Fallen Hero Rebirth fallen Hero carter Krane steel wei Chen once Again My

hihi! i was wondering y'all wrote exclusively for the somewhat main continuity, or if you delve into any of the side universes? (like arkham knight, young justice, etc.) love your writing either way, just curious!

Main continuity, specifically Mail-Crisis, with some touches from Rebirth.

Occasionally when I AU out into my own continuity I will have pieces from chief DCU and then make my own spinning out from it, but I take yet to prepare anything in a specific media accommodation of the DCU.

I observe my own variations more interesting to explore atm, and a lot of the various adaptations are but shallower adaptations (non to say they're bad, just that earth building wise they're shallow and less interesting) of the main DCU and the storylines in it (sometimes plot for plot) so I don't feel whatever great need to set anything in them.

I'd write in them if I got a particular idea or something to explore in them, simply so far that hasn't happened.

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THEY ❤️__________❤️

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it's only been an hour only this year'southward birthday is definitely much less ribs past lorde and i will credit a solid xc% of that to the discovery of the endurance

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Wink/Speed Buggy Special (2018)

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Red Hood and The Outlaws (2016) #vi

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Happy Birthday @kruk-art!!

Unless I am mistaken, then today is a special day for y'all and I wanted to requite yous a footling gift to celebrate. I admire Awan and I hope I didn't get him too wrong. I may accept experimented a bit too much with this picture but I wanted to exercise my best for this.

I wish you a very happy birthday and may your side by side year be a good one!

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hey hey friends lets do criminal offence

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Yous ever just love a cast of characters so much that you feel like you'll never be able to create equally great a cast every bit that?

Aye, that's me with Ultra Black.

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Deadass why does both the idea of eternity and the thought of fatality/finality/bloodshed all make me. Terrified.

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Did ur Dick grayson wear the discowing costume

Non for a very long time just he did. He likes to say it was to friction match Kory.

He however has the vocalism mails from Bruce about it, cause he never answered the phone just Bruce certainly did make his opinion known. He made copies because in his words 'How often volition you ever get to hear Batman rant about manner for ninety minutes?'

Bruce maintains he wasn't talking nearly mode but practical protection as a vigilante merely he did spend virtually five minutes solely on the collar and called information technology 'a flashback to the 70s I never wanted to relive' and so that's just a matter of opinion, actually.

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please, oh gods,

i accept started a nascent playlist related to a... nascent...

thought? idea? story? *please let me have this*

a prayer: permit this ground be fertile again

let something grow

allow something bloom

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I shut my eyes and expect inside, no surprise I observe nothing Information technology's people who shape each other and people are disgusting

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Not then arrogant at present, are we?

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Solar day 10980 of thinking about how Jessica used to come up with good concepts for stories/settings and characters simply consistently ruins it by being weird and gross and pushing everything that makes her stories compelling aside for the romance between her cocky inserts (and fifty-fifty making those weird and gross) and inevitably forgetting to keep the series and forgetting who her own oc's are and what they stood for and throwing a bunch of random shit into the plot cause she forgets what the hell she's doing

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waking up to realize i'm not the psychic heir to a fantasy kingdom: pretty disappointing

waking up to realize that my friends and i are presumably safe from existence attacked past a bloodthirsty giant: significantly less disappointing

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Ortega: Direct action.

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"sometimes I feel like I'one thousand a prisoner in my own skin"

ie everyone was drawing their sidesteps' cool funky fresh farm tats and i finally did ray's

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consequent style whomst

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If all is going to end in burn anyway, would it actually be and so bad to give yourself this one moment? To pretend that you're happy, feeling the rise and fall of Ortega's chest? It'southward just pretend, right?

this is an extremely self-indulgent chargestep fic that was meant to be soft, and kind of is, merely damn sidestep makes it so very difficult for anything to exist soft... spoilers for retribution! effectually 2,300 words.

"Are you going to stay the dark?"

"No," you say, surprising no one. "But I tin can stay a piddling longer."

Merely heavy eyelids and limbs say otherwise. The ii of you settle into a comfortable silence, your mind numbing against the backdrop of whatever is playing on the Television set and the ever-present hum of Ortega'southward static. Y'all're pressed against him as if you've ever belonged here — a missing piece to his heart.

Shit.

When had you go so sappy? This romance is doomed, and has been from the get-go, but hither yous are all the same, indulging in his warmth, his scent, his fingers running languidly through your hair. A cigarette hangs loosely between your fingers, smoldering and one-half-finished. Yous focus on the smoke instead. Faintest wisps of grey, not different your eyes, curling upwards before lost to the vast emptiness of air. Pulled apart in a dozen directions until prodigal. You suppose this is the path you're headed downward. Devastation is inevitable, but each day y'all're less and less certain who will die in the fallout. Ortega? Chen? Yourself?

In a minor admittance of truth, you lot realize you hope it is yourself. Perhaps it's the coward'due south style out, only it would be the least painful choice. Possibly Chen really can terminate you lot. Maybe y'all'll let him. Or maybe Ortega will impale you lot here in this flat, at your nigh vulnerable. The thought is almost comforting; it would be no less than you deserve.

You extinguish the cigarette in the makeshift ashtray Ortega placed on the java tabular array. Embers flare briefly in a last, bright deed of defiance before snuffed entirely.

If all is going to end in burn down anyway, would it actually exist so bad to requite yourself this one moment? To pretend that you're happy, feeling the ascent and fall of Ortega'south breast? It's just pretend, right? Right…?

"Kafka?"

Oh. You're doing it again. Thinking in circles until your eyes glaze over and your breath quickens and Ortega notices. He always notices.

"I'm fine," you mumble in response, flashing him a tired smile. "Just thinking."

He but hums, and the lack of questions daze you more than the buss placed on your forehead. You turn your caput to see his face up, a taunt on your lips that dies the 2d his eyes come across yours. Tired. Warm. Happy. And oh, despite all the years marked on his body he looks younger than ever. Radiant, even, with a smile like you're the only person in the universe. Y'all feel your heart flip with your stomach — damn him, damn him, damn him. He really will be the death of yous.

"Don't requite me that look," you say in an attempt to hide the creeping chroma up your neck. It doesn't piece of work.

Ortega's smile turns smug. "What expect?"

"Don't brand me say it."

He laughs at that, leaning back against a throw pillow and resuming the soft playfulness with your hair. "I thought yous weren't gonna stay the night."

"Shut upwardly." You audio embarrassed fifty-fifty to yourself. "I'1000 not."

"Mhm."

You should get up right then, just to prove him wrong, but to prove to yourself that you even so have some semblance of control over this. Over your own emotions. Just your traitorous body doesn't twitch a muscle, too relaxed and melted into him. When was the last time yous felt this comfortable? It'south a struggle to recall a moment where y'all weren't tense and shaking, hurting everywhere, pushing your torso to its breaking point… Y'all demand this. This illusion of safety.

Your optics close slowly. All mental barriers had collapsed several hours ago, and you let the static of Ortega's mind bleed into your own. Not for the first time, you're grateful you can't read his mind. Yous don't want to know what he'southward thinking. You don't want to take chances ruining the illusion that everything between you is okay. That staying the dark might not be and then bad.

Confronting your meliorate judgement — against all judgement — you let yourself autumn comatose.

***

"Skillful forenoon, sleepyhead."

You lot peel your eyes open slowly, blinking hard against hazy vision, limbs still heavy with sleep. It's an unnatural feeling — there had been no…dreams? That doesn't seem right. You always dream. You lot always wake upwardly from the clutch of a nightmare, chest tight with panic, crimper in on yourself. But at present you stretch out similar a cat, a tired moan escaping your pharynx. You lot're still laying on Ortega. Oh, god, had yous spent the entire night similar that?

You sit up abruptly, untangling yourself from Ortega's limbs, double-checking your clothes hadn't ridden up in the centre of the night. Safe. Okay. Breathe.

"You okay?"

"Yes." Your vocalism is incoherent, but the smile is…genuine, for once, as your eyes turn soft. "Pitiful for…trapping you all nighttime."

"I didn't heed. You lot're cute when yous're comatose, you know that? Peaceful."

"Smoothen-talker…"

His laugh is infectious, and shortly you're smiling wide and half-heartedly hiding it behind the back of your hand. He stands a moment later, taking your hand in his and kissing information technology like it was a perfectly natural gesture.

"Thank y'all."

"What for?"

"For staying the dark. I was worried, for a moment at that place, that if you left, y'all'd… Disappear forever."

"I'm not going anywhere," yous lie, turning to hide the way your smile falls, instead picking up the empty spectacles from the coffee table to bring to the dishwasher.

"I'll hold yous to that."

Ah. Yous don't respond — suddenly the stakes are all too real, and you lot know y'all'd exist a hypocrite to promise anything. Time to not-so-subtly modify the field of study.

"Heed if I use your shower?" The second the words exit your lips you kicking yourself. Actually? How many stupid risks tin can yous accept in 24 hours, Kafka? You can even meet the confusion echoed in his face, the questions bubbling up to the tip of tongue, the ones he won't ask out of respect for the privacy you insisted on last night. Ortega's brow smooths out a second after, gracing you lot with another light osculation.

"Of course not. I can even launder your clothes, if you'd like? Since they, uh…"

Another blush erupts over your face. "I — it's okay, I tin can only — "

"Kafka." Y'all half wait him to curlicue his optics. "You tin borrow some of my wearing apparel in the meantime, if you'd like."

You mean to refuse the offer immediately, but you can't deny the discomfort of your pants. "…Okay."

His optics widen. He wasn't expecting this either. Yous suppose you've been checking off a lot of "firsts" in the by day.

Y'all enter his (ridiculously spacious) bath with a pile of folded clothing clutched confronting your chest. Underwear, sweatpants, a long-sleeved shirt. Tight on him, which means it should exist fine for your smaller frame. Yous don't cartel gamble a collar slipping down your shoulder.

To your great relief, the bathroom door can be locked. Yous even exercise a quick scan for bugs or cameras before undressing — overkill, you know, this is Ortega's ain bathroom, but the paranoia refuses to terminate gnawing at your witting until the space is analyzed. Documented. Moved tentatively over to your "safe" list.

You don't mean to look in the mirror, but it'due south appallingly massive. As you step out of the concluding of your vesture the orange flashes in it, turned well-nigh neon nether fluorescent lighting. A familiar sense of nausea tugs at your tummy, urging you to smash the damn matter, earlier you notice blooms of royal across your skin. Your cervix. Your collarbone. Your hips. Your thighs. Even adjacent to one of your nipples, nigh over…nearly over your barcode.

Part of you is appropriately embarrassed. These are from Ortega, after all, as he worshipped your body last dark, his lips and tongue and fingers feeling out every scar, every imperfection, every… He couldn't run into your tattoos. Merely he'd kissed them. Caressed them in his ignorance.

The louder part of you lot is horrified. If he knew — if he knew what he'd been kissing, what he'd been fucking, would he turn away in violent shame? If he walked through the bathroom door correct now, would he throw up in disgust at what he's been touching? A Re-Factor. A tool. Not even human.

It'due south a sour line of thought, one you've been abode on far also much lately. The hot water scalds your pare and the steam obscures the mirror. Yous detect relief in the pain, in the way your skin turns cherry as you scrub it raw. Dried sweat and other fluids wash downward the drain until the merely record of your idiocy remaining are the hickeys. You'll have to chew him out for the ane on your neck — looks like you'll be living in turtlenecks for the adjacent few days…

With a paw against white tile you close the water off with a feeling of finality, inhaling deeply, head aptitude and then you can lookout the droplets fall from your pilus. You can feel yourself beginning to interruption down once again; information technology's been happening with increasing frequency. No doubt a direct correlation with each time you let Ortega closer. But y'all close your eyes instead, forcing yourself the visualize the cracks forming forth your listen. Seal them over, tape them together, whatever information technology takes. Y'all won't lose information technology here. Y'all turn down.

Months ago, the clothes you now slip into would have simply emphasized how underweight you'd become, but they fill out nicely. You'll never achieve the muscles Ortega tin can flaunt (and Chen is a whole other animal), just you lot're proud of how strong you've get. Some other added bonus of existence Mirage. You lot are undoubtedly in the all-time shape of your life — more so than your Sidestep days, you would approximate. Certainly more powerful, thank you to your vastly improved telepathy and Dr. Mortum's suit. You told Ortega you lot've been trying to get back into shape, and he knows yous've been training Herald, so you hope he doesn't find the toned muscles suspicious. Probably non. Given last dark, he appreciates them more anything else. If non for the jarring tattoos and an ugly patchwork of scars, you lot might even be a model male person specimen.

At the very least, you were designed to exist and then.

That wipes the smirk from your face up.

Just one time you lot'd similar to become an hr without thinking virtually the Farm, simply you suppose that scar runs far as well deep.

"Well, well, don't you look charming." Ortega greets your reemergence with a broad grin. He's making breakfast in the kitchen, a pot of coffee brewing to the side.

The apparel smell similar him and you acknowledge that's enough to accept the edge off, only your easily brand a grab for your cigarettes and lighter anyway.

"Really the height of fashion, I know," you toss back hands. He'd been kind enough last nighttime to allow you smoke inside, only you lot know it's a peeve of his. Besides, you're not in whatsoever danger of flinging yourself off the balcony at the moment, and then you open the sliding glass door to a breathtaking view of Los Diablos. Rich red sunlight drowns the city as mid-morning sets in. You should feel exposed and vulnerable — you know all too well that a balustrade like this would be a perfect target for an assassination. Long ago, it would have been you behind the sniper scope.

Maybe you rely too much on your telepathy now. It's second nature to stretch your listen out across the buildings and experience the hum of the city. Harmful intents are like shooting fish in a barrel to selection out. So are the thought-voids of the Special Directive. Not to mention Ortega's own paranoia subsequently having his apartment blown up — you wouldn't exist surprised if there are even more subconscious, intricate security systems in hither. For now, you're fairly confident that you're safe. The click of the lighter and inhale of smoke is out of habit more than any immediate demand.

"Java?" Ortega leans his dorsum against the balustrade railing, ii cups in paw. You lot take ane with a nod.

"Cheers."

"Mmm. Stunning view, isn't it?"

Oh, and you just know he isn't looking at the cityscape. You roll your optics and give him a pointed expect.

"Yous're not even trying to be subtle, are y'all?"

"What can I say? Who wouldn't fall in dear with a face similar yours?"

You lot nearly choke on your java at that, coughing loudly and pounding a fist against your breast to steady your animate. There's that give-and-take again. Dear. He's never been one to toss it around casually, so the ease in which he does at present — in how he did concluding dark — ignites some unknown emotion deep in your chest. It's not entirely pleasant.

"Don't say that," you grumble.

"What, that you're beautiful?" He'southward still smile. "That you're the most handsome man I've e'er — "

"Stop, please." A tightness constricts your heart. You aren't quite certain why.

"Okay, okay, if you insist." He can't hide the brief worry that flashes through his eyes, and you plow your head from him. Always worried. It would be endearing if it wasn't so frustratingly exhausting.

"Permit's simply bask this?" Your words are barely a whisper. The coffee is a tether to the hither and now, then you lot focus on it intently, on the warmth which spreads through your fingertips and creeps up your veins. A warmth mirrored in the homo next to you; in the sun basking the urban center.

"Trust me, I am." In that location is no smugness to his words. You may not be able to read his mind only you can read his posture, the fashion his face softens and all his lines polish out. Ortega follows your gaze across the city, a soft hum resonating from somewhere in his chest. In his concluding act of testing your boundaries, he reaches for your hand. Entwines your fingers together and gives it a reassuring squeeze. You let him. Perhaps you even squeeze back.

And for a moment, there is no Mirage. No superheroes or villains. No tattoos carved into your skin. Just you, and Ricardo, and the warmth between your hands.

Blink, and it's near real.

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How sometime is Kyle rayner? In rebirth and in your canon

Kyle is perpetually early on 20s and it's unlikely the lantern books will always let him historic period past it–not for long anyway. He's stuck as the infant lantern perpetually at present.

He'south about 22-23 although dissimilar teen characters, characters in their 20s will very rarely go specific age references anymore.

In my stuff information technology varies on what continuity I'm using only I but go with Rebirth for the nigh part. Kyle has literally been all over the identify in mail crunch (they had him at ages he couldn't perhaps exist according to even their own timelines) and there's a lot of contradictory stuff then I mostly just use the contextual clues and friction match it to my ain timeline at this bespeak.

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Source: https://www.tumgir.com/tag/my%20continuity:%20rebirth

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