#crookes magazine

[personinthepalace]

Cameron Chapman for Crookes Magazine

[nacholmo23]

Alex Lincoln by Dan Collins for CROOKES Magazine

[medullam]

Andre 3000 for Muzik Magazine, ph. Martin Crook [2003]

[nando161mando]

The Wall Street Journal (Jabronis) ceases any remaining resemblance of neutrality. Not a single mention of Epstein file and Trump in the past 30+ days.

[ultrameganicolaokay]

Epitaphs from the Abyss #7 by Cullen Bunn, Tyler Crook, Chris Condon, Dustin Weaver, Matthew Rosenberg and more. Variant covers by (1) Joëlle Jones and (2) Jay Stephens. Main cover (3) by Lee Bermejo. Out in January 2025.

"SOMETIMES... NIGHTMARES DO COME TRUE! IN THE NEW YEAR, EC COMICS DARES YOU LOOK EVEN DEEPER INTO THE UNEXPLORED RECESSES OF YOUR IMAGINATION AS THE TOPSELLING HORROR SERIES OF 2024 ENTERS ITS UNRELENTING SECOND ACT! This month: Our beloved hosts—the Grave-Digger, the Tormentor, and the Grim Inquisitor—usher you forth into three velvet-lined tales of darkness and deceit... and then seal you inside! Relax and embrace the decomposition yet to come as storytellers and fellow victims Cullen Bunn (The Sixth Gun), Chris Condon (Night People), and Matthew Rosenberg (DC vs. Vampires) gulp their last remaining breaths alongside grisly artists Tyler Crook (Harrow County), Dustin Weaver (Avengers), and more! STAY CALM, THAT RELENTLESS BANGING WILL ONLY WEAR YOU OUT MORE QUICKLY!"

[rollercoasterwords]

Please indulge me, I’m very visual… all the while you’ve been writing ATWMD, are there any actors or musicians you’re thinking of that best represent how you’d imagine the characters to look like?

no i’m sorry i am not a fancast person 🤧 i don’t picture celebs etc when i’m writing i just imagine guys in my head…but there are some lovely artists who have made art for wfrau if u want to get a visual that way! @lyr-caelum @theinvisiblemuseum and @queerfeardear have all made art which i’ve embedded in the fic & u can also scroll thru my #fic art tag to find it there!

[bodybybane]

Mike Mignola Talks New ‘Hellboy’ Film ‘The Crooked Man’ & Fate Of Guillermo del Toro’s Trilogy https://www.forbes.com/sites/joshweiss/2024/08/23/mike-mignola-talks-new-hellboy-film-the-crooked-man--fate-of-guillermo-del-toros-trilogy/

[sincericida]

ANDREW GARFIELD in Star Magazine (April 29). (source)

My considerations:

«(...) Andrew had heard of her remarkable abilities and was intrigued," says the insider. "He was impressed that she went to Oxford and thinks she's incredibly passionate about helping people.»

REALLY, Andrew!? 🤦🏽‍♀️

«Andrew "is looking for something long-term," says the insider.»

And there we go by the husband nº5 without children - since the grifter witch hates children and compares pregnancy with parasite? Wasn’t he the one who was desperate to have a family with children?

«Their friends have high hopes Kate could be the one.»

What friends, exactly!? Coz Ellie and Trevor really don’t.

The person who wrote this article received how much to do this? Or did she write because she was threatened with a curse from the grifter witch (as well as deuxmoi) if she did not write? (Apparently, the writer of the article is a ag stan (X))

Ugh.

[missr3n3]

c’mon mark it’s christmas and he has a present for you

[dustedmagazine]

Insomnia Brass Band — Crooked Alligator (Tiger Moon)

Photo by Dovile Sermokas

This boisterous jazz trio makes a lot out of a little, welding the low-end honk and blare of baritone saxophone and trombone to a clattering continual explosion of drums. The three musicians— Anke Lucks on trombone, Almut Schlichting on baritone saxophone and Christian Marien on drums—balance minimalist negative space with a raucous, collaborative interaction.

Last time out, for Road Works, Dusted observed, “There are always three different, but more or less congruent, musical ideas going on in these songs, a sort of hacky-sack of interconnected inquiry, in which each musician must be prepared to keep the tune in the air, regardless of the angle it flies in from.” That kinetic vibe defines Crooked Alligators, too, as does the sense that, for three people, this outfit makes an outsized racket. Insomnia Brass Band swaggers like a large ensemble but retains the nimble volatility of small one.

Crooked Alligator is nearly an hour long, but never dull. It jitters and honks and thunders in a constant state of reinvention. “Duke of Prenzlauer Berg” barks a staccato, high-kicking dance beat, the spare but celebratory architecture of drums and trombone providing a structure in which sax can squall free-form. But then, the sax flies back, integrating its own spattered cadence into the boxy interchange. It’s a marvelous combination of discipline and anarchy.

“Sunday Song” turns blowsy and lyrical, long sax blasts carrying jaunty flights of trombone lyricism. The title seems apt; it’s definitely a song, despite all the playful outbursts, and accessible enough for a Sunday working the crossword, sunshine pouring through the kitchen window.

Not so for pulse-quickening, cowbell jangling “Traces of Summer,” which runs on a faintly samba-like adrenaline. Here the trombone works out long stretches of melody, which the sax bursts and blasts exclamation points.

You may wonder why this Berlin jazz trio has fallen into the hands of one of Dusted’s least jazz-conversant writers, and the reason is: they asked. But more broadly, this trio has a bristling, punchy energy that’s more like punk than not, and it’s easy to like even if you’re not immersed in the tradition. All hail brass insomnia, percussive dislocation, baritone sax restlessness, and intricate interplay that these elements can create.

Jennifer Kelly

[vexx-the-egg]

Women with smile lines and imperfect noses are HOT and I am based for thinking this.

[monkeyssalad-blog]

Secret Service #190 by Michael Studt Via Flickr: Secret Service / Heft-Reihe [Old and Young King Brady, Detectives] The Bradys and the Blind Beggar; or, The Worst Crook of All Frank Tousey / USA 12. September 1902) Reprint / Comic-Club NK 2010 ex libris MTP dimenovels.org/Item/11390/Show

[ultrameganicolaokay]

Epitaphs from the Abyss #2 by Matt Kindt, Tyler Crook, Jason Aaron, Jorge Fornés and Klaus Janson. Cover by Lee Bermejo. Variant covers by (2) Adam Pollina and (3) Jay Stephens. Out in August.

"EC COMICS PROUDLY PRESENTS… ANOTHER EPITAPH THAT'S GOOD UNTIL THE VERY LAST BALLOON POPS! In this month's terrifying festival of fright: Three ALL-NEW tales of depraved intention and traumatic tension—culled from the fingertips of death-addled writers Jason Aaron (Thor, Southern Bastards), Matt Kindt (BRZRKR, Mind MGMT), and writer/artist Tyler Crook (Harrow County), and forever wedded to the bloodstained brushstrokes of artists Klaus Janson (The Dark Knight Returns) and Jorge Fornes (Batman)! THREE UNRELENTING NAIL-BITERS FROM FIVE MASTERS OF THE COMICS TRADE… You'd have to be CRAZY to miss this—or DEAD!"

[luveline]

hi honey!! i have a request of sad spencer comforted by bombshell reader. maybe hes the one on the brink of tears and really shes just there for him please

thanks for your request!!! fem, 1k

Spencer Reid can't stop frowning. 

“You know what I've been reading lately?” you ask him. 

“Cosmopolitan?” 

“That's just sexist.” 

Spencer points at the copy of Cosmopolitan hidden between papers and an open book where it lies on the desk in front of you, a smile interrupting his frown momentarily. “Sorry,” he says. 

“Oh, don't be sorry.” You squint at him ever so slightly as you cross one leg over the other and sink back into your borrowed seat. “That's on me. But, you know… this isn't my desk. That could be anybody's magazine.” 

He laughs politely and turns back to his work. 

“You don't wanna know what I'm actually reading?” you ask. 

He stares at his keyboard. “Mm.” 

He's not listening. That's alright. You don't really want to tell him about what you've been reading; it's just a book. 

You slide your chair closer to his and peek at the computer. He's on a page for American Airlines, flights to Las Vegas, but he hasn't clicked anything. Spencer grew up in Las Vegas, and his mom still lives there alone in a sanitorium for the mentally ill. She can get really sick at a moment's notice. You know he’s been thinking about that more lately. 

“Is everything okay, Spencer?” you ask quietly. 

You incline your head to his. He looks up, at first surprised by your attention, and then abashed. “Yeah.” 

“You don't seem yourself,” you say, putting your hand on his arm. You feel up to the crook of his elbow, waiting for him to shrug you off. He doesn't move. You stroke his skin with your thumb. “You can talk to me, you know? I hope you know that, anyways.” 

“Yeah, I know, it's…” His voice wobbles. You lean in closer. “It's nothing.” 

The first time you saw Spencer cry, he was in a hospital room being weaned off of a terrible thing, and it was sudden but expected all the same. He was suffering, recovering but in pain, and you would've cried if the roles were reversed. That was a long time ago. Seeing him upset doesn't get easier. 

“Spencer,” you murmur, “What's wrong? You look like you could burst into tears. Do you need me to get you a glass of water?” 

He shakes his head. You stay right there by his side waiting for the inevitable, the tears gathering in his eyes that he blinks away, and his painful swallowing. You have two hands —the one that isn't squeezing his arm jumps to his back to hold his stiff shoulder. 

“Do you want me to get Morgan?” you ask, unsure. 

It's a busy office, and you and Spencer sit on the outskirts closest to the offices upstairs and furthest from the hubbub. Nobody notices your closeness. You speak too quietly to be overheard. 

“Spencer,” you implore. 

He ducks his head, putting his hand to his brow. 

“I'm okay,” he says, his voice stronger now, “it's just my mom doesn't sound right in her letters lately, and I'm tired, and I wasn't expecting you to ask me.” 

“No?” you ask, giving his arm another tender rub. “Sorry if I'm upsetting you, Spencer. I was worried. You don't have to talk about it.” He winces. “But if you do want to, I'm right here.” 

He needs a hug, you decide (unsurely). You stand and he immediately lifts his head with worry in his eyes, but you're not going anywhere, the opposite. You cover up his head and shoulders as your chin rests gently atop his soft hair, a gravel to your tone as you say, “It's okay.” 

Spencer is silent. Slowly, tentatively, he wraps his arms around you in turn, and then he's squeezing you tight enough to feel it in your spine. 

“It's okay, Spencer. We can talk about it, huh? We can work something out. It wouldn't be terrible for you to take a vacation every once in a while, maybe that's what you need.”  

He breathes out against your sleeve. “Sorry,” he says. 

“It's okay.” You kiss his head. He likely doesn't feel it. “I promise, it's fine.” 

“I wasn’t expecting you to ask.” 

“I know, you said that already.” You don’t tell him with any malice, just reaffirmation. “But I’ll always ask. I care about you, I need you to be okay, Dr. Reid. You’re my pillar of strength.” He laughs with self-deprecation, but you mean it. “You are. You’re always there for me. You’re always looking after me.”

“Since when do you need looking after?” 

“That’s one of the best and worst things about you. You don’t realise what you are to people.” 

Spencer screws his hands into your blouse and grows still in your arms. You consider scolding him about wrinkles to lighten the mood, but he’ll take you too seriously, and stop hugging you, and that’s not what you want. You try to be subtle about the comfort you’re giving him as you wrap your arms behind his head to close him in, hiding him from any prying eyes, but the longer you stay holding him the more attention you recieve, until even your stoic unit chief can't pretend this is appropriate for the workplace. 

“L/N,” Hotch says in concern. “Reid. Is everything okay?” 

Spencer seizes up and tries to push you away.

You lift your chin above his head and give Hotch your stickiest smile, arms moving to a more amicable position behind his shoulders. “No, everything is not okay, Hotch. You realise I only joined the unit to be with Spencer, right? And you punish me by sitting me halfway across the office!” 

Everyone watching either laughs or rolls their eyes, used to your dramatic favouritism. Even Hotch seems tired of it. 

“I’d be sorry if I thought that were true. Can you go back to suffocating Reid on your own time? We have some consults to look over.” 

You widen the gap between you and Spencer, allowing him the space to collect himself. “If you insist,” you say, grinning brightly. 

You stand in front of Spencer, heart aching as he sniffs quietly. He stands, and for a moment you think he won’t be alright after all, that your comfort was useless and he’ll need to excuse himself, but he draws a ghost of a line into your side with his knuckle and squares his expression. “Let’s get back to work,” he says to you with a small smile. You’ll talk more later. 

“Wanna hold hands?” you ask. 

“Maybe when everyone’s stopped looking at me?” he says under his breath, starting toward the steps to the conference room. 

“Wait, really?”

He hurries up the stairs. You follow.

[dickgraysonsbitch]

shopping with the batboys ( + bruce )

to my pineapple pizza haters: know you are valid

warnings: none | divider by @cafekitsune | requests open!

With DICK GRAYSON, the most mundane of shopping trips turns into an expedition—leaving your heart rushing and blood pounding. He shoots you a flirty wink before steadying the grip on his shopping cart. “Ready, sweetheart? Because I don’t think you are. I’ve got the bread isle memorized like the back of my—”

“Go!” You exclaim, snorting when you see the shocked expression on his face, like he wasn’t expecting you to cheat to try to beat him. Hey, he was a super-fit vigilante, how else were you going to get a head start against Nightwing? Pushing off of a rack of magazines, you let out a shout of victory as you grab the milk from the fridge. One down, two to go. You quickly place the eggs into your cart, but not before you make eye contact with your menace of a boyfriend, who smirks at you before grabbing the last bag of whole wheat bread. Damn, he really did have the bread isle memorized like the back of his hand, didn’t he?

He bats his eyelashes at you innocently, but not before flashing you a crooked grin. “I think that’s three, sweetheart. 3-2, if you know what I mean, so…” he smiles, but there’s a glint of mirth in his eyes that absolutely melts your heart.

“I’m still calling a foul. It’s your walk-in pantry, and there’s no way that you didn’t have an advantage over me.” You huff, crossing your arms, trying to replicate the cute-but-hurt puppy dog eyes that Dick seemed to have mastered.

He shook his head, chuckling to himself. “Sorry, but a deal’s a deal. I mean, I guess you could go back on it, but…” he looks up at you, with those eyes that could melt even the coldest of hearts, and probably a physical ice statue as well.

“Fine,” you grumble. “We can have pineapple on your stupid pizza. Do you want cereal for dessert?” The last question is supposed to be sarcastic, but the light in his eyes shifts from mischievous to downright carnal.

“Actually, I was thinking of having something else for dessert.”

Oh, boy.

You always knew that JASON TODD was going to spoil you rotten, and that was before you found out that he could cook. It wasn’t fair, actually, that he was probably the most gorgeous, intelligent, and caring person that you knew, all while being kick-ass and super talented at… basically everything. To some, God gave in abundance. Sighing dramatically, you propped yourself on his shoulder and leaned against him with your elbows.

His eyes twinkled at your new position. “What’s wrong, princess? Tacos not your scene anymore?” He was lying, obviously, because you demolished tacos like they were your last meal and you were on death row, but you still huffed and buried your face in his bicep.

“Jus’ thinking ‘bout how fuckin’ perfect you are, Jay,” you mumbled, your voice muffled by the muscle that somehow managed to stay defined under a leather jacket. “You’re really awesome, you know that? I’ve never met someone as amazing as you. They should put a picture of you up at the Met—‘cause you’re a work of art, baby.”

It’s obvious that he’s holding back laughter, from the way that his broad shoulders are shaking, but something inspires him to keep entertaining this though. Probably your endless supply of charm. “Yeah, babe? I knew you wanted me just for my pretty face.” It’s interesting, honestly, how his relationship with you made him more comfortable with… all parts of himself.

You slap his chest, (not that it does anything), a s pout, your brows furrowed. “You’re not funny.” He send you a soft smile, something that should be uncharacteristic for a man of his size, but it works on you, like it usually does.

He presses his lips together before hoisting you up onto an empty display, tucking a piece of your hair behind your ear and out of your face. “Well then, it’s a good thing I’m pretty.” Within a minute of staring at your unamused face, he’s howling in laughter, snickering to himself like he’s the comedian of the year.

And without a moment of warning, you’re sealing his lips with a kiss, sending a tingle all the way to the tips of your fingers, and he’s parting his lips to deepen it even further. His hands palm just above your ass, and you gaze at him with half-lidded eyes, softly running your thumb over his rough cheek, and it feels like paradise until—

“Hey! I thought this was a roommates only grocery trip?”

You and Jason both roll your eyes at the voice, and with varying levels of intensity, reply in unison.

“Shut up, Roy!”

Nothing made you shiver like the husky, low voice of BRUCE WAYNE whispering in your ear from behind you. It was an action that sent your poor heart into overdrive, but here, in this shop that was clearly out of your tax bracket (they had mannequins for diamond embellished puppy collars, for God’s sake) it was as if he was doing it just to show that you were at his mercy.

Not a bad place to be, if you thought about it.

“Try on the dress,” his voice is baritone, and he isn’t using his usual, suave business tone. No, this is the voice he uses when he wants something, and when he’s sure that he’s going to get it. It was like a spell was cast on you, and all you wanted to do was exactly what he said. You weren’t sure you really needed a spell for that anyway.

But still, you hesitated. The dress in question was an Oscar de la Renta mermaid cut gown, in pitch black, no doubt matching Bruce’s own personal aesthetic. The only hesitation? The price. You balked instantly when you glanced at the bill for the first time. Shit, you knew that a custom made dress that didn’t even have a tag on it would be more than your yearly rent. “It’s… 15,000 dollars! Bruce, I can’t accept this.”

He frowned, making you notice the soft wrinkles starting to appear on his face. God, that man took way too much stress for his own good. You’d tried warning against it, but when did he ever listen to anyone but himself (and Alfred)?

“Pocket change, darling. And it’s your first gala, I don’t want you to be wearing something you’ve worn before.” He lightly rubs his fingers against your waist, a promise of something else to come once you accept.

“It’s…” you look down. “It’s a lot. Are you sure?”

“Never been surer. Now, why don’t you look at matching jewelry?”