#Cosmic crisp my son

[peeperscreeperz]

Cosmic crisp dump because he's literally my favorite I love him

[jor-elsemissary]

Martha wondering how much truth Lionel is willing to tell her.

Martha:

Martha: Are you secretly a mob boss?

Lionel: Martha. I'm Lionel luthor. I OWN the mob.

Martha: Do you own the president?

Lionel: I'm afraid the president owns me. *smirks*

Martha: Smart answer

*******president Martha*******

“Mister Luthor!” the press shouted in front of him where they all stood in the shadow of LuthorCorp. The morning sun was still low and behind the vast sea of skyscrapers that made Metropolis’ skyline, leaving the winter air a crisp, bitter cold that left puffs of air with every breath. Beside him and slightly behind, was Dominic Sanatori and behind them both were members of the Board of Directors.

“Mister Luthor,” one voice stood out from all the others, a voice he had become familiar with over the years. Both vexing and amusing, a boon and a bane of his existence. “Now that Martha Luthor-Kent has been elected as President, how do you plan on divesting yourself of LuthorCorp to avoid a conflict of interest as the First Husband?”

There had been a hint of amusement in Lois Lane’s voice when she addressed him as the First Husband, as if the title and position was a mocking joke just for him. He didn’t let her get under his skin. He had learned a long time ago how to handle Clark’s wife.

“Plans have been made in anticipation of Senator Kent’s success,” he began. Ever since he had persuaded Martha to run for office, he had begun working to make the transition to divest himself of control over his assets. Had this been years ago, when Lex tried his hand in politics, he would have fought his son over the whole damn thing. “Already the transition has begun, the assets of the Luthor-Kent family and that of LuthorCorp will be placed in a blind trust until Martha’s terms are over.”

“And who will become the trustee of this blind trust?” Lois inquired, a recorder held in her hand toward him as she waited on his answer.

Lionel side glanced to Dominic before answering her, “Dominic Sanatori will be entrusted to handle the trust in the meantime.”

“Mister Luthor,” another reporter called to him. “Now that my mother, I mean Senator Kent will be president, how do you feel about that?”

Lionel sighed. If there was one thing that annoyed him about the Kents, it is that they intentionally choose to needle him as reporters as if it was some great cosmic joke only they were privy of. “Clark… you already know the answer.”

“Yes, but that was off the record.” Lionel saw the smirk of his step-son. He and Martha were going to have a long talk about Lois and Clark.

“Fine. For the record, Mister Kent,” he gave the kryptonian his best charming smile, “I am proud of Martha. She has gone further than I think any of us has ever anticipated. I knew she had it in herself to succeed and do so much good for Kansas and for this country. Now, the world will get to know Martha Luthor-Kent and what she can do. And if you misquote any of that, Clark Kent, I will be the least of your worries.”

Clark chuckled, “I’ll be sure to include First Husband already threatening grounding of step-son too.”

Lionel wanted to face palm so badly. “I am going to hand the podium over to Dominic. Harass him for a bit.”

[semperama]

what's bringing you joy these days? <3 (to counteract this week)

Thank you so much for asking this, anon. I'd love to share some things I'm really enjoying!

I made this French Onion Gnocchi late last week, and we've been eating the leftovers, and it's soooooooo delicious. Easily one of the best things I've cooked in months. It's relatively easy too, if a little time consuming due to the caramelizing of the onions.

We got my son a terrarium for Christmas and planted the little chia sprouts in it this weekend, and it's been so fun teaching him how to water it and watching it start to sprout together. It's lovely to see something growing in the winter.

On a related note, I've been looking through some seed catalogs for this year and daydreaming about what I'm going to plant once it's spring.

To help hide the hair loss I'm experiencing, I bought myself some of these headbands, and they are so flattering and cute. I'm not a person who ~accessorizes very much, but this is making me rethink that.

My husband's birthday is this Friday, and I'm going to make him coq au vin and homemade bread for dinner, and then this cake, and I'm really looking forward to that.

I saw a new kind of apple at my grocery store that I'd never had before--Cosmic Crisp??--so I bought a few, and it was so tart and (yes) crisp and yummy.

[bbrandy2002]

My Love

Chapter Two-There You'll Be

Book: The Royal Heir

Liam x Riley

Series Summary: After losing the love of his life, Liam is left with a newborn daughter and a council that demands he endure another social season quickly. Not wanting to move on, he gets help from an unlikely ally-his late wife.

C/N: It wont always be like this, that's all I'm saying. This is angsty!!!

_____________

The capital city was peaceful as it laid under a veil of darkness. The moon glowed brightly in a cloudless sky, the stars glistened like clusters of white diamonds and sapphires and the ebb and flow of the Mediterranean tide gave off a calming lull. Spring was in full bloom and the typical, crisp night winds were just beginning to have a touch of warmth. It was a time for renewal and rebirth in Cordonia-tiny seeds and saplings sprouting into little blossoms.

Meanwhile, in a private, heavily guarded section of the hospital, was a room and a shattered heart. Monitors were shut off, silencing its deafening sounds, tubes removed, and lights dimmed to match the mood within its walls. Staff began collecting equipment and their distraught selves, leaving Liam behind to hover over Riley’s bedside, alone.

He couldn't take his heavily, tearful eyes off her, nor did he dare try. As he stood next to her bed in a complete daze, trying to make any kind of sense of what just took place, he reached out for her tiny hand. For a moment he just held it in his; rubbing his thumb gently along the outside of her palm, wanting desperately to feel her squeeze back, even if just slightly. 

This wasn't the first time he felt the consequences of an unexpected loss, yet, this...this was different than his mothers. The woman who gave him everything he ever dreamed of- the chance to be himself, an unconditional love, a real marriage and a family- was somehow gone. 

Liam leaned down and lifted the dainty hand he held in his, up to his lips, placing a soft kiss over her knuckles.

"And here we wait", Riley exclaimed as she leaned against the railing of the dock overlooking the water of the New York bay. The gusty wind blowing her brown hair in twists and twirls, sweeping across her face and covering the golden hue of her cheeks.

Liam stepped up beside her, gazing out at the near empty waters before quirking his brow at her, "For?".

Riley beamed enthusiastically tapping him lightly on the shoulder, "For a magical boat ride I've summoned just for you".

He brushes her pale, cool hand across his cheek, then holds it in place, memorizing how she feels- how she made him feel. Her engagement ring dimples his skin and he can't help but recall the night he gave it to her. 

His lips begin to quiver, feeling an ache in his chest he'd never felt before, "Riley'' he wails out, completely overcome by an increasing wave of grief, "darling, don't leave me". 

He turns her hand over and kisses the palm, his lips lingering along each crease and fingertip.  Lowering her hand and placing it gently across her stomach, draped by a white sheet, his eyes turn his gaze to her peaceful, face. Liam traces his thumb along her jawline, caresses her cheek, and trails his finger over her lips. 

Standing side-by-side on the deck of the boat Riley had miraculously summoned on his behalf, he reached for her hand,  “I want you to know that I admire you. Your adventurous spirit. The way you follow your heart”.

She laces her fingers through his, “You can live that way too.''

“If only. My whole life I”ve prepared myself to do what’s best for Cordonia”.

“Well...we’re not in Cordonia now…”, Riley wrapped her arms around his waist and pulled him closer, searching his eyes before meeting his lips with hers. They kiss passionately while the mist of the sea rains down on them. 

Liam smiles into her kiss, "You're full of surprises aren't you?"

She leans in for one more kiss and pulls away with a sly grin, "I try".

"I'm glad to have met you, Riley. I'll never forget this night”.

With both hands, he wipes away the tears that have drenched his cheeks and were hanging off his chin. He needed to be closer to her, to feel her body pressed against his and to hold her in his arms. Climbing into the bed beside her with very little room for himself, he rolled to his side and placed one arm under her and with the other, pulled her closer to him, cradling her head snuggly against his neck  Feeling her cold skin against his own flesh, Liam pulled the sheet up around her chest and wrapped her tightly in his arms. This was his Riley after all, he couldn’t help but want to protect her, keep her warm and feeling safe in his arms. He rested the side of his face on top of her head, breathing in the floral scent of her hair that was becoming moistened by the never ending tears that fell into them.

“My love...’, he swallowed between whimpers, his entire body quaking with grief, “I don’t know how to do this love...I don’t...I don’t know what to do without you”.

*****

Outside of her room, a despondent Bastien stood on the other side of the closed door. He could hear every sniffle, every agonizing moan and grief stricken sob that escaped from his King. He, himself, stunned by the entire situation and the loss of a young Queen who took Cordonia by storm. He pondered whether she had ever truly forgiven him for his part in the Applewood incident. Bastien was sure she had, she was always nothing but kind and respectful to him, yet, his regret for that ordeal crashed into his chest like a ton of bricks. 

He glanced over to dozens of guards,  watching over the door to the private wing, noticing that all their training in keeping their emotions in check were failing miserably. Bastien bit his top lip and inhaled deeply through his nose, attempting to maintain some composure, but, knowing this was the saddest situation he had witnessed since Jackson Walker’s death. He remembered the look on a devastated,  young Drake’s face when he told him his father had passed away. 

As if it were some cosmic joke, he turned to see a stunned Drake standing there, both hands in his pockets with that same look of denial again.

Drake knew by Bastien’s demeanor and that of the guards he passed coming in, what her status was, but wouldn't allow his heart to accept it. 

He approached Bastien wearily, breathing heavily from adrenaline and fear, “Where is she Bas, where’s Brook’s...I need to see her.”

Bastien gestured with his weepy eyes to the door and Drake stepped away from him to go inside, but, Bastien grabbed his arm to hold him back.

“You can’t go in there right now, Drake.’

Drake jerked his arm back, “The hell I can’t, she needs me...Liam needs me...and WHERE THE FUCK ARE ALL THE DOCTORS AT, she needs help?”

"Son, keep your voice down'' he muttered, pressing into Drake's chest to ease him away from the door and into the opposite wall. 

Bastien gripped both of Drake’s shoulders and looked into his troubled eyes with a sigh, “Drake..”

“Don’t...don’t you dare say it’, shirking away from him, nodding furiously, “don’t...she’s not…’, his voice becoming weak and raspy, “she not...gone”. Drake weaved around Bastien, gasping for words, his eyes welling up and raised his hand to Riley’s room. He pushed it in quietly, just enough to see his distraught best friend on her hospital bed cradling- his, Brooks. 

Drake reaches out and shoves Riley, who for a second, struggles to keep her footing before toppling over and landing on a soft snow drift.

“Hey!” she yells, prepared to give him a piece of her mind, however, stops herself when she notices the most star-filled sky she had ever laid her eyes on.  The stars shooting, light up the night.

“Drake...:”

He plops down next to her, “Yes, my lady?”

“This is absolutely gorgeous”.

Drake takes in a refreshing breath, “Nothing beats a clear view of the sky during a meteor shower”.

Riley smiles as she watches stars race across the sky; her eyes glistening with astonishment, “I’m glad I didn’t miss this”.

He huffs, “Really? Would’ve figured you’d rather eat bon-bons and dress up tiny dogs, or whatever shit Olivia had planned for the night”.

“Not exactly my scene”, she scoffs.

As they both stare up at the sky, the clouds start to creep across the stars.

“Looks like we were just in time to see this before the storm comes”.

“Yeah, I didn’t want to miss it”, he rubs a hand over his face, “I used to do this with my sister, Savannah, every year. We grew up around the royals. My dad used to do security for Liam and his brother, and my sister and I were allowed to hang out with them. My sister, she’s...she’s been through a lot”.

“Wow, did Drake Walker just open up to me, maybe trust me a little?”.

“I don’t trust a lot of people, Brooks, but maybe I do trust you”.

“Drake, that’s probably the nicest thing you’ve ever said to anyone”.

“Heh, maybe”.

As more snowflakes continue to fall, Drake sighed, “I better get you back. It’d be quite a scandal if I let one of the Prince’s suitors freeze to death out here on my watch’.

“I’d hate for my untimely demise to cause you any difficulty’, 

He stands from the snow, sweeping the flakes from his backside and extends his hand to Riley, “Let’s go back in”.

Drake’s body began to shake and his chest tightened as he closed the door back gingerly. He turned to face Bastien, feeling a weakness he hadn’t experienced in many years and fell limply to his knees.

********

Maxwell didn’t need an alarm clock to wake up, his energy and alertness kicked in at 5:00 every morning, ready to go. He threw the panda comforter Hana bought him for Christmas off and stretched heartily, contemplating whether to get in an early morning jog or eat a bowl of brownie ripple ice cream before feeding the peacocks. “It’s always the ice cream, ain’t that  right, Drake Jr”, he spoke to the guinea pig staring at him from its cage. He threw on a blue, cashmere robe to conceal his Batman boxers, since Savannah didn’t approve of him walking around naked in the estate. 

After using the restroom, he headed to the dark kitchen on the first floor, flipping on the lights and grabbing a serving spoon out of a utensil drawer. He stood in front of the open freezer door, trying to decide whether he wanted the brownie ripple or the mint chocolate chip, “what the hell, let’s live dangerously”, reaching for both of them. 

Maxwell flopped back on the couch with both cartons of ice cream and his serving spoon, sitting them both beside him before snatching the remote from the coffee table. He dug out a hearty spoonful of brownie ripple and licked on it while flipping through the channels.

“We have an unconfirmed report that the Queen of Cordonia has passed away unexpectedly. Sources right now are trying to reach the Royal Press office for confirmation”. 

Maxwell’s hand shook with panic as he flipped to the next channel and the next, each one reporting the breaking news alert with Riley face plastered in the backdrop.

He dropped his spoon in the container and tossed it off of him, desperately searching the pockets of his robe for his cell phone. When he found it, he pulled up his messages and found dozens of texts from reporters wanting him to confirm her passing.

“What the fuck is going on?”.

Maxwell flipped desperately to his contacts and tried to call Riley...no answer. He tried Liam several times, each one going to voicemail. Overwhelming fear set in as he pushed the number for Drake, hoping he may have heard something...anything.

Maxwell cleared his throat, a collection of bile had stifled his voice, “Drake, please tell me it’s not true”. 

What he heard was not what he wanted to hear; he didn’t end the call, just loosely allowed his phone to slip from his ear and crash to the floor,  his lip quivering, “Little Blossom”.

Maxwell watches a forlorn Riley waiting at the corner across from the bar he met her the previous night. After she gets  clearing to cross, he pipes up through the sunroof of the limo parked in front and waves his arms wildly.

“Riley!”, he shouts and she approaches him with a bit of confusion and hesitation.

“Maxwell, right?

“Yeah, I'm glad I caught you. We’re heading back to Cordonia so Liam can find someone to marry and all that jazz. But before I go, I wanted to officially extend to you an invitation to join us for the festivities in Cordonia”.

“Huh?”.

“You wouldn’t be allowed to join...but I wanted to sponsor you!”.

Riley furrowed her brow, “You...want to sponsor...me”, she snickered, “is this a joke?”.

“Nah, girl. I’m from a noble house, but I don’t have any sisters, so we don’t have anyone in contention to marry the Prince. Instead we can sponsor any girl we choose. And you’re my pick!”.

Riley shook her head, slightly taken aback, yet, intrigued by his proposal,  animated use of hand gestures and liveliness, “You want to sponsor me? Why?”,

“I’m not doing it for you. I saw how LIam looked at you last night. I’ve never seen him so happy. Honestly? I don’t want him to lose that. We’re kinda crunched for time though. I’ve got a plane leaving within the hour…”

Riley looks around at her bleak surroundings, shifting anxiously at the thought of seeing Liam again, getting away from the boredom and dread that had become her life, and the absolute hell that was waitressing at the bar that stood in front of her. She looked up at Maxwell, a large grin plastered on her face, “I”m in”.

“Yeah”, Maxwell pumped his fist in the air, causing the limo to bounce, “Go pack your bag. This is going to be the adventure of a lifetime”.

Maxwell glanced up at the fireplace, where a selfie of he and Riley posing with the mechanical bull at the American bar during Drake’s birthday, sat in a glittery frame. He felt the blood drain from his face, nausea building in the pit of his stomach and he bolted from the couch, “Bertrand!”

*******

Liam stayed with Riley for over an hour before kissing her once more, making promises to love her forever and take care of Ellie; hoping she would be everything her mother was.

He reached the door of her room and looked back once more as a nurse was carefully placing the sheet to cover her entire body. After exiting the room, he was met by Drake, who pulled him into a hug that didn’t end for several minutes while both wept into the other. 

The guards cleared the halls that led to a private exit, hoping to avoid any and all press or prying eyes. Bastien returned and escorted Liam and Drake through the cordoned off hallways and passages that led to a private car, so not to be followed. 

Liam’s mind was in a complete tailspin. Thoughts of what took place, how a young, vibrant woman dies suddenly without warning, and how the hell he was going to live the rest of his life without her. He was a King  without his Queen, a husband without his wife, and a father without the mother of his child. Nothing made sense, but there was no time to try to make any sense of it; he had a country waiting anxiously to hear word on the fate of his wife and a newborn baby that he was now the sole parent for. In all of his heartbreak, Liam wanted to run far away, to scream, to take all of his anger and grief out on something. 

Bastien maneuvered the car through the throngs of press and people that had amassed around the gates of the palace. Entering through the garage of the palace, he parked the car and Liam jumped out before the door could be opened for him. Drake offered to stay with him, but Liam heard nothing. He wanted to get back to his quarters as quickly as possible, away from everyone and the flurry of questions he had no answers for. This was a new life for Liam, one that he hadn’t fully digested yet, nor believed he ever would. 

He opened the door to his quarters, stepping slowly inside to the darkened foyer, passing listlessly through into the living room. Remnants of Riley scattered throughout from the pictures on the walls, her favorite throw blanket folded neatly on the ottoman, and a vase of purple lilies he bought her yesterday, adorned on the sofa table. Moving to the ottoman, he picked up the throw blanket and sat down on the sofa, lifting the blanket to his nose and inhaling sharply. Her scent lingering from the soft fabric and memories of her laugh, her giggles, the playfulness she exuded flooding through him. He gripped her throw tightly, slumping down onto the floor and began to sob uncontrollably into it. This was his reality, one that he would never accept. 

[persephone-garnata]

The Only Thing You Can Never Buy In Heaven

Just finished my first fanfic in more than two years!

Thank you, SPN finale :D 

remembering this scene

It’s a wincest one-shot about our favourite co-dependent soulmates, with middlegame Sam/Eileen. It’s mostly canon-compliant, except for Miracle goes to Heaven too, and there’s the Samulet, because I love the Samulet.

Read it on AO3 here or below the cut:

The Only Thing You Can Never Buy In Heaven

Dean loved driving around in the Impala, Led Zeppelin blasting on the stereo – the sound much cleaner now, the acoustic guitar opening of Ramble On coming through as clear as a crisp spring day. Always his favorite song to drive to, along the endless highways of Heaven.

           He visited with old friends – Bobby, obviously, his mom and dad, he went to the Roadhouse to catch up with Ellen, Jo, Ash and the rest. There were so many he knew who had died before him – hunters and civilians alike. But mostly, he just drove around – through countryside in all seasons, spring and summer and winter and fall, through mountains and deserts and cities and forests, along the shores of lakes and oceans. He stopped at countless roadside diners and ate countless plates of delicious food, without having to think about cholesterol once.

           But there was always something missing – or rather, someone. Someone to tell him to think about cholesterol, even though he didn’t have to. Someone to sit shotgun, and keep him company on nights beneath the stars. He knew he wanted Sam to live a full life, to enjoy all those years he deserved – a career, a family, a house with a white picket fence. And after all, against the backdrop of eternity, what difference did a few decades make?

           Enough difference, it turned out, to make him feel constantly like half of him was missing. Especially since there was one thing he couldn’t find, no matter how much he searched, no matter how many boxes he emptied out or pockets he rifled. You’d think that, in Heaven, you should be able to get hold of whatever the hell – or whatever the heaven – you wanted, but there seemed to be at least one exception to that. He found the replica and hung it from the rearview mirror, but it wasn’t the same.

           ‘Do you have idea where I can find my old necklace?’ he asked Bobby, one time when they were sitting on the porch together, drinking beers and shooting the breeze. Bobby gave him a slightly sad smile, and didn’t ask which one he meant. There could only be one.

           ‘Think Sam’s still got it,’ he said. ‘Back on Earth. You’ll just have to wait. Won’t seem like no time at all. Like I told you – he’ll be along.’

           ‘But –‘ Dean creased his brow - ‘Sam still has Baby, too, and yet there she is.’ He pointed at the car, sitting gleaming on the driveway. ‘And – I don’t know how this is supposed to work, I was never that good at all this stuff, but isn’t there loads of stuff in Heaven that’s on Earth too?’

           ‘Oh, you got that right,’ said Bobby. ‘There are exceptions to the rule, see? Cosmic special cases. And that necklace is one of them. Can’t be in two places at once.’

           Dean took a long pull of his beer, thinking. ‘Can’t I make a new one?’ he asked. ‘Or – buy one?’

           Bobby laughed at that. ‘Buy one? It ain’t something you can buy, boy. In fact, I figure it’s the only thing you can never buy in Heaven.’

           ‘I just – don’t feel right without it.’

           Bobby turned his shrewd gaze on Dean. ‘I know,’ he said. ‘It feels like there’s half of you missing, doesn’t it?’

           ‘Well – yeah.’

           ‘That’s ‘cause there is half of you missing. That’s how soulmates work.’

           Dean nearly choked on his beer, and Bobby had to slap him between the shoulder blades. ‘Oh, you didn’t think I didn’t know about the soulmates thing, did ya? The amount of time I spent with you boys – gimme some credit.’

           ‘I – well – we – I thought…’

           ‘You thought what? That soulmates aren’t supposed to be brothers? That incest would keep you out of Heaven? I think we both know that ain’t true.’

           Dean sipped his beer in silence, not trusting himself to say anything at all. He’d always known – or at least suspected – that the link between him and Sam went deeper than any bond normal brothers, or lovers, or even brother-lovers, shared – but soul mates? He remembered what Ash had said to him at the Roadhouse-Heaven, all those years ago – about soulmates having shared Heavens, and had he expected that he and Sam would share their own little piece of eternity?

           If he was honest with himself, he’d never thought he’d reach Heaven at all, after his years in Hell, and all the other things he’d done, and now that Jack had reconfigured things so that everyone could visit each other – well, that meant the soulmate rule no longer applied, surely? And yet – the feeling he always had, the ache like he’d lost half of himself – dammit, like half his soul was missing – that had to mean something. He’d wanted Sam to have his own life – had finally come to terms with the idea that they had horizons beyond hunting, and that his baby brother might want to explore those horizons without him – and yet now – there was only one thing he could think about.

           He had finished his beer, and was on the verge of getting up to get back behind the wheel (no issues with drink-driving in the Great Beyond) and go for a long drive with only Led Zeppelin for company. Perhaps he’d even see if he could go and visit John Bonham,  and some of the other rock stars who’d reached the top of that Stairway a long time ago. Then something burst out of the bushes and came running up to the porch – a shaggy dog, woofing in delight and licking his hands.

           ‘Hey, Miracle!’ said Dean, petting his head. ‘You’re a good boy, arentcha, a good boy…’ his voice trailed off as he thought about something. ‘Wait, if you’re here, does that mean…?’

           ‘All dogs go to Heaven,’ said Bobby, and lifted his beer bottle. ‘Guess he ain’t on Earth no more.’

           ‘Wow,’ said Dean, his hands pausing in Miracle’s long fur until the dog nudged him to make him continue petting. ‘Did Sammy look after you? Did he give you a long and happy life?’

           Miracle just barked enthusiastically, which Dean took as a Yes. He buried his face in the dog’s fur and felt, for a little while, just a little bit closer to Sam.

***

           It took Sam a long time to accept that his brother was really gone. The bunker felt so empty, all the time, and as the hunts gradually dried up, he decided he needed to move out. The echoing underground spaces just felt haunted – not by Dean, Sam could have coped with a ghostly brother – but by his absence. He caught himself, several times, eyeing up a gun, or a bottle of sleeping pills, or a coil of rope, or a knife, and wondering how long it would take for him to be reunited with Dean. And he had to admit that, if it hadn’t been for Miracle, he probably would have gone through with it. The dog just kept demanding to be fed, and to be taken out for runs, and to be petted. He never gave up on Sam, so Sam couldn’t give up on himself.

           Finally – on the day he got the call about the werewolf hunt – he resolved to leave the Bunker behind him. He knew that, once he turned the light out and closed the door behind him, he’d never be back again. So he packed up the trunk of the Impala with three boxes of possessions: one for himself, one for Miracle, and one for Dean. The last box was full of memories – shirts which still held a lingering scent of Dean, his old leather jacket, his watch, his most beloved vinyl records, his favorite weapons, a few photographs – and his necklace – the one with the amulet.

           Sam had kept that necklace in his pocket for so long it had almost become a part of him, but he’d always thought of it as a part of Dean. Now, he lifted it up to the light inside the bunker, looked at that inscrutable face, and felt a powerful tug inside him – a tug of both sadness, and hope. He put the necklace inside the box with the rest, and for the first time since Dean had died, thought that maybe, just maybe, things might turn out right.

           That werewolf hunt turned out to be his last hunt for a while. Sam drifted around, sleeping in whatever dog-friendly motels he could find, or on the back seat of the Impala when he couldn’t find one. He scoured the local news and the internet, looking for more cases, trying to throw himself back into the job. Yet it seemed that the monsters were thinner on the ground now, and soon Sam realized his heart wasn’t in it any more – the family business just wasn’t the same without the family.

           He toured around for some time, checking in with old friends. He saw Jody and Donna and Clare and Alex. He saw Charlie and her girlfriend. He saw Jesse and Cesar. He saw Garth and his family – little Sam and Castiel were growing well. No Dean though – his absence was a constant pain, like the ache in a missing limb, and Sam felt it even more acutely when he saw other people’s happiness.

He kept seeking people out, further and further flung branches of the extended Winchester hunting family. He tracked down Lisa’s son Ben Braeden, now twenty-one and studying medicine, and looking just a little bit like Dean at the same age. He even reconnected with Amelia, now living happily with her husband Don and their two young children – and a big shaggy dog. He really regretted that particular foray into his own past – it just made him feel miserable, and as he drove away from their picture-perfect house, if it hadn’t been for Miracle on the back seat, he’d have probably driven the Impala straight off a bridge into the nearest canyon.

Finally, he worked his way back to Jody Mills, and as he sat in her house late at night, drinking her wine and eating her potato chips, Miracle gnawing a bone at his feet, she said something to him.

‘You know you need to see her at some point, Sam,’

He didn’t need to ask who she meant.

‘It’s – not that easy,’ he said.

‘Isn’t it? You know she cares about you, and I think you care about her.’

Sam sighed. ‘I do,’ he said. ‘I really do. But – me and Dean –‘

‘You had something special,’ Jody filled in for him. ‘She knows that too.’

Sam sighed again. ‘Something special’ was one way to describe what he and Dean had shared, he supposed, but how could he ever really convey the true depth of their relationship? How could he possibly tell someone – anyone – the way he and Dean had lived together, hunted together, slept together (and yes, they had slept together, but almost more significant was the way they had always huddled together for warmth and protection, neither of them ever able to sleep properly without the other). How they had been everything to each other – more than brothers, more than lovers, more than anything?

He looked up, and saw that Jody was smiling at him.

‘And I’m sure she knows how you feel without him. If you’re worried what she’ll think of you – don’t. Most hunters – we got something, some pain, we carry with us.’

‘We’re all damaged goods,’ said Sam, and finished the rest of the glass of wine with one big gulp.

‘What’s damaged can be mended, if you’ll only let someone try,’ said Jody, and took the empty glass from him.

‘I suppose you’re right,’ said Sam, and got his phone out right then to send a message to Eileen, before the courage could leave him.

They arranged to meet for brunch at a trendy vegan hipster café (which also accepted dogs) in New York City, where Eileen had settled now. Sam remembered how Dean had never wanted to drive the Impala into Manhattan, so he left Baby at a big parking lot in a commuter town and rode the train into town, Miracle on the seat next to him. And he remembered how his brother had always hated these trendy cafes with their avocado toast and their artisan coffees and their stupid plant milks. Meeting Eileen at a place like this felt like moving on – which felt both fresh and good and right, and gave Sam an aching feeling of guilt.

The café was noisy with both music and chatter – Sam felt glad that he’d spent a long time practising his signing beforehand, so that he and Eileen could have a silent conversation in the middle of the hubbub. They sat on a half-collapsed sofa, twisted sideways to face each other, while they drank their almond-milk lattes and ate their sourdough toast, topped with scrambled tofu, wilted spinach, and a sprinkle of dukkah. Delicious, and not a nitrate in sight. Dean would have hated this place.

After exchanging a few stilted words of standard greetings, Eileen asked Sam to describe what happened on his and Dean’s final hunt. He did his best to describe everything to her – and found that having to do so with his hands really helped, because he didn’t have to worry about his voice cracking. Then she asked him what he’d been doing since, and he told her that too – along with an apology for not contacting her sooner.

‘It’s okay,’ she signed. Then she asked him the killer question: ‘And how are you coping without him?’

How was he coping without him? ‘Not well,’ he signed. ‘If it hadn’t been for Miracle here – I think I wouldn’t have made it this far, to be honest with you.’ He pulled a face. It was the closest he’d yet come to admitting to anyone just how close he’d come to ending his own life, stretching out ahead of him like an endless highway, with nobody sitting by his side.

‘I’m glad you’ve made it this far,’ Eileen signed back. ‘It’s good to see you again.’

There was an awkward pause. Sam drained his coffee and then petted Miracle, just for something to do with hands.

‘So – what happens now?’ Eileen signed to him.

‘I think – you-’ Sam stopped, waved his hands in a clearing-away gesture, and started again. ‘I would like you to be a part of my life,’ he signed. ‘If you want to. However you want to.’

Eileen nodded, thoughtfully. Sam knew a moment of pure panic – what if she was going to tell him to get lost, that she’d already found somebody else and wanted nothing to do with him ever again? And that moment of panic told him that actually, no matter how close to the edge of despair he’d gotten over these last months, he did want something more out of life – he wanted Eileen beside him.

‘I would like to be a part of your life,’ she signed, eventually. ‘If you’ll let me in.’

‘I will try my best,’ Sam signed back to her. ‘But – you should know – me and Dean – we were much closer than most brothers. Without him – it’s difficult for me.’

‘I understand,’ she signed. ‘And I don’t mind.’

‘Really?’ Sam accompanied the sign with a pleading look – the kind of look Dean had always called his ‘puppy-dog eyes’.

‘Really. I like you, Sam. I like you a lot. You’re a good man. And if you’ve got baggage – well, I have trust issues myself. We can take things slowly, and I understand if you need time for yourself, sometimes. And maybe I’ll need some time for myself, too.’

‘Thank you,’ signed Sam, and meant it.

Eileen sighed then, and looked away, briefly, before turning back to him.

‘I want you to be honest with me, Sam,’ she signed.

‘Of course,’ he replied, although his heart sank at what she might ask him. Being close to a dead brother was one thing – actual Game of Thrones, Flowers in the Attic incest was another.

She didn’t ask him about the incest. Or at least not in a sexual way. That would almost have been preferable to what she did ask him.

‘Do you think you and Dean were – or are – soulmates?’

Sam blinked a few times, and had to ask her to repeat the question. She did, even saying that word ‘soulmates’ out loud for his benefit.

Well, he’d promised to be honest with her. ‘Yes,’ he signed. She just nodded.

‘I thought so,’ she signed.

‘Is that – a problem?’ he asked. ‘Do you – not want to be in life now?’

‘It’s okay,’ she signed. ‘Thank you for being honest.’

‘Is it really okay? Being with me, knowing I’m soulmates with – somebody else?’

‘Most people never meet their soulmates, or never have one in the first place. I’d rather be with you, knowing you’ve told me the truth, than somebody I don’t know if I can trust.’

Sam nodded, slowly. It made sense. Sort of. To be sitting here, with Eileen, talking about his dead soulmate.

‘Shall I get us some more coffees?’ Eileen asked him.

‘Please.’

***

           He and Eileen did take things slowly, at first. Then it felt like they accelerated their life together. After Miracle died – the dog had already been old when he and Dean had found him – it felt like the last thing tying Sam to his old life had gone.

As he hugged the old dog to him in the vet’s office, he whispered to him: ‘You’re a good boy, Miracle. You go straight to Dean now, tell him I’ll be all right.’ Miracle just nuzzled Sam a little, and Sam felt the simple love in that gesture, hoped he could take the message to Dean.

He sat in the front seat – the shotgun seat – of the Impala for a long time after that, crying his eyes out. And yet, he no longer wanted to drive off a cliff. He wanted to stay alive, for at least a little longer. He messaged Eileen, and started driving before she’d even answered him.

When he turned up on her doorstep, she saw the absence beside him, and invited him in without a word.

Shortly after that, they got a house together, in upstate New York, parked the Impala in the garage, under a dust sheet, and started their new life. They got married, in a very low-key ceremony, only a few people – their old hunting buddies – present. Eileen got a job in computing – helping to design and test user interfaces to be suitable for the hard-of-hearing. And, while she didn’t say anything to him directly. Sam realized that, if they were going to settle down properly, he should really get himself an actual job. He hadn’t been a hunter for some time – he’d stopped without even realizing it. So he finished his legal training, and finally qualified as an attorney. It felt weird to be doing a ‘normal’ white-collar job at last, but he consoled himself with the thought that, with all the pro-bono work he did, he was still saving people – and hunting things, in a different way.

A few years later, although Sam had never really seen himself as a father – Dean was the one with the strong paternal instincts - they had a child. When they came to thinking of a name, Sam was filled with all sorts of suggestions – but Eileen shook her head, and signed at him ‘How about Dean?’

And Sam didn’t like that idea at first – it felt too much like revisiting the past he’d tried to leave behind – but the more he thought about it, the more he found he couldn’t think of his little baby boy as anything other than Dean. So Dean it was, and would ever be. He had another Dean in his life now, and he gave his son all the love he had.

He never forgot the other Dean – how could he? – but gradually, over the years, he accepted that he had other people in his life now, who were more important to him than his dead brother. At least for now, and now was the only time that really mattered. He got the Impala out very occasionally – one Halloween he even sat behind the wheel wearing his costume of an old Grandpa, complete with cheap grey wig.

Eileen and he rarely spoke about the car, or the old Dean. His life before her, and their son, became something packed away in a box that he only rarely got out looked at – like the amulet he still kept, tucked away, and occasionally took out. Whenever he did so, he admired the golden gleam of the metal, still untarnished after all these years, and let himself fill up with all the aching sadness that was normally stoppered up.

***

Time worked differently in Heaven. Dean knew that. It took him a while to get used to though – however long ‘a while’ was here. He kept expecting things to change faster than they did, or for people – and Miracle – to age and wither away. It was an adjustment to realize, gradually, that here things just went on and on – unless you changed them yourself. And Dean didn’t really want anything to change, not really. He wanted everything to go on as it was, until –

Until Sam arrived. Dean accepted that he shouldn’t wish his brother would hurry up and get there – they’d have eternity together, after all, and wanting eternity to start sooner made no sense. Not when he’d told Sam to live on without him. He wanted Sam to live a full life, to hook up properly with Eileen at last, get a job, wear some dorky sweaters, even have a kid or two. Enjoy all the apple-pie-and-picket-fence stuff that he, Sam, had always wanted, and he, Dean, didn’t.

Did he? Hadn’t part of him always enjoyed cooking for his little brother, taking care of him? Hadn’t part of him longed for Ben to be his son? Hadn’t part of him wanted to settle down and have a family?

Well, in Heaven, all things were possible. He could find somebody else – like Rufus had Aretha – and have a new life, for a while at least. However long ‘a while’ was, here. He didn’t know how to start finding someone, though, or who that someone would even be. Whenever he tried to imagine sharing his afterlife with anyone, only one person ever sprang to mind.

And then. One day – one moment – when he was standing on the bridge, enjoying the view over river and the forests, Miracle by his side. He felt, without being able to say how he felt it, that his brother was here. At last. Or – time worked differently here. Maybe not at last. Maybe he was right on time.

Eternity had to start sometime, and Dean guessed it was starting now. He smiled.

‘Hey Sammy,’

He turned around. And there he was, exactly as he remembered him. After however many years it had been for him on Earth. Sam looked a little tired – as if the last few months of his life had been a lot to bear. And – almost shy, almost as if he was worried Dean wouldn’t want to see him any more, that he might somehow have moved on, in the time before he arrived in Heaven. Well, for better or worse, he hadn’t.

‘Dean,’ said Sam, and met his eyes, and smiled.

They embraced, Miracle rubbing himself against both of their legs at once. As they did so, Dean felt something hot pressed against him, and when the drew apart again, he saw a light glowing from Sam’s pocket.

‘Is that…?’

Sam dipped his hand inside his pocket, and pulled out the necklace. The amulet. The only thing you can never buy in Heaven. It was glowing, as it had done in the presence of God, except now –

‘I think that means,’ Dean started to say, but then Sam cut him off.

‘I know,’ he said, and lifted the necklace to put it around Dean’s neck again. Dean ducked his head without even thinking, and felt the weight of the amulet fall into place once more. Once more – and forever. And finally, he felt whole again. He had been reunited with the other half of his soul, and he was now complete. And he always would be.

Sam and Dean leaned together against the parapet of the bridge, and knew they had eternity to explore all the vistas of Heaven. Together.

[whirlybirbs]

▣ ┈ OF ALTERNATE TIMELINES !

summary: SET IN ENDGAME, you and loki have crossed paths previously (before the whole sakaar incident, that is) -- you were both younger, and with a little help from a time heist gone awry, you and loki’s paths re-intertwine in a way neither of you could have ever predicted. verse: alternate timeline, set mostly in 2012!au, avengers tower setting pairing: fake!wife x loki, established here + here (literally it’s all them. my whole loki tag.) word count: 1.2k a/n: the idea of her & loki meeting before their original universe did really struck me as something fun to do, so here’s a nice little au fic i’ll chip away at when i can. goes without saying, THERE ARE ENDGAME SPOILERS IN THIS FIC.

This is not how you thought your week would go.

You started your Monday with Loki, God of Mischief, crash landing through the lab you’d been completely your summer placement at, brainwashing your boss (and the nice agent guy who watched over the glowing nuclear cube), and, finally, stealing the one thing you’d been studying for the entirety of summer 2012 for your first official research journal outside of undergrad.

By Thursday, Midtown had been reduced to debris, aliens were confirmed real, the Avengers were a household name, and you were desperately trying to wrangle a stir-crazy Erik Selvig off the rooftop terrace of Stark Tower.

“Erik, where are your pants?!”

“They were burnt.”

His eyes aren’t a milky blue anymore, so you suppose that’s a good thing -- he is, however, off his metaphysical shits and you’re really trying to get him to calm down in the Stark Tower lobby when the aforementioned Avengers pull a glorified perp walk for the reporters clamoring outside.

You try not to stare -- swathed in the colorful team of superheroes, the infamous Loki towers over them all. His cape, emerald and tattered, follows him like a shadow and you have to fight the urge to snarl. He’s imposing and even when he’s muzzled, you can see the cunning flash of a smirk when he spots your boss by the lobby’s main desk. He looks less sickly since you last saw him -- he’s all sharp angles and split lip now, though. The God is smug.

Erik notices.

Annoyance bites at your nerves as Erik begins to slip into a Norwegian diatribe directed at the fallen Silvertongue. You groan and move quickly, cursing and pushing yourself between the now stopped group of Avengers and the angry, pants-less astrophysicist.

“Erik, c’mon, why don’t we go for a walk --”

“Yep, go ahead, pal,” Tony chirps, “Walk it out. Half a’ New York has a bone to pick with Hot Topic over here.”

“He is a disgrace! A-A cosmic buffoon!”

You’re pressed between Tony and Erik, feeling the eyes of the God bore into your skull as you try to save him from the delirious verbal smackdown your boss was looking to serve. He definitely has a head injury. You plant a hand on the tattered dress shirt of Selvig, pleading quietly.

“Can we do this somewhere else?” you grit out with a sense of urgency, noting the appearance of Alex Pierce -- the resident member of World Security Council no doubt had a bone to pick with Stark and judging by the tightening of Tony’s grip on the briefcase in his hands, he’s aware. The man is parading through the doors of the lobby, surrounded by agents in crisp suits.

You blink around Erik, deciding nope this is so above your pay grade, before groaning, “Why don’t we go get Starbucks -- you like those frappuccino things they have, right, Erik?”

At this point, you’re just desperately trying to not discredit you and Erik’s research journal with his antics being broadcast by Newsweek and CNN alike.

Loki can’t help but think, this is all so very curious. Midgardians are quite cute.

He’d been made aware, from eavesdropped pieces of Romanoff’s and Barton’s conversations, that the hierarchical food chain is quite complex when it comes to cosmic interferences like the one he’d so wrought upon the New City of York. So many acronyms… S.H.I.E.L.D. and S.T.R.I.K.E. and W.S.C., he’s sure there’s probably about six more, but he’d be lying if he said he’d bothered to listen.

Loki, absentmindedly, wishes he’d maybe done this whole world domination bit 200 years sooner -- certainly there wouldn’t have been much stopping him then. No Iron Men, at least.

(He doesn’t know it yet, but if he’d done this 200 years earlier, he would have never met you. Not that it matters right now. He doesn’t know the future, that’s more of his mother’s bit. Somewhere in the stars, Frigga is painfully aware of you, a fiery comet, dodging her sons orbit in this moment. But, Scott Lang’s verified Time Heist is about to send you both careening towards one another like a boomerang effect.)

“Not to interrupt --”

“Great, more suits,” Stark chirps, “Here for the case? Too bad.”

“Mr. Stark,” Pierce begins, “This is a matter of global security. We’re here for the case and... the prisoner.”

Pierce is like a vulture. You decide quickly you don’t like him.

Erik, then, sees it as his turn to verbally maul the next person in line -- the words that fly from his mouth don’t make sense and you’re trying to pry him away from Pierce as Stark’s voice escalates and Thor booms out a deep: “Woah, woah woah!” as Nat tries to step up and shove off the rogue S.H.I.E.L.D. agents clambering for the case. It’s a shit show, an absolute mess, and you’re being jostled in the middle, trying to pluck the agents away from your summer research project with an irritated look.

And, then, Tony drops to the floor.

Panic quickly floods the space the anger had created and the case is long since forgotten, clattering to the floor and skidding away from Tony and the huddle forming around him as he convulses on the pristine tiles of the lobby. 

Your eyes follow the case from your spot knelt beside Tony, mirroring Loki’s exact motion -- you’re both trained on the case sliding across the room and into the hands of a man posted by the door to the stairs.

Then, you see her.

It’s you -- older and frozen at the sight of the towering God to your left. Her face is set in something mournful and there’s no doubting that you’re looking in a mirror (a sad, broken one). You go rigid, mind running 99mph down the interstate of confusion. The other you... Her hair is longer, glasses skewed on her face. She’s posed in a lab coat and heels, looking like she belongs. With a broken sound, she suddenly calls out:

“Loki?”

She’s looking at him like she knows him.

Loki looks at her, then behind him. His brows raise, chained hands moving to gesture at himself.

Me?

You gawk. What the fuck.

“No, no,” calls the agent gripping the case; the voice is familiar and he moves to stop her -- er, you -- as she moves forward, “No, c’mon kid, don’t --”

From your spot on the floor, you blink, exchanging a look with the God of Mischief who’s currently also riding the mind-fuck train.

Curious.

And then, the Hulk throws open the door, clocking the agent in question, sending other-you to the floor and shattering the briefcase on its hinges. The cube, hot and azure and pulsing slides back across the floor like a terribly dangerous game of air-hockey and your breath catches in your throat as it collides with the towering God’s boot adjacent to you.

Another exchanged glance.

And then, Loki bends and snatches it up.

You yelp, spitting out an embarrassing mosh of Thor and Tony’s name at once, and launch yourself after your summer research project. In a blink, you tumble into a roaring, glittering, dizzying tailspin through time and space. 

Your yells mingle with Loki’s as the balance of the travel is thrown off, rocketing you both across the stars in a haze of panic. You’re both battling for grip of the cube, and when you make impact with the damp concrete of a 17th street back alley, you both shout in fear as the cube lands --

Two hands reach for the stone.

And it shatters in a burst of sky blue.

Your week ends with staring yourself in the eyes again, only this time from the body of a God. You blink down at hands that aren’t your own as Loki mimics the reaction.

He screams and you faint.

[nerdyvixen]

I am old and going to bed so I may not see the beautiful drabble that results from this until tomorrow, but! From the prompt list! "The stars are going out."

I’m so sorry this took so long to respond to! I meant it to be a little fluffy drabble, and then I had to Howard all over the place and it ended up being…this thing? So here: this is me, still on my TBTP bullshit, throwing some Howard Strand into the void.

The first time he sees the stars begin to flicker out, he has just gotten notice that his children have been born.

The message, scrawled on the margin of a torn-off sheet from the day’s newspaper, is slid underneath the door to his–room? Lab? Cell? Whatever it is, wherever it is they put him when he comes here. There is a locked door. There is a locked window, long and narrow and high up on the wall. There is a lamp. There is a desk. There is his work.

And now there is a piece of newspaper from the evening of December 20, 1961, and now there is a note scribbled in the margin, and now there are two reasons for the world to drop out under his feet:

Richard and Cheryl. Born one hour ago. In the caul. Healthy. Peggy sends her regards.

He looks up, finds a sky shifted just enough to look unfamiliar, and watches three stars suddenly brighten in a last gasp and then vanish.

* * *

The next time he sees the stars go out, he has hidden from his children and from what he has done to them.

The lights in his study at home are dim but tinged gold–when he is there, when he is safe, when he can observe the domesticity Peggy creates with their children without having to lose himself to participate in it, the illumination is always warm and not the cold, harsh white of his cell in Russia. It normally offers comfort. Now, it is accusatory, dangerous, the familiar tilted into the sudden harshness of the strange, and he clenches his fist.

His children had filmed them. Cheryl had seen them. Richard had, too.

And they weren’t supposed to be here–he knew the rules about not taking his work home with him. The shadows stayed at Warren’s. Warren didn’t have small children, didn’t have a wife–privately, Howard suspects he doesn’t have a heart, much less anyone to give it to–and Warren could keep the artifacts, the scrolls, the strange instruments, the shadow men.

Howard looks down at his briefcase. Inside, he knows, is a copper mask, turned a sickly blue-green with patina, a mask he knows now does not belong with the eyes upright. He opens his briefcase with steady hands that do not seem to be his own, stares at the mask, and then slowly reaches out and spins it around.

The mouth sits where the eyes should be. The eyes sit where the mouth should be.

Outside his study, five stars shudder and melt away.

* * *

Even the smoke from the fire in the cave cannot hide the stars from him. He’s spent two weeks obsessively counting them, cataloguing them, scouring the news for any hint that someone else is seeing what he’s seeing. There are no hints. There is no news. He fears, he plans, he waits.

Across the cave, his son stares, moon-pale, at the wall, seeing the shadows for the first time outside the comfort of his home. His soft, round features are set in trembling resolve. The shadows dance over the boy’s face, and for a moment, Howard sees the sharp planes of the man his son could become.

The future chills him to the core.

He explains to Richard later that the shadows aren’t real, that it’s just the mind playing tricks on itself, but he sees then the doubt in his son’s face, he sees then the questioning, he sees then the resolve to push it all down and away where it is hidden but never safe, and now–

Through the smoke, seven more stars quiver in fear before disappearing.

* * *

A bright swath of the galaxy dies the same night as his wife.

He has been distant from her for so long (sweet Margaret, sweet Peggy, the pearl before his own swinish heart). He should have turned away from Thomas Warren and from the cult, from the seductive promises they whispered to him of knowledge, of power, of survival when the universe ripped itself from limb to limb to pull out its bones and rebuild. He should have ran. He should have refused.

Instead he focused his attention on his son (because how much did Cheryl look like his Peggy, how often did Cheryl look on the shadows in fear instead of fascination, how much could he spare when he was already so deeply involved?). Richard, so soft in his heart, could not help but look at the artifacts. At the scrolls. At the strange instruments. At the shadow men.

For the first time, Howard learns what it is like to be haunted.

The message comes not slid under the cell door but from the throat of Thomas Warren, who leans against the door frame at an angle that only makes Howard think that the man is a puppet being operated by two different sets of strings.

Who pulls them?

“Your wife is dead,” Thomas says. “How’s the boy?”

“He won’t talk to me,” Howard says. My wife is dead. “Not since that boy was found by the river. He says that there are enough rumors floating around.”

“Pity,” says Thomas. His head tilts just a shade too far, and he pulls himself up from his lounge against the door in tidy, separate actions: his head tilting back, his shoulders rising up, his chest following, his hips finding equilibrium, his feet sliding just far enough apart to keep him upright.

Who pulls his strings?

“Why is that a pity?” My wife is dead, thinks Howard Strand, and I fear.

“Richard could be so useful.” Thomas takes the steps towards his chair–and it is an act of taking, every motion imperial, forceful, dominant. “Since you chose not to develop them both, I mean. Such a lack of foresight on your part, Howard.”

He leans forward and takes the edge of the chair in his hand. Howard blinks, but before the act can register, Thomas wrenches the chair down sharply, sending Howard tumbling to the floor.

His head strikes the concrete with a sickening crack, and he bites back a howl of pain. Stars dance in his eyes even after his vision clears to reveal his associate staring down at him with a blissfully manic grin.

“We’ll just have to make do,” says Thomas Warren, and in the haze of pain and the grim certainty that he is bleeding and mourning in equal measure, his associate’s face is turned around in his vision, all upside-down, his mouth where his eyes should be, his eyes where his mouth should be.

The ache of loss (blood and wife, and how closely they intertwine) overtakes him, the stars in his vision blinking out against the blackness behind his eyes.

My wife is dead, and I fear I will not be allowed that luxury.

* * *

He cannot see the stars anymore. He is not allowed.

Instead, he sees the void. His whole life is shadowed and deep.

“They think you’re dead,” says Thomas from his perch on the tall stool next to the machine. “It’ll be better this way.”

He wants to respond. His mouth has been taped shut. He is bound to the machine.

“If you’d just gotten through to Richard when he was younger,” his associate notes, “we wouldn’t have this problem. Now I’ve got to pull on some strings I wanted to hold onto.” He sighs. “Coralee is much better for him than that Canadian girl was going to be, though. She’s so good about taking directions. She truly believes in our cause, Howard. She’ll bring Richard to us.” He leans over and pats Howard on the cheek in some facsimile of fondness.

“You did well, you know.” Thomas’ tone is light, conversational, and Howard wants to scream from the wrongness of it. “Your research has been commendable, and even if you couldn’t convince Richard, you laid the foundation for our work. I can make that into something we can use.”

The leather cuffs over his wrists and ankles are too tight. He struggles against them.

Thomas nods to someone unseen. The lights flicker. Four men in crisp suits enter the room, their clothing stark in the alternating bursts of shadow and light. Even over the surge of panic boiling in him, Howard can hear the familiar haunting, mechanical whine of the machine.

“We always did want to try this out on someone,” Thomas announces to him easily, as though the act of tearing a soul from the body and twisting it into something hellish and virulent and venomous was on the same level as trying on a new pair of shoes. “Thankfully, Howard, you were always good for spare parts.”

He smiles and leaves the room. The lights flicker. The machine screams. He screams, even through the tape over his mouth. In his eyes, the vast ink-black of space explodes, freckled with stars that swirl and dance and–

–space curls around itself, deliberately, like a heavy, reptilian tail dragged around a heavy, reptilian body.

He watches in horror, the melodic screech of the machine ringing in his ears, as the stars coalesce into a monstrous body (and to call it a dragon is so limited, so finite, when every cell in his body screams as it’s being torn apart, when every cell in his body screams at the sight of this, this cosmic and primal destruction gaining flesh).

The monster shifts as though stirring from troubled dreams. The haunting howl of the machine rises. He can feel his soul twist, feel it as it’s peeled from his flesh and left out to the mercy of chaos.

This is what he wanted, Howard realizes with the last thread of clarity left in him. She’s waking up.

The stars shift on the monster’s hide, and suddenly he is staring down a scaled face, mouth wide and fanged and hungry, and a goddess stares at him with eyes that contain all the stars within them–

Her jaws close around him, and the stars go out.

[premetheus]

Apple taste test! Rhett and Link inspired. Granny Smith: 22 me 40 wife 62 combined. My son said, "Sour." Golden Delicious: 65 me 70 wife 135 combined. My son said, "Sparkle." Red Delicious: 55 me 75 wife 130 combined. Son's said, "Red." Honey Crisp: 2 me 30 wife 32 combined. Our son said, "Sparkle." Gala: 82 me 80 wife 162 combined. Son said, "Like it." Fuji tougher to bite into apple middle 50 me 45 wife 95 combined. Son said, "Good." Pink Lady: 40 me 45 wife 85 combined. Son said, "Good." Sweet Tango: 75 me 55 wife 130 combined. Son said, "Good." Envy: 45 me 25 wife 70 combined. Son said, "Good." Opal: 59 me 41 wife 100 combined. Son said, "Good." Cosmic Crisp: 20 me 30 wife 50 combined. Son said, "Good." Top 4 Gala: 82 me 100 wife 182 combined Golden Delicious: 89 me 71 wife 160 combined Red Delicious: 91 me 80 wife 171 combined. Sweet Tango 62 me 60 wife 122 combined Winner for me: Red Delicious Winner for wife: Gala Winner for my son: Golden Delicious Winner based on scores: Gala #Apple #Apples #TasteTest #RhettAndLink #Mythical #RhettAndLinkTasteTest #GalaApple #RedDeliciousApple #SweetTangoApple #CosmicCrispApple #OpalApple #EnvyApple #PinkLadyApple #FujiApple #HoneyCrispApple #GoldenDeliciousApple #GrannySmithApple #AppleTasteTest #Fall #Autumn #PureMichigan #MichiganAwesome #Michigan https://www.instagram.com/p/Ck88BQyuCSe/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

[let-me-love-you-loki]

Spring in Constanta--Ch. 18

Chapter 18

             Lisa leaned against the sink facing Chris, who was propped up against the center island. I was curled up on the sofa with Stella reading her a book. I suppose the two of them didn’t think I could hear as they talked in hushed voices, probably since they couldn’t see me from where they stood.

           “We’ve already started the immigration paperwork, Ma. Trust me, it’s the first thing we did,” Chris said. He sounded exasperated, as if he’d had this conversation a thousand times before.

           “I’m just worried about you, Chris,” Lisa returned. “It’s all so fast. And after the way she treated you.”

           Chris held up his hands to stop his mother from saying anything more. “We’ve gotten past it. And it isn’t entirely her fault.”

           “You don’t have to make excuses, Chris. Not when she acts like that.” Lisa sighed and reached for her son’s hands. “I’m not trying to get in between you. I saw you two together before all that mess. You both looked so happy. I just don’t want you to get hurt again.”

           Chris hugged his mother tightly and kissed the side of her head. “Don’t worry about it, Ma.”

           She laughed a little. “I’m always going to worry, Christopher. You’re my boy.”

           They disappeared through the back hallway and I lost sight of them. Stella had fallen asleep against my side, the book open across her belly. I closed it and put it out of the way, curling up with Chris’ niece and pillowing my head on the arm of the sofa. Dodger clambered up on the other end and collapsed on my feet. I wasn’t going to argue, he was warm.

             I woke up sometime later. I wasn’t on the sofa any longer. Instead, I was tucked in the blankets of Chris’ bed. Dodger slept at the end, his head on his paws. The room was shrouded in shadow. The clock on the bedside table said it was a quarter to eight. Sitting up, I stretched and tried to slip out of the bed without waking Dodger. He snuffled and grunted but didn’t wake.

           I stumbled into the bathroom and splashed some water on my face. Some nagging sense of off ran circles around the back of my mind. A glance in the mirror showed dark circles under my eyes and a pale tint to my skin. It wasn’t that I felt nauseated or dizzy, but more that I just felt an overwhelming sense of wrongness.

           Tying my hair up, I opened the bedroom door and was suddenly awash in light and sound. A faint glow lit up the bottom of the staircase. The sound of children laughing and glasses clinking wafted around my head. I came down the steps halfway and sat down, listening to the sound of Chris and his family enjoying their time together.

           “Are you sure you want to do this?” It sounded like Scott, but I couldn’t be sure.

           “If one more person asks me that, I’m going to punch ‘em in the fuckin’ teeth,” Chris groaned. His words were a little slurred. He must’ve had a few drinks.

           Silence for a long moment. “Only asking because we care. You know that.”

           I could imagine Chris running his palm down his face, smoothing out the hairs of his beard and mustache. He did that when he was exasperated. “One misunderstanding and the whole family thinks it’s the worst idea in the fucking world for us to get married.”

           “Chris…”

           The two of them murmured quietly for a while, their voices rising and falling in a way that I couldn’t make out what they were saying. I thought I heard Sebastian’s voice somewhere, but I didn’t want to think that he’d forgotten me too. My head started to ache and tears blurred my vision as I stood up and started back to Chris’ bedroom.

           The sound of a crash downstairs stopped me. I turned and dashed down the staircase two at a time, nearly toppling over when I made it to the bottom. Stella crashed into my legs, her eyes wide with fear. I saw Carly and Shanna ushering Miles out of the room. Stella shouted for her mother as I hefted her up onto my hip and surveyed the melee going on in the living room.

           Lisa was looking on in horror as Sebastian tried to get between Chris and Scott, who were a few seconds away from trading blows. A mess of broken glass on the floor was the only evidence of the crash I’d heard. I didn’t want to know what happened to send two brothers into a fist fight.

           My cousin looked around, his eyes going wide when he caught sight of me. He looked as if he wanted to shout at me to leave, but he didn’t have time. In the split second that he’d looked away, Scott slipped past Sebastian and tackled Chris to the floor. Stella screamed and started to cry. Lisa covered her mouth like the sight made her sick.

           Sebastian struggled to pull the two brothers apart.

           I curled Stella against my shoulder and backed away from the living room. When I hit a wall, I turned and dashed around the corner into the kitchen. Miles was sitting on the counter with his hands over his ears. Shanna and Carly hovered nearby, clearly not knowing what to do. When she saw her mother, Stella wriggled from my grasp and ran over to her.

           “What happened?” I asked quietly.

           The look Shanna gave me left no doubt what happened. She looked as if she would slap me if I came any closer. The disagreement obviously had something to do with me.

           Without a word, I turned and slipped down the hall toward the front door. I slipped on my shoes and pulled Chris’ sweater from its hook. Tugging it over my head, I pushed the door open and melted into the crisp spring night.

           The stars were a little easier to see in Sudbury than they were in Boston or Constanta. I looked up at the way they twinkled and sparkled as I meandered down the drive toward the street. The cold started to seep in beneath the fabric of Chris’ sweater as I hit the street and turned left. Sudbury was quaint in the way that all suburbs were. As I walked along the side of the road, I wondered what it had looked like when Chris was young. How much had it changed?

           Twenty minutes into my walk I realized I was lost. I’d taken a few turns along the way and the next thing I knew, I didn’t recognize anything. Panic settled into my bones. My heart hammered my ribs and the pavement tilted beneath my feet.

           I sat down on the edge of the asphalt. Bile clawed its way up my throat. I thought of Chris and Scott fighting at the house. I thought of the look of fear Sebastian had given me while he tried to break the two of them up. I thought of the way Shanna and Carly looked at me as if I was some alien thing that had invaded their home.

           Time passed slowly. It could have been a few minutes, or it could have been a few hours. All I knew was the sense of terror that hovered around me, the panic that cinched my lungs closed in my chest, the nausea that turned my stomach upside down. The cold turned my skin to gooseflesh. The darkness crept in around me, filled with the noises of animals crawling and skittering through underbrush.

           Bright light blinded me. A car slowed to a stop on the curb not far away. The door opened. The sound of heavy footfalls on the road. A shadow appearing in the haze.

           “Ma’am? Are you okay?” The voice was authoritative and careful. The Boston accent thick.

           Panic closed my throat. I wanted to back away, crawl through the grass and disappear into the forest where nothing could find me. I looked up at the figure standing over me with wide eyes.

           “Ma’am?” I caught sight of words along the side of the car. Sudbury Police Department. “You have some ID on you, ma’am?”

           Terror overwhelmed me. I knew what happened in Romania to foreigners who were arrested. The police weren’t to be trusted. They were violent, hateful, and corrupt. I backed away from the officer slowly, my hands up in front of my face.

           “I… I… just got lost… I’m staying with friends…” I couldn’t tell him the address, even if I had remembered it, not when Chris and Scott could very well still be fighting.

           It was too much. I broke down crying.

           The officer crouched in front of me. He was younger than I expected, probably barely out of high school. His face—what I could see for the glare of his headlights—were kind.

           “Let’s get you somewhere warm. Then we can call your friends, okay?”

Tag List

@mizzzpink @habeshawit-konjo @firedolphin04 @hallotom @aletheladyinred @triski73 @cosmic-impala @tacohead13 @kategorically-challenged @whimsicalscientist

[thegeekerynj]

DC’s Future State: The Home Runs, Hits, and outright Strikeouts  

(Or, how Politics and Comics Don’t Mix)

Greetings from somewhen along the fractured timelines, and somewhere in the newly reconstituting Omniverse! Tis’ I, your faithful, but recently missing Fat Guy, finding his way back to a Universe with a keyboard, Intel processor, and something as far from MyFace as possible!

Gentle Readers, when last I had the privilege of gracing these Interwebs, Death Metal #7 had not yet hit the shelves, nor had Dead Earth #6. 

My spin down the ‘rabbit holes’, between the lunacy of the viral insanity that gripped the country, and then, the worries which came out of the COVID Pandemic, had me more focused on depressing issues, than the IMPORTANT THINGS in LIFE…

What DID happen with Wonder Woman? And, What came out of the lunacy of the Metal Saga?

Well, let’s touch on a few of those topics, the second, first.

What happened out of the Metal Saga? Well, we get a view of the Future, or a possible Future, if this is the Final State. We get to see some Characters grow, some disappear, some books remain the same, some will change DRASTICALLY.

We get to hear jokes about the Fifth Generation and how it is a marketing ploy for the Mothership, the United Conglomerated Moneygrab AT&T.

We get a name change from 5G to Future State, without a real concept change.

Oh, and Dan DiDio got fired. So did about half of DC’s regular staff.

But, I digress. 

Anyway, the premise is really simple… It’s Baseball Season! That being the case, I’m going to engage in a game of hybrid game of Sewer Cap Baseball, with each group of books graded as a Single, Double  Triple , Home Run, Out or Side Retired. This will not be an arbitrary judgment, as there will be some criteria to be followed.

The RULES: 

Home Runs  Well, a Home Run has to have outstanding artistry and story, the work being exemplary. Plot, characters, premise, everything is crisp, fresh and enjoyable. Writer and Artists have brought the reader to a place where they know the divergent reality is believable, in context.

Triples: If a Home Run is everything hitting on all cylinders, the Triple is the single knock in the engine. The pothole that nags at the Reader, the Idea that makes the Collector say, ‘This was really good…BUTTTTTT…’. Not the hook that leaves you wanting more, it’s the oversized hook that says’I just can’t swallow that’.

Double: A Double has a glaring issue that takes the reader out of the story… Frank Miller ‘300’ style Artwork on “Millie the Model’ type of ‘Well, that was a misfire!’ The story can be exceptional, or the Artwork wonderful, there’s just that GLARING issue that pulls the Reader away.

Single: The GLARING ERROR is extensive, pairing Yo-Yo Ma with Weird Al extensive. Both wonderful, but put together, and too much is lost in translation. The pairing of an ultra detailed writer with a 60’s style artist, who does no backgrounds, except for splash pages.

STRIKE OUT: Something is just BAD. 1985 Secret Wars BAD. Unfinished Kevin Smith Widening Gyre Cliffhanger BAD. Spider Buggy BAD. Not usually one to say something is BAD, I have said I didn’t like certain things. Not liking something does not make it BAD. Something horrifically wrong with it, that makes it BAD.

SIDE RETIRED: OK, this is a very special category, reserved for the Story That Has Been Done To Death, Didn’t Need To Be Done Again, Yet Here We Are, New Universe, Same Old CRAP!

This is the ‘Superman painted himself with invisible lead paint’ story, the ‘Bat-Shark Repellent in the Utility Belt Story (outside the 60’s camp stories)’…

So Gentle Readers, with all that said, the Pitchers and Catchers are set, the Batters are ready, the Managers are already bitching at the Umpire, sooooooo, Let’s Play Ball!

And remember, the Umpire reserves the right to continue the Game onto another day, as the Sun Goes Down…

===========================================================

First Inning:

Batter UP!

Dark Nights: Death Metal #7

Writer: Scott ‘Skull Crusher’ Snyder  Pencils (PP1-28) Greg ‘Constrictor’ Capullo,  Inks: Jonathan ‘’Gut Punch’ Glapion; Artist (PP 29-36) Yanick ‘Yell Master’ Paquette,  Artist (PP 37-38) Bryan ‘Hatchet Man’ Hitch

‘Tell me our shorts were not this short!

No way! They were MUCH SHORTER!

I will not die by pixie boot. I will not die by…’

———————————————————————————————————

This is it folks! The First Batter, or, the End of the Beginning, however the heck you want to look at it.

Gentle Readers, you can’t get to the Future State without first talking about the last issue of the series that brought you there… so, here we go!

Six issues, or, 23 issues, depending on your budget, wallet size, and ability to ‘Just Say NO!’, and here we are, the LAST ISSUE of the Death Metal Saga, which actually started way back in Batman #1 of the REBIRTH reboot, and carried through the METAL / Batman Who Laughs / Year of the Villain… so, the gift that kept on taking!

Anyway, this has been the Longest Long Game, and the Payoff has been SPECTACULAR! 

Constantly swinging between the Battle of the Bat-Families, the Superman Fight Squad and the Last Son, and the one - on - one death match between Wonder Woman and The Batman who Laughs, we get the battle scenes we have craved all along. 

Death, carnage, mayhem, and Jarro… who could ask for - - - What, you want more???? Well, we can add in the Totality, Diana of Themyscira, Goddess, ElseWorld, and finally finding out who was narrating this book for the last 77 years… Ya know, that’s enough.

Not that there isn’t more, I’m just not writing about it here…

Scott Snyder and Greg Capullo have left everything on the field with this book. No regrets, no punches puled, they finished this the way they started, unrelenting, unforgiving, and absolutely unstoppable. 

As a fan, I can say this is one of the few books I really jonesed for over the last year. The months when there was a skip due to the ‘One - offs’, I think I really got the shakes. This was one of the three stories of 2020 that made this Reader sit up and take notice.

As such, I highly recommend this entire series. This issue was fantastic, a fine ending to lead in to a new phase of the DC Universe, and Frickin’ ELSEWORLD!!!

Out of 5🌶        🌶🌶🌶🌶🌶

First Batter - Home Run!

===========================================================

Batting Second…

Generations Shattered  #1 / Generations Forged #1

Writers: Dan Jurgens, Robert Venditti, Andy Schmidt  

Artists: Ivan Reis and Joe Prado, John Romita JR and Danny Miki, Kevin Nowlan, Rags Morales, Doug Braithwaite, Ema Lupacchino and Wade von Grawbadger, Dan Jurgens and Klaus Janson, Yanick Paquette, Bernard Chang, Aaron LoPresti and Matt Ryan, Mike Perkins, Fernando Pasarin and Oclair Albert, Paul Pelletier and Sandra Hope. Colleen Doran, Marco Santucci, Joe Prado, Bryan Hitch and Andrew Currie, Dan Jurgens and Kevin Nowlan

‘I will not spend another day behind bars! Not on Tamaran! Not on Maltus! And not HERE!

Starfire! Don’t!

It’s RICOCHETING!

Not bored now!’

———————————————————————————————————

So, What happens when ALL the Timelines are SHATTERED by a Multi-Cosmic Level Event?

Naturally, you send Booster Gold out to recruit an army of tactically important individuals from across the Multiverse, is an attempt to repair and cement the Timelines back together.

And what happens when said Man with a Master Plan and a hovering supercomputer gets himself killed?

Well, that duty now falls to Kamandi, the Last Boy on Earth!

Yes, this is where we start, in the Time After The Great Disaster, with Kamandi and Tuftan trying to outrun some Bat-Men, and the Great White Goneness (Crisis Energy, Take II), an aged Booster Gold trying to recruit him, then getting swallowed up by the Crisis Energy (™), and Kamandi and a Skeets bracer escaping into the Dimensional Void to continue Booster’s mission…

No, this isn’t a rehash of the Kamandi Challenge from a few years ago, this is the aftermath of Death Metal.

All the Time / Dimensional Lines are in flux, and they can either get repaired, or, if Dominus has his way, only his little pocket dimension will remain.

So, we have Kamandi and Skeets, Starfire (from 1983), John Henry Irons (Steel) (from 1993), Superboy (from the Legion Timeline), Dr. Kimiyo Hoshi (Dr. Light) (from 1987), Sinestro Korugar, the Green Lantern for Sector 1417, Booster Gold, Day 1 in Metropolis, and Batman, circa 1939 versus Dominus’ incarnation of the Linear Men… O.M.A.C, Liri Lee, Rayak the Ravager, Matthew Ryder, Ultra-Humanite, Knockout, Artemis, Eradicator, Major Force, and Nemesis Kid… A virtual Who’s Who of Evil throughout the DC Timelines!

The Goal? Survive, Win, Preserve the hard-fought victory brought by the sacrifice of Diana, or face Oblivion.

A very well written story, presented by some amazing artists, and showcasing others we will be seeing throughout the Future State event. Of some note, the gorgeous pages by Colleen Doran, the work of Kevin Nowlan, Rags Morales, Doug Braithwaite, John Romita JR, Dan Jurgens and Klaus Janson. Some of the pages… ehhh.

A neat tie in, a way to let readers new and old know there are things which need to be fixed, and there are plans underway to do so, and to once again highlight Rip Hunter’s Blackboard!

Out of 5🌶        🌶🌶🌶🌶

Second Batter - Triple

===========================================================

In the Three Hole…

Future State: Kara Zor-El  Superwoman

Writer: Marguerite Bennett   Artist: Marguerite Sauvage

‘I’ve come so far to learn that I can’t control what others think.

And that was another thing i learned from you, my good, grand Greatest Boy, KRYPTO the SUPERDOG.’

———————————————————————————————————

The title of this story comes from a quote attributed to Confucius,’Before you embark on a journey of revenge, dig two graves’, implying in the seeking of vengeance, one loses themselves, as well.

‘Dig Two Graves’ takes place in the far future, long after the prophesied battle between Clark and Jon Kent, when the son suppliants the father.

Kara has taken those who sought Safe Haven to the Moon, to the Fortress of Solitude there, where she expanded, and reinforced, and made it habitable for those looking to escape the violence.

And she forsook the violence, herself.  

No longer to be called upon as the Protector of Kal-El, a title long gone and forgotten, she has chosen to practice the ideals which her cousin, his son, and she should have been practicing all along.  Consideration, kindness, respect…

And then the idyllic peace is broken.

Marguerite Bennett gives us an extraordinarily beautiful story, one of insight, growth, beginnings and ends. This is a masterful piece, which tells a tale on many levels, which appeals to the most cynical among us (hand raised here), and the youngest, most hopeful at heart.

Paired with the writing is the beauty of Marguerite Sauvage’s artwork, both delicate in places and frenetic in others, telling the tale of the Gardener, the Hero, and the Rescuer. Beautifully rendered, the art carries the words as a tune carries lyric, bringing the Reader through the rises and lulls of the storyline in a beautifully orchestrated dance

Most notable of the story is the coloring, or seeming lack thereof For most of the story, with some exceptions, the most vibrantly colored character is Kara, with the Colonists and the Visitors appearing as pale in comparison ( for the most part, they are white, with pale highlights). 

This story is one of the true highlights of the Future State lineup…

Out of 5🌶        🌶🌶🌶🌶.5

AAAnnnnnnddddddd, It’s outta Here!  

HOME RUN

===========================================================

And in the Clean-Up Spot…

Future State: Green Lantern #1-2

Writer: Geoffrey Thorne  Artist: Tom Rainey

Writer: Ryan Cady  Artist: Sam Basti

Writer: Ernie Altbacher  Artist: Clayton Henry

Writer: Josie Campbell  Artist: Andie Tong

Writer: Robert Venditti  Artist: Dexter Soy

‘My name is Beelu Kenz. You won’t have heard of my world.Bit of a Hellscape really. Everything there kills you. The air, the animals, even the dirt.

My people not only live there, we THRIVE. We ADAPT.We’re not the bloody fighters Khundia makes but we’ve got one thing over you. Two things, really.

We’re the BEST Weaponeers in the Spiral Arm. No one can touch us.

My Planet’s called IMSK and when an Imskian wants something to die—-

—-IT SPROCKING DIES!’

———————————————————————————————————

Two issues, five stories, one central theme carried through both issues… the Oan Lantern of Power has died.

We have John Stewart leading a cadre of Lantern Warriors, in the defense of a planet, against the militant worshippers of the God in Red, a god they believe wants warriors to commit slaughter and carnage in his name.

Stewart and Company teach them three lessons.

The story is marvelous, bringing in some great old names (Salaak, G’NORT!), while weaving a tale of great intrigue and detail which keeps the reader enthralled to the last page.

`

Next, the Sinestro Corps, taking the Green Lantern Outpost stations, invade the Station in Sector 023, only to find it defended by Jessica Cruz.

Story number three, well, there had to be a Warrior’s Bar Story, didn’t there? Which, of course gives us Guy Gardner.

The fourth story, a team story, puts Keli Quintela, the Teen Lantern and Mogo, the Living Planet, on a mission to find Jo Mullein, the Lantern’s resident detective, in the hopes of finding out the secrets of Keli’s overpowered, obviously alien ‘Power Gauntlet’.

Finally, and obviously necessary, for what collection of stories about the Green Lantern Corps would be complete without it, we get the story of Hal Jordan, and his search for the Lanterns, and  the Guardian’s Homeworld of Oa.

And who he finds when he arrives there…

Every story on point, every character well written, all converging toward, well, we don’t know yet. But we will.

Out of 5🌶        🌶🌶🌶🌶🌶

The windup! The Pitch! The SWING! KRAAAAK!  IT”S IN THE BLEACHERS!!

HOME RUN!

===========================================================

Batting Fifth

Future State: Legion of Super Heroes #1-2

Writer: Brian Michael Bendis  Artist: Riley Rossmo

‘If I knew this was why you called me here, I would never have come! Not only should the Legion STAY DISBANDED —- The word should NEVER be spoken again!

T —- Tas —-  GAKK!  COFF!

***Listen, I stopped giving out Free Mood Stabilizers a long time ago*** But that wasn’t going the way you wanted!

_______________________________________________________________________

So, 31st Century, and the known galaxies are KA-Blooie!

RJ Brande is dead, the Legion has been disbanded, and BATTLE LINES have been drawn along loyalties…

Why, you ask?? How???

Well, it seems Post - Death Metal and the Restructuring, there was a traitor in the Legion.

Jan Arrah, Element Lad, has been branded with the label, a branding which carries to all his people.

The result of the treachery, the Planets of the Known Galaxies have been ruined, and left nearly uninhabitable.

Or, was it these people…

Brian Michael Bendis has given us a new future, one in the midst of upheaval, where the United Planets has been disbanded, the Legion is split along loyalties, and whether they want vengeance or redemption.

A well written, engaging story, wonderfully told through some different characters: 

Chuck Taine, Bouncing Boy, taking the battle to the Khunds as they try to colonize the devastated worlds; 

Imra Ardeen, Saturn Girl, trying to bring her beloved Legion back together to fight the real threat to the galaxy, and carrying a secret which is crushing her;

Luornu Durgo, once Triplicate Girl, now trying to find herself after one of her selves has been killed, and afraid to recombine because the pain of missing her is too great to deal with, and other characters we have come to know over the last year.

Where Bendis’ story is the blazing signal fire to light the way toward a stronger future in the DC Multiverse, Riley Rossmo’s Art is the Asbestos Blanket and Aircraft Fire Foam which induces all the cancers and kills it.

I’m sorry. There are times Riley Rossmo’s artwork really works for me. This chaotic styling is perfect within the framework of characters like Bizarro, Constantine, even the JLA, when there are magic or Lobo-like story elements involved. I especially liked his work on the Robin King, the frenetic, chaotic stylings appealed to my senses, made me giggle, and cringe at the same time.

Not here, though. Here, his work pulled me out of the story faster than if I had a tow hook jammed through my nether regions, and it was attached to a hiballin’ Peterbilt turbocharged tractor trailer.

This, Gentle Readers, was painful. It hurt my eyes, on a scale with the COVID News Conference from April 2020. I think I bled. 

I might still be…

I know I cried, because no matter how good the story was, I could not enjoy it.

Out of 5     🌶🌶

OUT

Batting Sixth

Future State: Aquaman 1-2

Writer: Brandon Thomas, Artist: Daniel Sampere

‘Is she here?

Jackson?

AQUAMAN, IS SHE HERE?

AQUAWOMAN LIVES’

———————————————————————————————————

Oh GOD. OHGODOHGODOHGODOHGOD!!!

Have you ever heard that line, or an iteration of it? The Katz’s Deli scene in ‘When Harry Met Sally’, maybe?

This book  was the equivalent.

I know, it was an Aquaman Book.

How often has an Aquaman Book been Original, or Relevant?

There was Craig Hamilton’s Miniseries in 1985, that gave us the really neat camo Aquaman suit, then there was Flashpoint, and Throne of Atlantis, and the introduction of Kaldur’ahm, or Jackson Hyde, the son of Black Manta.

Now, we have Andy Curry, AquaWoman.

This is a time where less is more. 

Brandon Thomas has given us a two issue story which I have gone back and read 4 times, because it is that good! David Sampere’s artwork is crazy beautiful, so gloriously detailed it leaves the eyes wanting more. 

This is the AquaPerson Story I have been waiting for since the movie… No dumb oversized seahorses, no force waterballs… carnage, and dimension hopping insanity, this makes a fantastic story!

All I can say is, if there is one story you MUST Read, it is this!

Out of 5🌶        🌶🌶🌶🌶🌶

And that ball is GOING, GOING, GONE! They’re gonna find that one out on Sheffield!

HOME RUN

===========================================================

Seventh Batter

Future State: The Flash #1-2

Writer: Brandon Vietti   Artist Dale Eaglesham

‘Focus on the Science.

Science reveals Answers. 

Answers build Hope.’

———————————————————————————————————

NOOOOOOO!

After EVERY Time I picked up a Flash book over the last two years, and constantly getting assaulted with a NEVER-ENDING GODSFORSAKEN Redemption Arc story, what do i see here?

Barry Allen, in a REDEMPTION ARC STORYLINE!!!

The self-sacrificing hero of the Crisis, the overpowered, no the hero with the broken power structure, who turned Superman into an Anti-Life Zombie by VIBRATING THROUGH HIS ULTRA DENSE BODY, and leaving his fingers inside (uh, GROSS!!, but oh so cool!) now in a REDEMPTION ARC???

Nope! I’m done.

As Pretty as Dale Eaglesham’s artwork is (and it is pretty), This is a MAD Fail for me.

Out of 5🌶        🌶🌶     (if I split the grading this would have a 4.5 for the Artwork… the layouts are imaginative and well done, and the speed scenes are fantastic! This is how the Flash should be done, as artwork)

SIDE RETIRED.

As the sun starts to dip, and the street lights begin coming on, it’s time to call it a night.

At the end of the First Half of the Innings we have:

4 Home Runs

1 Triple ( a near miss, more for consistency of story and artwork… but points for Nemesis Kid and Major Force!)

1 Out (If I split it, it would have been a HR and a Side Retiring Art Fail)

And an Outright Side Retire

7 sets done, 15 more to do… We’ll start playing at Sunrise tomorrow, make a real day of it!

[readerviddh]

▶️What would you choose? Mythology or fiction?. Also also tell me a mythology story that you have grown up with? A story that you’re fond of?. . The battle of Panchavati and other stories from Indian scriptures by #divyaupadhyaya is an amazing book. The author has shared the 7 battles that we have always heard and have grown up with. The cosmic dance, the eighth son, Gangadhar and many such stories are told beautifully by the author. The light and crisp writing style of the author and the narration of the book is commendable. I liked this book. The way each story is described, conveying the message is something I enjoyed. Overall it’s a great book. A light read. Rating - 3.5/5. . Shades in shadows is the collection of #shortstories that will melt your heart. The eight stories with different themes make this book more interesting. Each story has its own charm, it’s own experience that the reader will enjoy. Magical wave and a delightful soul are my favourite stories out of 8. The engaging writing style of the author and the Plot of each story is unique and amazing. Love reading short stories? Go for it. Rating - 3.5/5 The detailed review will be added soon. Thank youuu @booxoul . . #bookish #stories #bookstagram q (at Mumbai, Maharashtra) https://www.instagram.com/p/B3rOHvVALgr/?igshid=17bjw3ous6r97

[oneshul]

Tetzaveh: The Sons of Aaron

Scene: The Mishkan, God’s sacred Dwelling-Place in the Wilderness; specifically,the Brass Altar, whereon various sacrifices are burned. The sun is setting. The Altar apparatus, used to placate, thank, or bless the LORD GOD, is tended by the Sons of Aaron: Nadav, Avihu, Elazar, and Itamar. The four boys—young men, really—are sprawled against the base of the Altar, resting from the day’s work of offering sacrifices. Their Priestly Garb is covered with soot and ash, and they are clearly exhausted from the work of slaughtering the beasts which the Israelites bring as offerings, cutting them up, separating out the edible portions permitted to themselves and their families (hekdesh—holy parts designated for the Priesthood), and burning the entrails, the fat, and the various body parts to God. Enter Aaron, looking spotless in his Priestly raiment: his golden headpiece, labeled “Holy to God” gleams in the dying sunlight. He shakes his head at his four sons—he is proud of them; they will replace him, one day, but he cannot abide their slovenliness.

 Aaron: I’m glad that you’re taking a break, boys. I’m going home for supper. Make sure that you clean up all the offal, scrub the Altar, and polish it with the special wax that Bezalel provided. I don’t want to see even the slightest speck of dirt or ash, come tomorrow morning.

All the Sons: Yes, Sir, Papa. We’ll do a good job. You can depend on us.

Aaron: See that you do (He exits).

Avihu: (mimicking Aaron): “Clean this all up, Boys. Don’t you even think of going home to your wives, until you scrub and polish and wax every cubit of the Altar.” You know, Papa can be a bit of a martinet, sometimes.

Elazar: He is entitled to be; he is the High Priest of God, and I, for one, feel privileged to work here, at the Altar. We Priests do not have to herd sheep and goats; we are the means by which the Israelites can atone for their sins. This is an honor. (Itamar nods vigorously; Nadav and Avihu frown at Elazar, and mutter under their breath.)

Nadav: Master Elazar, will it please you to get some clean rags for us to begin the holy work of cleaning Papa’s altar? I’m sure scrubbing off tons of soot will give you much pleasure.

Elazar: Brother Nadav, do not tease me. God honors us, by allowing us to serve in His Presence.

Avihu (yawning): I think God’s a fable.

Nadav: Aye, well may you think so, until experience teach you otherwise.

Elazar: How can you utter such blasphemy? You, Avihu, are a priest of the One True God, and ought to speak in a more holy fashion.

Avihu: Do not tempt me, Baby Brother; I am bigger and stronger than you, and can do you hurt, should I wish to.

Itamar: Brothers, brothers—how can we quarrel here, in the very shadow of God’s Presence? He may be listening to what we say—Nadav, Avihu, please stop your questioning God; He may, God forbid, choose to punish you. As priests, we are held to the highest standards of behavior.

Nadav (rising): I am bone-weary in this abattoir, and yet must clean and polish this—this—monstrosity of an altar. In Egypt, I remember, the pagan priests had not one altar, but several; they were mainly mud or stone, and needed no special care. But this great hunk of brass—(he spits contemptuously).

Elazar: Please, Nadav, I beg you. The God of Israel neither slumbers nor sleeps. Be aware of three things, and you will not sin: A Seeing Eye, a Hearing Ear, and All Your Deeds Written in a Book.

Avihu: Written by whom? Your Invisible God? I tell you, Elazar, you simpleton, I would rather worship Ra, or Osiris, or any of the Egyptian gods. They are visible; they are statues—

Itamar: You mean, idols, such as Uncle Moses expressly forbade when he was reading us the Law from Mt. Sinai.

Avihu: Yes; I was there, and I heard, along with the multitude. And now, through no fault of my own, I am covered with soot and dung, and my ears still ring with the lowing of cattle. This is no job for a young, enterprising man such as I. Oh, if I could only choose my own profession, rather than be drafted and dragooned into the family business!

Elazar: This is no mere business, Avihu; mind your tongue! This is Holy Work, such as no other man can possibly perform, even from the multitudes of Israel.

(Avihu spits at Elazar’s feet)

Avihu: Well, Brother, how will you respond to me? Will you cry out unto the Lord your God? For I tell you, I have yet to see any miracles which He performs.

Itamar: How can you say that? You stood at Sinai; the Sea of Reeds lapped at your sandals while the Egyptians drowned in the tide; you were among the blessed horde which escaped the slave-rule of the mightiest nation on earth: Egypt.

Nadav: Ah! How can you prove this? Perhaps it was all a dream, and this God of yours put us all in a trance. Perhaps it never happened.

(Enter BOY)

Elazar (gently): Well, Young Master Choni ben Maagal, what is your message?

Boy: If it please you, Reverend Sirs, Rabbi Moses our Leader has sent me. You must prepare to dedicate the Mishkan, the Sacred Dwelling-Place for our Lord God. This will take place next week.

Nadav: Who will dedicate this holy, stately pile? All of us?

Boy: No, Lord Nadav; Moses informed me, and the High Priest Aaron, too, that the two older priests—you and your brother, Lord Avihu—will officiate at the Dedication. It will be a matter of great import and solemnity. Shalom, and may God bless your endeavors! (He exits)

Avihu: So there you have it, Nadav: you and I, the Doubters, are to stand before all Israel, and dedicate this—this Dwelling-Place for the God in whom we do not, necessarily, believe.

Itamar: How ironic! Would it not be better for Elazar and me, as True Believers, to officiate? You two could beg off—

Nadav (seizing Itamar by the arm, twisting it, and forcing him to his knees): Listen to me, you whelp: I am the First-Born, and by rights will stand before the—the—Invisible One, say the prayers, slaughter the animals, and burn them to a crisp. And afterwards—

Elazar: Nadav, I beg you, let Brother Itamar go! (Nadav does so)

Nadav: And afterwards, you little sneak, I will take you behind the Tent of Meeting, and  pummel you until you bleed. How dare you presume to upstage me, your eldest brother! (He releases Itamar, who holds his arm painfully, and retreats)

Avihu: Yes: to officiate before the eyes of all Israel. That will be a good thing.

Itamar (from a distance, keeping an eye on Nadav): But you do not believe!

Nadav: But the honor, the honor of it all! And to have everyone looking at me! Believe or not believe—who cares? How splendid it will all be! The ceremony! The trumpets! And to have Papa see how talented Avihu and I are! (They exit, laughing and prideful)

Itamar (whispering to Elazar): I only pray that nothing happens to them—they are headstrong; they are agnostics, and they will be dealing with Cosmic Forces beyond their control.

(Elazar and Itamar exit)

Rabbi David Hartley Mark is from New York City’s Lower East Side. He attended Yeshiva University, the City University of NY Graduate Center for English Literature, and received semicha at the Academy for Jewish Religion. He currently teaches English at Everglades University in Boca Raton, FL, and has a Shabbat pulpit at Temple Sholom of Pompano Beach. His literary tastes run to Isaac Bashevis Singer, Stephen King, King David, Kohelet, Christopher Marlowe, and the Harlem Renaissance.

[ladydracarysao3]

In Love, Serenity  

Chapter Twenty Three: Amnesty

Excerpt

“You seem to have created a habit of pilfering my snacks,” Solas says dryly – most unlike this moist, sweet dessert. Abner turns her head to find him standing at his desk with his arms crossed and expression flat. His lips are pressed in a thin line, eyebrows and eyes to match. In this moment, everything about him is straight and annoyed. Like a thin line of irritated punctuation.

As if pulled by one piece of insolent twine, she raises an eyebrow and corner of her mouth. Taking another bite, she chews - a taunting action - before she answers, “You snooze, you lose, elf.” A single short, disgruntled grunt thumps inside Solas’ throat.

[Read Chapter 23 on AO3]  or  [Start from the Beginning]

-Abner-

Skyhold is as active as ever.

People from all corners are hurrying around trying to prepare for the large team leaving the keep tomorrow. Abner hasn’t been in Orlias since Leliana sent for her to come to Haven. There is a large part of her that wishes to go. Weeks on the road sound exciting, but she has yet to receive her next directive from the spymaster.

As of now, she has nothing to do. So, she wanders about inside the castle, and out on the grounds, watching the servants and underlings rush about in a scurrying array of organized chaos. They grab this-and-that, all the while shrieking at each other. Worker ants, racing around in frantic pace, packing, preparing, and filling wagons with supplies for the journey. Members of the inner circle can be seen here and there, serious expressions on their faces, marching to and fro, beckoning their ants for assistance.

It is all a little too much for Abner, after a while, which leads her to the rotunda. Even her beloved stables are in chaos today, and she needs a quiet place to still herself, to be at peace. Most people fear or just avoid the apostate who lurks there, making the rotunda a very quiet space.

Abner wanders inside, reveling in the silence. She glances around the room and doesn’t see the elf anywhere, which is even better. She does notice, however, a tasty looking pastry sitting on his desk in the center of the large, round room. She eyes the treat, looking side to side as she sneaks toward it. The elf won’t miss it, surely. He is too busy getting ready for his trip. He probably forgot it was even there. It looks so enticing, and she loves does love pastry. A shrug, a devilish grin, a quick swipe across the desk, and the dessert is hers.

With a low, relaxing exhale, Abner sinks into the large plush sofa in the room. Leaning back, she kicks off the boots she had been wandering around in, unlaced, and stretches her toes. She props her feet up and over the armrest of the sofa and lays her head down on the comfy seat. Kicking and swinging her feet off the edge of the armrest, Abner delves into the pastry with a moan of pleasure. It is so good. Light and flaky, crisp on the outside, golden like the sun, and coated in a delectable thin layer of sugared icing. Also, it’s still warm. Must not have been on the desk long, perhaps it was delivered to Solas soon after baking.

“You seem to have created a habit of pilfering my snacks,” Solas says dryly – most unlike this moist, sweet dessert. Abner turns her head to find him standing at his desk with his arms crossed and expression flat. His lips are pressed in a thin line, eyebrows and eyes to match. In this moment, everything about him is straight and annoyed. Like a thin line of irritated punctuation.

As if pulled by one piece of insolent twine, she raises an eyebrow and the corner of her mouth. Taking another bite, she chews - a taunting action - before she answers, “You snooze, you lose, elf.” A single short, disgruntled grunt thumps inside Solas’ throat. He turns to the piles of books and papers on his desk and begins sorting through the stacks. The elf thumbs through pages, organizing and creating two distinct piles.

She watches his diligent process in silence, as she finishes enjoying his sweet treat. “Yer takin’ all those books across Orlias?”

Monotone and clearly over her presence, Solas mutters, “One should not cease one’s studies and enjoyments, just because one is traveling.”

She chortles and drops her voice to a low, mocking imitation, “No, I suppose one should not.”

“Have you spoken with your clan?” He asks, she detects a pinch of smugness twitch at the corner of his mouth. She annoyed him, in retaliation, he’s brought up a known, detested topic to shoo her from his rotunda.

Abner sighs in response, swings her legs around, and rises from the sofa. Solas can win this one. She has no desire to talk about the Avvar with him. She squints her eyes at him, making a ‘piss off’ expression before leaving his precious space.

Abner had heard that Movran’s tribe came to Skyhold. She rolled her eyes when she heard about the goats.

What was once a type of anonymous sanctuary, is now infested with memories. Ghosts from her past now float about. Whispers pry and gossip as she passes, chittering about who she is, where she came from. Thankfully, most of the Avvar are shacking up in the small town that has steadily begun to form down the mountain, by the lake below the keep. Hopefully, she won’t have to run into too many familiar faces, day-to-day. But she can’t say she’s pleased that Izzalea didn’t just banish the entire lot of them. It certainly would have made life easier for her.

Abner seriously considered avoiding the chieftain. He may be piddling about Skyhold, following some noble around – the thought gives her immense satisfaction, and perhaps that’s why Izzalea did it – but it’s a large enough place. She should be able to avoid one man. However, lucky her, she has had a nagging sensation that she should speak to him. After all, she did just murder that garbage he called a son. If nothing else, seeing him could give an end to the whole fucked-up story.

Wonderful cosmic luck strikes again.

Abner doesn’t have far to go in search of Movran the Under. As she exits the rotunda, she spots him immediately, standing in the great hall. He towers over a small group of Orelsian who-gives-a-shit-who-they-are nobles. They have apparently dressed him in civilized clothing. The sight is almost too perfect. Movran tugs at his trousers and fusses with his tunic, his expression flat and annoyed.

Abner pads across the cold stone floor. Her bare feet make that hollow little smacking sound against the rock, but it is swallowed up from the echoing murmurs of conversation that fill between the hall’s walls. She positions herself next to him, standing perpendicular to his hip. She stares up at his big head in silent confidence. He sees her from the corner of his eye and turns from the group to face her. They stand there in silence, evaluating each other.

He speaks first, “Abner.” The sound is like the first crack of thunder rolling across the sky, announcing an incoming storm.

“Movran.” Her attitude is emotionless, steadfast. She may be nearly half his height, but now, she is as strong as a mountain.

They continue their silent, unwavering stares. The Orlesians beside them grow unsettled, awkwardly backing away. Most likely, they fear the thunder and the mountain will break out into a brawling maelstrom of anger and resentment at any moment. But the pair stand there, arms crossed, confident… stoic. After long, tense minutes, Movran nods his head to Abner with respect.

“I’m glad it was you.”

Abner’s breath hitches, she covers the waver by remaining impassively still. She wasn’t sure what to expect from him, but she still feels a cool sense of relief wash over her. Her skin prickles, emotion hides behind her eyes.

“Have you met with Lagna? I know she would like to see you. She will be glad to see what you’ve become.”

They both are too proud to speak plainly, unable or unwilling to openly discuss the past. He allowed his son to take her, to rip her apart for too long, but he also got her out. He speaks of his wife who took Abner into the wilderness, but Abner knows that it was Movran who made it happen. And she knows it is he who is glad to see Abner strong and well. He doesn’t have to say it, she knows it.

“Is she in the town below?” she asks, he nods. “Then, maybe I’ll visit her, but for now, just tell her that I’ve found my strength.”

“You have always been strong, little one, the strongest woman to grace our clan. I never doubted you would find a life deserving of you.”

The largest compliment Abner can ever expect from the man. She swallows, emotion tingling through her, but she remains resolute. She doesn’t anticipate more, and she doesn’t wish for it either. Everything needed to be shared is left unsaid, but it is felt. He regrets what happened, and he is glad to know it was her that corrected it. Strength of will as well as body are important to the Avvar, and Abner has proven both.

She tips the crown of her head toward the nobles gawking a safe distance away. “Good luck with this lot.”

Movran erupts into booming laughter. The nobles jump, startled by the sudden sound and movement from the great Avvar warrior. His body quakes, his face cracked into a giant smile. The sounds of his amusement fill and echo across the hall. “I think it is they who need the luck, little one.”

She smirks up at the man before nodding with respect and walking away.  She almost desires to hug that elf for pushing her out of his rotunda. She feels so much lighter. She steps out of the main doors to the great hall and breathes in deeply. Smiling at the setting sun, Abner takes in the crisp, mountain air. The chaos of the grounds has calmed from the day’s long frantic pace. The worker ants finished in time to enjoy their evening, free to rest.

She swings by the barracks and grabs her daggers, polish, rags, and a sharpening stone. She then finds a place on the inside wall of the battlements, above the barn and stables. Sitting in the crenellation, swinging her bare feet over the side of the wall, Abner watches the sun creep sleepily behind the mountains while she sharpens and cleans her blades.

“There you are!” Hawke shouts from the ground in front of the stables. She lifts her chin to him in recognition, and he raises a finger, “Wait there, I’m coming up!”

She actually allows herself to feel excited to see him. The events of late may have actually given her the closest thing to closure that she will ever get with the Avvar people. She certainly can’t hope for better, and she is pleased with what she got. She killed Ofred and his scum followers. Those with brains are of no threat to her anymore.

She’s kept the affair with Hawke at arm’s length, as best as she could. However, with this weight lifted off her shoulders, never again having to fear an Avvar nightmare would find her and drag her back to him, perhaps she can toy with the idea off letting someone close. Maybe she can allow for more than just a wild tryst.

There’s been an undeniable connection between Hawke and Abner since he walked into the hall that first night. Maybe she should consider letting him in. Whatever they are, it has been better ever since he stopped trying to pry into her past and ‘fix her.’ They are at ease now, and she feels happy to be around him.

If nothing else, she thinks she can at least enjoy his company when she has it.

She smiles warmly down at the blade in her hand, pleased that she will be able to see her wild, naughty champion before he leaves for an undetermined amount of time. She notices his approach from the corner of her eye. He strides up with a shit-eating-grin and leans against the wall where she sits.

“Guess what I did,” he purrs proudly. His eyes twinkle with mischief, just the way she likes. She looks at him silently, expectantly, waiting for the answer. “I convinced Leliana to release you to the Western Approach.”

“How and why’d you manage that?”

“Well first, I couldn’t bear the thought of not being around you for a day, let alone weeks.” He brushes hair that swung in her face away, tucking it behind her shoulder. His hand snakes behind her hair, and lightly rubs the back of her neck, then whispers a kiss on her shoulder. “And I may have bribed her… a little.”

“What did you do?” she side eyes the man, amusement twitching her lips.

“I may, or may not, have given her the contact information for a new, better, nug supplier in Orzammar. Did you know she wants to breed the little beasts when this is all over?”

“I did. How would you know about a nug guy in Orzammar?” This man never ceases to confound her.

“I know lots of things, my little bear.” He comes up behind her, wrapping his arms around her middle and resting his chin on her shoulder. “And there was a time where I may, or may not, have needed to procure some of the little creatures to use in a prank on my brother.” He brushes coils of hair away in order to nuzzle his beard into the crook of her neck. “The important part is, she agreed.” He kisses long, adoring kisses across the curves of her skin.

She closes her eyes as the last thread of sun disappears in the horizon, soaking in the feeling of his affection. “I’m glad.”

He gently reaches to pull the dagger and polishing rag from her hands, setting them to the side with the others.  He then grabs her middle and pulls her back off of the wall. He swings Abner’s body around and holds her face in his hands. His stormy, blue eyes look into hers, searching her with a soft smile on his lips. “Are you? Truly? You aren’t mad at me for meddling in your affairs?”

“I guess that’s just somethin’ I’ve got to expect from you, if I want you around.”

He grins wildly and takes her lips in his. They stand there kissing on the ramparts, as the indigo deepens in the sky above, stars shimmering down upon them. The keep now only illuminated by the many torches and braziers set aflame for the night.

She pulls away and smirks at her lover, “You want to do something fun?”

“Always,” he purrs, his eyes and voice dark with desire. He leans in to kiss her again, but she ducks away to grab her blades and supplies. She holsters her daggers, tucks her rags into her waistband, and tosses her stone and cleaning polish down onto the ground past the stables. She pulls a tie from her arm and gathers her dreaded hair into a large messy bun.  Hopping up onto the wall, she smiles over her shoulder at Hawke. “Follow me.”

“Hey, where are your boots?” He asks, looking at her bare feet quizzically.

“Left them with the apostate. C’mon!” She drops down to scale the wall down to the roof of the stables. Her toes and fingers grip the uneven stone until she is close enough to jump off and land on the wooden, roof planks.

Hawke stares hesitantly down from the top of the wall. “I’m not sure I can do that… Why does the elf have your boots?”

“I was in his rotunda earlier. Come on, you can do it. Just grip those larger uneven parts.”

Hawke gets on the wall and slowly works his way down to each jutting stone. Abner calls out directions to help his feet and hands find the best places to grip. She should have told him to remove his boots, but he manages to scale the wall anyway, and jumps down onto the roof.

“Why were your boots off in the rotunda?” he asks, wiping his hands together to rid them of old, stone dust.

Precious creature, he is worried and jealous of Solas. “I was relaxin’ on his couch and eating his treats.”

“He gave you treats?”

Abner laughs and shoves him playfully, “I don’t think he’d say that. Now, c’mon!” She darts to the edge of the roof near where the back gate is located. With a leap and a twist, she grabs the edge of the roof with her hands and swings inside, landing on a pile of hay. Hawke’s slower more cautious footsteps reverberate above her as he follows. He eases himself down by gripping at one of the wooden posts holding up the roof. Balancing on the wooden partition that makes the outer edge of the stables, he jumps in.

While he descended, she removed her harnesses and blades, setting them safely down inside the empty horse stall. They are in the last stall of the stables, where the fresh hay is kept. The piles are large, billowy, and clean. Well, clean enough for hay.

Now that he is standing in front of her, Hawke looks at Abner nervously. She can tell that he is worried - for no reason - that there is something between her and the elf. She laughs at his expression and shoves him backwards into a hay pile. Hopping on top of him, she straddles the mage and smothers him in playful kisses. She attacks him with spirited affection until he laughs and his mind eases.

“Are you sure you want to do this here?” he asks.

“Why not?” she shrugs and presses her hips firmly against his.

He pulls her shoulders down to kiss them. She ducks her head down to capture his lips in hers, and they kiss as if they had been parted for years. As if she is the desert, and he is the long missed rain. Hawke murmurs sweet and desirable words to her, while trailing his lips to her ears and back down her neck, when she hears something of a struggle outside the stable wall. Abner sits up, alert and listening, hushing her lover’s objections with a single finger placed over his mouth. Her ears keen to the sounds of an aggressive exchange on the other side of the wooden partition.

A man and a woman seem to be having an argument. The male voice is particularly vile. The sounds then quickly turn to wrenched, hoarse screaming from a female voice. Abner quickly crawls across the stall to grab her blades. The cedar slats that makeup the outside wall travel too high for her to see over, but she can peer between cracks in the wood planking.

Some Templar prick looks to be torturing a mage. She looks terrified, and he has a murderous a glare that Abner knows all too well. She jumps out of the stall to the main walkway through the stables. Past the short, wide gate, she can see the Templar holding out his hand toward the mage. He purges and suppresses magic as he takes slow steps in the direction of the mage’s cries. Abner steadies her breath and aims her dagger for the weak point in his armor - the elbow.

Before the idiot knows what is happening, her dagger is sticking through him and he falls to his knees. He screams in agony while Abner races and jumps over the gate. She draws her other dagger and presses it firmly to his neck. She growls at the bastard, “The fuck you think you’re doing?” She notices the distinct aroma of stale, reeking alcohol permeating from the wretched figure. Hawke follows out from the stable gate, slower, and amusedly flanks the Templar.

She glances back to the assaulted mage, “Are you alright?” The woman stutters a response, telling Abner that she is at least functional.

“What was happening here?” Hawke looks back and forth between the two people. “The Mage-Templar war is not supposed to commence within Skyhold.”

Through gritted teeth the lyrium-addicted rat speaks, “The bitch needed to be taught.”

“Oh is that so? And you were just the twat to teach her?” Abner sneers, pressing her dagger even firmer against his neck, small drops of blood smear on her dagger’s edge. “Hawke, get this thing out of my sight. Take him to the healers, and alert the commander that this prick should be locked up til this matter’s settled.”

“What about her!” the Templar yells.

“Well, considering we saw you torturing her, I’m pretty sure we can trust she’s not the threat,” Hawke kneels down and growls at the man. He pulls the reeking shit to his feet, and marches him in the direction of the healer’s tower.

Abner grabs a rag from her waistband and wipes the small amount blood off her remaining blade. Turning to the blonde mage she says, “You’re goin’ to have to explain to the commanders. Both the Inquisition and the Templars will want to know what happened here. If you need, Hawke and I can weigh in as well.” She paces toward her and stretches out a hand to help pull the mage to her feet. “Name’s Abner.”

“Thank you, for… saving me,” she says as she stands. She looks familiar. Pale skin, blue eyes, blond hair pulled back into a bun. She is very pretty, but she is chewing on her lip in nervousness. Her eyes dart around, her brows furrow and pinch. “My name is Aurora,” she finally says.

Now Abner remembers her, she was the mage who had all of the ale spilled on her by the… oh… The Templars. Damn. This girl has some bad luck with those guys.

She brushes dirt off the backside of her tan and green mage robes. “This is not the first time that man has harassed me, but I was worried this time he was going to kill me. If you hadn’t been here…” her voice trails off and she stares at the ground. “Well, I am very glad that you were.”

Sensing that she is distressed and holds a story that the Commander should definitely hear, Abner gently grabs her shoulder. “C’mon, Aurora, let’s go talk to the commander together, yeah?”

Slowly and patiently she takes the mage to the commander’s battlement tower. The look in Aurora’s eyes is a familiar one, to which Abner unfortunately relates. She wonders how many times Aurora has been abused with no one to aid her, whether they knew of her pain, or not.

[dfroza]

may 8 of 2020

A Twin (Full Circle) number just as the sun & moon that give Light to illuminate the universal garden of earth

View this post on Instagram

A post shared by Andrew McCarthy (@cosmic_background) on May 7, 2020 at 1:03am PDT

View this post on Instagram

A post shared by Andrew McCarthy (@cosmic_background) on May 2, 2020 at 5:47pm PDT

[cosmic_background] Tonight's supermoon in a glorious 81 megapixels.

This is an HDR blend of multiple exposures, so lunar details, stars, and that beautiful glow that accompanies our moon in these crisp nights are all visible.

To get the signed print, check the link in my bio. These will be available for 24 hours or until I sell out. As always, patrons can check out the full resolution.

5.7.20 • Instagram

[cosmic_background] Swipe to see a surprise 🤓

This morning I was graced with a rare conjunction- the @iss not only transited the sun, but it also passed right through a nice big prominence as it exited the limb (visible in the videos). Quite a lucky catch!! As always, Patrons get the full size HQ shot. Check the link in my bio if interested in joining us!

5.3.20 • Instagram

and to accompany these posts here’s reading from both Psalm 8 and Proverbs 8 about Creation

[Psalm 8]

God’s Splendor

For the Pure and Shining One

Set to the melody of “For the Feast of Harvest,” by King David

Lord, your name is so great and powerful!

People everywhere see your splendor.

Your glorious majesty streams from the heavens,

filling the earth with the fame of your name!

You have built a stronghold by the songs of babies.

Strength rises up with the chorus of singing children.

This kind of praise has the power to shut Satan’s mouth.

Childlike worship will silence

the madness of those who oppose you.

Look at the splendor of your skies,

your creative genius glowing in the heavens.

When I gaze at your moon and your stars,

mounted like jewels in their settings,

I know you are the fascinating artist who fashioned it all!

But when I look up and see

such wonder and workmanship above,

I have to ask you this question:

Compared to all this cosmic glory,

why would you bother with puny, mortal man

or be infatuated with Adam’s sons?

Yet what honor you have given to men,

created only a little lower than Elohim,

crowned like kings and queens with glory and magnificence.

You have delegated to them

mastery over all you have made,

making everything subservient to their authority,

placing earth itself under the feet of your image-bearers.

All the created order and every living thing

of the earth, sky, and sea—

the wildest beasts and all the sea creatures—

everything is in submission to Adam’s sons.

Lord, your name is so great and powerful.

People everywhere see your majesty!

What glory streams from the heavens,

filling the earth with the fame of your name!

The Book of Psalms, Poem 8 (The Passion Translation)

[Wisdom in the Beginning]

“In the beginning I was there,

for God possessed me even before he created the universe.

From eternity past I was set in place,

before the world began.

I was anointed from the beginning.

Before the oceans depths were poured out,

and before there were any glorious fountains

overflowing with water,

I was there, dancing!

Even before one mountain had been sculpted

or one hill raised up,

I was already there, dancing!

When he created the earth, the fields,

even the first atom of dust,

I was already there.

When he hung the tapestry of the heavens

and stretched out the horizon of the earth,

when the clouds and skies were set in place

and the subterranean fountains began to flow strong,

I was already there.

The Book of Proverbs, Chapter 8:22-28 (The Passion Translation)

[comicsnsuch]

Lovecraft by INJ Culbard

Published by Selfmadehero

Written by H. P. Lovecraft

Art and adaptations by I. N. J Culbard

This book is a collection of four previously released H. P. Lovecraft adaptations by the artist I. N. J Culbard.  The stories adapted in this volume are "The Dream-Quest of Unknown Kadath," "The Case of Charles Dexter Ward," "At The Mountains of Madness," and "The Shadow Out of Time."

If you don’t want to read the whole review, let me tell you these were really good.

I am a fan of Culbard’s art from his work on DC/Vertigo’s New Deadwardians, Wild’s End from Boom! Studios and most recently his art on the Everything mini series from Dark Horse Comics.  I really enjoy the simple, brushy line he uses. I’ve always enjoyed his art when it’s crossed my path.

I was excited to read these adaptations as I have not read much Lovecraft but find that his works are often referenced or homaged in other works I enjoy. Hellboy, is the one that springs to mind first. 

I have read one of the stories adapted here before in straight up prose, “At the Mountains of Madness”.  I remember it being a struggle to get through. I kept waiting for Cthulhu to show up, but it never did. Surprise! Chtulu ain’t in that one! At the time I had no idea Lovecraft had a whole universe of other creatures and characters. 

Silly me!

The book starts off with the adaptation of “The Dream-Quest of Unknown Kadath”, about Randolph Carter questing in his dreams to find the city of Kadath, home of the gods..This was a strong choice to lead the volume off with. The story was weird and had great visuals including talking cats and inventive vistas. 

There’s something up with that cat.  I can’t quite put my finger on it...

In my opinion this was the best drawn of all the adaptations and Culbard’s use of color in it was amazing in it. The artwork looked extra crisp in this entry.

“The colors Duke, the colors...”

Next up was “The Case of Charles Dexter Ward”. A story about a young man whose consciousness is replaced by another’s and his family doctor’s struggle to put the pieces of how this happened together. This was my favorite adaptation in the book.  This was a great story.  Perhaps the most straightforward of the bunch.  Totally creepy.  Some of Culbard’s storytelling choices were so cinematic, it was like looking at key frames from animation.I feel like Culbard’s art was not as refined in this entry as the first, but it was still great. I thought the art had a little more detail in it compared to the even simpler art in the opening story.  

A cinematic passage from “The Case of Charles Dexter Ward”

Then came “At the Mountain of Madness”. The one story I had read previously. The tale of a doomed expedition to the Antarctic where the crew meet one of Lovecraft’s races of super beings from space and time. I loved it this time around, maybe being prepared for no appearance by Cthulhu helped. I don’t remember giant eyeless penguins from when I read this story in prose either, but here they are! 

I snapped this pic, sorry about the quality, you’ll just have to deal, sucker!

Culbard uses a thicker line in this entry and the gradient in the colors is more pronounced. In this story for some reason I finally noticed he is using simple black dots for the eyes, ala Herge in Tintin. He gets a great range of expression from such a simple technique.

Those eyes!

Wrapping it all up is “The Shadow Out Of Time”. This one is about a man who faints and his consciousness is transported to a sort of cosmic college where he is tasked with writing the history of his times while another consciousness possesses his body and seeks knowledge of our world. When the man’s mind returns to his body he is determined to find the alien beings that captured him.  Another great entry. As the introduction to this story points out, due to the main character’s love for his son, this story has more humanity in it than some of the others.  This story feels like it was drawn around the same time as “The Case of Charles Dexter Ward” due to the way Culbard details the characters' faces.amount of detail Culbard uses.

I don’t have anything to say about this, just didn’t want to leave out the “Shadow Out of Time”

Throughout these adaptations Culbard’s work is on point. The storytelling is clear, the images are well composed and appropriately dark as the stories demand. Culbard has a great sense of design. This can be seen in the different facial features he gives his characters and the designs of the landscapes, interiors and in the portrayal of the otherworldly monsters that are often present. The stories never get too wordy, the dialogue is easy to follow, making these a very easy entry to the world of Lovecraft.  Whether it’s Lovecraft’s stories or Culbard’s artwork, I can’t tell, but while reading these a creeping sense of dread accompanied each page. 

And Cthulhu doen;t make an appearance except maybe in a panel in any of these stories!

This volume is a great showcase for I. N. J Culbard’s art and a great entry point for anyone looking to get in to work of H. P Lovecraft.

Don’t hesitate to get yourself a copy today!

Until next time!

[amarsmellow]

Coffee

It had been a good day, one of the best between them.

Strolling along in the town of Innsmouth the Gypsy had become more and more accustomed to its people and they in turn, mostly ignored her presence. Today was no exception because she walked with the Pharaoh beside her and if they came across a crowd, they parted like the Red Seas. One brave soul or two actually knelt, their heads bowed in reverence to the Black Pharaoh, mumbling words in a strange, alien language that hurt Vera’s ears and sent her head spinning.

She found it helpful to keep all her mental guards in place, blocking out the rather strange energy the whole place seemed to be saturated in. It felt like white hot electricity riding the air currents, threatening to short circuit her neurons, making her tongue tangle in words the old mammalian brain remembered but dared not speak.

When this happened she always sought him out, her hand blinding seeking his, as if by anchoring herself to the very source of her building distress it would dissipate. The conundrum of it all is this worked! Vera would cling to him, pressed to his side, and funnel back what she unintentionally took within her own essence. The feral glow slowly disappearing from the kaleidoscope of her eyes, a spiraling mixture of brown and gold. Uneven breaths sputtered to a more even rhythm and her burgeoning descent into madness itself evaporating as though it had never happened.

But not today! Today she had her coffee and she had – whatever she had with the Pharaoh. It really helped that she didn’t examine too closely the parameters of their association. The word “relationship” was certainly forbidden to enter her mind – if it did she would then have to seek out some appropriate label and then her brain would truly fry itself out.

No, far simpler to leave it be.

And this fine morning stroll – a rarity really! – was to be savored. He indulged her questions, his smile sly and the tongues in his mouth answering her directly, sometimes. Mostly it was the same old song and dance; evasion, quips, and notable eye-rolls when she asked a particularly banal query. Vera wondered if they would ride this merry-go-round to her grave but kept the thought to herself.

Of course nothing goes perfectly in her world and tragedy had to strike.

One of the Pharaoh’s sycophants jostled into the Gypsy, eager to get closer to their literal God.

The result was a slow motion series of gross unfortunate events.

The son-of-bitch-bastard knocked Vera’s coffee cup out of her hand. Gasping she watched in shocked dismay as it tumbled down, as though in slow motion, to the ground. Her eyes flared wide in such disbelief and her hands fumbled to save the precious.

Precious could not be saved.

And those on-lookers, the ones who had yet to scuttle away to safety, watched equally as horrified.

The Pharaoh, too, was highly displeased. He knew – oh did he know – how this was going to play out.

“Don’t start.”

“MY COFFEE!”

He took a deep breath.

“We will get you-“

“OhmyGod! The coffee!”  

He pinched the bridge of his nose.

Those who knew her would not find the sight of her on her knees, in the dirt and filth, with her arms held beseechingly to the sky, strange.

“I always knew you worshiped the ground I walked on.” Maybe he could provoke her out of her tantrum.

Vera wailed and hissed in return, her head mournfully lowered.

The Pharaoh was equal parts amused and frustrated. “You are making a Fool of yourself over a nothing.” He slurred, growing bored and disenchanted.

Vera, who had descended into full blown brat-mode, “YOU’RE A NOTHING!”

The Pharaoh winked out of existence and left the Gypsy to pout, very much alone.

And she hated it.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Vera opened the door to her sea-side cottage, still in a stint over her spilled coffee. It wasn’t that she was such a mercurial creature that she had such little control of herself. The Pharaoh certainly gave her much leave-way and when any other mortal would have been snuffed out for her comment, he punished her in the best (worst) of ways.

He left her alone.

He could have crawled into every corner of her mind and left her a gibbering, jabbering wreck on the street, nails ripping furrows in her cheeks, a hollow shell of a human being.

He could have descended on her like a nightmare but instead, treated her exactly as how she acted – a spoiled child in need of a time out.

And so true to form she went stomping through her cottage, her words an unintelligible mumble of several languages, strung together haphazardly.

She was stopped cold though by the sight that met her eyes when she ventured into the kitchen.

There was the precious! ALL OVER! Coffee cups of varying sizes filled every available counter space.

Vera – who should have seen a carefully laid trap – was ecstatic!

“You do love me!” she shouted, running like a child at Christmas into her kitchen, eager for her presents.

And of course she drank. Every. Single. Blessed. Cup.  

 XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

He knows his Gypsy – he knows her very well.

The Pharaoh appeared gradually in her midst, coalescing in front of her, his smile stretched wide – wider than should have been right but so much about him was wrong. He was here for the show.

But the sight that greeted him, did indeed, give Chaos some … pause.

Plastered on the walls were crude drawings (did her spawn make these?) of writhing tentacles (he thinks they are supposed to be tentacles), something resembling the head of a goat, and another with curved back hind legs like a – (kangaroo)?

“YOU CAME!”  

Vera ran excited circles around him and before he could form a response, began to climb up him as though he were a tree.

Hands gripped the back of his linen tunic, fingers tangled in the black, silken waterfall of his hair, which she used like a rope to propel herself up, up, up until she was able to encircle her arms around his neck. Long legs clamped around his chest, hooking at the ankles where a normal, human breastplate should be.

Giggling like a demented three year old high on sugar the Gypsy latched herself to him like a leech. Anyone else and ragdoll physics would have been employed but the Pharaoh became still, still as death, and waited.

Rapid fire she shot her words out to him, her accent slurring vowels and dropping consonants, leaving emphasis in all the wrong places. The gist of it:

“I just want to express how thankful I am for all the coffee and OhmyGod, I did more work and research than I ever have before! Now, I know I was not supposed to look into all those old, old, old books you have but I only snagged the one and took the teeniest, tiniest of peeks! It took forever! Lifetimes! For me to decipher some of it and when I did – ooooooh wow!”

The rest was lost in a mixture of Romanian, Romani, and ….

… It was then the Pharaoh realized he had made a terrible mistake.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The truth of this occurrence was far darker than one could imagine.

While one might assume the Pharaoh hadn’t intended for this to happen, at all, it was more along the lines he hadn’t intended for this to happen now.

This was always going to happen, this was nature at its base core taking place, and unfolding beautifully before his eyes.

Vera laughed until her throat felt raw or was that from the occasional shrieking? Or the sobbing? Nothing made sense anymore and she was left dancing on a knife’s precipice, leaving her bloody and butchered. She had been warned oh – she had been warned countless of times but she didn’t listen.

Did she ever listen, truly?  

He counted on her short comings like the most studious of bankers.

It was a miasmas that filtered through her conscious thought, bringing with it visions of faceless monstrosities and a huge hulking figure buffered by a tumultuous sea. It was a glimpse of a possible future - of fallen cities and humanity exuberant in its own destruction. Visions of maggots crawling in the dirt, devouring visceral fat, and centipedes burrowing into her ears. The hysterical cries of mothers, chased by the heartbreaking silence from infants.

Vera fought and fought against it, and when she feared becoming consumed and lost – the Crawling Chaos appeared before her and in her delirium, saw him as her Savior. This is what compelled her to rush at him, to cling to him like the proverbial rock in her storm.  

There was an aurora borealis of light surrounding the Pharaoh as though this cosmic light (energy) resonated from his very essence. And as bright it appeared to Vera it was also abyssal – depthless.

She had no control, no more barriers to keep her safe, and with every mental guard down she took him in whole. Siphoning energy from him and spooling it dangerously to become her own bindings – she bounded herself to him, unwittingly!  

For several terrifying moments, where clarity dared to intrude, she realized she could no longer tell where he began or she ended.

The Pharaoh is an ouroboros – there is no beginning, there is no end.

Gasping out, choking on her own air, she clenched her hands into the endless black spill of his hair, and fought the convulsions that wrecked her body. There was no more peering through a glass darkly – for in this moment she could clearly see the Truth of what he is, and this was the price she paid.  

She is a Daughter of Eve and hungered to eat more of the Tree, to bite into the crisp flesh of fruit to better satisfy her yearning.

Her eyes had been bigger than her stomach.

She should’ve of listened to all the warnings.

Whimpering now, her hold on him becoming as unstable as her mind, Vera started to slip and would have fallen had it been for the Pharaoh grasping at her legs ‘round his chest. Left to sway Vera experienced a moment of non-gravity before he let go and the floor rushed up to meet her.

Blacking out is a mercy he doesn’t allow her to have.