#also I drew all those cuts in different stages of healing be proud of me

[unordinary-diary]

Blyke in Season 3.

This is my prediction. With the way Season 2 ended, I think they’ll find Blyke months later looking something like this.

Shit happens to people in prison. Terrence was murdered in his cell, Rein was worried about being killed by other inmates, hell, Blyke’s already pretty banged up in the finale and he’s been there for 2.5 seconds. Not to mention that the Authorities seem to have no problem torturing kids *COUgh* Keon.

Perhaps it’s a bit pessimistic, but the story’s been getting a lot darker lately. I doubt Blyke’s getting out of prison without a little extra trauma at least.

Latest Chapter as of Prediction: Side Story — Triple Threat (1)

[inkchantress]

I wrote another fic!!

Title: The Color Yellow

Fandom: Miraculous Ladybug (again... what can I say, I’m obsessed lol)

Word Count: 1,710

Summary: That moment in Collector when Adrien sees his broken childhood drawing on the ground. Flashbacks ensue.

AN: The moment that this fic is based off of is an important moment that’s kind of overlooked. It’s not particularly memorable, in and of itself, but I kept thinking that there was probably a story behind that, and well... here it is. Also I wrote most of this after midnight so it might not be super refined but ideas don’t stop till you write them all out lol.

Keep reading under the cut (or read it on AO3)

He couldn’t move.

He was six years old, gap-toothed and slightly cross-eyed, with more colors of crayon at his disposal than he could ever dream of.

Well. Maybe that wasn’t quite true. Maybe he could move. More like he wasn’t willing to try.

But he’d only needed four colors that day. The classics.

The house was empty. His father was gone, off to who knew where. To the basement, to his room. It didn’t matter where. Adrien could never tell the difference.

Red. Green. Blue. Yellow.

He tried to remind himself what he was doing here--they were trying to stop something horrible from happening. They were searching for Hawkmoth.

He’d had plenty of practice coloring with the classic four. He knew them well, from evenings in restaurants where he always scribbled furiously on the kids’ menu. He never went inside the lines, always drew his own thing. And he’d show his parents his masterpiece every time, once the night was over.

Hawkmoth, who at the moment was still at large, who Ladybug thought she had finally pinned down.

Every time, Gabriel Agreste would dismiss whatever work it was, and every single time, Emilie would smile down at Adrien and compliment it. She’d ask him to describe it and suggest areas for improvement, like adding binoculars so the people in the picture could see better, or putting in another bird so the first one could have a friend.

Hawkmoth, who might be his father.

And then, later, to Gabriel, when she thought Adrien couldn’t hear: “Leave him alone. He’s got a creative spirit, Gabe. He’s got it inside him. You’re the only one who doesn’t see it.”

The whole room was trashed. Mannequins smashed, ceramic vases hurled off of shelves, panes of glass lying shattered on the floor. Photographs in frames that sported spiderweb cracks littered the edges of the room.

Adrien knew artists were hard on themselves. He knew they got in their own heads. He knew they drove themselves crazy from the inside out.

But he had done this.

This would be his biggest masterpiece, his museum debut. ‘Six years old and already making history,’ his mother would say theatrically, grinning and tickling him until his stomach hurt from laughing.

And his father would look at the drawing and smile, a real one, one of those lopsided, carefree grins that he only sported in old photographs. ‘I’m proud of you,’ he’d say.

Adrien had driven his father insane. From the outside in.

He worked quickly, a six-year-old man on a mission, tongue poking through the space where he had recently lost his front tooth. There was still a slightly bloody stump from where his gums hadn’t quite healed, and it made the tip of his tongue taste like salt every time he touched it.

It was all because of that stupid book.

He sketched it out with a pencil first. The mountain peaks in the back. The roundness of his father’s glasses, the twist of his mother’s hair. Adrien came out quite a bit taller than he really was, compared to them, but no matter. It didn’t have to be realistic, not really. It just had to be visible.

Adrien could almost see his father in the room, walking around and smashing things. Picking mannequins up over his head and throwing them down onto their sides so they cracked. Kicking vases. Perhaps ranting to Nathalie.

He had to ask Nathalie to show him his mother’s best dress so he could get the pattern right. It was strange, little swirls and clouds and dots all working together. Nathalie had obliged, holding up the gown for him as he sat with his legs crossed on the floor of his mother’s closet, his small hands weaving the spots and swirls on the page. On the way back to the long dining room table that was doubling as his great workspace, Nathalie had asked about the drawing.

“It’s for Mom and Dad,” Adrien had whispered, looking around as if his parents were going to pop out of a corner at any moment. “But it’s a secret. Don’t tell.”

Nathalie nodded dutifully, and the corner of her mouth twitched up. She’d winked at him.

He’d winked, clumsily, back.

Adrien could see his father. Unleashing a tornado on his office, his face red and his lips pressed tight with anger. Picking Adrien’s drawing up and flinging it across the room with such gusto that it shattered on impact.

Blue for his pants, red for his father’s pants, green for the grass beneath their feet, and little accents all over his mother’s dress...

Adrien’s heart was in his throat. He’d done this.

And layers and layers of yellow, waves of blond hair.

He, Adrien Agreste, had done this. He might as well have just broken all of the things himself.

He’d finished the masterpiece with a dripping yellow sun, a bright misshapen oval hanging above his mother’s head. It shone down on the three of them, all proudly wearing wide grins, holding each other’s hands.

It was because of him and Plagg and that stupid book…

When he finished, he’d first shown it to Nathalie. She rarely ever smiled, but she did that day. A full smile, teeth included, accompanied by a professional nod. “I’m sure they’ll love it.”

There was emotion clouded in her voice when she spoke. He didn’t understand it then.

It was all because of him.

They’d eaten dinner together that evening, the three of them and Nathalie. It was Adrien’s favorite, spaghetti and meatballs, the ones that his mother made just right. Emilie told everyone a story of when she and Gabriel were young, and it was the first time Adrien had ever heard Nathalie laugh out loud. Adrien and his mother both laughed so hard they had to stop eating. How Adrien loved his mother’s laugh--when Emilie was laughing, she became the color yellow, sunny and bright and wildly contagious.

And it was working on everybody. They had all caught a case of the Emilies. Adrien could’ve even sworn up and down that he saw his father smile.

God. He wanted to turn back time so badly. He wanted a second chance, a third chance, a million more chances.

After dinner, when all of the dishes were packed away, Nathalie had gathered his parents in the living room and set the stage, and Adrien had emerged brandishing his drawing. He handed it to his mother first, and she was silent for several seconds, taking it in.

“Well?” he’d asked. “Is it okay?”

She’d put a hand to her mouth, which Adrien thought was a bad sign, but then she spoke, so softly it was almost a whisper. “Wow. This is… wonderful.”

She put a finger to the page. “That’s me, right? And that’s your father?”

Adrien had nodded, almost like a bobblehead, wild green eyes wide in his face and gap-toothed mouth grinning.

“And there, that’s you… this is beautiful. Look, Gabe.”

She’d handed his father the drawing, and Adrien’s breath caught.

Gabriel Agreste had surveyed the doodle once, twice, taking in every line, every color.

And he must have still been carrying a case of the Emilies, because he nodded in approval, so subtly it could have been an accident.

It was just like that. No critiques, nothing. Quick and painless.

Adrien turned back to Nathalie, and she, too, must still have been afflicted with the Emilies, because she winked at him for the second time that day. He’d winked back, and it filled him with gold.

“This is beautiful,” Emilie had repeated, “but I think it’s missing something, don’t you?”

“What?” Adrien had asked.

She’d reached out an arm to draw him into her lap. “You’re an artist,” she’d said, tapping his nose. “It needs a signature.”

Gabriel produced a pen from his coat, and Emilie handed it to her son, her eyes filled to the brim with a kind of wild excitement. Adrien had taken the pen, but he’d hesitated, hand hovering over the page.

“Go on,” Emilie had encouraged, smiling so wide she was almost glowing. “Sign it.”

So he had, in blocky kindergarten handwriting, in the deep black ink of the pen. He’d marveled at his own name, at the six letters beaming up at him from the page. They claimed the drawing as his own, a declaration that Adrien Agreste made this masterpiece with his own two hands, determination, inspiration, and four different colors of crayon, all sitting loud and proud on the paper.

It told the world that he was here.

Emilie had picked her son up and swung him around until he started to laugh, and then she had brought him into her arms. He had clung to the fabric of her shirt, the satin and cotton and his mother’s skin, a smell that he swore he’d never forget.

“It’s perfect,” she had whispered.

Adrien wanted to pick the drawing up, piece together the shards of glass into one pane again like time had never touched them. He longed to fix it, reverse it, go back. He wanted, he wanted, he wanted. He felt like his skin might shatter with the pain of wanting. Something had seized him around the heart, and it was collapsing him.

He was driving himself insane. From the inside out.

Like father, like son.

When Ladybug next spoke, it nearly scared him out of his wits--he could have been standing there seconds or hours or days. She looked at him sideways, coated with concern. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

He closed his eyes so his mother and his father and six-year-old self disappeared, and he could see the splash of colors and blocky signature and shattered glass no more. He forced himself away, and the memories all left him alone, one by one--his father’s hidden smile, Nathalie’s laugh, that feeling of wonder that filled him when he signed his name.

The color yellow was the last to go, lingering in his eyelids for a few final seconds. A shock of blond hair and a feeling of warmth and a golden sun, dripping light onto him and his parents like a promise.

He opened his eyes and turned away. “Yeah. Yeah, let’s keep going.”