#message confessing everything and have an anxiety attack for hours waiting for them to respond being terrified they don't feel the same way

[geddy-leesbian]

.

[thebestpersonherelovesbucky]

This is just some Evanstan that I dabbled in years ago with priest!Chris and demon!Sebastian. I never really got the chance to finish but I figured I could share some of it just for the hell of it. ((heh, get it?))

~~

Demons don’t always lie.

They can, of course. 

They can spin yarns as twisted and long as the roots of the oldest trees themselves. But what fun can come from telling lies to creatures who will believe a flower is not poison just by capping it with a blossom? Creatures who will walk the path to Hell just because it’s lined with rose petals? 

There is none. Which is why it is better to tell truths.

A truth, however, is not always as simple as humans believe. Truths can be just as twisted and long as silver-tongued lies and have just as many consequences. For when a demon tells the truth, take great care in listening to what they say. Each and every word. They may not be lying, but the truth they tell may very well not be the truth you hear.

This is the harsh lesson learned of every human who unknowingly makes a deal with a demon.

~~

Rain pounds on the church. It’s one of those nights. It’s been years since they’ve been able to afford a new roof. Thin and creaky, it makes even lightest of rains sound like thousands of angry footsteps running across it. Thunder claps hard and frequently, after bright strikes of lightning that flash through the church. Coating the altar, the almost-ever empty pews, the long, maroon carpeted aisle in an eerie white light before it all falls dim again.

Father Christopher–just Father Chris to the neighborhood kids and still Chris to his family and friends–sits in the back office. Lit only by the table lamp. His eyes strain as he counts through the week’s offerings, comparing them with the church’s financial books. Uneven. By a lot. A whole lot. Chris sighs and slouches. Feels those all-too-familiar tears begin to prick at his eyes. They hurt as they try to push their way out. He won’t let them.

Chris takes hold of the gold cross around his neck. Simple, plain. A gift from his mother the day he told her he planned on being ordained. He wanted to help people. Thought priesthood was the best way. Now he whispers prayers to a God that might no longer be listening.

The lights flicker with another crash of thunder. Big, fat drops of rain slam up against the stained glass window. Chris closes the books. He locks the money up in the safe. There’s raffle this weekend. For the Christmas tree sale at the end of the month. Maybe that will give them enough month for the rest of the month’s bills.

Turning the office down--lights off, computer off, everything in order--Chris puts his jacket on and heads into the church to leave for the night. He bows his head at the altar, blessing himself before bending down on one knee. Offers a quick prayer to the Blessed Mother and to his Lord and Savior, and would have just left, made it home to his quarters across the street if not for the light. Like an eye glaring at him in the middle of the dark, wooden wall across the aisle.

Over the confessional booth. 

Chris stops and stares at it. Unblinking and heart pounding. He glances at the front doors. Shut up tight and locked just as they have been for hours. As they’ve needed to be for the past few months if someone is there alone. The neighborhood is just not the way it used to be, not like it was when Chris was a child. Has someone broken in? A polite thief that just happened to lock the doors behind them? Chris might chuckle if he didn’t feel so oddly off-balanced.

Danger has goosebumps rising up on his skin, pulling the fine hairs up along with it. He could leave, of course. Just walk right out those doors and lock them up behind him. Call the police and wait for them to arrive. But it…doesn’t feel right. Chris’s a priest. Meant to help people no matter what the situation. Wind shouts up against the front of the building. Sings a melancholy tune that shoots through the Holy water.

He takes one last look at the doors, his last means of escape, and then back at the confessional booth. Chris swallows the hard lump that’s formed in his throat and shrugs out of his jacket. His feet drag across the carpet, bring him over. Hand trembling slightly, it feels draftier than usual in here, he steps into his side of the booth. The door seals him inside. A coffin-like fit as he sits on the wooden bench inside. The air feels dead. Unmoving. Sweat dots his brows, wiped away by the back of his hand as he sucks in a few deep breaths. Quells the quickly forming anxiety attack before it takes over. Chris has never felt so unnerved in here before.

Chris uses another private moment to gather his bearings. Still unsure if there’s anyone there at all. If there’s a threat or just someone who needs help. Thunder shudders in the skies above. He slides the partition open.

“H-hello?” Chris says.

There is someone there. Chris can just make out their silhouette as they shift positions. His stomach clenches.

“Are you the priest here?”

“I…” His voice is strained. Hard to get out. “I am. Are you in need of guidance, my child?”

Chris hears a soft chuckle. “Guidance? In the business of offering directions these days, are you?”

He hesitates. Has heard the few who still come for reconciliation try to dance around their confession.

Chris responds, “But when He, the Spirit of truth, comes, He will guide you into all the truth; for He will not speak on His own initiative, but whatever He hears, He will speak; and He will disclose to you what is to come.”

He’s met with a moment of silence. A brief sniff and a long, heaved out sigh.

“John 16:13,” he replies softly.

“You know the Bible.”

“I read it in my youth.”

“How old are you?”

His voice is quiet when he says, “I’ve seen some years.”

“Do you need help, my son?”

“I don’t know that you can give me the help I need, Father.”

“What sort of help do you require?”

“Well…” He pauses. Might lean his head back against wall. “I have blood on these damn hands of mine.”

A chill shudders through Chris’s entire body. The once hot, stuffy booth feels laced with ice. For just one second, he could swear misty fog comes out with his breath. A trick of the light. Had to be. Chris is tired. The storm. Stress. This confession.

“We’re speaking…metaphorically…of course?”

Not much can be seen outside of the confessional booths, but the entire place must light up with another strike of lightning. The illumination climbs in and jumps up at Chris from the crack under the door. What little light the bulb above him provide snaps out. Chris glances up. Hears the person a thin wall away move. The light blinks back on.

“If you say so.”

Chris thinks over that for no more than a few seconds. Needs to address the obvious before anything else. 

“Have you hurt someone tonight?”

“No.” His answer comes out cool and casual. Too light to be a lie. Chris is used to being lied to. “Can we do this right, Father?”

“Right?”

“Yes.”

At first, Chris isn’t sure what he means. Not until he sees the shadow of a person slide off the wooden bench and fall to his knees on the stool facing him. The red light above his side of the obscured window goes on the second he’s kneeling. The penitent makes the sign of the cross and laces his fingers.

“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned,” he whispers. “It has been…” He stops. Doesn’t pick up again on his own. 

Chris does for him. “A long time since your last confession?”

“Da. Yes. I can’t remember.” Chris sees his head shake. “No. That’s not true. O minciună. Forgive me. I do remember. It’s just...complicated.”

“It’s okay. What sins are you here to confess?”

“My relationship.”

“Your relationship? Are you in some sort of trouble, son?”

“I’ve done bad things, Father.”

“Because of your relationship?”

“Yes.”

“Is there fear in your relationship?”

The light above him flickers again. Chris glances up at it. The wire it hangs from seems to be swaying slightly. As though an uninvited wind has passed through unnoticed.

“You don’t know what fear is,” his penitent answers. 

“Would you like me to call the proper authorities for you?”

“No. They can’t help me. There’s only…one who can help me.” He pauses again. Takes a deep breath. “I was hoping, maybe, you could send a message for me.”

“Are you…are you talking about God? Are you asking me to send a message to God for you?”

“Is that not what you do?” he asks. “Talk to God for those of us who cannot?”

Chris doesn’t realize he’s holding onto his cross again until he turns it between his fingers. A nervous twitch. One he picked up a long time ago. The urge to do something with his hands. Fingers busy at all times.

“Everyone can talk to God, my son. You just need to accept Jesus into your heart.”

“Nu. No. It does not work like that for some of us.”

“It works like that for everyone. God is in all--”

“No!” A hand slams up against the copper grille. “Not everyone!” There’s a strange sound. Feral. Like the growl of an animal. Chris backs away a bit. “Forget it. This was a mistake.”

He rises to his feet. Rushed. His pace hastened like he wants desperately to escape the booth. The door is already opened by the time Chris catches up with him. Hops to his own feet and almost opens the door. Forces himself not to. That’ll break the confidentiality sought for. He can’t do it. 

“Wait!” 

He’s got his hand gripped so tightly around the knob it almost hurts his palm. There’ll be an intent, that’s for sure.

Chris doesn’t hear anything for a moment. Not until the second door closes. Quietly latching and then there’s silence again. Eerie, unnatural silence that slips through like a breath over a pair of lips. His eyes flick up to the red light above the window. It’s off. 

Off. 

Off. 

Off. 

Off. 

On.

The brightness of it, even though there’s no real shine to it at all, startles Chris when it flares up. He needs to put his hand on his chest. Push down on it to keep from breathing too hard. 

“Why?” He’s asked. “Why do you want me to stay?”

Chris is still on his feet. He sits down. His knees are shaking so hard he’s not sure how he managed to stay up so long. 

“I want to help you,” he whispers back. “You sound lost.”

“I am lost,” he replies. “But you can’t help me.”

“I don’t think you believe that.”

“Chiar așa?” He might chuckle. Chris isn’t sure nor does he understand the language he’s spoken more than once now. Latin based, he believes. “And why is that?”

“You didn’t leave. You could have. But you chose to stay.” Chris strokes his fingers over his chin. Feels the rough stubble there and does it again. And again. “You want me to help you.”

“You won’t even do what I asked,” he points out. 

“I’ll pray for you,” Chris says. “If that’s something you want. But…isn’t there more I can do for you?”

Fingers’re picking at the tiny spaces in the grille. Pink skin that pushes through for a moment in one spot and then again in another.  

“You want to call the police for me? You think that that will help, da?”

“It might.”

“It won’t, though. I know it won’t. It’ll only get more of you hurt.”

“Who’ll be hurt?”

“People.”

“Listen to me. If someone is threatening you, threatening to harm you in any way, we can offer you sanctuary here.”

“You still do that sort of thing?”

“You can stay here if you feel you’re in danger. We can call a safe house for you.” It wouldn’t be the first time Chris has had to do it. He’s helped usher more than a few abuse victims in the less than two years he’s been here. “They’ll escort you to a safe place.”

“There is no place safe.”

Chris can barely hear that. The words have come out like the shadow of a breath. A tremble hits him hard. He wants to hold this person. This penitent that’s both unnerving and heartbreaking. 

“Please…” Chris whispers. Presses his palm to the spot those pink fingers last touched. “Let me help you.”

“And what will happen when you don’t?”

His voice is different. No longer soft, holding hints of arrogance and beyond-the-years wisdom. It’s smooth as velvet and yet rough like a back alley fuck. Chris feels his throat tighten. He knows that voice. Somehow. Been hearing it his whole life. In the back of his head. Feeding him lies and insecurities. 

“W-what?”

“What happens when you don’t help me? When you let me down? Just like you always do?”

“Always…?”

“Let everyone down, Father. This is what you do, isn’t it? What you fear the most?”

“I don’t…”

“Come now, think about it. Who haven’t you let down?”

Chris’s hands shake as he pushes those images from his head. Of his loved ones’ downcasted eyes on him. Disappointed, ashamed. 

“What about your family? Where are they while you’re here?” 

Chris doesn’t want to think about it. About all this time that’s separated him from them. They’re proud of him. They are. 

“What about the family you wanted? The kids you wanted.” 

No. He can’t think that way. Or about the pitter-patter of little feet that’ll never grace a home. 

“You don’t even believe in God anymore, do you?” 

His stomach flips at the mention of thoughts he’s never spoken aloud. Thoughts whispered in his ear during the blackness of night. It’s getting cold in here again. A cool breeze slithers along Chris’s skin. Pricks at it. Hurts even.

“Think of all the people in your congregation.” 

Not all that many. Enough, though. Too many that he preaches to every Sunday. Chris shivers. Rubs his hands across his arms as he tries to keep warm, thoughts of his own shortcomings and failures floating around his ears. Rising out of his soul and latching onto him tightly. 

“All listening to you. Up there while you talk about things you don’t even believe in. You preach and you guide and read from your silly little book and they all watch you knowing that you’re nothing but a hypocrite. Help me? How can you help me when you let everyone else down?”

“Please…stop…”

Tears are sliding down Chris’ face. He wipes them away and feels more when that voice goes on.

“Help me? Tell me something, Father. When you lie awake at night thinking about all the things that you’ve sacrificed for the God you don’t even believe in, what hurts more? Letting your family down? Your community down? The Vatican down? Yourself down? Maybe the whole fucking world down. You’ve done it your whole God damned life, haven’t you?”

“I…”

“Haven’t you?”

The light above his head bursts, glass shattering over him. All’s left now is the harsh, red glow of the small bulb above the window. Chris is shaking. So hard that the rosaries he wrapped around his hand sometime during those taunting words were being carved into him rattle against the wall. He’s shivering. From the cold. He’s so, so cold. And dizzy. The dark walls spin round and round. Darkness descending upon him. His elbow leans up against the windowsill and Chris’s head feels so heavy, he has to rest it in his hand.

“Yes,” he whispers.

“Ever since you were a child.”

It’s not a question.

Chris whimpers. “Yes. I…I can’t do this. I’m a failure.”

“Why did you even become a priest?”

“Because…I wanted…to help…people.”

“But you don’t.”

He cries harder. “No.”

“Because?”

“I…can’t do anything right.”

There’s a clicking noise. Quick, rapid movements that sound like lots of tiny bits falling to the floor. It takes Chris a moment to realize it’s his teeth clacking together. His shivers have gotten violent. That is his breath he’s seeing. Coming out of his mouth with each heavy, miserable pant. 

He doesn’t understand what’s happening. Why is he saying these things to this stranger? Confessing fears that keep him up in the middle of the night. Anxiety in the form of monsters and lies that creep up and nestle comfortably in his mind until he figures out a way to best them.

Chris squeezes his eyes closed. Tears sneak out anyway. Streaming down his face and make a mess of his cheeks, his lips, his nose. There’re noises in the booth with him. Creaking noises. Ice cracking and slithering up the walls. He can’t see it. He hears it. Creeping closer and closer, caging him in this freeze he can’t escape. A cage of ice lit up in fires of red.

“Please…don’t…”

“They needed you. And you weren’t there.”

“It wasn’t my fault.” His voice cracks. “Please…”

“You let them die.”

Chris shakes his head. Over and over and over. Face scrunched, painfully. Buries it in his hands and can’t find the words to refute these accusations. In the back of his mind, hidden behind all these evil thoughts that prey on him whenever possible, Chris knows it’s not true. He knows he did everything he could.

“When was the last time you prayed for forgiveness?”

Chris’s hand finds the end of his rosaries. His lips fumble over Hail Marys as he’s asked the same question over and over again. 

“When was the last time you prayed for forgiveness?”

The creaking ice gets louder and louder.  It booms in his ears, so loud he can barely even hear his own breathing.  Echoes of it carry along the walls of the church. Cracks and snaps as it thickens and hardens. Leaves Chris trapped in this eternal icy tomb. 

He slams palms against his ears. Tries to block out the sounds. Needs to block out the sounds. It hurts. The ice, the noises, the questions…

“When was the last time you prayed for forgiveness?!”

“Everyday!” Chris screams. He drops to his knees on the kneeler and sobs into his folded arms. “Everyday...” 

“And you think becoming a priest could absolve you of your sins? You think your soul won’t writhe with anguish and misery in the icy fires of Hell? You think you can find forgiveness for yourself just because you became a priest?”

“I’m not going to Hell,” Chris swears it through his teeth. Feels a bit of the ice retreating. “God…wouldn’t…He wouldn’t punish me.”

“Wouldn’t punish…” A sick, twisted laugh filled the entire booth. More than one voice. Wrapping around Chris and making him cold once more. “Is this the same God we speak of, Father? The same God who banished humanity from paradise over a fig?” His voice is getting louder. Unearthly loud. “The same God who flooded Their most precious creation in a hissy fit? The same God whose fire tore through Sodom and Gomorrah? Do we speak of the same God, Father, who stole the lives of innocent firstborns? That God? That God, Father?” 

“STOP IT!” Chris punches the wall. Has to. He needs to get him to shut up and can find no other ways to do so. Chris is breathless. Vision faded and blurry from all the tears. There’s a pain in his throat as he finds his voice, pushes it out meek and hoarse to ask, “Who…who are you?”

“When seeking answers, Father, one must first ask the right questions.”

Most frost bursts from Chris’s lips. He can see it now. The ice, just a thin layer of it crawling, inching--achingly slow--out of the grille. Tremors rock through his body as he stares wide-eyed at it.

“What are you?” he whispers.

The grille is meant to keep people on either side unseen. Chris can just make out the thick set of lips that come up close to it now.

“I am the things that go bump in the night.” 

Chris smothers his face in his arms. Nausea rolls all over him. Wave after wave of sickness that he swallows down. Skin pale and clammy. Terrified. 

“I’m sorry…” he weeps. Doesn’t know why. Chris just feels an overwhelming need to find forgiveness. “I’m sorry…sorry…I’m sorry…”

“Sorry? Father, are you all right?”

His voice has changed again. Changed back to that lost soul who first started talking. Chris picks his head up. From a seated position. Not on the kneeler, but on the bench. A breath catches in his throat. He glances around. The light is back on. No broken glass. No cold either. There’s no ice. Nothing. Not even a lingering chill of any kind. Chris feels warm and comfortable, physically. Fingertips brush his cheeks. There aren’t even any tears. None to be found. He’s not been crying at all. 

“Father?”

Eyes droopy and heavy, Chris is afraid he may have fallen asleep. Had a nightmare. Horrible, twisted. Real and vivid like the very worst of his own fears sneaking up and suffocating him. 

“Are you still there, Father?”

His voice sends a shiver through him. Like the one in his dream--nightmare.

“I…I think it’s best if you leave,” Chris says. 

Those fingers are back again. Pushing at the grille. Chris wonders if they long for physical contact. Contact he cannot give. 

“Perhaps you are right.” It sounds like he might be crying. He sucks in a jagged breath, even sniffles, and Chris can see him wipe his arm across his eyes. “I...Father?” Chris doesn’t answer. He whispers, “I’m sorry, Father.” 

The light above the window goes off. When it does, Chris feels a huge weight slip away with it. As though he’s had a massive headache caused by the glaring red eye that’s been cured with its departure. The door opens and doesn’t close again. Chris can’t hear anything else, but he stays in the booth for a little longer anyway. Not just out of confidentiality. He can’t move. Can’t really feel much of his body. 

His mind is hazy. His stomach feels queasy and he’s not sure why. Something just happened. Something as heartbreaking as it was horrifying. Bits and pieces of fuzzy memories brush the edge of his brain and fade away again. 

When he regains the sensations in his body, when his legs no longer feel like jelly, Chris is tired. Exhaustion aches in the very marrow of his bones. He might not even make it to his place if he doesn’t get out of here soon. Picking himself up, he wants to get out of here. The room spins around him. Chris holds himself up, hand pressed up against the door. He needs to go home before he’s ill.

He manages to get the door open. Stepping out, he’s greeted by a loud boom. A noise that echoes throughout the whole church. Vibrates through his entire body. The front door crashing into the wall. Left wide open. It’s still pouring. Rain hitting the church hard as though trying to break through the roof. Chris’s place is only just across the street. He doesn’t need to bother with his jacket. The door to the other side of the confessional booth is ajar. His hand reaches for it. For both a bit of balance on his wobbly feet and to shut it before he gets outside. Chris peers inside. 

Small chunks of ice melt into the carpet. An intricate layer of frost sparkles across the grille. 

Someone was here. 

Someone not of this world. 

Someone who sounded so desperate for Chris’s help and just didn’t know how to go about asking for it. 

“Come back,” Chris whispers. “Come back tomorrow and, please, let me help you.” A name sits on his lips. He doesn’t know why. He’s never met anyone with this name before. Yet it’s there. In his mind. In his heart. In his soul. “Sebastian...” 

[mrs-berry]

Hide Me

Part 4 of Avril Amour (Adrinette April 2019)

By mrs_berry

@adrinetteapril

Click here to read on AO3!

Marinette had been over the moon lately. Finally, after years of pining, she and Adrien were officially a couple and had already been several few dates. They had been absolutely amazing and she was ecstatic—and incredibly relieved—that Adrien felt the same way.

Her happiness had increased tenfold when she discovered that her boyfriend was also Paris' beloved superhero and her dorky partner, Chat Noir.

She hadn't meant to find out his secret, of course—it had been a total accident.

Marinette had gone to check on him as Ladybug after he had a really rough day. She really didn't want to invade his privacy like she did, but she was far too worried to stop herself from doing so. If she could have gone to see him directly as Marinette instead of without him knowing, she would have done so in a heartbeat. But his father had been the barrier: he wouldn't allow anyone to see his son, not even his son's girlfriend. Of course, Marinette was far too stubborn and concerned to let that stop her, which is how she caught Adrien conversing with a little black floating creature. She had instantly recognized the divine being as Plagg, Chat Noir's kwami. It didn't take a genius to figure things out and even Marinette couldn't deny the obvious truth that had been laid bare in front of her. She had desperately wanted to flee so she could freak out in private, but she lingered to make sure Adrien was, in fact, feeling okay after his difficult day. After she had confirmed that he was faring well enough, she had zipped out of there like nobody's business and has been holding onto the enormous secret ever since.

That had been exactly two weeks ago, just days after they had began dating.

Within that time-frame, she had finally come to accept—and even welcomed—the fact that she was dating her partner. And she was now nearing the point where she was trying to figure out how to tell him the big news: that she is Ladybug and she knows that Adrien is Chat Noir.

And that was where she was stumped. How does one confess to their boyfriend that they have a secret superhero identity and, even worse, how does one admit to discovering their superhero partner's identity thanks to being a very concerned stalker?

Marinette had no idea and Google had not been much help for once. Stupid Google.

She sighed, staring up at the full moon, taking a sip of her lukewarm hot chocolate. She was counting the days; after she went to bed and woke up tomorrow, she would be on day 15 of knowing his secret and him still being left in the dark (and unfortunately for both of them, his kitty vision wouldn't be of any help with this type of darkness).

Fifteen days. Half a month. She needed to tell him soon, or the guilt would really start building up.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Marinette had not been pleased to be awoken by an akuma at 5 o'clock in the morning. Unfortunately, being a superhero did not provide her with set working hours or even some advanced notice, so she was forced to get out of bed and transform to begin her "job."

Running on little sleep was never a good idea, no matter what job it is. Fortunately, her adrenaline usually kicked in and lasted for the entirety of an akuma attack.

Today, it did not seem to be working so well. She was having some troubles; her movements were sluggish and she was more clumsy than usual—thankfully this was unnoticeable to the civilians, but Chat's keen superhero senses had picked up on it. They had been fighting for the past 20 minutes in a large empty stadium and Ladybug had recently used her Lucky Charm with no success. Chat had ended up using his Cataclysm shortly afterwards.

He continued to keep a close eye on her, doubling his efforts to support her. Usually he was the brawn and she was the brain, but he tried his utmost to do some of the analyzing this time.

"I think the akuma is in their bracelet!" Chat called out to Ladybug.

Ladybug nodded and shared a hidden message with him via eye contact. Chat understood and found an opportunity to distract Hawkmoth's pawn.

Ladybug swung closer and tried to hit the bracelet with her yo-yo, missing by only a hair.

She growled in frustration before coming to the startling realization that she had like maybe 10 seconds before she would de-transform.

Panicked, Ladybug called for Chat to come over.

As he vaulted over to her, she suddenly jumped into his arms, bridal style, without warning. "Hide me!" Ladybug shouted desperately, loosing her usual cool.

Despite his confusion, Chat didn't waste a breath and, in a flurry of superhuman agility, began to make his escape with her held securely in his arms.

As he was taking her to a safe spot, he heard her gasp and felt as the fabric she was wearing changed texture.

Despite every fibre of his being begging him to look down at her, his self-discipline and loyalty held steadfast and true.

He landed in an area hidden from the akuma's line of sight—albeit a little less gracefully than usual due to his flustered state. Luckily for them, they had a few moments before the akuma would catch up as it was a very slow (but strong) opponent.

Squeezing his eyes shut, Chat set Ladybug down.

For a moment it was silent, aside from her rapid breathing. He realized he had stopped breathing. Breathe Adrien, he reminded himself.

"Listen, kitty, I know now is terrible timing... but you can open your eyes and look at me," a soft-spoken voice reassured him. She sounded much more timid than the usually sassy Ladybug he knew so well.

He swallowed thickly. "A-are you sure?" He hesitated, before asking, "Why now... after all this time?"

Her melodious giggle made his breathing hitch. "Just trust me."

And trust her, he did. This was the moment of truth he had been waiting for so long. Bracing himself, he slowly opened his eyes.

"M-M-M-Marinette?!?!?" Chat sputtered, his eyes blowing wide open. He had no idea who he was expecting, but it certainly hadn't been his girlfriend. Later on, he would realize it made perfect sense, but for now his brain was malfunctioning.

As he stood there gobsmacked, his transformation wore off as well.

"Cheeeese," an exhausted and grumpy Plagg whined.

Marinette grabbed two macarons out of her purse and offered them to the kwamis. Tikki graciously accepted, while Plagg snubbed it. But after a glare from Tikki, he reluctantly accepted it as well.

Before Plagg could ruin the atmosphere any further, Tikki winked at her chosen and dragged the cat god a few metres away.

Adrien was still shaken, as he processed the new information.

Finally, after a few calming breaths, he spoke up, "Why are you not at all shocked right now? ...Did you already know?" His eyes sparkled with curiosity and wonder.

"I've known for about two weeks." Marinette smiled fondly, her eyes sparkling, then added with a grimace, "And I've been wanting to tell you ever since. I just didn't know how. I'm sorry that you had to find out like this."

Adrien nodded, then frowned slightly, which fueled Marinette's anxiety.

Before he could have a chance to respond, Marinette blurted, "I really am sorry! Please don't be... m-mad. I can explain everything, I promise." She clasped her hands together as if praying or begging for forgiveness.

Adrien stepped closer and gently put his hands on her shoulders.

"I'm not mad, just... spellbound. And full of questions, so many questions. But I realize we really don't have time to talk about this right now," Adrien sighed, then chuckled. "But I really, really want to talk about it. So, please purromise me we will talk later, Purrincess?"

"Of course! I purromise," Marinette laughed, cringing internally that she went along with the pun. But that just showed how much she truly loved him—after all, people mirror the ones they love most.

Gingerly stepping closer to her boyfriend, she wrapped her arms around his neck, sliding a hand into his silky hair. Marinette looked intensely into his vibrant green eyes, before sliding hers shut and narrowing the distance between them. Adrien and Marinette's lips brushed together in a tender kiss.

Reluctantly, they pulled apart after a few seconds.

Sharing a look of complete understanding and trust, they both called for their transformations.

Grinning at each other like love-struck fools, they were both once again ready for combat. Together, they would kick some enemy ass. Because together, they could do anything.

Together, they were unstoppable.

[riverballad]

striking light

(chapter 1) 2.8k words

ko-fi

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Hawkmoth disappears. Everything gets worse.

In Hawkmoth’s absence, Marinette feels… wrong. Off. A cold pearl inside of her sets and hardens and compresses somewhere deep in her chest, burning bright and incessant like a wailing siren-- a warning. But no matter how often she stops throughout the following days, clasps her hands white-knuckle tight, prays for something, anything to happen, things carry on as normal. And the irony of it all bites at her, laughs wryly in the back of her mind, a berating little voice-- her own-- cruel and demanding,

Its supposed to be better now. Everything’s supposed to be better now that he’s gone. What’s wrong with you? Why don’t you believe that things are better now, fixed, healed?  

But the weeks and months following the final battle come slow, slower than she could’ve ever imagined, each uneventful day folding into the next, and Marinette becomes acutely aware of the passage of time and it’s torturous, unrelenting passage.

She can’t sleep or eat or function, really. And its not like she could tell anybody about it, aside from Chat Noir, obviously, but God knows that isn’t an option anymore. So instead Marinette digs her heels into the ground, willing desperately for the earth beneath her to stop spinning and spinning and spinning on it’s axis, just for a second, just so she can breathe again, but it never relents, and every inhale knocks her lungs against her ribcage.  

One morning during breakfast, roughly twelve days, fourteen hours, and some thirty-odd minutes after the last person had been akumatized in Paris, her father folds up a newspaper and notes how peaceful it is to not read about another attack. Her mother hums in agreement, sipping slowly from her cup of tea. In that moment, Marinette wants to laugh or cry or-- she doesn’t know-- scream. ‘Something's coming’ , she wants so badly to tell them. ‘Something's coming and it's going to be worse now, now that everyone's off guard’ . She knows this. She does. But instead of laughing or crying or screaming; Marinette bites the inside of her cheek, blinks hard, and pushes her spoon around her cereal bowl, silent.

On the fifteenth night, she digs up the old burner phone Chat Noir had bought her years ago, when things had still been normal between them, when he’d stressed how important it was for heroes to stay in contact, when he’d flirted with her and waggled his eyebrows during fights just to make her laugh or roll her eyes or both, when he used to call her ‘Milady ’, when he gave her the phone with it’s haphazardly-decorated case adorned with glittering ladybug stickers, when--

Oh, whatever.

She digs up the old thing out from the back of her drawer where it had been shoved somewhere between a hole-y pair of socks and a broker phone charger cord, and falls asleep with it safely tucked underneath her pillow. That night she dreams she’ll awaken to a notification ( [URGENT] SPOTTED: AKUMA ATTACK 22nd Street East End of Paris ); the night afterward she dreams Chat sends her a simple ‘hello’. Neither ends up being the case when she wakes up, and each morning, she yawns, checks her phone, and then stares aimlessly at the floor, burrowing her toes into her bedroom carpet and feeling as weary as ever. At dawn on a day she feels particularly daring, Marinette sends Chat a short message: I can’t sit around anymore. I have to do something. If you’re in, you’re in. If you’re out, so be it.  

He doesn’t respond.

She knows she’s busy, that she should be spending her time whining about how difficult her classes are, what with this being her final year of high school and the time she should be applying to various fashion institutes around Paris, but Marinette can’t really find it in her to care.

At lunch they sit, she, Luka, Alya, and Nino, perched at the bottom of the school’s stairway, and she’ll contribute to their conversations as best she can-- hums here and there, a laugh, a giggle-- but neither her heart nor her mind are there. All she can think about is them. Hawkmoth. Chat Noir. It wasn’t until Luka would nudge her shoulder, ask her if she was alright, asked her about the worried knot between her brows or the scowl on her face, that she’d be pulled back into reality.

The seconds and minutes and hours she’s used to setting aside for her responsibilities as Ladybug are suddenly empty and Marinette feels like the world’s suddenly stopped spinning, leaving her teetering on it’s edge, trying-- failing-- to find her balance. "I don't know what to do," she confesses to Alya one day during lunch, "I have so much free time that its driving me crazy."

"Girl," Alya had teased in response, her eyes narrowing, "This is a blessing ; you should rejoice! Meanwhile I'm swamped with all of these college applications and babysitting the twins. Luckily, I haven't had to update the Ladyblog in a while, if I did everything would just be too much."

"Yeah," Marinette sagged a little in her seat, swallowing down the bitter lump that had formed in her throat. “Luckily.”

On the thirtieth day, on a morning that might otherwise be rather unextraordinary, Marinette gets out of bed and decides Enough is enough. She can’t just sit there. She can’t just sit around and wait for something to happen, only to be blindsided anyway. Enough. She transforms into Ladybug for the first time in months and for a moment the costume’s material feels unfamiliar, foreign and uncomfortable, rough against her skin, and she hesitates.

When she finally manages to swallow her anxiety down and dial Chat, the phone rings one, two, three times before a shrill automated message answers, and she winces.

The number you dialed is not a working number. Please check the number and dial again. El número que ha marcado no es un número de trabajo. Por favor, compruebe el número y vuelva a marcar. Le numéro que vous avez composé n'est pas un numéro valide. S'il vous plaît—

She didn’t know what she’d been expecting, really-- a cordial welcome, an emotionless greeting, for him to hang up on her-- but whatever it was, it certainly hadn’t been that. That pearl inside her that had been growing and growing drops hard and heavy into the pit of her stomach, and Marinette bites her tongue, tastes bitter metal in her mouth, and detransforms.  

The nights that Marinette can sleep through in their entirety are few and far between.

Soon she grows tired of waking with a gasping start at the earliest of hours, sweat beading her temple and not a speck of morning light glinting through her curtains, so she’ll chug a coffee or two before bedtime and lie in bed, staring up at the dark shadows as they flit across her ceiling and, though she’ll fight it, her mind will always, eventually settle on that day, the last day, like a broken record, looping and looping until slumber overcomes her not gradually but all at once like a thunderless bolt of lightning.

She’s gone through their final fight so many times she could tell it in her sleep-- that is, if she ever really got any. Here’s how it goes:

Before the the thing’s even started, its over.  

From the first buzzing notification on her phone (a new safety measure Mayor Bourgeois's administration had implemented after five straight weeks of akuma attacks) at which Marinette had leapt up from her seat to excuse herself in the middle of one of Miss Bustier’s lectures, to her race down the school corridor, knocking shoulders with Adrien Agreste on her way out, who-- for reasons unbeknownst to her-- was barreling in the opposite direction, too quick for her to even eek out a startled ‘hello’ to, to her dip out into the alleyway to hastily transform into Ladybug and race through anxiety-inducing crowds, to her rendezvous with Chat Noir at their usual spot some fifty metres from the school, the whole thing was-- as always-- a sensory overload, and couldn't have lasted more than five minutes. And yet, by the time she and Chat had reached the akumatized victim-- a disgruntled street vendor who was terrorizing Parisians in the streets below-- the man suddenly de-transformed before their eyes, just as the heroes leaped into the fray from their position atop a nearby building.  

At this, Chat and Ladybug quickly exchanged bewildered glances, before springing over to the victim. The streets-- which had been bustling with frantic crowds just moments before-- were now uncharacteristically still. As they approached the disheveled man something in Marinette wavered, her heart rattling against her ribcage as erratically as it had seconds ago when she'd readied herself for battle. "Monsieur," she’d began, clearing her throat in an attempt to sound more collected, like Ladybug would be, should be. She ignored the heat of Chat's inquiring glance in her periphery, and continued, "What's happened?"

"I--" the man had started, dabbing feverishly at his reddened face with a handkerchief, "I'm not sure."

"Sir," Chat Noir had said calmly from beside her, and Marinette's insides turned, How was he always so sure of himself? Of his surroundings? How did he always know the right thing to say?

Something small and dark, an envious little coal, settled in the pit of her stomach and Marinette swallowed, hard, as Chat soothed the older man. "Sir, you were akumatized. But then you just... recovered. Don’t you remember?"  

"No, I don't remember any of that!" the vendor proclaimed, extending his arms before letting them fall, helplessly, at his sides. "I don't remember any of that at all."

Marinette and Chat Noir shared another wary look. Marinette raised her eyebrows as if to say, I believe him, and Chat shot back a small, short nod in return.  

"Okay, Monsieur." Marinette interjectected, "that's alright. Thank you for your time and, um, and have a good day."

Once they get out of earshot, Chat Noir reached out and clasped a hand around Marinette's forearm. "Ladybug, what was that? What's going on?"

"I.. I don't know, Chat." Marinette admitted, wriggling out of his grasp. She sat against the wall and drew her knees to her chest, her arms encircling her legs. "This is all so confusing." She pressed the palm of her hand to her forehead and sucked in her breath. A cold breeze whizzed past her ears and she shivered, hating herself a little for that moment of vulnerability. “This is wrong. All of this is wrong. Nothing is making any sense. Why would Hawkmoth--”

"He's done this before." Chat interrupted, tearing Marinette from her whirlwind of thoughts.  

"What?"  

"Hawkmoth. He's done this before. Don't you remember?" Marinette blinked back at him, saying nothing. Chat Noir released a short breath-- something close to a sigh, Marinette thought-- and pressed  his back against the wall opposite her, his arms folded insurgently across his chest. "Two years ago. He did this with Mayor Bourgeois and his wife. He almost got our Miraculouses. He and Master Fu... You really don't remember?"  

"I-- Oh!" Marinette flummoxed, lifting her chin from her knees. "Oh. God, yes. Yes, I do. Of course, I--” She snapped her mouth shut, feeling stupid. “Yes, I remember."

Chat pressed his lips together, tight, and Marinnette couldn't tell if he was trying to hide his annoyance or mirth; in the past few months things had been uncomfortably tense between the two of them. She prayed it was the latter and set her jaw defiantly, "Hey, this isn't funny, Chat! I'm... I'm just tired."

"I am too." Chat said and somehow, despite years of working with him, this caught Marinette off guard.  

"You are?"

"Of course, Ladybug! I'm here with you, everyday, putting in the same hours as you, everyday, and I have school and even more responsibilities outside of that and--"

"Okay! Okay, I get it. I'm sorry it's just... you always seem so... put together." She hugged her knees closer to her. The air was cold, too cold, and when she sucked in a breath her teeth ache.

Chat laughed wryly. "Well, I'm not. And you should know me better than that, by now."

"Well,"

"Well?"

"I-- Nothing. I have to get going, anyway." Marinette relented. Her throat burned as she pushed herself up to stand. Her hands shook as she used her Yo-Yo to grapple to the top of a nearby building. "See you later, Chat. And, I'm... I'm sorry."  

"Bye, Ladybug."  

As she vaulted away, the image of Chat's eyes, dark green and solemn underneath that domino mask, lingered in her mind. As she leapt from rooftop to rooftop, far from her partner, her blood still pounded in her ears, loud and demanding like the unsteady beat of a drum.  

She doesn’t sleep.

“I saw Adrien the other day,” Alya tells her one day as they make their way home from school, and Marinette chokes a little around the bread roll between her teeth, “ What ?”

None of them-- not even Nino-- had seen Adrien in over a month; he’d stopped coming to school and though no one knew for sure, rumor had it that Mr. Agreste had fallen ill.

“I--Where? When? How--” Marinette splutters out after the worst of her coughing subsides, and she feels her ears and cheeks burn red in embarrasment.

“Slow down, girl!” Alya laughs, a little incredulously, and Marinette would feel more ashamed about her reaction-- she and Luka were… something after all; they had been talking for months-- but she hadn’t seen Adrien since the morning of the final fight.

“At the grocery store.” Marinette opens her mouth to ask for more details but Alya lifts a hand to silence her, continuing, “he was with Nathalie, I didn’t see Mr. Agreste with him, if that’s what you were gonna ask. We didn’t get to talk much, they were kind of in a hurry, but he told me to say hello.”

“I-- to me?”

“Well, to everyone, really.”

“Oh.” Marinette swallows, tugging at her ponytail.

“Yeah.”

“Well… I hope he’s doing well.”

"Yeah, me too."

"Yeah," Marinette echoes softly.

On the fiftieth day, Marinette takes the old burner phone and smashes it against the pavement until it lies empty and broken on the sidewalk, surrounded by a halo of shattered glass. The shards leave small, red indents in the palms of her hands when she gathers them all to dispose safely in the garbage, and Marinette pulls thorns around herself and thinks nothing, feels nothing of it, and transforms into Ladybug.

She starts patrolling Paris as Ladybug again, sometimes at night but oftentimes during school, slipping out at lunch or between classes, and at first its exhilarating, like how being Ladybug was at the beginning, years ago, something new and daring-- an escape. She'll perch atop a tall skyscraper and look out, down, to the streets below and the people walking and talking and laughing and she'll fight it, the heaviness in her chest that's yearning to feel that same joy, and the pearl will harden once more. She'll grow content. Slowly, she will. And it's close to happiness-- contentment is, isn't it? That's enough for her. Enough for now, she thinks.

She starts to sleep more. Eats better. Luka asks her out to the movies ('Finally!' Alya had proclaimed when Marinette told her, 'Finally!') and its nice, if not a little awkward at first. There are no akumas to catch nor akumatized villains to stop, but petty crime is always thriving in Paris. She captures a bank robber one day, a pick-pocket the next. As Ladybug, she brings rolls of bread from her parents' bakery to a homeless shelter, and their gratitude is thanks enough.

But one night on patrol, she hears it as she's swinging from one building to another. Clear and urgent, the voice somehow hundreds of miles away and right beside her, she can almost touch it, feel it against her skin, she knows it.

"--Ladybug--"

Its Hawkmoth.

Marinette falters and the yo-yo's grapple snaps and the world lurches, slows, for a single pulsing moment as she falls.

Her palms and knees and skin slam into solid ground and it feels the same as it did when she fell off her bike when she was five, only her Mom isn't there to smooth her hair back and kiss her cheeks and tell her everything's going to be alright, and when Marinette sucks in a breath it sounds like a sob. She whirls around only to find nothing behind her, but she knows it, she know's it's real, and her palms grow clammy and her throat sore as the autumn wind slaps, cold and dry, against her face.

She runs. Bolts in the opposite direction, arms and legs and lungs screaming and burning and aching as she makes her way home. She races up the staircase upstairs to her room before her parents, perplexed behind the bakery's counter, can ask her what's wrong or why she isn't in class.

She lies in bed that night, shivering beneath her duvet as the open window lets in October breeze and the police car sirens are a lullaby until sleep, finally, thankfully, overcomes her.