honestly think the inks for this looked better than the colored piece but i spent so long trying to get the colors right that i’m now withholding it out of spite
This is an attempt at organizing a celebration around the superblond pairing (Kon El/Bernard Dowd).
The superblond fandom may only be seventeen-ish strong, but we deserve to be fed, too!
what are we even talking about, here?
@cactus-k0ala and @coconutjelly wanted to address the criminal deficit of superblond content with a low-stakes bingo challenge to encourage new superblond content out here in these desolate wastes.
There are four mini bingo cards, each with a 3x3 of prompts. Pick up any that speak to you, and complete as many prompts you want. It only takes 3 works for a bingo, or 9 if you're a completionist and want to fill every prompt on a card! We wanted there to be space for someone who only has time for a handful of fanworks, as well as breadth for those who might want to really cut loose on a summer fandom run!
"challenge" is a loose concept
Participation is intentionally flexible, because the only real goal is to give ourselves more superblond to scream about online be super chill and normal about.
No sign-up process or moderation - just make things and share it! The challenge runners do not have time or interest in cherry-picking who gets to scream into the void. The void for this pairing is big enough for everyone to scream.
Create whatever inspires you from a prompt - fanfic, notfics, drabbles, scribbles, full renders concept art, podfic, playlists, comic panels, moodboards, video montages - all are welcome!
Any rating, any AU, any medium (just make sure it can be shared via tumblr/AO3!), any themes, any side characters. Yes, that includes timberkon, just aim for a superblond focus!
Share it on tumblr and use the tag #superblond bingo. Submit it to this blog. Add it to the AO3 collection. Tell your cashier at the grocery store. Telepathically stream it to the collective superblond consciousness. Whatever method you use, just make sure people know you made something for this lovely pair of blorbos.
I need us as fandom to use the fact Damian has a sweet tooth so much more.
Like this kid is genuinely out here having poptarts and hot chocolate for breakfast in canon.
( DC vs Vampires #2 and Adventures of Superman: Jon Kent #4)
We need this energy in fandom.
Damian drinking tea 24/7. Boring, sad, he doesn't even like it.
Damian seeing his siblings take protein shakes and electrolytes when training, and deciding to imitate them by making himself chocolate milk and putting it in a sports bottle. Innovative, funny, could happen.
Imagine.
Jason, sweating: Ah, damn. Ran out of water. Can I have some of yours?
Dick: Sorry, man. Finished mine too.
Damian, offering a huge hydro flask: You can have some of mine, Todd.
Jason: Oh, thanks
Jason: *taking a sip and immediately spitting out*
Dick: Woah! Are you o–
Jason, looking at Damian horrified: WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS??
In his sophomore year of high school, when he was 16 years old, Bernard Dowd went to Tim Drake’s house.
This was an uncommon commodity in their friendship. Tim was an exceptionally “busy” boy for someone who had no hobbies other than skateboarding and, from what Bernard hears, a bit of photography. Tim, like most teenagers, was embarrassed of his parents from time to time and how they might be perceived by his peers. Bernard’s parents were… the way they were, with him. So it wasn’t always that the circumstances lined up for a house visit. And it wasn’t always that Bernard or Tim would bother to ask after one. They much preferred to bum around town, anyways.
But one day, Bernard did go to Tim’s house. It was rather nice. His dad was… well, not as scary as dads normally were in Bernard’s experience, and his stepmom was pretty nice and made such a mean pie it made you forget how young she was.
Then again, Bernard couldn’t judge their relationship. Older people kind of did it for him, too, for reasons he never wanted to think about too deeply.
So after the obligatory dinner and conversation, Bernard followed Tim up to his bedroom. It was fairly normal at first. They talked and they played on Tim’s impressive collection of consoles, losing time. And then Tim spilled his Zesti on himself while drinking, somehow. Which was hilarious, so of course, Bernard laughed accordingly and followed his friend as he trudged to the bathroom to clean his hands and chest before the stickiness settled in.
Once Tim had finally cleaned himself off, now sporting a damp shirt, he gave himself a once-over in the mirror. Bernard had no idea what his friend saw, but Tim’s eyes widened just a fraction before he was rifling through a drawer and whipping out a bottle so fast that Bernard didn’t register what it was until Tim was dabbing it on his cheek.
Makeup. Drake owned makeup. More than owned it— he wore it.
Bernard’s thoughts screeched to a halt as he struggled to comprehend what, exactly, he was looking at. Tim didn’t seem even slightly put off by the fact Bernard was here, watching him put on makeup. Which, okay, men wearing makeup isn’t, like, world boggling new information. Rockstars do it! And, um… probably some other guys. And gay guys. Did he mention rockstars? Yeah, so, it’s totally… normal to wear makeup. For those people.
But Tim isn’t a rockstar, or gay. Tim is— Tim. Was he doing this to be funny? Was this supposed to be funny?
With a strange clamminess, Bernard barked a laugh, because he’s supposed to. Because guys don’t wear makeup. They just don’t do that.
Tim shot him a look, brow raised in a bit of judgment and a bit of amusement. “What’s so funny?” He asked, definitely sarcastically. Bernard wondered if he does his eyebrows, too, like those chicks in movies. Or maybe they were naturally perfect like that.
Bernard swallowed around a dry mouth. “You, dude. Why do you have that?” He nodded to the open bottle of… of… something the same shade as Tim’s skin. It’s ever so slightly too pale, he couldn’t help but notice. Tim’s face is a little warmer these days. A result of evenings spent roaming around town with Darla, the three of them trying desperately to soak up the meager sun that peaks through the always-grey clouds.
Bernard internally bashed himself for even noticing that. He shouldn’t have noticed that.
Tim frowned. “To cover my acne. Why?”
Bernard fumbled. Why? What does he mean, why? Doesn’t Tim know what would happen if he was caught with that shit? He opened and closed his mouth a few times as he struggled to put his jumbled thoughts into words. “Well,” he said. “It’s… it’s makeup.”
Tim turned to squint at Bernard, then. His strikingly blue eyes narrowed slightly. Dangerously. “Yeah,” Tim said. “It is.”
An uncomfortable feeling squirmed in Bernard’s stomach. It reached up and squeezed the life out of his chest, constricting until it felt like he couldn’t breathe. He shoved his hands in his pockets and tried for something more casual and normal and not freaking out over a tube of whatever that is. “Just— I mean, it’s— normally… We’re dudes, Drake.”
Somehow, that was the wrong answer. Tim carefully set the tube of unidentified makeup down on the counter. “I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that,” he told Bernard evenly. Then he left the bathroom.
Bernard didn’t immediately chase after him to soothe whatever damage he caused by being weird. Instead, he stared at the inconspicuous cream-colored tube on the counter. He picked it up with shaking hands.
dissimulateur/corrector, it said. High-definition concealer. 02, Porcelain.
Bernard shot a desperate glance to the doorway. But there was no Tim to stop him, to call him a creep for touching his stuff, to call him weird for being so hung up on the stupid plastic tube of concealer. The hallway was empty. So he shut the door, even as an uncomfortable guilt swam in his lungs.
He faced the mirror like it was his execution. Then he… tried it. He twisted the little cap off and put just a little bit of the substance on his trembling fingertip. He slowly and cautiously swiped his finger across his cheek, as if it might bite him.
It… felt strange. Cold against the bathroom air. Wet, but not liquid. It was the wrong color. Too pale for him, too. It stood out starkly against his freckles, hiding them from sight. He looked a little naked without them. He definitely felt naked. Which was weird, because he was now wearing more than he was before. He was wearing makeup.
Oh. Oh god. He’s wearing makeup.
Bernard’s heart jumpstarts and goes straight into heart-attack territory. He drops the tube of concealer and flicks on the faucet, frantically rubbing the makeup off his finger. Then he swipes at his cheek with his wet hand, grabbing a towel to make sure he really got it all off.
Mom was going to kill him. Fuck. Would she be able to tell? Could Dad tell? He’s dead. He’s fucking dead.
“Bernard?” Tim called from the other side of the bathroom door. “Are you coming back, or are you sleeping in the bathtub tonight?”
Bernard startled hard, dropping the towel in his hands. Shit. He hurried to fix it back on its little hoop-thing, and twisted the cap back on the concealer, and turned off the faucet and tried not to look like someone being chased down with a hatchet. He opened the door. “Drake!” He greeted with a smile. “Hey, man! Let’s boot your PlayStation back up.”
The concealer was not put back in its drawer. It lay on the counter, beside the sink, reflected in the mirror.
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