#dawn wip

[unbreakabledawn]

WIP Wednesday - Superbat edition: “Tidal Lock”

i survived ✨exam szn✨ and i'm excited to Sleep and Write (hopefully). “Tidal Lock” (tentative title) is a multi-chapter Superbat fic that sees Bruce and Clark in the start of their newly established romantic relationship. dating is hard enough on its own, not to mention the added difficulty of vigilantism, hero work, and all the other intricacies of Bruce Wayne’s and Clark Kent’s complex lives. these two lovesick idiots are very determined to make it work, though. it goes pretty well. maybe too well? due to to some unforeseen complications they have Kryptonian biology to thank for, Bruce and Clark have to deal with more than they bargained for.

i hope to to start posting soon, BUT i really think it would benefit from a second/third set of eyes first, so if this fic sounds interesting to you and you’d like to beta (no prior experience needed) or you’d like more info before deciding, please let me know! my DMs are open here or i can be reached on discord @ ziranos

(fic excerpt at 1k words, rated T for references to canon-typical violence)

Frankly, it had been the best first date of Bruce Wayne’s life, though he regrets the circumstances that had led up to it. Because if it hadn’t been for Clark’s near-death experience, they might not ever have made it to a first date. It was not the first time he had nearly died, or the second, or the third—Bruce has lost count at this point, but it is undoubtedly the closest he’d been in recent memory. Which is a little absurd when you consider that Clark had actually and literally died once, but they had been so young then, not as close, and too dumb. And Clark had come back, that was an important detail to remember. 

Bruce had probably been harsher than he should have been, swearing and yelling where he had leaned over Clark, both hands at the kryptonite knife in his chest. It was a serrated blade, and he knew for every second he hesitated the mineral was seeping into Clark’s body, killing his cells with painful intensity. The knife was wickedly sharp and cut through the gauntlet when he gripped the blade with one hand and the handle with the other, to pull it out as straight as possible. 

It had torn an agonized scream from Clark’s lungs, wet from the blood in his throat and mouth, when Bruce yanked the knife out in one swift and sure motion and tossed it as far away as he possibly could. He pressed against the hole in Clark’s chest to staunch the bleeding from the wound that was already trying to close—the only vaguely fortunate thing about that hellish day had been the weather and the merciless rays of the sun bearing down upon them in the middle of the ruined street in uptown Metropolis. But Clark still needed the kryptonite residue rinsed from his system and to be put in a sunbed as fast as possible.

Clark was coughing up blood, delirious from K-exposure and his unfamiliarity with pain, weakly trying to lift a hand to where Bruce’s hands pushed at his chest, smeared with both their blood. The biohazardous implications were lost on him because he had, for the briefest moment, thought that this was it, that this was the last time he’d see the life in Clark’s eyes and hear the breaths in his chest, as much as they struggled.

But Clark was as stubborn at living as he was at everything else. After he’d been cleared from the medbay, their argument had been as vicious as it was habitual, something about unnecessary risks and recklessness. Bruce had said a lot of things, none of which he could remember, because he had felt Clark’s blood grow dry and tacky on his ruined gloves and on the exposed skin of his fingers before he could wash it off, and he couldn’t hear his own voice over the memory of Clark’s panicked breathing and the gurgle of blood in his throat.

Later that night, he’d gone to Clark’s apartment to apologize. Instead, he’d yelled at him, kissed him, and asked him out (not necessarily in that order). Clark had inexplicably said yes and kissed him back. Bruce was a little fuzzy on the details. That might have been the kissing, or he might just have been losing his mind a little.

He never did apologize. Maybe he should. At the time he’d been blinded by the fear of almost having lost Clark, so struck by the realization that he could not actually go another fucking second without Clark knowing how Bruce felt about him, without having him. Because if Clark had died, he’d have died without knowing, and Bruce would have had to live the rest of his life with the crushing regret of everything that he now knew he could have with him.

And here’s Clark now, sneaking in through the window of Bruce’s office like some teenager past curfew, clad in creased red plaid and with his hair tousled by flight, arms full of—pie forms? He glides over to press a kiss to Bruce’s temple, followed by a waft of cinnamon and caramelized sugar. There’s the smell of baked apples and spices he recognizes as Martha Kent’s apple pie recipe.

“What is that?” Bruce says, trying not to be too obvious in staring at the exposed skin above Clark’s collar and the way the muscles of his throat flex when he pulls away and straightens.

“Dessert. It’s called pie. Hello to you, too.”

“Alfred’s cooking, you didn’t need to bring anything.”

“Yes, Alfred is cooking for a near dozen people, most of which are at peak physical condition. I asked him if I could bring anything, because I am a nice dinner guest. Well, I first asked if I could help cook, and he very politely told me to stay out of his kitchen.”

That does sound like Alfred, and Bruce’s alarm rapidly increases. “Since when do you and Alfred talk behind my back.”

“Hmm. How long have you and I known each other? I’ll go drop these off downstairs,” he says, a sunny smile on his face, before disappearing out the door.

What a worrying development. Bruce is not at all interested in learning about the combined capabilities of those two. He should go downstairs and intercept Clark, as soon as—

Bruce blinks down at his paperwork. He’s barely gotten through the first report, lost in thought as he’s been. Well, they’re papers, they’re not going anywhere.

Especially not when Clark reappears in the doorway, relaxed and casual in the way he’s obviously casing Bruce like a particularly enticing appetizer. He strolls over, keen gaze pinning Bruce to his chair.

“Dinner will be a while,” Clark says and spins Bruce’s chair around so he can lean over him with his hands on the armrests. “I have a few ideas on how to pass the time.”

“Do you, now,” Bruce says, appreciating the slow smile that spreads across Clark’s face, a smile that widens to full radiance once Clark hears what Bruce’s heart does at the sight. He leans in with a kiss that tastes sweet in a way that has nothing to do with Martha Kent’s pie, warm and soft against Bruce’s mouth.

“Lock the door and tell me about these ideas of yours,” Bruce murmurs.

[wolfythewitch]

I've kinda accepted it will take me Very Very long to finish this so I'm just posting parts every time I feel like it haha. Flashback time!

[hankandmonty]

The cleric mortality rate in fantasy high is impressive

[akeussel]

[cloudpalettes]

some scones

[spacedlexi]

date nights

[smapis]

erika infestation

[craftycoola]

progress on my cross stitch @8pxl dawn dreaming! super thrilled with how it's coming along, and still mesmerized watching it come together. it's my commute/waiting room/etc project, so a lot of people have asked me about it. shockingly (to me, at least), i often get asked if i'm free-handing/making up this pattern as i go! i wish i could do that...

i have reached the point of slight-thread-dilemma: i'm not convinced by 3807 as the suggested color, as it looks far too purple-y and bright to my eye. also debating between 806 and 807 for color n... i'm leaning towards 806 since it looks less green, although it might be darker than ideal. if anyone has stitched this pattern feel free to sound off with your opinions!

[lyadrielle]

BEHOLD PELOR'S EXECUTIONER! Also still a WIP. I am planning on finishing this silly little chibi! XD

[suntails]

out of context wip spoilers for my current project

[gretashand]

we're gettin closer to the end

[kkolg]

look who started another silly project

meee

[wolfythewitch]

broken horses

[eggcromancer]

Last Line Challenge

Rules:

In a new post, show the last line you wrote (or drew) and tag as many people as there are words (or however many as you like).

Tagged by @starriegalaxy Thanks jestie!! It's my first time doing a challenge, I'm excited! ✨

Last Line: "It was an accident" <- from the @daycarefriendpickup magma sesh! Sun may or may not have lost control and y/n may or may not be bleeding out as a result (oops...)

Last Art: I've roughly 20+ sketches ongoing and 0 motivation to complete any of them so take all these wips! HYAHHHH!! 💫💥

Agent Dusk from @lavenoon's amazing Accidentally Undercover AU 💕:

Colour studies on Agent Dawn (same AU as Dusk) and the most mentally sound™ Sun:

More scribbles....

And ..... this.... (why did I draw this)

This is an open invite for anyone to do the challenge! (because I'm have crippling social anxiety and I don't want to be imposing ajdhska) If you are looking for a sign to do the challenge, this is it!! Time to get to it!!! 👉👉 (Or don't! I'm not the boss of you!)

[this-insidious-dawn]

This Insidious Dawn is a dark fantasy IF wherein you play as a vampire, employed under the clandestine League of the Third God to hunt down anything -- everything - that does not belong in this world. But you do not belong here either, Warden. Demo tba.

☼ SYNOPSIS

The League saved you. Rewrote your life- gave you a chance to be more than a bloodstarved vampyr. Or did they?

You remember nothing of your past before the League; nothing but blood and indescribable agony, nothing but the thrumming of your heart stilling- and then beginning again, stilted and wrong. That was over a decade ago, the memories now faint and the connection quivering. They've been replaced, overwritten by years of blades clashing, body aches, and hollow hunger.

You started out weak. Starving, skin-and-bones, desperate for any reprieve you could get your hands on. Now, you're strong, each hunt -- each cut - giving you just enough energy to keep your worn body going. Some people would call it cruel, to keep a sentient being on the edge of death. Most people, though, would say that you're a vampire, so you hardly count as sentient.

Regardless of the morality of it, the method was effective. You were one of -- no, the most - efficient Warden the League had to offer.

And then a hunt went wrong. And now you're dead. But- a vampire (no, not a vampire; a vampyr) can never truly die. So you're back. But is it really you?

☼ FEATURES

↠ Customize your Warden. Appearance, gender, pronouns, and personality are all up to your choices as the player.

↠ This is a psychological horror first and foremost. It will have themes of dehumanization and derealization, amongst others. CWs will be offered.

↠ A character-driven plot where your choices impact the story.

↠ A cast of four consisting of The Acolyte, The Commander, The Savior, and The Forgotten, any of which you can optionally romance no matter your Warden's gender.

☼ CAST

↠ THE ACOLYTE

As with any vampire, you are accompanied by an acolyte to keep you in check and ensure that your hunts go well- as well as to mend any Gorges that riftspawn might crawl out of. Constantine Nimecidus fills this role, in your case (ae/aer). Ae is sharp-tongued, with a chronic lack of patience towards the people and world around aer, and can come across as snappy or rude. In other instances still, aer sarcastic, dry, and often untimely humor can offer a quick relief from the tension of any situation- or make it several times worse. Despite aer casual, laidback nature in the face of most events, ae places utmost importance on aer job, and quickly becomes intense whenever ae feels as if ae or aer position are being in any way threatened. You've spent years going on hunts with aer at this point, but the connection has never transcended the necessary 'I save you, you save me' exchange. Ae seems wary of you.

Constantine is a bit shorter than most, standing at 5'3. Ae has broad shoulders and hips, and is thickset with both muscle and fat. Aer amber skin is dappled with symmetrical pale patches, especially prevalent around aer eyes and mouth, and the lack of pigmentation has bled into aer hair in some spots, giving the dark auburn eye-catching streaks of white. Said hair is curly and cut shorter along the sides than the back is, and ae spends an awful lot of time preening it. Aer eyes are a striking, slightly luminescent bronze, and aer pupils appear instead of black as molten gold, shifting slightly in color to match aer emotions at any given moment. Ae has full lips and slightly upturned, monolid eyes. Ae favors shades of brown, tan, and orange in aer outfit, and ae near-constantly dons a rich red capelet with fur trimming around the hood.

↠ THE COMMANDER

Ex-commander of the Serpent's Guard-turned vampire. You'd personally never had a run-in with Alvaros Vepir until just recently (he/him). He's gruff, jaded, and withdrawn- exactly what you'd expect out of the man who gave his life for his queen only to nearly die (again) for it. It's hard to say, though, how much of his time as the commander he truly remembers. Alvaros is a poet's dream, the hero in an epic-turned-tragedy. He keeps everybody at arm's length, never allowing them to learn more than what the stories and theatrics tell of him. This is especially true of you- the vampire who was sent to reign him in, turn him from a rogue vampyr into a soldier of the League. Despite his emotional avoidance of you, though, he seems quite interested in you. Maybe it's the fact you're one of the few to have bested him in combat. Maybe it's just that 'vampiric charm' that old legends tell about (but that never seems to work outside of fights). Maybe it's because he remembers you.

Alvaros is intimidating in every manner. He stands at 6'4, his whole body is lean and scarred, and the black sclerae encircling dark green irises certainly does him no favors in lessening the effect. Before you were dispatched to retrieve him, you couldn't have said what he looked like; as the commander, he'd worn the veil regular of high-ranking members of the Serpent's Ring, leaving nothing but the back of his head exposed. Now, you know of his face well enough that you could probably recognize him in a crowd. With fawn skin dotted by freckles, hooded eyes, and a distinctive hooked nose, Alvaros is exactly what one would expect of a native of southern Ghel- save for his hair. Instead of the expected brown or black, his hair is a muddy blonde, and it has slight waves that turn into full curls at the tips. He maintains it short, never reaching past his chin. His face is scarred (his everything is, really), with a particularly nasty gash reaching from his left eyebrow down to his right jaw. It just barely misses his right eye.

↠ THE SAVIOR

An acolyte? You think so, anyways. Suri Revlece is the woman who saved you (she/her). You don't know whether or not she's even with the League, but she certainly looks like an acolyte. You don't know what she was doing there, either, but she seems willing to answer any of your questions while you recover- as long as they aren't personal. She's kind enough, but seems a little...off. She's finicky, always looking over her shoulder. She's running from something, but she doesn't seem to know what. She appears to believe that she and you have some type of camaraderie, although you've never met. But there's something to be said for the sheer strength of her magic- you've never seen an acolyte's shimmer burn a riftspawn like that. Never seen one with an eye glowing that bright, either. She's an anomaly- one that you're sure the headman at your partner's spire would be more than glad to have amongst their ranks, but then the mere idea of it had her denying it with vehemence. It seems like she has a history with it.

Suri has a mesmerizing look to her. The deep brown of her skin, near-black of her hair, and dark garb are contrasted with bright pops of color. One eye is a brightly glowing orange, the pupil nearly white, and the other is a misty grey, its almond shape deformed by the burn scars warping the left side of her face. That dark hair, braided and reaching down to about her hips, is decorated by light brown and gold beads engraved with runes that seem to serve to channel her magic. Her frame is lanky and she's long-limbed, reaching just above what most would think of as an 'average height', at 5'8. Below a brown leather cloak, more runed jewelry decorates her wrists and fingers, and her hands are tattooed in shades of bronze. The burn upon her face is not the only such injury she has suffered; her palms are burnt the slightest bit, and similar scars wrap around her arms. She has a broad nose and thick heart-shaped lips, and light stubble sits above the top lip.

↠ THE FORGOTTEN

You don't know who they are anymore. Who are they? (he/they/she)

A shadowy form, the silhouette of a memory. There's something not quite right about them. What have they become?

☼ LINKS

Demo - tba

Other blogs - @azraels-bad-choices (main IF blog) and @a-firsthand-murder-ballad (other project)

[ghostiegone]

the more I draw western op…. the crazier I become