#maybe if i change the hair to pink and make the bangs white gradient instead of green gradient??

[nerosdayinanime]

sanemitsu fusion attempt (inspired by scrimblyscrorblo's post) but i think i made them too Sanemi not enough Mitsuri. smiley doodle was an attempt to fix that lmao

[soulmate-game]

New fic *test*

New Bio!dad Bruce story? I’m testing out this first chapter, and if I like where it’s going I might add it to my growing pile of WIPs. If I have inspiration, I might as well use it. Because of life events stressing me the hell out, I’m throwing any writing plans out the window and I’m purely gonna write to destress right now. Whether that means updating THG or not, or continuing Maribat March, we’ll just have to see how this all pans out. Things are subject to day-to-day change.

I got inspiration from this from rereading my day 1 story for Bio!dad Bruce Wayne month from last year. I’m just gonna change a few things.

—*—*—*—*—*

For once, an unfamiliar face attracted the attention of everyone who caught even a glimpse of them. It wasn’t even because of the person themselves at first, but their dress. The skirt like the most fantastical of storybook ball gowns, fluffy layers of satin over a luxurious petticoat, with a stunning pink floral pattern whose busy appearance was tastefully offset by a shorter, sheer layer of leaf green tulle artistically weaved and somehow sculpted over the floral in order to tame it. The effect turned what should be a grandmotherly pattern into something softer, sophisticated and youthful and yet also reminiscent of fairytale princesses. Over top the short layer of green tulle was an even shorter later of white tulle, almost invisible except for the elegant embroidery of crystal-white vines that twined all over it, connecting the green below it to the bottom-most floral pattern and oddly adding a layer of childishness instead of maturity. At the waist of the dress was a dark plum pink satin ribbon, to separate the elaborate ballgown skirt from the bodice. Attached to the simple ribbon was a large brooch of fabric flowers, with a single plastic ladybug in the center.

The bodice of the dress came up into a cheongsam neckline, but was sleeveless. It was a simple design, of half green and half dark pink, with a white border separating the two. The white border had expertly done embroideries in a soft silver thread that would only be visible close up, the images the thread made being that of fairies and ladybugs dancing around one another.

It was, all in all, a stunning display that made the small eurasian woman wearing them look like absolute royalty. Perhaps a long lost fairy princess. Her black-blue hair was even done up in elaborate looping braids and a braided bun, with silver and green pins that further completed the regal ensemble. And yes, while the expertly done dress was what initially captivated her current audience, it was not what kept them from leaving her alone. That was all her personality, bubbly and bright as her blinding smile. It was a sunny disposition that very few people present had any exposure to at all, and it drew them like a sunflower to the daylight. They could not help but flock closer, or even just stand back and keep themselves turned to her presence. Already she had been at the gala for two hours, but there was no issue. She just kept proving her generosity, admitting she had donated both a dress and a suit of her own making to the charity auction that would begin soon, one of the main attractions of the gala. She skillfully charmed the more snooty of the attendants, and artfully twisted her words so that they felt compelled to donate more money that they truly had no use for. Later, they would remember their donation and wonder what compelled it, but come up with no satisfying answer.

And yet she was entirely unaware of her more silent audience, who stood back and observed. Truth be told, every one of them was glad to not be the center of that attention for a change, to have room to breathe for so long at an event where usually that commodity was so scarce that it demanded a fierce competition for. Compared to her garden of color, they were all shadows in shades of blacks and blues and whites, with a touch of red here and there that was entirely too thematic for their home city. The one who sported a royal blue suit tilted his head at the scene they were all calmly witnessing, his bright azure eyes glittering.

“She’s like magic,” he mused, clearly enchanted despite having not said a single word to the woman. “Perfect socialite. She’s kind, generous, she made that dress and the ones she donated to the auction herself so she’s obviously got an intimidating amount of skill for her age. She even tricks those old fuddy-duddies into spending money. It’s like a dream come true!”

“I don't trust it,” the one to his right said, a man just a few inches shorter in a classic black suit with a red dress shirt underneath. He absently swept his bangs away from his face as he narrowed his eyes at the woman. “It seems too perfect. She doesn’t have any identifiable character flaw, except maybe being a little clumsy and too energetic. She does babble a little… but nothing that actually suggests any depth besides her just being— good. That’s impossible, and I don’t trust it.”

“Tt. I agree with Drake for once. She seems entirely too comfortable with this setting, despite her blushes and rambles,” the one who spoke this like was taller, clearly a teen in the middle of his growth spurt. He, too, wore a plain black suit but his had subtle charcoal embroidery and he wore an emerald-green dress shirt under it that made his matching eyes gleam dangerously. “It seems almost playacted. Expertly so, but nonetheless not entirely genuine.”

“Wow, not many pick up on that. I’m gonna give your observations a solid eight out of ten. They’re all perfectly sound, but not quite complete,” a new voice made all of the silent group stiffen— somehow they had been snuck up on. The newcomer smirked at them as if having fully expected their reaction but still being pleased at being able to evoke it. This was yet another stunner; far too much color in her outfit to be a Gotham native, and far too much skill in the construction for it to signify anything less than extreme influence. She had bright golden-blond hair that was coiled into a low bun, with her bangs artfully curled and arranged to display her crystal blue eyes.

In contrast to the garden-themed dress of the Eurasian woman who had garnered their attention at first, this newcomer was wearing a pantsuit. It was all in a dark honey-gold, in a stiff fabric with construction that made it lay entirely in perfect, straight lines and hug her form in the right places. Black embroidery decorated the long, flared sleeves and pant legs and dripped around the square neckline like a faux necklace. A cape made out of the same material as the rest of the pantsuit was draped on one shoulder. It started out as the same honey-gold color, but it became a gradient as it faded to a solid black at the ends. Gold thread embroidery decorated the solid black bottom of the cape in delicate, deceptively simplistic swirls. The top half of the pantsuit was clearly inspired by military garb, simultaneously rigidly constructed yet fitted, with circular onyx buttons going down the center of the chest and a thick metal belt, all in swirling silver and black, sat perfectly clasped around her waist. It was far more solid-colored and simplistic compared to the fairytale dress in the center, but no less show stopping and luxurious. It simply showcased an entirely different attitude, almost as if the two women could never get along if their personalities matched their outfits.

“And who are you?” The man who had been the center of the group of shadow-like adults spoke up, back straightening to milk every speck of his generous six-feet-and-three-inches of height. This was none other than Bruce Wayne, the host of this annual charity gala. And normally, his current stance would either intimidate or utterly charm whoever it was directed at— but not this pantsuit-clad blond warrior. Her smirk merely widened, and her blue eyes took on a slight shade of teal as if trying to mimic the dangerous ocean depths.

“I am Chloe Bourgeois, the daughter of Andre Bourgeois, the mayor of Paris, and Audrey Bourgeois, the Style Queen. It’s nice to meet you again, Monsieur Wayne,” she introduced herself imperiously. “I also happen to be the best friend of the girl you were just staring at.”

Bruce nodded, but had trouble reconciling this clear powerhouse of a woman with the bratty and entitled preteen he had met years ago, at the last gala she had attended with her mother. “Of course, I didn’t recognize you at first Chloe. You’ve grown a lot since the last Gala I saw you at.”

Chloe wrinkled her nose, clearly not appreciating the reminder. “I was a bitch,” she admitted easily, seemingly not at all bothered by the confession. It caused not only Bruce but also the oldest three of his sons, who had all also met her in the past, to blink in silent shock. “Things have changed. Paris is apparently the perfect chaotic environment right now to promote emotional growth and smack spoiled kids over the head with reality,” she shrugged. Part of the reason her and her whole class had even been able to come to the Gala in the first place was the fact that Bruce wanted to offer the most attacked group of Parisians a respite and some support from their crazy lives. The fact that even Gotham seemed sane in comparison to Paris was a bit of a hard hit for both involved parties, but in the end everyone understood that “more sane” didn’t always equate with “less dangerous.” Considering all that, Chloe had no reason to sugarcoat the situation in her home city. “But it wasn’t easy at all, and Marinette was largely responsible for my improvement too.”

“Marinette?” The heathen who somehow got away with attending a gala in a black leather jacket over a dress shirt and suit pants asked, raising a brow. Chloe nodded.

“The girl you were just goggling at. Marinette Dupain-Cheng, the class president and resident workaholic. Does she ever sleep? Nobody knows,” Chloe shrugged.

The blue-suited man, Dick Grayson, shot a suspicious glance at Tim, who was standing to his right, as if he was worried his brother had made a female clone of himself just so he could continue to work hard and never rest. Tim ignored him and sipped from the thermos of coffee he had somehow snuck in.

Bruce cleared his throat to bring the focus back onto himself, and shot his most charming smile at Chloe. “They would have known who she was, if they had read the brief information I gave them about your class. But they never do listen to me,” he complained with good humor. “But back to the original topic, Miss Bourgeois, do you care to correct us on how our observations are lacking?”

Chloe laughed easily, smiling and nodding to indicate Marinette, still stuck in a circle of socialites and not seeming the least bit worn out.

“Of course. First; She is not completely acting. She really is like magic sometimes— disgustingly kind, generous, far too willing to help just about anyone for just about any reason. She’s one of the best people I’ve ever met, as much as it pains me to admit it. But she is exaggerating her personality a bit and hiding the parts she doesn’t want anyone to see, so there is a little acting involved. Just not as much as you seem to think,” Chloe then waved her arm in a flourish as if she were presenting Marinette to them. “In short; behold Mari Dupain-Cheng, the ridiculously likeable, disgustingly cute, extremely philanthropic mask that she shows everyone at public events like this. You don’t see any of the insomnia, or the anxiety, or the self doubt. Just the parts she wants you to see, accompanied with a smile to blind you to everything else,” her all-too-deep blue eyes settled back on Bruce then, a knowing glint shining in them. “Don’t you think that’s ridiculously similar to Brucie Wayne for you, Monsieur? Utterly, ridiculously, similar?”

Bruce grit his teeth. He hadn’t expected anyone else to know about his exceptionally well hidden secret, not even his kids had caught on or found his buried evidence yet. Yet his heiress comes up, nearly flaunting her knowledge in his face with all too many unspoken questions and criticisms.

And her cryptic words had succeeded in making all of his kids look at him with extreme suspicion. Shit.

“What are you saying, Miss Bourgeois?” he cautiously prodded. She hummed noncommittally before dropping the bomb all too casually;

“I’m saying I’ve seen her adoption papers, and you won’t be able to run from her for long Monsieur Wayne. As soon as she gets an opening, she’s going to pounce,” Chloe’s eyes glittered dangerously again. “And nowadays, Marinette doesn’t ever let people escape her. Your problem with adoption has created a rather unique problem, you know. You’re at fault for a large majority of her self confidence issues, and I want you to know that I am not going to forget or forgive that anytime soon.”

“Bruce,” Jason’s voice was dark and threatening. “What is she talking about?”

“Something we don’t want getting in the tabloids,” Yet another new voice popped up, allowing Chloe to smugly sink back into the background.

Somewhere during their discussion, Marinette had ambushed them.

“Chloe and I are very good at locating all the reporters in a room and distracting them, but we’re not infallible and this event has far too much coverage,” Her smile reeked confidence and charm, but this close all the Waynes could see the doubt hiding in her bluebell eyes. “Since I’m about to turn eighteen, I figured this would be as good a time as any to finally confront you. I want to make it clear that I seek nothing from you, except the occasional contact. I would like to keep in touch, if nothing else. But if you are adverse to that… then at least answer my questions after the gala,” her eyes developed a hint of carefully controlled desperation. “Please.”

Bruce met her eyes evenly, trying to read her. But she was difficult, simultaneously too many emotions to sort through in her demeanor and much too little. After an extremely tense moment of silence, his voice came out barely above a whisper:

“You do not want anybody to know?”

And hell, if she didn’t recognize the hidden vulnerability in his voice as the very same she heard in her own far too often. In a much tamer version of her own rambling, he went on:

“I can keep it silent if that is what you want. But I want you to know that I will not be adverse to you admitting it anywhere. I don’t expect you to change your name, but I would not be ashamed of the truth getting out. I am not ashamed of it, of you.”

Marinette’s smile grew a little watery. She had to clear her throat to keep herself from tearing up. “Maybe eventually, but not yet. I… I want to stay a little more anonymous for now. It’s one thing to be a well known designer with good connections. It’s an entirely different thing to be…”

“A Wayne?” Bruce finished, ignoring the daggers that were being stared into his back. “I understand completely.

“Father,” Damian’s voice was all sharp edges and rapidly suppressed panic. “What. Is going. On?”

Marinette shot him an apologetic smile. “Apparently, eighteen years ago, his prerogative was to put the child he actually knew about up for adoption when the mother died in childbirth,” her voice was once again only barely loud enough for them to hear, since she didn’t want any eavesdroppers. “Imagine my surprise when I find out he completely flipped sides only months later.”

--*--*--*--*--*

Hey, so please share your feedback on this. This is just to test out a possible new bio dad, multichapter fic and this is the opening scene I'm trying out. If you like it, please tell me what you like about it and please suggest titles for the story! I love you guys' feedback so much!

[moonstruck-midnight]

Dawn wakes up. 

It's barely morning, a shift in the light on her curtains, warm dusk (dusk?) pink— no, lightening morning, a gradient of blues in the sky. She yawns, rubs at her eyes, scrubs a hand over her face when she can't-quite get around the haze of sleep in her skull. The blankets are warm, soft, and honestly all she wants to do for the rest of forever is sleep (and why doesn't she?) but she has school to do and people to see, so she rolls out of bed and hits the floor with a thump. 

Oh well. It wakes her up. 

The kitchen is oddly still— (why would it be odd? it's not like she lives with anyone) the kitchen is still, adorned with the slumber of the world, a soft, heavy weight that drapes over her and droops her eyelids as she starts the coffeemaker, curls her hand around a cup that's just a shade too bright— (no, it isn't, it's exactly how you expect it) a cup that's pleasingly heavy in her grip, drags a hand through curly hair that doesn't pull quite as it should— no, it pulls exactly as it should, because today is normal. Dawn is going about her usual routine and there is nothing strange. 

She finishes up her routine; brushes her teeth, washes her face, sorts out her hair, and she's out the door with a bagel a moment later, digging around in her wallet for a card that gleams a second too bright before it's right again, like it always was, since everything is normal and nothing is strange. Dawn smiles at the bus driver who smiles back and his eyes have always crinkled that little no matter what she thinks she remembers before she sits down. 

Everything is just fine.

-

Class happens as it always does; Dawn gets a paper back with a glaring red 42 and breathes deep enough she feels her lungs are going to pop. The girl in the seat to her left is watching, and Dawn instinctively shifts to cover it, casually drops a hand over her score even though it doesn't look like those strange grey eyes were looking there. 

"Got a pen?" asks the girl, raises a lazy eyebrow. Dawn flips her paper over before rummaging through her bag, and she distinctly hears the girl snort— shit, is the number visible through the paper? When she straightens back up, she realizes the girl doesn't have a bag of her own, which is... odd. 

No, it's not, it's not odd, because today is normal and nothing is strange. 

The girl smiles at her, takes the pen and twirls it between her fingers. "Remember whose class we're in?" she says, like Dawn's supposed to know the answer— 

—and she does, doesn't she? 

No, it's the first day, Dawn doesn't know any of her teachers' names yet. 

(Her teacher graded a paper she wrote before the first day?) 

No, it's a new teacher, just transferred in; it's about time Dawn got her paper back. She shakes her head. "I can check the syllabus, if you want?" "No need," says the girl, watching her. There's something intent in her gaze, stormcloud grey and sharp as a knife. "I'll figure it out."

The lecture starts; the girl doesn't take notes. The teacher never introduces themselves. When Dawn looks at her notes, all she sees are blue-green scribbles on a white page— (no, look again) her notes are barely there, but intelligible if she puts enough work into deciphering them. She stares for a moment before deciding not to bother; she can copy the notes into another notebook at home. 

The girl doesn't give her pen back, but she bites the end of it with teeth that seem slightly sharper than they should. 

"Remember me, won't you?" A head tilt, a wink. "I look forward to getting to know you." 

She strolls out the door, shouldering a bag that wasn't there before. Or maybe it was, but Dawn didn't realize— 

The girl looks back at her, displeasure flattening out the curve of her mouth. "No, do better." 

...the bag wasn't there before. 

The girl smiles and leaves, just like that. She doesn't give Dawn's pen back. Dawn watches her until she disappears from her line of sight before shaking her head and packing her bag. Weird. That girl was— 

Normal. Completely normal. Because today is normal and nothing is strange.

-

Dawn doesn't see the girl again, which she kind of expected—someone like her would've stood out, and Dawn doesn't remember seeing her before today. She must be a transfer student of some kind. It's a shame: Dawn kind of liked the pen she passed over. She wants it back. 

The girl shows up again in her math class, sitting on her left again. It's afternoon; the sun hits her from behind, lights up flyaway strands of blue hair like an aquamarine halo. She doesn't have the pen. 

"This has been an interesting insight into your head," she says instead of a greeting, or offering the pen from the first class—what was it again? (Nothing important.) Nothing important, really, probably a class she'll get by without much studying. "Who knew your life was so boring." 

"Hey," says Dawn, vaguely affronted, but she isn't annoyed, not really, because that wouldn't be normal and nothing is strange. "Don't be mean." 

The girl studies her with eerie grey eyes. They look almost white when the sun filters through them. "You really don't know, do you?" 

"Know what?" Dawn asks, and the girl—

"I can't tell you," says the girl, and her smile is awful, curling and sharp in all the wrong ways. "Or, well. I won't tell you. How's that for the truth?" 

"I..." Dawn trails off. What are you supposed to say to that, anyway? 

The girl shakes her head. "Come on, Dawn. Pay attention." 

And then she looks towards the front of the room, so Dawn looks towards the front of the room, and it's another lecture. Which is fair, because this is college. Because this is normal, and nothing is strange. Even though the light that falls through the curtains is a little too golden for the afternoons, but it's not, because there's no sunlight because there's white LEDS, even though the board is a step too black like it's swallowing the sun even though it's not, because they have a projector screen. "That's it, keep going," says the girl to her left, and Dawn grips her head. This is normal. Nothing is strange.

No. 

This is wrong, everything is wrong, colors just a shift to the left, things keep changing, and when did— 

The door slams shut. Dawn jolts out of her thoughts with a bang as her elbows hit the desk, sending a jolt of oh-fuck-funnybone down her nerves. 

Yeah, okay, she has to be imagining the wrongness. There's no way her brain can make that sensation on its own, not without the physical input. She's imagining it. Everything's fine, everything's normal, this is normal, nothing is strange. 

Normal. There's no need to fight it. This is the everyday. This is what's normal. 

The girl to her left hasn't stopped staring at her, grey eyes half-lidded. One corner of her mouth twitches into a smirk. "Oh, you were so close there," she drawls, curling a strand of blue around her finger. "Maybe you'll get it next time." 

The world dissolves around them.