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It’s a stare down.
Determined green battling the bored creme yellow.
An old western song plays somewhere in the background, prompting Adrien to narrow his eyes, twitching his fingers in nervousness.
He’s Chat Noir, one part of the Protectors of Paris. A wielder of one half of the two most powerful forces in the universe. He was chosen to temper the unyielding, unstoppable force that is Plagg; a being made of pure energy. The bringer of destruction and harbinger of chaos.
He has lived with the melodramatic cat for ten years.
He has been through Hell and back, and has come out alive (if smelling like cheese).
This is no match for him.
Slowly, he crouches down, his body bending and coiling like a spring. He rolls onto the balls of his feet, slowly raising his coiled arms up, ready to pounce.
He waits a second, two seconds, making sure his target is unaware of his presence. And when he’s satisfied that he is unnoticed, he pounces.
Faster than the blink of an eye, he flies at his target, and his fingers clamp down around the cool plastic of the container as he rolls mid air to land in his back on the hardwood floor, eyes never leaving the mocking words “easy open” that are slapped on the paper wrapped around the offensive jar.
“Easy open,” it says. HA. Tell that to his tired, crippled hands that have been slipping and sliding on the edges of the lid of the jar. Tell that to the knife that had tried to get under the rim of the lid, only to bend in unfix-able ways as it slipped and slid around the lid.
It’s been an hour since he’s tried to open this jar containing the oh-so-precious cargo that is Plagg’s favorite cheese, which has been “marinating” for the last year. He’s almost relieved by the fact that he can’t open it, for he shudders at the smell that must be trapped within.
Almost.
But seeing as Plagg will not cease his horrible whining and moaning (something about how he cannot continue to live in a world where his most favorite delicacy is unavailable) Adrien cannot just simply give up.
He almost resorts to throwing the jar at his wall when an idea strikes him. With a wicked grin, he slowly turns to face the unsuspecting Plagg, his gaze glinting with predatory glee. “Oh Plagg~” he says in a soft, eery sing-song tone.
Instantly, the cat’s ears perk up as the tiny being whips around, his eyes wide and fearful. “Oh no.”
“Oh yes.” Adrien replies, his grin growing ever wider
“No, I ref-“ he barely gets the words out before Adrien is cutting him off with “Transform me!”
Where an instant before stood a weak, skinny man holding a jar of incredible strength now stands a man of equal strength in black leather and cat ears.
He turns his neon green eyes down at the jar, his slightly oval pupils expanding until they nearly envelope the entirety of his irises. He clamps a black, leather glove down on the stubborn lid, knowing that the anti-slip material on the palm of his glove will do the trick, he takes a deep breath, closes his eyes, and twists.
For a moment, his hand doesn’t move, but with a “pop” his hand moves and Adrien nearly shouts with glee! His eyes snap open, and he removes his hand to find...
That the lid has not moved a millimeter.
“GAH!” he shouts as he finally throws the jar behind him, not caring where it lands, just as long as he doesn’t need to spend anymore time trying to open—
There is no shattering of glass.
Why is there no shattering of glass?
Surely, if it landed on the floor, or against the side of a desk or drawer or nightstand the glass would have shattered, or there would have at least been a crack!
Slowly, fearfully, he turns around, and falls to his knees with a terrified cry as he finds that the jar has somehow made its way onto his bed, the center of his bed, without a scratch on it.
He is certain beyond any shadow of a doubt that the jar is sentient, and can move in it’s own, and is thus mocking him with the way that it is just laying in the center of his bed, crooked, with the lid facing him.
Daring him.
“Fine” he growls out as he gets to his booted feet. “Fine, I didn’t want it to be like this, but you leave me no choice.”
He grabs the jar with his left hand and glares at it for a solid minute, putting the fear of God into it. Nothing can escape the wrath of a god, especially the wrath of a hungry Plagg.
With a downright evil laugh, Adrien whispers “cataclysm” and revels in the energy rushing to pool around his right hand, the crackle of black lightning and the way black bubbles appear and disappear silently.
“Say hello to Satan for me, will ya?” He says as he brings his hand to the jar, a sinister laugh bubbling up from the inner workings of his throat as the jar’s impending doom comes ever closer.
He closes his eyes, and touches the jar, feeling the energy rush from his hand and into the jar, and his grin grows wider, wider, wider and he opens his eyes.
...only for his grin to drop off his face at the speed of light as he catches the paper around the jar crumbling to dust, the glass untouched, and the lid still fully intact.
He falls to his knees with a pain filled “Nnnooooooooooooo!” Before resting the jar on the ground.
He has been bested, by an object that is infinitely younger than the powers he has been granted.
What the kids are saying is true. The new outgrow the old, and the old are forced to bow down before their new ki-
“Adrien, what are you doing?” comes the voice of an angel and he whips around to face his lovely, beautiful wife. Her midnight blue hair pulled back into a braid that rests on her chest, she’s wearing a loose black shirt that accentuates the glow of her skin, the light grey sweatpants she’s wearing the height of fashion.
And the barely-there baby-bump on her stomach is the light of his life.
He instantly shoots to his feet and steps in front of the damn jar, hiding it from view, his tail swishing with nervous energy.
“Oh, nothing, dear wife!” he says with false cheeriness as he silently plots the demise of the jar. Maybe a drop from ten stories will break its impenetrable glass?
Marinette quirks an eyebrow at him, seeing right through his lies. He curses their ten years of experience learning each other inside and out, forward and backward. And the jar. The jar is clearly the real his wife saw through him so easily. The jar is omniscient and omnipotent, and is out to destroy him. But he will beat it. Nothing can keep Chat Noir from his goal.
“Adrien,” she says in that specific tone, and he hangs his head. So much for being the all mighty Chat Noir.
“...The jar won’t open,” he says, defeated.
Marinette lets out a startled laugh and his spirits are lifted instantly. “Oh kitty,” she says, amusement and love clear in her voice and he can’t help but melt a little.
He watches her walk over, bend down to pick up the jam jar, turn to him, and scratch him under the chin. He doesn’t even fight the purr that escapes his throat.
“Did you forget again?” she says, laughter barely concealed. “These aren’t twist lids.” And with a beautiful, slender, all powerful finger, Marinette pushes down on the circular button that only now shows itself to his eyes and with a near silent “pop” the plastic lid is removed, and the stench that is emitted nearly blinds them both as it permeates the air around them.
With a flash of light, Chat Noir is no more and Adrien is on his knees, hugging his wife’s legs, singing her praise, planning songs of how the most powerful warrior to exist defeated the fear inducing plastic container jar.
Plagg’s joyful cries of triumph and Marinette’s laugh fill the house and Adrien can’t be happier.
The new, plastic container jar will have to meet it’s ultimate demise some other day, but for now, he’s just gonna be happy that he doesn’t have to worry about it any longer.