cold trickle down her spine that made it hard to breathe.

Heart pounding, Marinette glanced carefully over to see a tanned brown hand resting on her arm, grip loosening even as she watched. Gaze traveling up, she found herself looking into amber-brown eyes, framed by black glasses. Not Chloe. In fact, the girl was the polar opposite of Chloe in the most positive sense. A plaid coat overlaid a soft sweater and jeans, and the soft curls falling just over her shoulders gave the girl a comforting, almost homely, appearance. Behind her, Marinette thought she saw a slow, curling movement before the sight disappeared entirely.

“Hi! I’m sorry to bother you, but it’s my first day and I’m a bit lost. I’m looking for Mr. Durand?” the girl asked, eyebrows scrunched in the picture of worry. Pounding heartbeat subsided slightly, Marinette plastered a friendly smile on her face, brushing her bangs from her eyes and nodding.

“Mr. Durand is my class’s first lesson,” she replied, hoisting her bag a bit higher on her shoulders and ignoring the twinge of response. Her back had begun to hurt between her shoulder blades late last night and had yet to stop, though the painkillers she’d taken this morning had helped slightly. It made her bag uncomfortable, to say the least, and her sleep the night before was spotty at best. Even now the distant echoes of the dreams she couldn’t remember tickled her mind, leaving her with the sense that she’d forgotten something important.

“You can walk with me if you’d like?”

The new girl gave her a wide smile before taking her arm again, linking elbows, and continuing down the hallway—thankfully in the right direction. “Thank you so much! That means we’re in the same class, right? I’m Alya!”

“I’m Marinette,” was her response as she steered them down one more hallway, wincing at the blasting sound of the last alarm. The hallway had cleared out in mere moments, leaving the two girls alone with a few scampering tardy students scrambling for classroom doors. “Ah, we’re late!”

“I have a pass,” Alya said quickly, reaching into her pocket and pulling out a slip. “You were helping me find my way, that should be enough, right?”

“Hopefully,” Marinette responded, voice lowering as she unlatched the door to the classroom and pushed it open. It was silent inside save for Mr. Durand’s voice, slowing to a stop as he paused his introductions to watch Marinette slip inside, Alya following behind closely. The room already smelled of the eucalyptus candle Mr. Durand liked to light during lectures. Marinette could feel the eyes of the other students on her like lasers, Chloe’s burning among them.

“Late again, Marinette?” Mr. Durand asked neutrally as she shut the door. He was an imposing man on a normal day, perpetually dressed in a clean-cut tweed suit that accentuated dark skin and stark white, neatly trimmed beard. Today’s tie was an emerald green. Distantly, Marinette could admire the cohesiveness of the look. “Who is your friend?”

“I-I-” she started, but was cut off quickly as Alya stepped in front of her.

“Marinette was showing me to class, sir!” Alya responded, moving forward and thrusting the piece of paper toward him with a disarming smile. “It's my first day and I got a little lost.”

“I see,” Mr. Durand replied, waving at Marinette to get to her seat. She scampered off immediately, internally thanking any and every god she could think of. Nino smiled at her as she passed, and she took her seat next to him without a word, only sparing a moment to ensure nothing had been placed at her seat or desk that could cause any trouble. Thankfully, it seemed she was in the clear today. “I wasn’t aware I was to take in another student today,” Mr. Durand continued at the front, reviewing the slip before setting aside at his desk. “I’ll review what you’ll need to catch up with you at the end of the lesson. For now, take a seat behind Mr. Lahiffe. Keep the friendliness to a minimum until after my lecture, please.”

Marinette glanced carefully over to Chloe as Alya found her seat, noting the girl was watching the brunette with a sharp, analyzing gaze. Chloe had long been at the top of the social ladder in whatever situation she found herself in, and part of that had been due to her careful analysis of anybody who crept into her hive. Marinette only hoped the new girl had a solid backbone.

#shiningffs #miraculous ladybug #ao3 #miraculous

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shiningthroughthecurtains · 4 months ago

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Two Sides of the Same Coin

Chapters 1/Prologue and Chapter 2

Prologue: The Gateway’s Shift

The history of the Gateway stretches far beyond the reach of quill and parchment, its tale woven into the very fabric of time itself. It has been known by many names, watched over by many Guardians, each sworn to its sacred charge. For untold millennia, it has stood as the sentinel between worlds—magical and mundane alike. Without it, the world would know no peace, no harmony; only ruin and despair.

To have lived in the age that failed it—to have been among those who allowed its neglect—I shall never cease to repent.

The Gateway has shifted thrice in recorded memory, though its first home has long been lost to the sands of time, forgotten even by the eldest of beings. Its second lay deep in the forests of Hibernia, that which men now call Ireland. The third was from Shanghai, its first move in over a millennia.

The spirits of the Ladybug and Black Cat, so intertwined with the Gateway’s fate, had long since dissolved into obscurity, concealing themselves from those who would see to undo the balance of the world. I know not why they chose to relinquish their mortal ties and be reborn. Likely now only their Kwamis hold that knowledge, the key held in the hearts of the new vessels, when they come to unravel the truth of their past lives.

Thus, the Gateway’s shift came without warning.

To say we were underprepared would be a falsehood of the cruelest kind, for no preparations for such an event were given the barest whisper of a thought. The Gateway’s movement tore a scar in both realms, a wound still visible upon maps decades later. Magic weaves into the threads of all things, and in those moments, it and the very laws of existence were thrown into chaos. Light became dark, the sky twisted beneath the eart, and fortune and folly danced wildly on inverted paths. The madness of it all claimed many of the Circle and lesser Guardians—some by their own hands, others dragged into the maelstrom by friends and foe alike. I know not why I escaped the madness, but I saw their frenzied descent and abandoned my duty, forsaking the very oath I had sworn to uphold. My charge is that of Protection, of stalwart and steady mind, and I failed at all turns. Of the nineteen, only myself and one other lived to bear witness of the aftermath.

The Rabbit, ever untethered from time, appeared before me only once in the time that followed, bearing a single message: Flee to the Gateway’s new home, or bear witness to its unbecoming.

The bond of a Guardian to the Gateway is unbreakable, and it was by this tether that I found its new resting place in Paris, France. In the months that followed, I sought out and found the Ladybug’s reincarnation, a child born mere moments before the shift. I glamoured her, concealed her so that she may grow in peace and love until the time comes when she should take up her duty.

Her counterpart, the Black Cat, remained as elusive as the spirit was wont to be until the fates guided me to a young boy, bereft not in status, but in the care the Ladybug had found so freely. I could not change his path, but I retain hope that his path will change when the spirits of Creation and Destruction meet once more.

But now, as the tides of fate stir once more, I find myself facing a foreboding truth. There is more to this tale than time has revealed to me, and the chapters yet unwritten may hold that with which I am unprepared to face.

Chapter 1: Kappa

The heavy thrum of a sewing machine set a comforting backdrop to the early autumn evening, blanketing Marinette’s room with a sense of calm. She’d been hard at work on a wedding reception gown since the moment her classes let out, completing the final touches on what she was sure would be one of her best works. A mother had commissioned it with her daughter’s blessing for the theme “Something Blue.” The dusty blue tulle they’d selected matched the theme well—the dress gave off an air of grace, covered in vines with flowering blue buds. Each little blossom was carefully hand-cut and sewn, an effort she knew would pay off in the end, though her fingers still ached from the pricks she’d earned in the process.

After all, she graduated lycée this year, and she couldn’t expect her parents to be able to cover all of her university funds. The payment for this dress was going straight into a savings account she’d been working on since the moment she began taking commissions at the end of her first year of lycée.

Letting the machine come to a stop, Marinette clipped the thread and pulled the dress back up, searching for any missed details. The dress itself wasn’t due its buyer for another month, but she wanted plenty of time for shipping and adjustments, should the bride need them, prior to the wedding day. Marinette had made the dress to the exact measurements she’d been given, but bodies changed, after all.

On the desk, her phone let out a chirp of an alarm, nearly in unison with her mother calling her name up the stairs.

“Coming, Maman!” Marinette called back, reaching to silence the alarm. She brought the gown to her dress form and carefully pulled it over, arranging the skirts to be out of the way (but not enough so to wrinkle them) before making her way downstairs.

Sabine Cheng was at the stove, just beginning the preparations for dinner. It was obvious the bakery had been busy today—flour dotted a few spots in her hair, and some strands were straying free from her normally well-kept style. Normally, it was her father who came up looking like he’d lost a fight with his most recent shipment.

“Did you need help today, Maman?” Marinette asked, coming to lean against the counter and peek at the ingredients. “Chicken?”

“La zi ji,” Sabine responded, wiping her hands off with a towel and turning to her daughter. “Chicken with chili, dear. Did you forget the package for your nonna? The post closes in an hour!”

“Ah!” Marinette exclaims, bolting upright. “I forgot! I was finishing the dress for Madam Romilly!” She turns and scrambles back up the stairs, ignoring her mother’s short laugh in response.

“If you hurry you can make it!” Sabine calls, though her voice came through muffled as Marinette trips on the ledge of the trapdoor, flopping to the floor with a solid oof that sets laughter floating up the stairs from the kitchen.

The package was resting on her desk where she’d set it this morning, an innocuous thing of brown cardboard and paper. Her maman had already labeled it, so she swiped it off the desk and her favorite coat and scarf off of her coat rack in one smooth motion. Thankfully, Marinette didn’t fall on the way back down the stairs (though she couldn’t say such a thing hadn’t happened before).

She dashed by her Papa with a simple “Hi! Bye!” before she was out the side door and on the streets, tugging on her shoes as she went. The post wasn’t far from the bakery—a few blocks down and along the Seine—and she settled into a brisk walk to get it over with quickly. The weather was as biting as it had always felt to her in late September. Her family and friends (sans Chloe, though she had as many opinions on it as she did everything else) had always thought it was silly how easily she got cold, but Marinette had learned long since to deal with her problem. Her favorite coat had a lining to keep out the chill, and the simple white sweater, brown skirt, and leggings combo she wore alongside it helped keep the cold to a minimum. Good thing she hadn’t changed after school.

Pulling out her phone as she walked, Marinette shot a quick text out to Nino, responding to his earlier message. He was on a losing streak on UMSMMO, apparently, and wanted her help with a boss. He’d found help soon after, thankfully, though he took the chance to rib her for ignoring him in his “time of need.” She smiled, sending back her congrats and locking her phone once more.

Nino’s family and hers had been close for years, apparently having met while she and Nino were in diapers. He’d been her best (and often only, thanks to Chloe) friend for years, though there had been a short dip in their first year of collège when he’d attempted to ask her out. She’d declined, and things had gone back to normal in a few months, thankfully. Marinette wasn’t sure what she’d do without him. It wasn’t often he fought back against Chloe and (more recently) Sabrina’s bullying. However, he’d consistently been there to comfort her afterward, especially during some of the bad spots in the last year.

As long as she focused on the fact that it was terminale, and reminded herself she only had to deal with it for a little longer, the thought of class each day became somewhat more bearable.

The post door let out a small tinkle as she entered, though no one turned to look. The line was surprisingly long, for a Wednesday, nearly at the door before it stopped. If she’d gone right after school, she’d have beat the evening rush of people leaving work, but she’d wanted to take advantage of this week’s half-day by sewing.

Marinette joined the line with a sigh and waited.

Over a half hour later, she was shifting from foot to aching foot, leaning to peer down the line to the front of the queue. A clock ticked dully in the corner, extending the passage of time almost more than the seventeen-year-old could bear. The marble floors and high ceilings (was this place a bank at some point?) made it seem louder somehow.

Four people in front of her, then three, then two… 20 minutes to close, then 10, then five…

Would they kick her out if the clock struck 7 before she reached the front? Her maman wouldn’t mind a day’s delay, not really, but Marinette hated going back on promises like that. But Maman had said it was important. Nonna traveled so much that it was hard to catch her in one place for any extended period of time. Though Marinette hadn’t heard much of Seychelles before, herself.

The clock struck 7 mere moments after she set her package on the counter, and though the clerk behind the desk sighed, she began keying in the data required to get the package sent off. Marinette resisted the urge to dance in triumph, though she did have a grin that was perhaps a bit too wide as she stood resolutely and provided the answers to the rote questions the clerk asked. She paid with a debit card her father had given her when she turned 14 (her mother would always transfer funds in to pay her back) and thanked the clerk profusely as the package was moved into a large bin with dozens of others like it.

The door was locked at this point, so another clerk, a kindly looking older man, unlocked the door and waved her through with a smile as Marinette slipped back outdoors.

The sky had grown dark while she’d been inside, partially due to the setting sun and partially the looming clouds that had rolled in. They looked heavy with rain, and Marinette grimaced at the thought of getting soaked on the way back. She was sure that there wasn’t supposed to be any rain today, right?

Drawing her coat close, Marinette joined the now much calmer traffic of the sidewalk and made her way along the Seine, flats tapping quickly on the stone. It seemed many had fled indoors at the sight of the clouds, despite the happy little sun that stared back at her from her phone’s weather widget as she peeked at it near her pocket.

The wind buffeted her suddenly, and Marinette stumbled with the force, glancing down at the murky water of the Seine with concern.

Only, the water stared back.

Marinette stumbled back as the water burst upward, revealing a creature she had no words or name for. She wanted to say it was some sort of turtle, but before she could focus enough on the concept the thought slipped away, and Marinette shook her head in confusion. What was happening?

A slick, greenish hand shot from the river before she could process what she was looking at. It wrapped around her wrist and with a yank, she and the creature fell back towards the water. Marinette’s scream of terror was cut off before it could finish.

The hand dragged her down, down, down, and Marinette clenched her jaw tightly. She kicked, punched, and fought to no avail. The grip was tight, and aching, and the need for air quickly swelled into a crisis. The water was ice cold, shocking to the system and as disgusting as one would expect of the Seine. Against her will, Marinette’s mouth opened in a gasp and water rushed in, choking her in a rancid grip.

It was a lucky kick that landed on the thing's surprisingly squishy face, sending it rolling back with a bubbly screech. Marinette scrambled out of her coat and left it clenched in the creature's grip, freeing herself enough to swim upwards in a series of disjointed motions. She’d nearly broken the surface when a different hand grabbed her arm and pulled up, hauling her head above the water. A jolt went through her at the new contact, quickly swept away by the panic roiling in her veins.

Breaking the surface with a gasp, Marinette gagged, fighting back against the new grip on her arm.

“I’m helping you!” a voice gasped as she shoved away, cracking her adrenaline just enough that Marinette stopped fighting back, coughing harshly against the water in her lungs. The arms came back, this time wrapping around her torso and dragging her towards the edge of the Seine. The edge on this portion was slanted, enough so that it was easy to feel the ground level out, and the blackness of the depths beneath her retreat into blessed, solid ground.

Another pair of arms came into play then, these much larger, bringing her and her savior further from the water’s edge. The world came into focus slowly, trickling in in flashes: the same dark sky, her sodden pink coat, and a pair of shockingly green eyes staring into hers with nothing less than pure concern. A boy, likely around her age, looking just as sodden as her, darkened blonde hair dripping down on his forehead. Behind him, a hulk of a man stood, watching with a neutral expression but removing his coat to offer them all the same.

Before she could properly gain her bearings, nausea overtook her senses. Marinette turned, upheaving foul water and the bare dredges of her lunch onto the river bank. A distant part of her was mortified at puking in front of two strangers, overtaken by the relief of being able to breathe clearly enough that she no longer felt as if she were choking, drowning.

The heavy warmth of a coat settled along her shoulders, and a shiver went over Marinette’s body at the weight. The cold of the weather before seemed amplified now that her clothes were soaked to the bone. Even her fingers had begun to shake with the chill that seemed to seep into her very soul.

“Are you alright? Should I call someone?” the boy asked, crouching beside her with one hand on her shoulder. Marinette shook her head, wiping her mouth with the damp edge of her sleeve and hoping she hadn’t gotten sick over her clothes. Sitting back, she looked up at the boy, her savior, and gave him a shaky smile. He was handsome, in an objective way that made her want to pick up her sketchbook and some paper, and in a subjective way that made nervous tingles skitter through her stomach.

That or it was the leftover fetid water.

“Th-that’s okay,” Marinette croaked out, coughing at the raw feeling of her throat. Her teeth chattered a bit at the cold, and the boy frowned further.

“We’ll help you home at least, okay? The car is warm. What’s your name?” The man behind him walked away as he spoke, presumably to start the car that he’d mentioned. The boy tugged Marinette gently as she climbed to her feet, swaying slightly but staying upright. “Are you sure you don’t need a doctor? You fell in pretty fast.”

Fell? Marinette frowned at the statement. It felt wrong but she couldn’t place why. She had fallen in… hadn’t she? The wind had pushed her in; she’d been walking too close. The feeling of a phantom hand seemed to settle on her wrist, and she shook it off, tugging the overly large coat tighter around her. “Marinette,” she said, reaching up to wipe her hair away from her eyes. It had been in twin buns before, complete with a pair of pink beads she’d found at a consignment shop, but one had fallen out, and the other drooped heavily with the water. “I don’t think I need a doctor.”

The statement was true, mostly. Though puking hadn’t been ideal, it seemed to have removed a large amount of the putrid water from her system. Cold seeped into her bones, and she was nauseous at the knowledge that she’d essentially drank sewage water. Her wrist panged; likely she’d smacked it on something while falling. But, she was okay.

“My name’s Adrien,” the boy said, starting to help her towards the man where he waited by a black car idling at the curb. “Adrien Agreste. I know it’s probably weird to get into a car with strangers but I promise we’ll take you right home.”

His statement queued Marinette into the hilarity of the situation, but she nodded. “Thank you,” she replied roughly, walking more steadily with every step. They probably made quite the scene, two teenagers soaked from a river that was illegal to swim in, but without any police nearby, the general populace steered well clear. Odd happenings weren’t so odd in big cities, after all.

“That’s Placide,” Adrien continued as he helped her into the car. It was spotlessly clean and smelled mutely of lavender and vanilla. A thrum of guilt went through Marinette at the water dripping from her hair and clothes onto the seats. “Though I call him Gorilla, more often. A silly kid name that stuck; he doesn’t mind.”

Distantly, Marinette realized he was rambling to keep up with her silence. She gave him another shaky smile, scooting to the end of the seat to allow him in and fumbling with the buckle. Something about Adrien felt familiar enough that climbing into the car felt… not as odd as it should have. “Thank you again, for helping me,” she said, voice finally clearing to near its normal sound. “I shouldn’t have been walking so close to the edge.”

“The wind picked up suddenly,” Adrien replied, buckling his seatbelt as Placide/Gorilla closed the door and moved around to the driver’s seat. “We were driving by when I saw you fall in. I’m just glad I was able to get there in time.”

“I am too,” Marinette responded, shivering as the heater began to melt the chill soaking into her bones.

Gorilla peered back at Adrien and raised his eyebrows, to which Adrien jolted.

“Oh!” he said, turning to Marinette. “Where is home, for you?” He’d removed his soaked overcoat and set it on the floorboard, leaving him in only a thermal and some slacks. Hoping her blush seemed less like one and more like a reaction to the heat, Marinette relayed her address, and the car began moving.

“I’ve seen that bakery before,” Adrien said, leaning back in his seat and holding his hands close to the vent on the door. Marinette mimicked the motion on her side, practically melting at the warmth. “Living in a bakery sounds amazing!”

“It can be,” Marinette replied, watching as they turned down a familiar block. “It always smells nice, though sometimes I find flour in the oddest places.”

Adrien laughed then, his eyes crinkling with the motion. “That makes sense.”

They pulled up to the bakery, the car stopping so softly Marinette barely realized it had done so. Her father would have closed up shop by now, but she could still see him inside, cleaning the cases of pastries and bread to send for donation. More likely, keeping himself busy while he waited for her. The pickup for the donations wouldn’t be until morning, after all. He typically popped back down just before bed to wrap them up.

Gorilla opened the door and Marinette hopped out, shuddering at the cold that washed back in. She knew her father would notice the activity at the storefront, and she was proved right moments later when the door opened as Adrien walked around the car to join them.

“Marinette?” Tom asked as he approached, looking her over with concern. He set a hand on her head and pulled it back quickly when he realized how wet she still was. “What happened? You’re soaked!”

Gorilla grunted, looking at Adrien, who smiled placatingly at her father. “She fell in the Seine, sir. We were simply helping her home. I think she may have breathed in some of the water, though.”

Resisting the urge to glare at Adrien for ratting her out, Marinette removed the overlarge coat from her shoulders and held it out towards the Gorilla, who took it with a barely perceptible smile. “Thank you,” she said to him specifically, before turning to look at Adrien and her father. “I’m fine, I promise! It was windy, and I was walking too close to the edge.”

Tom looked at her with furrowed brows, taking in the lopsided hair, dripping sweater, and missing coat. “You don’t look fine, dear. Get in, out of the cold, at least. Why didn’t you call me or your mother?”

Marinette’s eyes widened and she reached for the pocket of her skirt, only to find her wallet. Just her wallet. No keys, no phone. Resisting the urge to groan, Marinette averted her eyes to the ground. “I think my phone got lost in the water.”

“Was it in your coat? I saw you had to ditch it to get back to the surface,” Adrien input. Another gust of wind buffeted the group, and the two teens shivered.

“We’ll deal with your phone later, then,” Tom said, opening the door to the bakery and ushering them in. “At least get warm before we send you on your way, that’s the least we can do if that’s alright with your father.” Tom glanced at the Gorilla, who shook his head.

“He’s not my father,” Adrien said, “but I think we are a bit late. We just wanted to make sure Marinette got inside before the rain hit.” The blonde boy glanced at the Gorilla as he spoke as if asking permission for each individual word. After receiving a nod, he relaxed slightly.

“Let me at least get you some pastries for the road, then,” Tom said, ushering Marinette inside as he spoke. “It’s the least I can offer someone who rescued my daughter.”

After another nod from the Gorilla, Adrien gave his thanks, stepping in with his (… driver? Marinette wasn’t sure) to wait while Tom gathered some pastries and loaves that he hadn’t yet stored for donation. The bakery was still warm from the cooling ovens, and the wash of heat was beyond welcome, like a spot of sun on a chilly day.

“Marinette, why don’t you go upstairs to shower and change?” Tom said, popping one of the to-go boxes together. “I doubt that water is sanitary, and I’m sure your mother will want to hear what happened.”

“Yes, Papa,” she replied, turning to Adrien and the Gorilla one last time. “Thank you, again,” she said, lifting a hand in a wave. “I’m not sure what would have happened if you hadn’t shown up.”

“We’re happy to help,” Adrien replied with a smile. The Gorilla had dropped his coat around the boy’s shoulders now, and Marinette could only imagine how comically large it had looked on her given the way it dropped near to Adrien’s knees. “Have a nice night.”

“You as well,” Marinette responded, turning to make her way up the stairs, grasping her wrist as the ghost of a cold, slimy grip flitted through her mind, then disappeared.

***

Outside, the rain had begun to fall, little taps that patterned the sidewalk in speckles like paint. A woman crouched on a wall near the Seine, looking into the water with piercing amber eyes. A vulpine mask covered her face, complete with a pointed nose, and pointed ears remained arrowed forward on her head, turning occasionally as various sounds echoed down the street. Armor covered her torso and shoulders, orange save for a patch of white on her chest where an otherworldly symbol lay stark in black. Vambraces covered much of her lower arm, ending in gloves that split to allow a sharp, cleaning claw to show from the end of each finger. A staff rested against her shoulder and knee as she crouched, strips of orange and white fabric hanging from her back, sides, and between her legs pooling onto the top of the wall and down. Black leather boots covered her feet where they perched easily against the stone. A pair of orange tails waved behind her, each tipped in soft white fur.

“A kappa,” she muttered, scanning the water for any sign of movement. Kappa were generally peaceful creatures, but this one had been aggressive, not to mention existed far outside the bounds of logic. Magic shouldn’t work for a run-of-the-mill creature like that on this side of the gate, let alone one that would usually have no interest in leaving whatever body of water it called home. Someone had brought it here, and she was sure the Turtle would be interested to know who, and why.

Reaching up and back, the Fox hooked the staff diagonally across her shoulders, standing to her full height before snapping her fingers. An eerie blue fire lit itself to her left and followed her as she leapt into the depths in search of her prey.

#posting chapter 3 shortly #all on ao3 #miraculous ladybug #miraculous #ao3 #shiningffs

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