#Bill Black's Fun Comics

[cryptocollectibles]

Bill Black's Fun Comics #4 (March 1983) by Paragon Comics

Written by Bill Black, Ben Smith, and R.C. Harvey. drawn by Jim Sanders III, Bill Black, Mark Heike, Roy Richardson, Joe Simon and Jack Kirby, cover by Pat Broderick and Bill Black

[lorebird]

In which Ford struggles so badly to relate to other people that he wonders if he’s really human at all. The more isolated he becomes, the harder it is to reconcile with his own humanity.

[carlocarrasco]

A Look Back at Spectacular Spider-Man #87 (1984)

Disclaimer: This is my original work with details sourced from reading the comic book and doing personal research. Anyone who wants to use this article, in part or in whole, needs to secure first my permission and agree to cite me as the source and author. Let it be known that any unauthorized use of this article will constrain the author to pursue the remedies under R.A. No. 8293, the Revised…

[raptorific]

I have this really weird pet peeve in comics fandom, which you can't really Talk About without it being mistaken for opposition to those headcanons in the the way certain Spider-Man fans were so opposed to a black Peter Parker that the writers invented Miles Morales about it, with the way Diverse Headcanons form, become popular, and occasionally even become mistaken for canon.

A lot of the time these headcanons are built on a combination of ethnic stereotypes and an outright refusal to engage with existing characters who actually have those identities in a way that generates the money that gets those characters further official content

The core example is the common headcanons about Robins prior to Damian-- the most popular headcanons about them are that Jason is Latino and Tim is Asian. And, like, I'm not necessarily opposed to them being Robins Of Color, and I'm not even necessarily opposed to those headcanons, but their popularity largely comes from unexamined biases and ethnic stereotypes about Latino and Asian men. The aggressive, hot-headed, violent Robin who came from a poor neighborhood must be Latino, and the well-off, nerdy teacher's pet Robin who's known for being good at computers must be Asian. I've seen Bat-fans balk at the suggestion of headcanoning Tim as Latino, or headcanoning Jason (or god forbid Dick) as Asian, often saying the quiet part loud: "it just doesn't fit their personality." They cast a black actor as Tim on Titans and I actually saw people who bill themselves as progressives complaining about it, because it ignores the popular Asian Tim headcanon

And the thing is, there actually are a fair number of fun Latino and Asian characters in DC canon! They're nowhere near as prominent, but, when you ask these same fans to maybe pay some attention to them, they make excuses and hem and haw and stick to making comic panel edits "correcting" the skin tones and facial features of their favorite canon white dudes to align with their headcanons. But if you ask them to make fanart or talk for even a second Jaime Reyes or Renee Montoya or Cass Cain, it's like herding cats

[murphysletsdraw]

In our garden I still feel a little poorly after traveling so I treated myself to some fun speed painting :D (If you like my art, you can support me on patreon where I post new art and comics 30+ times a month on average! It helps me eat and pay bills and is very much appreciated. You can find the link in my pinned post ^^) Image description: a slightly messy gouache painting of flowers and plants against a black and purple background. There’s white flowers with yellow-green leaves and flowering lady’s mantle covered in dew drops. End ID

[sweetsweetjellybean]

A night out with friends turns into a surprise welcome home party for the man who broke your heart, Eddie Munson.

Masterlist Listen to Scar Tissue Here

What to expect: Second Chance Romance set in 2012 Chicago, with flashbacks at the beginning of each chapter.  Eddie and Steve are in their 30s. Fem!Reader is given a pet name from each of the guys. No other name mentioned. No use of Y/N. No physical description. Reader does have a bit of personality, as I find it nearly impossible to keep her blank for such a long fic. You may find yourself at times making choices that you wouldn't normally make, but I hope you can put that aside and enjoy the ride. Sensitive Content. 18+ Guaranteed happy ending. This is my love letter to Eddie Munson.

WC:5162. Beta'd by @superblysubpar

“Have a good day,” your mother calls out as you shut the front door to the gray clapboard-sided home that your parents had fallen in love with the moment they laid eyes on it. You hadn’t even gotten past the front steps before she appears in the doorway, pulling her purple terry-cloth robe tighter around her shoulders as she calls you back. “You don’t have to come right home after school,” she tells you, pressing a few folded bills into your hand, “Go out with your friends. Have some fun.”

“Thanks, Mom.” You muster up a smile, shoving the bills into the front pocket of your Levi's, certain they will end up in the ceramic pink elephant bank that sits atop your dresser, just like the money she gave you last week. She watches you walk down the steps, giving you a wave before she turns away, shutting the door behind her. 

She tries her best, but she doesn't understand that friendships in the seventh grade aren't made as easily as they were in kindergarten, and you can't tell her that in the six weeks you've been enrolled at Hawkins Middle School, not a soul has spoken to you unless asked to by a teacher. 

This was the life that your parents had chosen, a career that demanded constant relocation and upheaval. "It's an adventure," they'd tell you as your things were being packed into boxes. But the older you got, it felt less like an adventure and more like a test. A test to prove yourself over and over. There’s a phrase your mom has uttered so often over the years, that it's surprising it's not embroidered on the throw pillows. Bloom where you're planted. But here, in this town, you're only a weed in the garden.

Hawkins isn't any worse or better than any of the other ten places you've lived in the last seven years, but these kids have been together since birth and aren't eager to welcome newcomers into the flock. Pouring your efforts into being confident and friendly, projecting a cool and unbothered facade, the constant exposure has left you empty. The mask is too heavy, and you’ve been wearing it far too long. If this were one of the comics you kept in the box under your bed, you'd be discovering your superpower–Invisibility. They don't see you here, and maybe they never would. 

The edges of folded bills in your pocket press into the meat of your thigh. Adding them to your total should give you enough for the new Elastica CD.  With a bit of luck, you might be able to talk your dad into driving you to Tower Records in Indianapolis this weekend. A few houses away, the battered front door of a small yellow cape opens with a click and thud, drawing your attention. The house was more run-down than the others on this street. The grass was left to grow a little longer before being mowed, and a few nights a week, you could hear the yelling coming from inside before seeing the slow flash of lights of a cruiser parked in front. 

A boy with curly shoulder-length hair bounds out from inside the house, slinging on his worn backpack as he hits the sidewalk.

Right on time this morning. 

The scuff of your white Doc Martens falls in step with the crunch of his black Converse hitting the pavement. The chain running from his back pocket to his hip sways with his movements. It’s more of a determined bounce than a walk. Your eyes stay trained on the frayed holes of his Jansport, corners of textbooks and papers pushing through. You keep waiting for physics to kick in and the thing to give way entirely.

“Quit following me.” 

His voice floats over his shoulder, shattering the quiet of the morning. Your head swivels from side to side, looking for whoever he is speaking to. His body turns until he’s walking backward, both hands gripping the straps of his backpack, casting his expectant brown eyes on you. 

“Me?” You ask, touching your chipped painted fingernails to your chest.

“You’ve been following me for weeks, and it’s creepy.”

“I’m not following you,” you say incredulously, “We’re just going to the same place.”

“Well, walk on the other side of the street or something,” he says, turning back around, continuing on his way like he assumes you’ll comply.

“No.” 

Your defiance comes out flat and solid, drawing a line, sick of him and this whole town.

“Yes,” the word comes back without a glance, utterly unbothered by your show of determination.

“No,” you repeat louder, your eyebrows pulling together in a scowl, “If you don’t like it, you walk over there.”

“I was here first.”

“Seriously?” The anger in your chest turns to heat, rising up your neck and settling in your face. Your mouth opens, ready to unleash the venom sitting on the tip of your tongue when he stops walking.

“Might as well walk beside me then.”

Surprise melts the words in your mouth as your feet carry you forward until you’re close enough to see the freckles covering his nose. His eyes stay forward as his stride lines up with yours, moving forward at a more relaxed pace. A light breeze rustles the leaves of the Maples lining the street. The sound of your footsteps is interrupted by the occasional passing car. 

“You’re in seventh, right? You got Schnider?” He asks, his eyes darting to your face.

“Yeah.” You nod, looking down at your boots.

"Bad luck. She's a real bitch. I had her last year."

Answering with a shrug, you risk a look back at him. Long eyelashes framing big doe eyes, a sweet face he tries to hide with a hard shell. He wears a mask, too. 

Your brain’s on overload for the rest of the day—thoughts of the boy coloring away the hours like a secret, overanalyzing every bit of your interaction. When the shrill sound of the final bell rings, you join the current of students, gathering your belongings and exiting the building in a wave.

The fresh air is a welcome escape from the stuffy classroom as you cross behind the school past the football field, heading toward the path through the woods where the boy is lingering just beyond the gate, digging through his pack but coming up with nothing like maybe he had been waiting. Without a word, he falls into step beside you. When you look at him, this time, he meets your eyes. The sunlight flickers through the swaying leaves as your footsteps resonate through the trees as you continue together.

"I guess I'll see you tomorrow," his voice cuts the quiet air when you reach the front steps of his house, his tone revealing a hint of uncertainty. 

"I'll be headed the same way," you answer.

He turns away from you, pausing with his foot on the top step, looking up at his house before looking back at you. 

"I'm Eddie, by the way," he offers, his cheeks pinking at the vulnerability his words carry.

"I know," you respond, a small smile gracing your lips as you continue home.

"Shit. Shit. Shit," you mutter, tucking your phone into your clutch and bolting up the marble steps to the second floor of the Kimpton Grey Hotel. Composing yourself as you pass through the lobby and open the double doors into Vol.39. The bar exudes timeless elegance with its dim, warm light shining on the dark-wood accents. Vintage jazz playing through hidden speakers, sounding like smoke and liquor. Everything here is steeped in leather, old money, and sophistication. It's no surprise that Nancy chose it. 

"You're late," Nancy says flatly, no amusement in the blue eyes framed by the blunt cut of her black, sleek hair as she glances at her watch with disapproval.

"Sorry." You slide into the open seat on the tufted couch across from her, adjusting the material of your dark emerald midi skirt so the slit wouldn't be showing off too much thigh, "There was traffic." It definitely wasn’t the extra half hour you spent with your feet up on your desk at Stax listening to the new release from Band of Horses.

"This is Chicago. There's always traffic," she counters, keeping her voice low enough that it doesn't travel past the lit bookshelves lined with leather-bound encyclopedias framing the seating area that your friends are currently occupying. "That's why I gave you a time a week ago. So you could plan ahead."

"She’s in a mood," Argyle says from the corner of his mouth, his hair falling around him like a curtain as he leans closer from the velvet upholstered club chair beside you. 

"Where's Steve?" Nancy demands, setting down her crystal tumbler on the gray marble table in the center of the space.

"He's not here?" you ask, scanning the bar. "It was Robin’s turn to watch him."

"Me?" Robin exhales from the other end of the couch she shares with Nancy.

"You're his best friend," you point out with a quirk of your brow.

"Yeah, but you're his–"

"I don't know why I bother to organize nights out for all of us if no one is going to be on time," Nancy cuts off Robin, huffing as she crosses her slender arms over her chest.

"It will be fine, Nance," Johnathan reassures, coming back from the bar carrying a flight of martinis he sets down in the center of the table. "Just relax. Everyone's going to be here in plenty of time." He takes the seat beside her, comforting her with his arm around her shoulder. 

Nancy and Johnathan have been on again-off again since she left Hawkins for school in Boston. Rekindling their relationship when she moved to Chicago and accepted a position at Spectrum Media, where she still works as their vice-president of content strategy. 

"Plenty of time for what?" You ask, leaning forward to choose a martini, picking the Astoria with a knot of lemon. 

"There's a mystery guest," Robin says, wriggling her brows and hooking her thumb towards Nancy. “Full of surprises, isn't she?”

"Where's Flora tonight?" You ask Robin, noticing she is without an escort. 

"Flora?" She asks, picking up a drink for herself, "That was over a week ago." She dismisses her with a wave of the hand before running it through her wavy blonde streaked locks, "Sadly, she left for a goat herding commune in Sacramento. I've been seeing someone new, a painter named Taylor. She's on exhibit at Magnolia. Her florals are really dreamy." She bites an olive off the end of her toothpick, sighing. 

Smiling around the lip of your glass, you shake your head. Robin works as an exhibit coordinator for Magnolia Gallery in Wicker Park, falling in and out of love with artists as quickly as she sells their pieces. You give her credit, she's having fun. 

"Did you text him?" Nancy asks, her lips twisting with impatience. The tense clench of her jaw has you setting down your drink and reaching for your clutch with no arguments. "Do you know how hard it was to get this reservation?"

"Then why are we here?" Argyle complains, gesturing around the room while he slumps back in his chair, swirling the amber liquid in his glass with the other. "You know I own like six bars, right? No reservations required."

"But then you'd be working," Nancy explains, as Argyle smoothes out his handlebar mustache.

"I'm always working, babe," Argyle says with a smirk, looking the part of a restaurateur and music promoter in his shiny flat-front trousers and short-sleeved silk shirt. 

Argyle is a new friend - meaning not from Hawkins. The California transplant, whose family owns a chain of successful pizza restaurants, has breathed new life into the Chicago music scene. Booking up-and-coming acts as well as big names into his bars and venues all across the city. He's a good friend to have, especially in your line of work–a music journalist for Stax the city's premiere music, arts, and culture magazine.

“He’s on his way,” you inform them, setting your phone face down on the table before settling back on the couch.

“On his way or leaving now?” Nancy shakes her head, knowing with Steve it’s probably the latter. “Why didn’t you ride with him?” She asks, turning toward Jonathan.

“I wasn’t in the office today. I was on a shoot,” he says, pulling his arm away from her and setting his drink down harder than necessary, his patience with her at an end. 

Jonathan, like you and Steve, works for the conglomerate Second City Media. Nancy likes to think that she permits the three of you to work for her competitor, but Steve had already gotten his foot in the door, securing himself an entry-level position at Metro Sports division before she was even out of grad school. Jonathan had been doing alright freelancing as a photographer, but when Nancy started at Spectrum, Second City recognized their competitor would wind up with an edge and hired him on as full-time staff. Everyone knows it's better for their relationship not to be working in the same place, especially with Nancy as his boss.

“Give us some clues about this mystery guest,” Robin interjects to lower the temperature between the couple, which is ready to boil over.

"Okay, I'm here." Steve comes from behind you, his voice alerting you to his arrival before you see him. His tie is already missing, the first three buttons of his starched shirt undone beneath his midnight blue suit, and his hair tousled from a day of running his hands through.

"Really, Steve? You couldn't be on time just this once?" Nancy scolds him, rolling her eyes.

"Meeting ran late. You know how it is," he leans down to kiss her cheek,"Or maybe you don't. I heard things are a bit slow over there at Spectrum," he teases, earning a smirk from Johnathan. 

Steve worked his way up from the sports division to chief content officer for Second City Media. The position puts him just shy of the power Nancy holds at Spectrum, fueling the pair's competitive and ambitious nature until their bickering often drives everyone else crazy.

"Steve," Robin draws his attention before Nancy gets the chance to respond, "About tomorrow–"

"Just a minute, Robin. I haven't gotten to kiss my beautiful wife hello." He steps over Argyle's legs and gives the man a quick handshake in greeting before sitting next to you on the sofa.

"I'm not your wife yet, handsome," you tell him as his strong hands cup your cheeks, tipping your head up toward him. 

"But it sounds good, doesn't it?" He asks before soft lips close over yours, his thumb pressing on your chin, asking for access to deepen the kiss beyond the line that's appropriate in front of company. 

"Niiiice," Argyle hums as the others snicker. Steve takes a hand off your cheek, holding it in front of you to block some of their views as his mouth moves hotly over yours. 

"God, you two are sickening," Nancy's remark is probably accompanied by an eye roll, but you're too occupied to notice as you tighten your grip on the front of Steve's shirt, drawing him nearer.

Four of his fingers curl down, giving Nance a one-fingered message as he continues to kiss you until he's had his fill. Breaking away with a gentle peck. "How was your day today, Ace? Did you write me a Pulitzer?" 

"You ask me that every day."

Despite teasing you, he wouldn't be surprised if you had what it takes. That's how much he believes in you. He takes your hand, bringing your knuckles to his lips to place a kiss next to the glittering diamond he put on your hand a little over two years ago. 

"Excuse you." Robin climbs over Argyle's legs that are still stretched out in front of him, taking up all the space between the chairs and the table, and walks over to the couch, squeezing her way onto the sofa between you and Steve, "Best friend privileges." She winks before launching into a conversation about the next exhibit she's putting together.

"You two crazy kids set a date yet?" Argyle asks at a volume higher than you'd prefer. Raising your index finger to your lips, eyebrows drawing together as your eyes flick over to Steve.

"I'm just making sure my invite didn't get lost in the mail," he says, sipping his drink. "I love weddings, man—all those tiny little versions of regular-sized food. Maybe I should open a restaurant like that, where everything is tiny. Tiny little kebabs and tiki drinks with tiny little umbrellas. I don't know what's taking you so long. You need to make an honest man out of him." His voice grows louder at the end of his sentence, earning him another look from you, a distraction that diverts Steve's attention from his conversation.

The waitress chooses that moment to appear, saving you from another conversation about setting a wedding date. It's not that you don't want to marry him–you do. Someday. Decisiveness has never been your strong suit, along with dressing up in big puffy dresses that look like frosting and being on display for everyone you have ever known and their plus ones. 

While Steve squints down at the drink menu, fondness warms you like the opening notes of your favorite song. Reaching across Robin, you tap his chest. He looks over at you as he pulls a pair of glasses from his breast pocket and slides them on his nose.

Your lips move without sound–I love you.

You too, he mouths back. His mossy eyes softening as he smiles just for you. 

You're happy. Why change a thing?

“I’ll have an old-fashioned. Top shelf. Please,” Steve tells the waitress after she had gone around taking orders for small plates to share and more cocktails from the others. “Another Martini?” He raises his eyebrows at you.

“Yes, please. An Astoria,” you tell her as she finishes scribbling everything down on her pad and heads off toward the bar to put in your orders. 

“The ladies?” You tip your head at Robin, who nods, getting up to follow you. Steve squeezes your hand as you walk by as he continues his conversation with Nancy about the effectiveness of paywalls on digital content.

“God, she’s in rare form,” Robin comments as you enter the empty ladies' room, each of you closing yourself into a stall.

“Are she and Jonathan fighting again?” You ask once you’ve finished up and moved to the sink to wash your hands. The echo of your voices bouncing off the black and white hexagon tiles.

“When aren’t they fighting?” She pulls a few paper towels from the machine bolted to the wall and drys her hands. “It’s like foreplay for them at this point.”

You laugh, checking under your eyes for make-up smears. “Any ideas about this mystery guest?”

“No idea.” She tugs the brass handle of the door open, and you follow her back into the bar. “Maybe her brother?” 

“That would be nice,” you say, your boot heels tapping on the dark chevron floors, “He just got married, right?”

“So young, practically still a baby,” she tuts, her head shaking from side to side.

“Robin, he’s not that-”

Robin's hand clamps onto your forearm, a squeal escaping her mouth as excitement radiates through her. She bounces on her toes, leaving you in her wake. Whoever elicited such a reaction is being blocked by Steve and Jonathan. When she gracefully maneuvers past them, you catch a fleeting glimpse of dark curls before the two men shift back into place, obscuring your view once more. The clinking of glasses and chatter from the other patrons swells in your ears. Your feet carry you forward, curiosity resonating like the reverb of a guitar. Steve feels you coming up behind him and shifts to the side. Without warning, rich chocolate eyes are locked onto yours. Eyes you haven’t seen in eleven years when he left you a mixtape instead of a goodbye. The eyes of the man that shattered your heart into so many pieces, all the edges are still sharp. 

“Hey, doll.”

The breath trapped in your lungs forms a suffocating bubble, its dull, aching pressure stifling any movement in or out, causing your body to lock in protest. You're tugged forward, unable to fight it, until your body collides with his. The faint but familiar scent of him embraces you, lingering beneath the spicy notes of expensive cologne. Triggering a flood of a hundred painful memories, like songs you’ve overplayed and can’t bear to hear again. They jar your instincts into overriding the shock, compelling you to push him away. Eddie's solid frame absorbs the force. To your relief, the others haven't noticed as you retreat to your seat. Your trembling hand raises your martini to your lips, taking larger swallows than you normally would, but nothing with this situation is normal. 

"Desperate times," you mutter under your breath, tipping back your glass. By the time everyone has settled back into their seats, your martini glass stands drained, the lingering taste of its contents  bittersweet on your tongue.

Steve directs the waitress to bring another drink for you and a double Mescal for Eddie. The others' voices are a distant buzz in your ears, but their words don't breach the barrier of your thoughts. The chords playing in your mind are more discernible now. Their lyrics printed onto the faded photographs of a boy that you struggle to reconcile as the man before you. He's older, but you are too. His long hair is much shorter, the dark curls a richer brown pushed away from his face. A few lines grace the corners of his eyes and forehead–a reminder of the life he's lived without you. 

Steve's comforting hand wraps around your shoulders while the other finds a home sliding between the soft skin where your legs are crossed, exposed by the high slit of your skirt. Eddie's eyes are on you, his stare focused on Steve's big hand covering half your thigh. Your left hand moves on top of Steve's, adjusting to make sure the sparkling rock on your finger gleams with brilliance in the soft, ambient light.

"Well, this is a blast from the past," Robin notes, her voice full of whimsy as she dangles her cocktail glass between two fingers, swaying it gently like a pendulum.

"Aren't you all glad I forced you to come out?" Nancy quips, much more relaxed now that her plan has come to fruition.

"You did good, love," Johnathan murmurs. His fingers tangling with hers before giving her a quick peck. 

"Absolutely. I wouldn't have wanted to miss this," Steve agrees, "How long has it been, dude? Three, four years?"

"Yeah, I think that was the last time you were in L.A." Eddie scratches at his chin, covered with just enough scruff to almost be a beard. 

Steve keeps in touch with Eddie? Had he told you when you hadn't been paying attention to him, your mind wandering with the words you would write for other people's songs?

"Now, I know that I told you only old friends," Nancy says, angling herself towards the plaid upholstered chair that Eddie occupies. "But Argyle knows all the local talent, and I thought he'd be a good connection to have since you're moving here."

"What?" You ask, as if a sudden vacuum has just sucked the air from the room.

"You're moving here?" Robin's eyes light up with excitement at the prospect of all her friends in the same city. She was the original connection that brought you together all those years ago. 

"When you say here. You mean Hawkins, right? You're moving back to Hawkins," you clarify.

"No. I mean here. I'm moving to Chicago," Eddie says, leaning back into his chair, his long legs spread in his tailored black suit, the black v-neck underneath giving off a laid-back California vibe. "I told those corporate studio fucks I was done. I'm opening my own place to record music that's actually good, not just the kind that will sell. I'm surprised you don't know all this, doll. Isn't it supposed to be your job or something?"

“Fu–”

"Why Chicago?" Jonathan asks, cutting you off before you let loose a very appropriate response to his question, "Why not stay in L.A. or New York. Aren't there music scenes bigger than here?"

Eddie tips his head to the side, his fingers tracing the rim of his glass. "You know, L.A.'s lost its charm for me. Too many fake people made out of plastic. And, well, Wayne's not getting any younger. Thought it's about time to be closer, you know?"

“You'd be much closer in Hawkins. Bet you could find a place downtown real cheap. You should go look there.” You cross your arms over your chest, drawing a line in the sand. 

“Hawkins doesn’t really scream rock ‘n’ roll, and I already got a place, but thanks,” he says, unconcerned as ever by your tone.

“Look at you two,” Robin says, clapping her hands, “Just like old times, back to your usual banter." Her mischievous grin widens, "Remember when she had that massive crush on you, Eddie? You’d stroll into Musicland during our shift, and she’d follow you around with those big heart eyes.”

Your ears ring as heat rushes up to your neck to your cheeks,the whole world spinning. Eddie looks down, swirling the remnants of gold liquid in his crystal-cut glass.

“You’re exaggerating, Robin,” you sputter, reaching for your drink, hiding behind the lip of the glass, “We were just friends. And it couldn’t have been too major. I don’t even remember it.”

“Oh, come on,” she protests, “Everybody knew.”

"I didn't," Steve's voice cuts through her teasing, leaving an awkward stillness in its wake. The distant sounds of high-pitched laughter and the faint scrape of utensils against plates fill the void. Your friends exchange uncomfortable glances, even though there was no malice in his tone.

“Hey, it’s no big deal, though,” his smile puts everyone at ease. “Right, Ace?” His head dips, brushing your lips in confirmation. You nod as he continues, “Robin, remember when we both went on dates with the same girl. What was her name? Brenda.” His fingers snap with the recollection.

“That’s right, Brenda! Brenda Mackenzie!” Robin laughs and begins to regale the group with the story.

When you lift your eyes, Eddie’s stare remains fixed on you, amusement replaced with an intensity you can’t read. An unfinished sentence or lyric. Words hanging between you like a question that you can't answer—one that you don’t want to.

“I’m going for another drink,” you say to Steve, picking up your empty glass. 

“Do you want me to come with you?” He asks, brows drawing together.

“No, I’m okay,” you tell him with a plastered-on smile, “You want anything?”

He shakes his head no. “I let my car service go early. I’ll drive us home in your car.”

With gentle fingers, you sweep aside a stray lock of hair that's draped across his forehead, planting a tender kiss on his lips before making your way to the bar. 

There is a soft creak of the leather as you seat yourself on a high stool in front of the polished wood bar. A bartender with an easy smile takes your order and leaves, giving you a much needed moment alone. Your lungs expand and contract without releasing any tension. You study your reflection in the mirror behind the rows of brightly lit bottles. If you could rewind the tape to a few hours ago, you'd have happily stayed in your office. Calling Nancy tomorrow to grovel for forgiveness for messing up her plans. But you can’t and the song plays on. It’s always the music that hurts the worst.

You release an audible sigh, your breath escaping through parted lips, as he settles onto the stool beside you. With a casual tap of his rings against the bar, he signals for the bartender, raising a single finger, his tongue peeks out, grazing his bottom lip as he gestures toward his empty glass.

"What’s the matter, doll? You really that unhappy to see me?" Eddie drawls, a half-smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

"It’s been eleven years, Eddie. Sorry I’m not organizing a parade." You settle back into your seat, glancing around as if you're bored.

The bartender lowers his eyes as they deliver your drinks and wisely retreats to the far end of the establishment.

"I didn’t come here to fight," Eddie replies, his tone softening. He shifts his weight slightly on the stool, one arm resting casually on the counter, the glint of a gold chain around his neck catching the dim light.

"Then why are you here?" Your eyes narrow as your fingers trace the condensation on the side of the full glass.

"A fresh start. To build something of my own." He looks at you with determination, his dark eyes reflecting the soft glow of the bar lights.

"Then build it somewhere else," you respond curtly, your words laced with frustration. You pick up your drink and down half of it in one go, the chilled liquid leaving a slight burn as it slides down your throat. Setting the glass back down, you turn to leave.

He stops you with a gentle hand wrapping around your wrist, his touch causing your pulse to quicken beneath his fingertips. "There are some things I want to say to you. Let me take you to lunch unless Harrington has got you on too short of a leash."

You pull your wrist back, the feel of his touch lingering like smoke in the air. "Whatever you have to say has waited this long, try again in another decade. Unless you're dying."

"Would it make a difference if I was?" He meets your gaze with amusement playing on his lips.

"Let me think about it… nope." Your reply is quick and sharp, meant to cut.

"I know you're mad–" 

"No. Mad would imply some kind of emotional attachment. What I feel is indifference. In case you don't know the definition, that means nothing at all." Your voice stays cool and detached as you hop off the stool. "It's a big city, Eddie. There's no reason we have to see each other again." 

"We'll have to see about that," he smirks. 

"Have a nice life," you say a final goodbye to your past and turn away, walking in the direction of Steve when he stops you with one more question.

"Did you listen to it? The tape, did you ever listen?" 

The lie comes without hesitation. 

“No.”

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Read Song 2. here

AN: I hope you had as much fun reading this as I did writing it. If you have a song that you think Eddie would have recorded on the mixtape send it to me in an ask and it might be included. Anything before 2001. I'd love to hear from you. Comments and Reblogs are always appreciated.

[princess-glassred]

This is probably one of the weirder IT ideas i've ever pitched but here:

Imagine all the losers are having a sleep over and they start talking about how much of a dick Henry is and how it'd be nice if they could get some kind of payback for all his misdeeds. So then everyone starts having these very elaborate fantasies of over the top revenge that fits their personalities/personal experience with him. They're all very silly and some are even quite cruel, but they're all in good fun and genuine healthy outlets for kids who have been bullied by him all year round.

Bill's is quite simple, he pulls up on Silver when Henry is in desperate need for a ride home and Bill, the kindly dude he is, offers his bully a ride. He also very gently tells Henry rider safety is top priority, so he hands him a helmet that is unfortunately very very girly (it's purple with sparkley flowers on it~). Henry gets on expecting a fairly gentle ride, but Bill is nuts and silver just happens to be the best damn bike in the world, so they proceed to have a ride of comically dangerous proportions. It's like they're in irl happy wheels, Bill is riding over spike pits, leaping through the air, rolling upside down, all while Henry screams like a little bitch and cries for his daddy.

Richie's is pretty great, his idea happens to take place at the dentist office where his father works. Henry's in here for his first check up in I don't know how long, but Richie comes in to inform him that Mr. Tozier just so happens to be out, BUUUUT he's seen his dad work on other peoples teeth before, so he's sure he can do an okay enough job. Richie turns on this little stereo his dad keeps in his office and starts playing weird al's "like a surgeon". He then proceeds to run around the room like Patrick bateman before doing an invasive and somewhat humiliating check up on his mouth. He brutally insults his teeth and informs him he will need braces and head gear, and not just any head gear either but "The dorkiest, biggest, stupidest, ugliest head gear ever made by human hands" and he HAS to wear it 24/7. But that's not all! Richie also informs him that he's very multitalented, not only is he an impressionist and not only is he a good dentist, but he's also a junior optometrist, so he can give him a good old eye exam. Turns out his eye sight is even worse than his teeth though, and the only obvious solution is to give Henry big ass coke bottle glasses. One painful dental exam later and Henry looks like a bigger dork than Richie ever did. :)

Mike is not a very vengeful person, so he's not super into the idea of humiliating Henry, however, he does like the idea of getting a one up on him a little. His revenge fantasy is really just the concept of Henry working for him. Mike's got a successful farm and Henry comes to him groveling as his little scrappy farmhand like "Mr. Hanlon, sir, my back hurts, may i please, perhaps, possibly, maybe, if it doesn't inconvenience you, take a break?😔" and Mike just shooes him back to work. Then, because he knows Henry is such a good little worker he hands him the bolt gun and tells him to crawl into one of the pens and kill one of heir massive hogs. When Henry shows hesitance because these hogs are lowkey terrifying, Mike shrugs it off with a little "Now Henry, you're a big boy, you can handle it." and then PUSHES him into it like how he pushed him down that well. He cannot, in fact, handle it, because the moment Mike turns his back Henry starts screaming for dear mercy while Mike doesn't give a single flying fuck.

Eddie's fantasy is quite similar to Richie's but it takes place in a doctors office and i imagine it's all black and white like a 1950's b movie. Henry comes in claiming to be suffering from some awful unknown disease that nobody but Eddie could possibly help him with. Eddie cackles like a mad scientist and calls in nurse Richie to help him do the phsyical check up. They do a very thorough examination that includes giving him like 20 different shots of "medicine" that's really just water. He then diagnosis Henry with an awful, terrible, absolutely terminal case of "I'matotaldouche-osis". The symptoms include "Bad hygiene, ugly hair, and being totally insufferable every day of your life.". There's sadly only one cure for this fatal disease, complete amputation, they'll have to amputate his legs, his arms, his ears, and possibly even his waste (Eddie's doesn't really know how he'll do that, but i'm sure he'll figure it out through trial and error). Cue the comically large buzz saw.

Stan's revenge starts out with him bird watching as per usual, when he spots an ultra rare breed of bird; the mullethaired prick, native only to Derry and commonly found in flocks of other species of prick. How wonderful. Unfortunately though it IS an invasive species, so Stan must take it out humanely. He shoots a blow dart at "it" which instantly paralyzes Henry, but of course the revenge is not quite over yet. Stan takes Henry's body and paints him grey with some very quick drying paint, then plops him right ontop of a new fountain for his bird buddies. He even poses him all mean and tough looking like he did before. All his bird buddies really like it, especially the pigeons, who think he makes a great bathroom. That's what we really need as a society, less bullies, more birdbaths, right?

Bev just thinks it would be nice if Henry could walk a mile in her shoes, so her revenge does just that. Henry shows up to school in like a blouse, a pencil skirt, and heels while Bev's dressed in stereotypically masculine clothes. She catcalls him, insists he's only dressing that way for attention, makes a bunch of comments on his appearance that makes him uncomfortable, lots of stereotypical sexism. Eventually he snaps and tells her he is not interested, but when he tries to leave she literally attacks him with a sling shot. Of course everyone acts like HENRY'S the freak in this situation, even though he politely told her no multiple times and she attacked him with a fucking slingshot. Anytime Henry tries to point out the fact Bev literally shot rocks at him everyone's like "well why'd you wear a blouse today if you didn't wanna get hit on? Sounds like some one was being a prude". Doesn't it just suck to be demeaned based on how you dress Henry? And doesn't it just suck not to be believed when somenone of the opposite gender attacks you? And doesn't it just suck when you get called a whore or a prude even though you KNOW you didn't do anything? Doesn't it?

Ben's idea of revenge is straight out of a stephen king story, literally, he just feeds Henry the pie from thinner. He uses his intellect and knowledge of Derry's history to find where he can get his hands on the coveted pie, and then the next time he sees Henry he makes sure to tease him with it. "Oh hey Henry, i was just sitting outside getting ready to eat this entire pie by myself because i'm such a disgusting fat tub of lard. I sure do hope you don't eat it in front of me because, you know, foods about the only thing I have going for me. My fat ass would just hate to see you eat it instead of me.". So obviously Henry eats it, and as everyone who has read or watched thinner would know, he begins to lose weight rapidly until he's practically just skin and bones. Henry is so weak and frail he can't eveb bully people anymore, he can barely even stand to be honest. This continues until Henry passes out mid lunch and falls face first into his mashed potatos.

At some point during each one of these little fantasies Henry takes a moment to ask "Wait, are you doing this to me being i'm a sexist, lying, racist, antisemetic, homophobic, hypocrotical bigot?" and without fail every member of the losers club would always respond with a very enthusiastic "Yep!!".

[aeternalis-eien]

Gravity Falls LIVES!

So, just like so many other fans, with the release of the Book of Bill and everything, I've been re-watching the show alot and I've decided to add to the ever growing piles of Gravity Falls Fandom greatness/fun! So here are some of a Head cannons with the Falling Stars AU. *Just a note, I was not in the fandom when it was first coming out, and recently only got to find out about some of the cool AUs out there so that is part of what has caused this lol* For those like me who are learning about some of the cool AUs- Falling Stars is an AU of what if Mabel had been pulled into the portal in EP "Not what He Seems".

Also a note, I have not read book of Bill, the third journal or the comic that was published as I just have not had the chance so alot of this information/stuff I know referencing them, I will admit I got from Tik Tok so bare with me! Head Cannons that I might do one-shots on later:

-Dipper makes his parents give Stan full custody of him and Mabel with child support. The nightmare he has about his parents arguing is regarding how neither of them want either of the twins after their divorce as they find them creep/freaky and would not 'mesh' with their new families. (He could never tell Mabel of what he heard-She knew though)

-Mabel mistook Ford for Stan at first when he saved her from a black hole that was the cause of her being sucked into the portal. She spent hours clinging to him and just sob babbling. (This is also how Ford learned who she was and what likely happened)

-Mabel went into shock for four weeks after realizing what happened and that there isn't a quick/easy way to get home. (She learns to cope by being her 'normal' bubbly weird self.)

-Stan's panic, fear, and freak out in trying to get Mabel back in those early days is what allowed Dipper to not blame him for what happened and actually sit down and hear him out about why he was building the portal. (This would be basically the EP of Tale of Two Stans)

-Dipper has been allowed into Stan's mind/memories with his permission. This started with Stan wanting to regain Dipper's trust and then grew into their search for clues on repairing the portal that Dipper might be able to figure out that Stan couldn't.

-Dipper and Stan spend years trying to get the portal working again, even though Stan forces him to socialize and not stop living his life/existing.

-After Mabel and Ford finally get back, they are able to explain the reason that the portal couldn't just be turned back on due to how dangerous it was. (Back to back uses could rip reality apart fully if not the very planet itself.)

-Mabel acts like her old silly self as not only a coping method but as a way to hold to who she once was, but she can flip on a dime into a serious warrior survival type mode.

-Pacifica and Dipper started dating in high school. Since the weirdness continues in Gravity Falls (and outside it) they grow closer during one of these situations. -Dipper found out that Pacifica is actually really smart, she even ends up joining him and Stan on working on the portal. -She honestly does love Dipper.

-Wendy and Stan ended up 'forcefully' teaching Dipper how to be 'athletic' in their own ways. -Stan got him into boxing and gifted him his own brass knuckles -Wendy got him into parkour and rock climbing. - Pacifica got him into light gymnastics; but he won't talk to anyone else about it.

-Dipper blames himself for Mabel being pulled into the portal and believes that if he had just trusted Stan none of it would have happened.

-Mabel blames herself for getting pulled in, believing that if she hadn't let go of the button she wouldn't have been so easily pulled in and is worried about what has happened to Stan and Dipper.

-Stan taught Dipper how to pick locks as a hobby and 'male bonding' -Pacifica picked it up and is better at it then both of them.

-Dipper took up photography and found that he has the talent and skill to be professional. He started this so that he could continue Mabel's scrapbooks. -Pacifica, Greta and Candy now do a weekly scrapbook day after finding Dipper spiraling at 14 trying to balance his time doing everything.

-Ford made Mabel a digital journal/camera that she can wear as either a watch or a pendant so that she can record/photograph their journey to show Dipper when they get home. -Ford lost hope finding a way home long ago, but he doesn't want her to become like him.

-Greta has become a very popular travel influence/blogger thanks to her royal boyfriend. They are in love and very loyal to each other. -She likes to collect things from her travels to give to Mabel when she returns.

-Candy is on her way to become an internationally acclaimed robotics and prosthetics engineer. -She helps ensure Dipper's protective gear actually works.

-Pacifica has become independently wealthy away from her family due to her skills in finances and stocks. She also handle's Dipper's investments and patents as well as McGucket's. -She basically runs the fiances for the Shack, Stan and Dipper as she claims they are money morons- they are of course. -She has made sure the shack has been kept up and all the work is properly funded for the portal repairs.

-Dipper moved into Ford's old room after a year and a half as he couldn't handle seeing Mabel's things, but couldn't bring himself to move or touch them either.

-Waddles is/has been taken care of by everyone as every single person can't imagine how sad Mabel would be if she returned and he was gone.

-Mabel is known across the multiverse as the greatest matchmaker in any reality. She has made a solid name for herself and brings in 'funds' for her and Ford's travels. -She is even sought out by multiverse royalty for her skills in finding compatible matches that are known to be long lasting.

-Ford calls Mabel Kirk as she left a trail of broken hearts through their travels by no fault of her own as someone 'always' fell head over heels for her; even if she was clueless about it. -Mabel doesn't get the reference.

-After Mabel returns, she has kept in contact with some of the friends she made in traveling with a crystal flower that she keeps safe. When she first got back it looks like she was just talking to herself freaking out Dipper and Stan, but they eased when Ford explained what was going on during a particular heated conversation she was having with someone's who's language is to shout aggressively.

-Dipper grew his hair out because it reminds him of Mabel; he normally wears it tied back or braided when he is working.

-Mabel cut her hair short because it reminds her of Dipper; Ford isn't the best barber so Mabel learned how to do both their hair for him.

-Mabel takes out at least three of Bill's friends during Weirdmageddon herself. Stan is both horrified and deeply impressed.

I'm sure I'll think of more and might just add on to this lol.

I hope everyone enjoys some of my HC!

[pinazee]

Heres a few more random HC’s because i get bored at work!

TGWDLM

Paul has hiked every trail in hatchetfield. He once tried to get emma to go on a hike with him early in their relationship but when he showed up at her place at 5AM (not 5pm like she thought) she nearly ended it right there. Paul spent that day in absolute despair thinking that he ruined things with her but she texted him later and they hung out at a beach instead. He promised to never show up before 10am again- (unless he was sleeping over ;) -emma)

Bill Woodward and Mark Chasity have been in an unspoken feud for several years all because they both brought cinnamon rolls to a church bake sale and it got competitive. They, of course, were polite but would add small comments like, “oh adding orange zest was certainly an interesting choice,” and “wow, i love how large they are! Almost too large! Haha!” For years. Just petty comments.

Black Friday

Tom and Becky are karaoke royalty. It took some time for her to get used to people watching her for the right reasons again, but after tom coaxed her into singing the classic don’t go breaking my heart and receiving a standing ovation, that old cheerleader came right back out. Their most popular request is Lousiana Woman, Mississippi Man by Loretta Lynn and Conway Twitty as they really make it their own (tom seems like a country fan, but just the old stuff, everyone groaned at first but then they killed it).

Gary was a nerd his whole life but always managed to hang out with the popular kids and college students. He’d let them copy his homework, praise them endlessly, debase himself if he had to- all to be a part of the “right” crowd. Most of his clients are actually old “friends” that he charges up the ass (and i like to think, even if it doesn’t quite mesh with his personality, that he balances this out by doing a fair amount of pro bono).

NPMD

Ruth failed her drivers test twice because she’s too aggressive. Richie never tried, preferring to bike (and plans to move to chicago for college so why bother) Petes been able to drive since he was 13 because ted taught him in case he ever needed a designated driver (he was being responsible! What? You want him to drive drunk and hit some poor old woman just trying to cross the street at 3am?)

Detective shapiro (as a classic detective thriller trope) was secretly working on a cold case from chicago when she moved to hatchetfield. Its the one case that haunted her and forced her to seek refuge in a small island town. After the incident with max though, she finally dropped it, accepting that some things could never be explained. [And just for fun, she’s a fervent knitter. Im talking 2 full closets of just blankets ;) ]

Ruth has auditioned for the local theater 6 times, but they have no idea what she sounds like. They let her stand on stage for a minute, hand her a lollipop as they usher her off, and politely say “maybe next time, ruth.”

Richie was on a first name basis with the local comic book shop. When they heard of his murder, they put up a memorial for him with a display of (almost) all the manga he’d bought from them.

[batmanisagatewaydrug]

today I've been reminded of detective comics annual 8, which is my favorite of ed's comic appearances, so I thought I'd ask you what's your favorite riddle guy comic and why?

god DC annual #8 makes me INSANE that's like. pure distilled Riddler sauce right there. absolute platonic ideal of the Riddler. he is perfect to me. somebody surgically wire that into Tom King's brain before they ever let him write the Riddler again I swear to god.

I'm still working on my New Earth read through so I'm finding new faves all the time, but as of this exact minute some faves:

I fucking hate to hand it to Chuck Dixon but Detective Comics #705-707 (Dixon, Graham Nolan, and David Roach, 1997) is so so good. like he's literally just trying to do a stupid baseball heist and blow up Cluemaster while he's at it. THAT is a Riddler story, babey. Echo and Query are even there!!!

Impulse #48 (Bill Messner-Loebs and Craig Rousseau, 1999) is just a spectacular one off Riddler appearance, namely because you get the strong impression that if left alone with Bart for like. two hours. Eddie would probably willingly kill himself. very fun watching his schtick absolutely crumble in the face of a speedster.

Batman Adventures Vol. 2 (worked on by like half a dozen different writers, 2003). honestly the BTAS version of the Riddler was never anything spectacular to me - he's fun, not a standout - but goddd he rules so hard in the sequel comics. he's (once again) retired and made legitimate money, so now he's so desperately bored he's harassing Batman with stupid non-crimes until Batman snaps and just starts using him as a private detective so he'll have something to do. mwah.

Batman Confidential #26-28 (Nunzio DeFilippis, Christina Weir, Kevin Nowlan, and José Luis García-López, 2009), which is collected as Batman: King Tut's Tomb. another banger story, it has everything I like. namely, the Riddler being so annoying that Batman lets him work a case with him and bitchy buddy comedy shenanigans ensue. and King Tut is there!

Dinner for Two (Ram V and Phil Hester) in Strange Love Adventures (2022) #1 is so... like they just went for it. they said fuck it the Riddler bisexual and spending his Valentine's Day making Batman hang out with him to complain about how he's lonely. make of that whatever you want.

Catwoman: Lonely City (Cliff Chiang, 2022). an older, widowed Riddleguy who's kicked his riddle habit (in addition to, apparently, a pretty brutal coke problem) and is settled in to running slightly more normal grifts with his adorable daughter Edelia. look at them. I have to show you this because I just like Chiang's art so so much, look at themmm

also obligatory shoutout to the Riddler appearance of all time, whichever issue of Bruce Wayne: Murderer?/Fugitive is the one where he's crashing at Stephanie Brown's house being a fucking menace and Black Canary kicks him out on his ass in five seconds flat while he's wearing a fluffy yellow bathrobe. and also kicks Cluemaster out of his own house for good measure.

[berrple]

I knew the second I came out of that movie theater I had to draw Cowboy Deadpool 😔

So here he is! Design wise I had to use the comic version but the colors are the Deadpool colors (red and black). In the comic it seems more like orange and blue but I believe that’s just how shading and lighting worked back then unless I’m wrong, I honestly don’t know.

It was extremely fun to draw this piece and it’s easily one of my favorites

I don’t know if I should draw more Deadpool but with Wolverine or step into the Bill cipher territory for fun. If you all have any suggestions I’ll gladly hear you out <3

Peace!!

[wolff-cub]

Last Laugh

a Landoscar stand-up comedy AU

“Okay, so, let me get this straight. You think I’m unfunny. You think I don’t deserve a spot on that stage. You hate me.” “Yes. Exactly. Glad it’s finally gotten through that thick skull of yours.” Oscar just fixes his big, impassive brown eyes on Lando. “You hate me, and yet you’re always in that same little corner seat in the back of the pub when I’m onstage... watching a set you hate.”

-------------------

As the most successful comedian on the Fringe Rising showcase lineup, Lando believes he should have been given the show's prestigious final billing slot. Over the course of the festival, his resentment for the amateur Australian comedian who's stolen his spot grows... into something else altogether.

-------------------

Special thanks to @jadesaturn for beta-reading and @afriques for the lovely banner!!

Read on AO3 or below the cut:

“Papaya!”

Onstage, the spotlights shine almost directly into his eyes as Lando springs upwards like a demented jack-in-the-box, popping forth on one leg, arms swinging around wildly. A split second later, he stops abruptly in the middle of the stage, directing an unimpressed look into the inky blackness beyond the stage.

“Okay, but really. Have any of you even had a papaya? That’s right. It’s a shit fruit. It has none of the zest, the fun, that its name implies. Who even named it? What the fuck were they thinking?!”

As his tone borders on hysterics, laughter washes over him like a warm blanket, sent his way from the shadowed masses before him. Keeping his energy up like this, even as his set draws to a close, is never easy — but so worth the laughs. The spotlights shining into his eyes are so bright that the crowd is nothing more than a series of imposing, faceless silhouettes. 

But Lando doesn’t need to see his audience to connect with them. If performing a comedy set is like screaming into the void, well… Lando has always been capable of drawing laughter from within the void.

“Yet here I was, sipping from a glass of papaya juice so good that I thought I’d tasted heaven. One sip was all it took… to move me to tears.” Here, his voice grows theatrical, and he begins feigning an almost clownish kind of sadness. His fingers tremble as he mimes a comically small sip from the world’s tiniest teacup. Somewhere in the audience, someone cackles so loudly that their voice cracks.

“Thank you.” Lando can’t help but grin back in the face of such open adulation, which only garners him even more cheers. “Anyway, I’ve changed a lot since then. I discovered therapy, for one. And antidepressants. The lows? No longer as low. The highs? No longer juice-related.”

Cheers. Whistles. Laughter. Oh, how he loves the sound of it.

“That’s right, folks! It’s only going uphill from here! I’m taking my life and making it papaya!”

“Papaya!” someone in the crowd shouts back.

Lando doesn’t miss a beat, turning that tiny bit of reciprocity into a full-on chant, clapping his hands over his head in time with the beat. The crowd roars back at him without needing much encouragement at all. Their silhouettes sway back and forth in time. “Papaya, papaya!”, and the abyss laughs, and laughs, and laughs right back at him.

“Thank you so much, everybody! I have been Lando Norris, and you… oh, you have been such a great crowd!” Lando crows, even as the crowd keeps up its chant for him. Not even his clumsy attempts to affix the mic back to its stand — the customary sign that his comedy set is about to end — discourages them from continuing to bid him farewell. “I’ll be here doing Fringe Rising every Tuesday and Thursday, along with a solo show during the festival, every other day of the week! Hopefully, I’ll see some of you there, but until then, that’s my time! And—you’vebeensuchagreataudiencethankyoubye!”

The grin that spreads across Lando’s face as he rushes offstage is so wide, it makes his cheeks hurt. The crowd’s sustained clapping is so buoyant for his spirits that he might as well be floating down the stage steps, a cartoon character drifting through the air on a cloud of his own high. He’d had no doubts about the success of his set tonight — he is, after all, the biggest name on the lineup. But god, does it feel good to bask in an audience’s adoration. 

Lando almost wishes he could run back onstage again, arms outstretched, and drink it all in. He is, after all, none other than Bristol’s boy king of comedy, whose career went stratospheric after two years of pain, self-doubt, and tireless honing of his craft through it all. He’s worked hard for everything he has to his name — the slot on this prestigious, curated showcase at the Edinburgh Fringe, the sold-out solo shows running all month long, the appearances on primetime comedy television, and even the Netflix comedy special in the works. Every clap, every cheer, has been earned. After so long, Lando is finally — finally! — reaping what he’s sown.

It isn’t exactly going uphill from here. As far as Lando is concerned, he’s already at the top.

Lando’s eyes adjust to the relative darkness of the venue in time to give the MC a customary high-five and backslap, as tradition calls for. Every comedian gets a high-five no matter how their set goes — a congratulations if the set goes well, or a commiseration if it’s bombed. Of course, Lando hasn’t had any of the latter in a while. Failure is something he no longer remembers the taste of. And with how hard he’s been working… surely, that’s just what he deserves.

“Whoa! Wow, wow, wow! You guys!”

Onstage, Alex Albon — part-time comedian, full-time zookeeper, all-around good guy, and tonight’s MC — has to shout into the mic over the rapturous applause, still going after Lando’s set. “Oh my goodness! I would tell you to give it up one more time for Lando Norris, but you guys clearly got the memo already!”

Lando’s smug grin remains even as he weaves past the front-of-stage seating, beelining towards a swarthy, dark-haired man nursing a beer alone at the back of the venue. He parks himself smoothly on an adjacent bar stool and gratefully fist-bumps his old friend, his grin not fading as Alex continues to sing his praises onstage.

“Oy, cabrón! You fucking killed it up there!”

“Aw, thanks, Carlos. It was nothing.”

“Oh no, Lanno. You cannot be doing this false modesty thing all the time. You know you did well, so… take the compliment, eh? Most of these people are probably here because it’s the only way they’ll get to see you. Your solo show sold out so fast!”

Lando smirks at the sound of his longtime comedy compatriot’s signature mispronunciation of his name, courtesy of the strong Spanish accent that makes him so popular with crowds. “No way, mate. You got plenty of cheers before your set even started, and you’ve been doing this comedy thing for much longer than I have. All the Fringe veterans are probably here to see you, all the way over from España.”

“Ah, but I am not the one who has been on Taskmaster in two countries. I don’t even want to do this full-time. If a genie came to me and asked me, ‘Carlos, would you rather have your own Netflix special, or improve your golf handicap by two?’ I would take the handicap.”

“But I still think you should reconsider that way of thinking. If I’ve made it to where I am today, you’d make it farther in half the time. Your comedy is genius, Carlos. You deserve a sold-out solo run and a Netflix special as much as I do!”

Carlos just shakes his head. “Sometimes it’s not about what we deserve, cabrón. It’s about what we want, and what we do to get it.”

Lando is about to argue, but Carlos shushes him so dismissively that he sits back in his seat like a told-off child. Onstage, Alex’s speech is approaching a crescendo, and Carlos has always been the type to show fellow performers as much decorum as possible.

“Anyway, thank you all so much for being here tonight at Fringe Rising! You’ve made it such a great opening night for me and our amazing line-up here, and we all appreciate you taking the time to come out and see our little showcase. Please, put your hands together one more time for our wonderful comedians from far and wide — Charles Leclerc from Monaco! Carlos Sainz from Spain! And Britain’s very own, Lando Norris!”

Lando’s grin reappears as the cheers wash over him, while Carlos puts on a demure smile, ducking his head down behind his beer bottle jokingly.

“Where is Charles, anyway?” asks Lando, suddenly realising that the showcase’s usual opener is absent. “Doesn’t he know you aren’t really supposed to leave before everyone’s done with their sets?”

Carlos shakes his head. “Don’t be so harsh on him, Lanno. He’s new, but he’s not stupid. He had to leave early to do that showcase that George Russell hosts every year.”

Lando has to stifle a snicker. “Charles is doing the comedy Powerpoint showcase?!”

“Ay, don’t look so surprised. He’s actually very funny if you give him a chance.”

Lando would beg to differ, but doesn’t want to argue with Carlos over the sound of Alex’s speech. At the risk of sounding petty and mean, Charles is still a rookie comedian, and all his sets that Lando has seen have been unpolished at best and amateurish at worst. Lando can tell that Charles cruises through his sets; that he doesn’t workshop his material and probably doesn’t even know how to. And Lando would definitely never say this out loud, but deep down he suspects that Charles had only landed this Fringe Rising spot (and plenty of other comedy club slots) only because he might be the hottest man to ever attempt a career in stand-up comedy.

But, that also explains why Charles is a rookie, and why Lando is within grasp of the top rung of the stand-up comedy ladder. Nobody works for this quite as hard as him. Nobody deserves this like he does.

The crowd soon falls into hushed whispers as the cheers for past performers gradually dies down. Onstage, Alex quickly segues into the next bit of his speech before any more stray cheers add even more time onto their already overtime showcase.

“We’ve got one more set for you tonight,” says Alex, “and boy, am I excited to introduce him. Now, this next act is like the ghost of international stand-up comedy. Almost nobody’s seen him perform… and yet everyone’s talking about him! This man is so very difficult to pin down, mark my words — but we’ve managed to wrangle him to the Fringe Rising stage, all the way from Australia, for what might be one of the rarest and most hype-worthy performances at this fest. Let’s get the energy back up in here, guys! Please give it up for… Oscar Piastri!”

Carlos leans in towards Lando. “Oh, I’m interested to see this guy. Some people are saying he’s only done five shows total, and nobody can stop talking about him.”

Five shows total? Is he fucking serious?!

Lando’s fist clenches involuntarily. Just like at concerts and festivals, the last set in a showcase is always awarded to the most prestigious performer on the lineup. When he’d gotten the email that he would be performing second-last in the night, Lando had presumed that Alex had somehow managed to land a real big hitter — one of the rare few comedians who sold out arena tours and ran their own TV shows. 

But this is who they’d given the final billing to instead of him? A complete fucking amateur?!

“You’d think the show closer should be someone more… accomplished,” Lando starts, only to get shushed by Carlos again as Alex ducks offstage and the lights dim once more.

The filler music fades, and a lone figure clad in a hoodie, cargo shorts, and Birkenstocks — no mean feat for Edinburgh weather — walks slowly onstage, lifting a hand in front of his eyes to fend off the harsh spotlights. His short brown hair is accentuated by a long, floppy wave of a fringe that falls into his eyes carelessly, making his boyish face look even younger than he already is.

“Whoa,” says the newcomer, his voice slow and languid with a stereotypical Australian drawl. “Pretty bright up here, hey?”

A few people in the crowd start chuckling. Lando’s brow furrows. What the hell is going on? The man hasn’t even said anything actually funny?!

“Anyway, how’re ya doing tonight, Edinburgh? My name’s Oscar, and… well, apparently I’m here to do some comedy. But I’m not quite sure how this whole comedy thing works in these parts — I’ve come all the way from Australia, and, well, you know. We do everything upside down there. So, uh, you’re gonna have to be pretty patient with me, alright? Cause I’m, uh… not actually supposed to be here.”

He shoots the audience a conspiratorial look, and a rustle of both anticipation and uncertainty travels through the crowds. No laughs yet, though — and Lando secretly hopes that it remains that way for the rest of his set.

“So, I just moved up here from Melbourne,” continues Oscar, “and I don’t really know anyone here — no friends or family. But the other day, I had to go to the hospital, and the nurse… she took down my details, and what I was at the hospital for… and then she asked me for an emergency contact. And I told her, ‘Barbara, I don’t have an emergency contact in this country. I don’t know anyone here except… well, you. So maybe you could be my emergency contact.’ And Barbara just shakes her head and keeps saying, ‘No, I can’t be your emergency contact. You need to give me the name and phone number of someone in the United Kingdom that you trust.’”

Lando slumps over onto his crossed arms and lets out a yawn. Overly long buildup, lacklustre delivery… where is this even going?

“Now, I’m a little offended by this.” Oscar puts his hand over his heart, feigning shock. “I said, ‘Barbara! How could you imply that I don’t trust you?! You’re the only person in this country who knows my deepest, darkest secret, Barbara. You’re the only person in this country who knows I have haemorrhoids!

“I put my trust in you, Barbara, and this is how you treat me? By not wanting to be the emergency contact for someone who has been so vulnerable with you by telling you that he has haemorrhoids?!”

A few isolated laughs rise from the crowd. Oscar raises an eyebrow at the crowd, seemingly dissatisfied by the reception to this joke.

“Uh, hello?” A small smirk flashes across his face. “Did you guys get that? No? Ah, fuck.”

To Lando’s horror, this blatant request for more laughs gets Oscar exactly that. Full-bodied guffaws and a lone whoop rise from the crowd, as Oscar pulls a comically mortified expression. Lando scans the audience, tries to read into their body language from all he can see of their backs. Are they even watching the same set as he is?! Is this really what counts as comedy at the Fringe these days?

“Long story short, guys, Barbara didn’t want to be my emergency contact.” A chorus of ‘aww-s’ prompts Oscar to nod along, gratefully accepting the crowd’s pity. “Thank you, thank you. Anyway, now that I’ve also entrusted all of you with knowledge of my haemorrhoids… would anyone here like to be my emergency contact?”

Something in the room snaps as soon as Oscar’s joke comes full circle. Even though he’d forcibly torn open the floodgates himself, the crowd suddenly seems more than happy to grant him their approval. No sooner than he delivers his first punchline with a self-deprecating smirk, the audience starts shrieking, howling, with pure delight. 

Next to Lando, even Carlos is crowing with laughter; his wheezy chuckles reminiscent of a dying pterodactyl’s cries. Lando regards his friend with utter disbelief — but Carlos is too busy laughing; too enraptured by Oscar’s joke to even notice Lando’s disdain for the set.

“Wow,” Oscar remarks dryly, once the audience’s hysterics have calmed to a volume low enough for him to be heard once more. “You guys really liked that one, huh? Okay, noting that down.” 

He flashes a comically embarrassed look at the crowd, and a new wave of cackles escapes the audience. 

“Like I said, I’m not really supposed to be here. After leaving the hospital, I just Googled ‘things to do in Edinburgh that don’t involve sitting down.’ Aaaand… now I’m here. Doing stand-up.”

Lando rolls his eyes at the pun, feeling embattled as the crowd rewards this lowest form of humour with roars of laughter. He’s almost grateful that there isn’t a real scale for measuring how much a crowd is enjoying any given set. If that existed, he’d certainly want to compare his own metrics to Oscar… and he’s no longer confident that his results would knock the other comedian’s out of the park. 

For some unfathomable reason, the Australian doesn’t need to work for the house’s approval at all. He merely needs to ask them to laugh, and the crowd will acquiesce like clockwork.

Oscar leaves the stage to thunderous applause and cheers so deafening that it feels as if the walls might crumble any second. Carlos turns to Lando as the venue lights come up, grinning wider than the Cheshire Cat. Even as Lando is slumped over onto folded arms beside him, Carlos remains completely oblivious to his new pensive mood.

“Oi, Lanno, come on.” Carlos hoists himself off his bar stool, boisterously gesturing for Lando to do the same. “Let’s go to the green room and congratulate him. What a set for an almost-newcomer, huh?”

Lando shakes his head slowly. “You know, I actually don’t really feel so good. Might go back to the hotel and get an early night…don’t wanna risk having to cancel my show tomorrow.”

Distracted by his intent to head backstage, Carlos doesn’t see through his lame little lie. “Ah, okay. You push yourself too hard, Lanno! Five shows a week is crazy, even Charles isn’t doing that many. Get some rest, okay, cabrón? I’ll tell the new guy you said hi.”

“Yeah, sure,” replies Lando, even though the last thing he wants is for the new guy to think that he holds him in any kind of esteem.

Part of him wants Carlos — one of the only comedians in this room that he actually respects — to notice his frustration. To ask what’s wrong, and maybe abandon going backstage in favour of buying him a drink. But, just like all the flaws in his set; all the failures of comedy theory that Lando could so easily list if asked, his contempt for Oscar is both as imperceptible and irrelevant as his growing chagrin. 

Nobody notices… and nobody feels the same.

///

Over the next few days, Lando’s disdain for Oscar grows and festers like an untreated wound. His excitement for Fringe Rising before the start of the festival had been virtually unquenchable. Now, he thanks his lucky stars that he only has to do this showcase twice a week. Having to see Oscar any more than that would make him inclined to blow his brains out on stage. 

Every time he sees the floppy-haired Australian and his shit-eating smirk, he is reminded of just how unfair everything has become. Lando is only where he is today after shedding plenty of blood, sweat, and tears. He owes his success to the countless nights spent perfecting his sets, even when it meant pushing through sheer exhaustion accumulated over too many shifts at too many thankless part-time jobs. 

All that, and for what? To be ousted for final billing at a Fringe showcase by a no-name from the world’s most godforsaken continent, with a mere five shows under his belt? 

That just doesn’t seem right. Something’s gotta give.

But night after night, Oscar never bombs — never even comes close to bombing, because the audience always inexplicably becomes putty in his hands the moment he asks them to laugh at him. 

Lando never bombs either, but nobody seems to care that he doesn’t.

So Alex never offers Lando final billing, and Lando’s own opinion that this is a grave oversight never changes either. The Fringe soon becomes a kind of mental purgatory for him, with nights spent stewing in a cocktail of his own envy and rage. Day after day, the festival ticks by… but nothing ever changes. And Lando grows ever more resentful.

In an ideal world, his path would never cross Oscar’s, apart from the times they are forced to watch each other’s sets from the back of the venue in the name of artistic courtesy. But, as this entire experience has already shown him, the world he lives in is very far from ideal. 

In reality, their paths cross more times than he would like. In the dressing room backstage, where Oscar always sends a meek hello his way, and where Lando — without fail — doesn’t even acknowledge him before storming back out. At the venue bar — same thing. Lando even runs into Oscar at the grocery store, once. That pre-show snack run ends with him leaving Tesco empty-handed, after lying that he’s leaving and  in a big hurry, just to avoid any further conversation with him. 

Lando does his show hungry that night. His stomach starts hurting twenty minutes into his fifty-five-minute set — but at least the loud growl of his gastric pangs earns him an unexpected extra round of laughter from the audience.

Wednesday may be hump day, but Tuesday and Thursday are the real bookends to Lando’s shit sandwich of a week. Unlike Charles, Lando has nowhere to be — or even to pretend to be — during Oscar’s sets. So he always has to stay, to watch a set that never gets funnier than the last, delivered by a comedian who never grows more appealing, no matter how many times he’s forced to look at him.

And look at Oscar he does. Because what the fuck else is he supposed to when he’s a captive audience member for a set he can’t walk out of for fear of being cancelled by comedy Twitter? 

Soon enough, the Australian’s visage becomes one he can recall on command, every detail instantaneously available. The short, shiny, yet floppy brown hair. The long, rabbit-like front teeth hiding behind lips almost permanently curled into a lazy smile. The smattering of freckles and tiny moles all across his cheeks and neck. The deep brown eyes.

Sometimes, when he is alone at night, Lando summons all these details in his mind’s eye, painstakingly assembling as detailed a picture of Oscar as he can. Then he tacks it to a dartboard in his mind and fucking obliterates it.

The most infuriating part of all this? Despite how open Lando’s hostility is, Oscar doesn’t seem to notice… or care. Before every show, a hello. After every show, a wave goodbye, even though Lando scrambles out of his seat to leave the moment Oscar descends from the stage. 

Lando soon convinces himself of a secret third possibility — that Oscar has noticed, and does care, and is using their forced proximity as a reason to rub his omnipresence in Lando’s face. To terrorise Lando with his constant hellos and heys and painfully Australian okays. To ensure, simply speaking, that Lando will never know peace as long as the Fringe is running.

What’s worse is that, after barely any time at all, Oscar’s nefarious form of psychological warfare actually works. As Lando’s animosity towards the Australian grows, he begins to search for him wherever he goes, obsessed with fantasies of telling him exactly what he thinks of him. 

He searches for Oscar in the crowds at his solo shows, his eyes straining under the spotlight, desperate to catch sight of that floppy brown fringe somewhere in the seats. He even begins frequenting the Tesco Metro on snack runs more often than not, hoping that Oscar will be there for him to unleash the full power of the contempt in his heart, even if the Australian opens with his naive little hello.

But, as always, this is not an ideal world. Oscar never returns to the Tesco Metro. Lando never goes to the green room. Their paths remain as distant as they can, for two comedians working the same show.

And then, one night, Lando is offered redemption.

He spots Oscar in the crowd for his solo set immediately after he bounces onstage. The Australian’s placid brown eyes are fixed on him in the split second that Lando notices his presence — and, judging by the slow, relaxed smile that crawls onto his face, he knows he’s seen him. Lando’s smile freezes for a beat as he spots his nemesis. He fumbles to remove the mic from its stand, spending extra seconds clambering about as the audience waits for him to begin. 

So, Oscar has really done it. He really had the balls to show his face at the superior comedian’s set. Well, if he wants so desperately to get schooled in the art of real stand-up, who is Lando to deny him?

That night, the show is unequivocally the best solo set he’s ever put on in his entire life. Lando’s brand of comedy has always been fairly slapstick and energetic, but tonight he is something else altogether onstage. He’s a whirling dervish — jumping higher, acting harder — all to get the crowd laughing louder and louder to feed the hungry void of ambition within him. 

Not even halfway through the set, a few people in the front row are actually wheezing with exertion. The air positively sparkles with mirth, along with the glint of teary-eyed audience members, who are doubled over and crying with laughter. 

But Lando barely notices any of this. He’s performing for one audience member alone, eyes fixed on the dead centre of the room, tracking Oscar’s every reaction like a hawk. He sees when Oscar smiles, sees when he laughs, sees when he throws his head back and lets out a full-bellied guffaw right when Lando’s repertoire is meant to take the audience by surprise.

Do you see it now, Oscar? he wants to say. This is how comedy is meant to be done.

The crowd is electric when the lights come up. The buzz and rustle of their post-show discussion remains at a constant volume as his audience relives their favourite moments from the set amongst themselves. Only a few figures make their way to the exit almost immediately. The rest remain milling around the bar, or even in their seats — waiting for Lando to come around and mingle with the audience, all wanting a piece of him.

Lando spends the rest of the night working the crowd. Making small talk with new fans. Hugging old fans he recognises from back in the day. Taking pictures with Fringe grannies who have dedicated their twilight years to exploring the arts — and don’t they love a dashing young man who can make them laugh. 

He almost forgets about the unwelcome interloper in the audience altogether. But then the crowd thins out, the bar staff get ready to close the venue for the night, and Oscar appears in front of him once more — a fluffy-haired nightmare emerging from the pub’s gloomy atmosphere.

“Lando!” His name sounds foreign on the other man’s tongue; so unrecognisable that he wishes he would say it again, just so he can better get used to the sound of it. “Congrats, man. That was an amazing set. I’d heard a lot about you, but tonight completely blew me away. I never really knew comedy could be like this before.”

It takes all of Lando’s willpower not to let out an exultant scream directly into the Australian’s smug little face. He barely hears Oscar’s continued babbling over the imaginary crescendo of a million variations of his triumphal speech, all meticulously laid out in his vengeful fantasies. Now is his chance to put Oscarin his place. Now is the time to live out his dreams.

Oscar has stopped talking now, and just looks at him expectantly, as if Lando would care about anything he has to say. He reaches within himself; searches for the words that he’s rehearsed for so long.

And all he can say is a lame, muted, “Thanks.”

Lando can’t tell if it is disappointment or satisfaction that makes Oscar turn away. “Okay,” he says, in that same semi-ironic deadpan cadence he uses incessantly onstage — or is that just his voice? “I’ll leave you to it. Don’t want to take you away from your other fans. See you on Tuesday, mate.”

And then he turns away, waving over his shoulder as he disappears out the pub doors and into the night. Lando immediately turns to the next fan waiting to speak with him, but something about the night has inexplicably changed for the worse. His smile feels plastic, his enthusiasm more strained than genuine.

After leaving the bar, he finds himself looking around the doors, half-expecting Oscar to emerge from the darkness again and shoot him that infuriating smile of his. But of course, the other man is long gone. 

And Lando walks home alone, burning with shame.

///

The third and final week of the Fringe dawns, and Lando senses that a reckoning is near.

Festival fatigue has set in for most Fringe performers now, taking root so deeply in their bones that most of them barely have the energy to go out for drinks after their sets. 

Lando himself is no exception. He has been curling up beneath the covers of his hotel duvet earlier and earlier each night, unable to keep up with Carlos and Charles’s constant, fervoured partying. Lando’s especially unable to face the possibility of running into Oscar; to see that smile directed at him under the warm fairy lights of some outdoor beer garden. 

All he wants is for the festival to be over, so he can go back home to London, sleep for a week, and forget that he’d ever been upstaged by an amateur comedian from fucking Australia. Who he still can’t stop thinking about.

Performing the same material for two weeks straight grows stale for even the most seasoned comedians. So, in this third and final Fringe week, Lando decides to try something different. 

Ensemble showcases at comedy clubs are more often than not used to test new material on unsuspecting audiences — so what better time to switch up his set than in front of one of the most distinguished festival audiences in the world? 

At worst, he doesn’t get a laugh after one punchline and immediately switches back to his tried and tested material. And at best? He proves himself to be the best improviser in the comedy arena and gives the usurper of his rightfully-deserved final billing slot a run for his money. 

“So, what is it with so many people these days thinking I’m Australian?” he starts one night, in place of his old set closer about papayas. “I was actually down under for a short tour recently, and no matter what I did, all the MCs just kept introducing me as a local comedian. But I’d never been to Australia before that. Don’t have the accent. Have never even tried imitating the accent — I know, right? Aren’t I a saint?

“So, after a couple of nights of letting it slide, I decided to bring it up. I was like, ‘Hey, man, you’ve got to stop telling the crowds I’m Australian. Why do you even think I’m from here, anyway? Is it my hot surfer bod? Is it the fact that I’m kinda sun-kissed and incredibly fuckable? Cause, uh… thank you, but you’re still wrong. About me being Australian, I mean. All the rest of it, you’re toootally right about.”

This gets a fair few laughs from the crowd — Lando’s anecdote is building nicely. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Oscar watching his set from the bar, an inexplicable smile forming on his lips. He forces himself to pivot to the opposite end of the crowd, to ignore his urge to storm offstage and grab the other man by the throat, and scream, This is not about you! This is my set!

This is about me!

Every comedian always envisions their jokes being met with at least a modicum of enthusiasm when they’re delivered for the first time. But never in his wildest dreams had Lando expected this strong of a reaction from the audience tonight — certainly not for a joke fresh out of the oven with no feedback in sight. It is a twisty, turny anecdote, one about scandal and mistaken identity with a second punchline that leaves a few audience members braying hysterically. 

By the time he walks off that stage, Lando is convinced that tonight has confirmed which one of them is better, once and for all. He’s done it, now. He’s out-written, out-performed, even out-Australian-ed Oscar. 

The reckoning has come, and Lando has come out on top.

Or, at least, that’s what he thinks until Oscar saunters onstage a few minutes later. He stops. Squints at the crowd. Pulls a sheepish expression and says, “Well, uh… g’day, everyone. It’s me again. Lando Norris.”

And of course, the crowd absolutely. Fucking. Loses it.

So this is what all of Lando’s efforts have come to. Hours spent crafting new jokes, weighing up the risks of debuting untested material in front of a discerning crowd… all for Oscar to ride in on his high horse and deliver his first joke of the night, entirely at Lando’s expense. 

The rest of his set passes in a blur, as Lando seethes and fumes and curses Oscar for taking a comedic opportunity that he knows, deep down, is perfectly fair game. But that taste of victory, the way it felt in his hands before slipping out of his grasp again — Lando’s ego won’t allow him to let go of it just yet.

And so, he launches himself out of his chair before Oscar has even fully left the stage, leaving a bewildered Carlos calling out questions in vain. His footsteps thud angrily on the bare concrete backstage as he makes his way to the green room, shoving its flimsy wooden door open so hard that it bangs against the opposite wall.

Oscar is in there, gratefully chugging down an entire bottle of water only to choke with surprise at Lando’s frenzied entry. When he turns to see who it is, that shit-eating little smile returns — and Lando can’t wait to wipe it off his face once and for all.

“Oh, hey, man!” Oscar caps his bottle, feigning nonchalance — or maybe he really does respect Lando that little; maybe he really just doesn’t give a fuck. “I don’t usually see you back here. What’s up—”

“You little shit!” yells Lando, not caring who can hear him even as he slams the door behind them. “You fucking amateur. You think you can come here with your unfunny little set, and your shitty jokes that say please, please, please laugh at me, and take my fucking top spot on the billing? You think you can do all that and then piggyback off the joke I spent half of this festival writing?!”

Oscar’s eyes widen with genuine shock. Whatever sort of blowback he’d been expecting from Lando had certainly not been this loud or intense in his mind.

The Australian holds up his hands as if to placate him, and Lando can’t tell if the mocking edge to his movements is actually there, or if it’s entirely his imagination. “Dude, hey, no need for that. I would never have built off your joke if I knew you’d object to it. I’m really sorry, okay? If you’re gonna run that bit at the end of your set again, I promise I won’t repeat what I did tonight.”

“It’s not about whether I’m objecting to it now,” Lando replies through gritted teeth. “It’s about the fact that you don’t get to make jokes of your fellow comedians like that! What, did you want to fucking rub it in a little harder? An amateur, taking last billing over the guy with the real solo hour and the real Netflix special? Well, fuck you too, dude!”

Oscar flinches slightly at Lando’s grotesque imitation of him. “Lando, I genuinely have no clue what you’re talking about, okay? I respect you a lot; I think you’re one of the coolest comedians at the fest. But… isn’t that what we’re all here for? To make jokes out of ourselves?”

Lando chuckles bitterly. “Of course you would say that. You haven’t worked for this for a day in your life, have you?”

He pivots to leave, but is overcome by a fresh wave of self-hatred as Oscar’s voice stops him in his tracks. “Hey, come on. Can’t we talk this out?”

“Oscar! Oscar.” Lando lets out a hysterical laugh. “You don’t need to pretend you want to be my friend any more, alright? There is nothing to talk out! In fact, I would rather not be talking to you at all, because everything you do gets on my last fucking nerve. So let’s just do our last show on Thursday, and not step on each other’s toes, and then we can both go back to never seeing each other again. Okay?”

Oscar blinks. And then, to Lando’s continued frustration, he smiles. Again.

“Nah, hold up. There’s definitely stuff to talk about here. Just… let me get this straight. You think I’m unfunny. You think I don’t deserve a spot on that stage. You hate me.”

“Yes. Exactly. Glad it’s finally gotten through that thick skull of yours.”

Oscar just fixes his big, impassive brown eyes on Lando; brought to life for once by a wry spark that flickers into being for just a split second. 

“You hate me… and yet you can’t seem to get enough of me.”

Lando lets out the most patronising scoff he can muster. “Untalented and delusional. Just when I thought you couldn’t—”

“You hate me, and yet you’re always in that same little corner seat in the back of the pub when I’m onstage.” Oscar’s eyes remain locked directly onto his, his tone mirroring the half-dead neutrality of someone reading boring facts off a piece of paper. “You could just go home and call it a night, but you’re always there anyway. Watching a set you hate.”

Lando opens his mouth to speak, and nothing but a shaky, slow exhale hisses out of him. He is spent; a deflated balloon. When he inhales, the air feels stale and used — Oscar is so close now; breaths mingling in the shared air.

“You hate me, so you keep looking for me every night in the audience of your solo hour… and when you do find me, you don’t even look away again, so it’s like you’re delivering your entire set to me alone.”

“You’re insane.” Lando means to spit the line in his face, heroically aggrieved, but it comes out as a plaintive, airy whine instead. He swears he sees the corner of Oscar’s permanently impassive mouth twitch — the ghost of a smug, triumphant smile passing over and through him. 

“You hate me,” Oscar continues, as if Lando hasn’t even said anything. “Which is why you think about me all the time, right? You hate me.”

Lando feels his expression spasm involuntarily. Control over his facial muscles appears to be rapidly slipping out of his grasp. “Yes,” he manages to growl; his voice a ferocious whisper rising from the back of his throat. “I hate you.”

“Okay,” says Oscar — that fucking stupid, guileless, deadpan okay again. Something about the way Oscar says it — the detached sheen that descends over his eyes, the nasal twang of his Australian accent — makes Lando want to punch something. 

But he can’t even feel his fingers; couldn’t clench a fist if he tried. Oscar’s shoulder knocks against his provocatively, daring him to say something. To do something. 

Surely Oscar knows, then, that the proximity of his body to Lando’s is the thing that has neutralised his opponent. He is a cat, toying with the prey he holds immobilised beneath one paw.

He’s enjoying this.

“You hate me,” says Oscar, his face now unfathomably close to Lando’s, “and you definitely don’t want me to kiss you.”

“No.” Lando’s voice is barely louder than a breath on the wind. “I don’t want you to kiss me.”

Oscar blinks ever so slowly, those impassive brown eyes like a vortex threatening to swallow Lando whole. His lips part, revealing a flash of teeth — a snarl, a smile; an indecipherable, predatory, in-between thing.

“Then stop me,” he says.

Lando hates the way his voice shakes when he speaks next. “What?”

“Stop me,” Oscar repeats. “You don’t want me to kiss you. So stop me.”

There it is — a real smile now. Tentative. Shy, almost. Oscar may have the upper hand, but he doesn’t know that he’s won.

So Lando does the only thing he knows will catch him off guard. He pushes out with the flats of both palms, shoving Oscar so that he stumbles slightly, balance transferring to his back foot. 

And then, while the surprise is still fresh on his face, Lando grabs the collar of Oscar’s hoodie in both his fists, pulls him back in, and kisses him first.

Time freezes, turning a single moment into eternity. Lando can taste the surprise on Oscar’s lips — and oh, does his little reward taste sweet. 

But neither does it last long. Oscar returns the kiss slowly, tantalisingly… only to shove Lando away just as he eases into the tempo of their shared movements.

“Look at you,” teases Oscar, his smirk more self-satisfied than ever. “All red in the face for the world’s most boring comedian.”

One of Oscar’s hands pushes him back up against the green room wall. The other begins tugging at Lando’s belt buckle slowly, drawing his attention to the fact that he is undeniably, achingly hard. All he can think about still is Oscar’s lips; the burning need he has to shut him up again; to kiss him so long and deep that they both forget how to breathe. 

Yet he can’t move; can’t brandish another witty retort against Oscar’s verbal onslaught. His open palms brace himself against the cool brick walls of the dressing room. The only sound that escapes him, right as Oscar’s hand roughly curls around his cock, is a small, plaintive moan.

“Stop me,” says Oscar, looking him right in the eye; a request for consent disguised as more vicious banter.

Lando sees his opportunity, takes it. “Don’t tell me what to do. Shut the fuck up and finish what you started.”

Oscar’s eyes brighten with a new, mischievous twinkle. His smile grows even more insidious. Contrary to Lando’s expectations, he seems positively delighted that Lando has finally found some bite. 

“Ah.” His brown eyes grow coy. “So you do want this. Maybe I should just go, then. Or maybe I should make you beg for it.”

“Like you beg your audience for laughs?”

Oscar draws closer to Lando once more, his lips hovering just out of reach from where he has Lando pressed against the green room’s walls. Down below, his spit-slicked hand begins working Lando’s dick slowly, to a rhythm that is as delicious as it is infuriating.

“Sure, I may beg,” he says, as Lando’s breath begins to hitch in his throat. “But I also get what I want. Every. Single. Time. And now, you’re going to give me what I want too.”

Lando’s palms, still braced against cold, hard brick, clench inconsequentially into fists as he fights back another moan. “Fat fucking chance.” He barely manages to get the words out from between gritted teeth as Oscar’s thumb tantalisingly circles the head of his cock, right as he begins to speak.

Oscar’s eyes widen with mock surprise. His hand all but stops moving, his grip loosens… and to Lando’s embarrassment, the shock of it is so jarring that he lets out a pathetically loud whimper.

“Okay.” There it is, that hatefully deadpan delivery sending a fresh rush of blood to his erection even as Oscar withdraws. “That’s cool. Let’s call it a night, then.”

For a moment, Lando actually falls for Oscar’s feint. The sudden void left by Oscar’s hands, no longer on Lando’s chest or cock, is wholly unbearable. A wave of embarrassment courses through him, as he struggles to pull his briefs back up with trembling fingers. “Fucking arsehole.”

Oscar lashes out almost faster than Lando can process, both hands snatching up his own and pinning them to the wall. “I’ll ask again,” he says teasingly. “Are you going to give me what I want?”

“What the fuck do you want?!” Lando’s growl is equal parts anger and desperation.

“Tell me I’m not boring.”

“No way.”

Oscar’s right hand loosens on Lando’s left, returning to caress Lando’s cock slowly — too slowly.

“Tell me. I’m not. Boring.”

“No fucking way.”

In response to this, Oscar tightens his grip, moving slightly faster again… and Lando understands the rules of the game now. He has to grudgingly respect Oscar’s ruthlessness when it comes to flipping the rules whenever he wants — especially if this is the effect it’s having on him offstage.

“Say it, Lando. Give me what I want.”

“You’re a hack,” he retorts, as forcefully as he can in between shaking breaths, while Oscar’s hand moves faster with every vitriolic syllable that falls from his lips. “You being in this show was a total fluke. You are painfully. Fucking. Unentertaining.”

“Am I, now?”

Lando presumes the question is rhetorical, but his lack of a response earns him another sudden stop that makes him choke with surprise.

“Am I?” Oscar repeats.

“Yes,” whines Lando, even as he senses a new trap being set. The return of Oscar’s smug grin confirms his instincts barely a second later.

“Aw,” he coos, voice dripping with toxic endearment. “You’re a good comedian… but a veeeery bad liar.”

Lando can barely speak through the pressure building in his chest. Through the frustration of his imminent orgasm being withheld yet again, Oscar diabolically slows his pace. “I’m… not… lying.”

“Are you sure?”

Faster once more, to Lando’s relief.

“Cause if I’m so unentertaining…”

Faster, and faster, and faster—

“…then why was it so easy to make you come?”

And Oscar steps away deftly, just in time, as Lando makes an absolute mess of himself.

A strange, potent cocktail of shame, embarrassment, and elation bubbles through the haze of Lando’s post-orgasm brain fog. A hand on his shoulder brings him out of his reverie — Oscar has brought over a towel from the green room rack.

The Australian’s brown eyes search his again. No trace of mischief or malice remains in them. Now, they are just curious… and, dare he say it, kind.

“You okay?” he asks.

Lando just nods as he wipes himself off, still too buzzed to speak.

“Okay. Good. Phew!” Oscar smiles, and it is a real one this time; a cheek-to-cheek beam with a hundred megawatts of charm. “I don’t usually do that without dinner and drinks first, by the way. But you can buy me a beer tomorrow before the show to make up for it. Sounds good?”

Lando’s head jerks back up to look at Oscar. The earnest expression on his face catches him completely off guard. There are clearly no more games left to play now — all that’s left is to decide where they go from here. And Oscar has clearly already decided for the both of them.

But the change in tone is still as absurd as it is welcome, bringing with it relief… and amusement.

Lando cracks a smile — small, at first, but it grows and grows.

“Sounds great,” he says.

And then for the first time, as Oscar looks on, he laughs, and laughs, and laughs.

[dorothylarouge]

Dorothy's Big List of Comic Book Recs - Marvel Comics Edition

I often get asks about getting into comic books, and how daunting it seems, given the huge back catalog of titles and issues available. I'm here to tell you it doesn't have to be scary! From miniseries that act as good introductions to characters to runs on ongoing titles by individual creators that serve on jumping-on points, there's lots of ways to get into comics without having to have a lot of background knowledge, and I'm going to give you a lot of potential places to start. Please note that this post only covers Marvel Comics; this is a companion to my DC list and I will also have a list for indie comics and smaller companies at some point. Also note that I haven't read everything, and I won't recommend something I haven't read, so a few runs or books some consider must-reads may not be on here. This is based purely on books I have read and enjoy, and that I think are suitable for new readers.

SPIDER-MAN

The Amazing Spider-Man (1963) by Stan Lee, with artists Steve Ditko and John Romita, Sr.: The classic Spider-Man stories which laid the foundation for the character. These stories are filled with the melodrama and pathos that really makes Spider-Man shine, and with two of the greatest artists of the Silver Age on deck, you really can't go wrong. Ditko stays on the book until issue 38, and Lee's run ends at issue 110.

The Amazing Spider-Man (1963) by Gerry Conway, with artists John Romita, Sr., Gil Kane, and Ross Andru: Picking up immediately after the end of Stan Lee's run, Gerry Conway wrote issues 111 to 149. This run includes a number of vital Spider-Man stories, including Spidey's climactic tussle with the Green Goblin and his first brush with the nightmares of cloning.

The Amazing Spider-Man (1963) by Roger Stern: Spanning issues 229 to 252, this brief but memorable run includes several iconic Spider-Man stories and the debut of the Hobgoblin.

The Amazing Spider-Man (1963) by Tom DeFalco and Ron Frenz: DeFalco wrote the book from 253 to 285, and this run included the debut of Silver Sable as well as Spider-Man's black suit.

The Amazing Spider-Man (1963) by J. Michael Straczynski: This should be read in omnibus format as the numbering is a little weird; the run starts during volume 2 of Amazing but the book switched back to volume 1 and original numbering partway through. One of my favorite runs on the book! The creator of Babylon 5 brings Peter Parker into the 21st century, giving him a job as a science teacher and first hinting there might be some destiny at play in how he got his powers. There are a few warts on this run, however, mainly due to editorial mandates: it contains the dreadful "Sins Past" storyline and it ends on the wet fart that is "One More Day."

Peter Parker, the Spectacular Spider-Man (1976) by Bill Mantlo and Al Milgrom: The sister book to Amazing often goes a little overlooked, but this is a great run on it, including one of the best Doctor Octopus stories in Spider-Man history.

Peter Parker, the Spectacular Spider-Man (2017) by Chip Zdarsky: Spectacular was brought back in 2017 with writer Chip Zdarsky at the helm, and it's great. The standout story is probably issue 6, "My Dinner with Jonah," which is one of my favorite Spider-Man issues ever.

Spectacular Spider-Man (1988) by J.M. DeMatteis and Sal Buscema: This run spans issues 178 to 203, and includes Spider-Man's final battle with the second Green Goblin, the standout storyline of the run. DeMatteis also had a turn writing Amazing, but I wouldn't wish the Clone Saga on any new reader.

Spider-Girl (1998) by Tom DeFalco and Ron Frenz: An alternate universe title set in the future and starring the daughter of Peter Parker and Mary Jane, it's great superhero fun featuring everything that made classic Spider-Man great.

Ultimate Spider-Man (2000) by Brian Michael Bendis and Mark Bagley: Another alternate universe book which sought to reintroduce Spider-Man to a new generation. It's a solid book and a good read, but it is very dated to the 2000s for good and for ill.

Ultimate Spider-Man (2023) by Jonathan Hickman: Another alternate-universe take on Spider-Man, this time reimagining him as a family man who gets his powers in his 30s. Whereas most Spider-Man takes start Peter off as a kid with power but no responsibility, this flips the script by having him as an adult with responsibility but no power, as he finds himself drafted into a war against the forces that have taken control of the world.

Miles Morales: Spider-Man (2019) by Saladin Ahmed: Hot off the heels of Into the Spider-Verse, Ahmed's run on Miles' title pushes him forward and secures his place as a leading light of the Marvel Universe, and even gives him his own Clone Saga.

Miles Morales: Spider-Man (2022) by Cody Ziglar: This title is ongoing, but it's a great read that continues the work of carving out Miles' niche in the Marvel Universe and taking him in new directions.

Spider-Man: Life Story (2019) by Chip Zdarsky and Mark Bagley: A thoughtful and heartfelt story that takes Peter Parker on a real-time adventure through the decades, beginning in the 1960s.

Spider-Man 2099 (1992) by Peter David: A cyberpunk romp through a futuristic New York, featuring corporate oppression and intrigue. Miguel O'Hara's best run as Spider-Man.

X-MEN

X-Men (1963) by Stan Lee and Jack Kirby: The initial run of the X-Men lays the groundwork for everything to come, but the book didn't sell well or retain Stan's attention the way Spider-Man or the Fantastic Four could, and he left the book after issue 19. Roy Thomas took over for the rest of the 60s, and there's some good stories in there too, but the real great stuff was still to come.

X-Men by Chris Claremont: MUST be read in omnibus format, because this mammoth run spanned over a decade and a half, including multiple titles - not only the main X-Men book but the New Mutants and the stellar graphic novel "God Loves, Man Kills." THE definitive X-Men run, featuring most of the team's most iconic stories.

New X-Men (2001) by Grant Morrison: Not my favorite work by Morrison, but this is probably the most important run after Claremont. Morrison brings a more militant spirit and a focus on radical activism to the X-Men, and the run opens with a bang - though I have to admit that it closes with two of my least favorite X-Men stories.

X-Men (1991) by Mike Carey: Fun stories featuring an eclectic assortment of characters and interesting team dynamics, but the real treat comes when the book becomes X-Men: Legacy, and a character study on Professor X and his son Legion.

New X-Men (2004): Of course, a classic element of X-Men stories is the school setting, and this book brings that concept into the 2000s, focusing on students at the Xavier School and their interpersonal drama. Degrassi with superpowers.

Wolverine and the X-Men (2011) by Jason Aaron: Another school-set book, this one focuses on Wolverine's efforts to run a school filled with mutant teenagers.

X-Factor (1986) by Louise and Walter Simonson: A very 80s team book focusing on the original X-Men, reconnecting after several years apart, and the conflicts they get drawn into, often the result of their own mistakes. Also features the debut of Apocalypse, one of the best X-villains.

X-Factor (1986) by Peter David: After David took over the book, the focus of X-Factor was shifted from being the original X-Men to an oddball group of government-sanctioned mutants. This book also helped flesh out the character of Mystique.

X-Factor (2006) by Peter David: X-Factor returned under David in the 2000s, this time as a detective agency specializing in cases involving mutants. There's a cynical edge to this book which was common in the 2000s but it really works for this title.

X-Force (1991) issues 116 to 129 and X-Statix by Peter Milligan and Mike Allred: Allred's art is worth the price of admission. Imagine a team where every character is expendable, most of them are liable to die in really nasty ways, and they all have weird and uncomfortable powers. That's X-Statix.

Ultimate X-Men (2024) by Peach Momoko: Probably my favorite of the new Ultimate line. Very different vibes to basically any other X-Men book - this one is essentially a horror manga in the vein of Junji Ito or Shigeru Mizuki.

THE HULK

Hulk: Gray by Jeph Loeb and Tim Sale: A moody and gorgeously-illustrated take on the Hulk's earliest days.

The Incredible Hulk (1962) by Bill Mantlo and Sal Buscema: Buscema is one of the best Hulk artists of all time, and while Mantlo's writing can be hit or miss, when he hits he really hits, as in issue 312, one of the best Hulk issues ever written.

The Incredible Hulk (1962) by Peter David: David's run is considered the definitive Hulk run, and for good reason. It is best read in omnibus format because it is very long, and packs a lot into that long tenure. Bruce Banner's Joe Fixit alter debuts here, as does his Professor persona.

The Incredible Hulk (2000) by Greg Pak: This run includes the Planet Hulk storyline! Exiled from Earth, the Hulk rises to power as a warlord on a hostile alien world. Really scratches that Conan the Barbarian itch.

The Indestructible Hulk (2013): A different take on the Hulk, this time recasting him as an agent of SHIELD with all the adventures and difficulties that brings.

The Immortal Hulk (2018) by Al Ewing: Here we see the difference between "definitive" and "best." While David's run is the definitive Hulk run, for my money Immortal Hulk is the best. It is both a gnarly piece of body horror and a deeply thoughtful title that muses on the nature of anger, of suffering, and of pain, drawing heavily on Kabbalistic imagery and themes.

She-Hulk (2004 and 2005) by Dan Slott: An offbeat workplace comedy set in a law office specializing in cases involving superhumans. The best She-Hulk run in my book, not least because it does not involve John Byrne.

DAREDEVIL AND STREET LEVEL STUFF

Daredevil (1964) by Frank Miller: Probably the definitive Daredevil run, and the only time I've been able to stand Frank Miller, this run features some great art as well as some of the most important Daredevil stories in the character's history.

Daredevil (1964) by Ann Nocenti: Carries on from the Miller run and takes the character of Daredevil, his supporting cast, and Hell's Kitchen in some totally new directions. Includes the story of the excellent villain Typhoid Mary.

Daredevil (1998) by Brian Michael Bendis: A gritty, very 2000s take on Daredevil, Bendis' strengths as a writer are on full display during this run, with grungy art to match.

Daredevil (2011 and 2014) by Mark Waid: A much lighter and more superhero-y run than Daredevil often gets, this excellent run features Matt going up against criminal syndicates, old enemies coming back for revenge, and more.

Hawkeye (2012) by Matt Fraction: Easily the best book Hawkeye has ever had. Spectacular art and excellent scripting featuring both Clint Barton and Kate Bishop in a firmly street-level narrative focusing on threats to the local community.

The Punisher (2011) by Greg Rucka: For my money the best the Punisher (whom I usually don't like) has ever been. A genuinely thoughtful examination of Frank Castle as a human. Many people swear by the Garth Ennis run on the character, but to me this is the definitive Punisher run.

Mockingbird (2016) by Chelsea Cain: A short but fun series focusing on Mockingbird in a number of spy thriller scenarios.

Alias (2001) by Brian Michael Bendis: A mature mystery series starring a former superheroine. It goes into some gnarly territory but it really displays Bendis' strengths in writing street-level, grounded stories within the Marvel Universe.

Moon Knight (1980) by Doug Moench: Moon Knight fans will be mad that this is the only run I have on this list but it's the only one I've read! It's a fantastic read though.

Ms. Marvel (2014 and 2016) by G. Willow Wilson: There's a reason that Kamala Khan has been one of Marvel's biggest breakout characters in recent history, and it all starts in this initial run of comics. Great art and fantastic scripts by Wilson.

Runaways (2004 and 2005) by Brian K. Vaughan: One of my favorite setups in a comic, with a group of teenagers learning that their parents are actually a supervillainous cabal and running away from home in response. Great teen drama with a superpowered twist. The second volume also has a run by Joss Whedon (bear with me) that's also pretty good.

TEAMS AND TEAM-UPS

Fantastic Four (1961) by Stan Lee and Jack Kirby: One of the greatest comic books ever written. Both Lee and Kirby poured their heart and soul into these early adventures, and you can really tell. The first Galactus story is still one of my favorites. Essential reading.

Fantastic Four (1998) by Mark Waid and Mike Wieringo: Probably my favorite Fantastic Four run, with a great focus on Doctor Doom, Mister Fantastic, and Ben Grimm.

Fantastic Four (2022) by Ryan North: The current FF run, this one goes all-out on wacky science fiction adventure, with most stories only taking one or two issues to tell. Bite-size superhero fun, with fantastic characterization. Made me stan Alicia Masters.

The Avengers (1963) by Roy Thomas: The initial run of the Avengers by Lee, Kirby, and Heck, is serviceable, but the team came into their own under Roy Thomas, who introduced mainstays of the team like Vision and Black Panther to the roster, in this run which also incldues the classic "Kree-Skrull War" storyline. Throw in art by legends like John Buscema, Sal Buscema, and Neal Adams, and you've got a great run to get into the Avengers with.

The Avengers (1963) by Roger Stern: Another great Avengers run, this one solidified a roster for the team which included members like Hercules, Black Knight, and the best Captain Marvel aka Monica Rambeau, and includes the best "Avengers Mansion is attacked" story.

The Avengers (1997) by Kurt Buseik and George Perez: A creative dream team relaunched the Avengers in the late 90s to fantastic effect, with several excellent storylines and gorgeous art. This is, for my money, the definitive Avengers run.

Young Avengers (2013) by Kieron Gillan: The Young Avengers have mostly been supplanted as Marvel's premiere team of teenage superheroes, but this is their best book in my view, featuring the team's best roster and some of their best stories.

Champions (2016) by Mark Waid and Humberto Ramos: A great teen team book, the Champions have basically replaced the Young Avengers in no small part due to this run. Makes me yearn for a Waid-penned Teen Titans ongoing.

Defenders (1972): I'm just gonna recommend the whole comic. If you want off-beat and unusual superhero team dynamics and out-there storytelling, this is a good bet. Special attention should go to Steve Gerber's run around issue 20 or so.

MAGIC MARVEL

Doctor Strange: The Oath (2006) by Brian K. Vaughn and Marcos Martin: A good entry point to Doctor Strange and his weird world, featuring some really great art.

Strange Tales (1951) by Stan Lee and Steve Ditko: Never has Steve Ditko's art been better than in those first Doctor Strange stories, weird and wonderful and surreal.

Journey Into Mystery (1951) and Thor (1966) by Stan Lee and Jack Kirby: The first Thor stories are not only great, they feature Kirby's excellent Tales of Asgard backups which he would eventually develop into his Fourth World at DC.

Thor by Jason Aaron: Read in omnibus format. A true epic worthy of Norse legend. Includes some all-time great Thor stories.

The Immortal Thor (2023) by Al Ewing: The current Thor run, with a strong focus on mythology and how stories are constructed and passed down across the years.

Scarlet Witch (2023 and 2024) by Steve Orlando: A fun ongoing that finally made Wanda Maximoff a worthy headliner in Marvel, featuring her protecting a small town from magical threats.

COSMIC MARVEL

Silver Surfer (1968) by Stan Lee and John Buscema: One of my favorite comics as a teenager, this book combines space opera and melodrama to great effect.

Silver Surfer (1987) by Steve Englehart, Jim Starlin, and Ron Marz: The definitive Silver Surfer run. Includes some excellent stories, including some from the master of cosmic Marvel, Jim Starlin.

Silver Surfer (1988) by Stan Lee and Moebius: Must be read for the art alone.

Guardians of the Galaxy (2008) by Dan Abnett and Andy Lanning: This is where the MCU team originated, and it's still the best run the Guardians have ever had.

Quasar (1989) by Mark Gruenwald: Has the energy of a Silver Age comic with none of the baggage. Definition of a hidden gem.

Nova (2007) by San Abnett and Andy Lanning: Probably the definitive Nova run? Spun out of Annihilation which as an event comic I haven't included here but is still a great read.

Eternals (1976) by Jack Kirby: It's kind of Fourth World backwash, but it's Kirby doing wacky cosmic stuff so you know it's a good time.

AND THE REST

Power Pack (1984): What if a bunch of kids got superpowers? No, not teenagers, little kids? It's a thoroughly 1980s premise and one that shines best in the original series from that era.

Captain America (2005, 2011) by Ed Brubaker: A high-octane action-spy thriller which reintroduced Bucky and made him Cap for a while. The definitive modern Captain America run.

2001: A Space Odyssey (1976): A short adaptation of the novel and film, and then like 10 issues of wacky Kirby sci-fi. Really great hidden gem.

Black Panther (1998) by Christopher Priest: The definitive Black Panther run, that set the stage for everything to follow.

Black Panther (2016) by Ta-Nehisi Coates: Another great run exploring the nature of power. Many comic fans do not like it because they are philistines.

Vision (2015) by Tom King and Gabriel Hernandez Walla: Tom King is hit or miss, but this book is great, with the Vision building a family - of a kind - for himself.

[veliseraptor]

October Reading Recap

I read kind of a lot this month, mostly as a product of the holidays meaning I had a lot of time where I (a) wasn't working and (b) wasn't online and also there was the fact that I was (c) depressed and desperately trying to keep myself occupied at all times to avoid slumping into a pit of nothingness.

so this one's kind of long.

Listen for the Lie by Amy Tintera. I need to read more mysteries again. I had a lot of fun with this one - I am always a sucker for books that play with multimedia type formats (movie scripts, podcast transcripts, etc.) and while I've fallen out of the true crime circuit it was fun to watch the ways in which this book was playing with it.

The Tangleroot Palace by Marjorie Liu. I've read all of Marjorie Liu's comics (and loved them) but this was my first time reading her prose. Short story collections are always hard for me to assess, since I very seldom come away from them feeling in any way uniform about the stories within, but this was a rare short story collection where there weren't any I didn't like. There weren't standouts to me in the same way that, say, Monstress stands out to me, but they were all solid.

Pine by Francine Toon. Picked this one up sort of on a whim as a horror novel and I don't feel like it quite was, in the end, a horror novel. It was good - quiet and a little eerie - but probably not one I'd pass on an enthusiastic recommendation for.

The Daughter of Doctor Moreau by Silvia Moreno-Garcia. With the possible exception of Mexican Gothic I've been decidedly underimpressed with Moreno-Garcia's work, and this book was not an exception. I was excited about it! But maybe that's partly because I was hoping for more horror than I got. But then again, it was billed to me as such, so I'm not entirely coming from nowhere with that.

Seven Surrenders by Ada Palmer. I think I liked this book more than I liked Too Like the Lightning, but that might also be because a lot of Too Like the Lightning was setup/catalyzing for events that actually happened in this book. I'm definitely going to read the rest of the series and this is another one where I want to read, like, literary analysis of these books, or discuss them in a group, or something, because they're doing some very interesting things that would be fun to cogitate on more deeply than I feel like I can do just on my own.

Alien Clay by Adrian Tchaikovsky. I didn't like this book quite as much as I've liked Tchaikovsky's other work, in part because I felt like this one got a little heavy handed/didactic which is the fastest way to turn me off a book. But I'm maybe more sensitive to that than I need to be, and I think the question of...is-this-meant-to-be-horror-tinged-or-not means I'm going to be thinking about this one moving forward. It's no Children of Time but I continue to be a Tchaikovsky devotee.

Horror Movie by Paul Tremblay. This book was bad. I mean, it wasn't the worst, but it also wasn't very good at all, and felt like it was leaning hard on the movie script format gambit as a way to mask how thin the book as a whole was.

The Book at War: Libraries and Readers in an Age of Conflict by Andrew Pettegree. I was hoping for a book more about the content of books as they relate to war and wartime propaganda, but I probably should've read the subtitle more carefully, so that's on me. This was much more about books as a material object and libraries as an entity during wartime, specifically mostly during World War 2 and the Cold War. Which was interesting, but not as interesting as I hoped for.

Black Mouth by Ronald Malfi. Another horror novel - I've been meaning to read this one for a while though I'm not actually sure I remember what put it on my radar. I think Malfi is an author I've seen around and this was a book where the summary sounded vaguely interesting to me, so I marked it down as a title to give a new-to-me author a go. While my feelings on this book are sort of mixed - the way it wrote its disabled character in particular had my eyebrows twitching a little - I do think I'll be trying more Malfi.

Long Live Evil by Sarah Rees Brennan. Remember this post? Yeah, it was about this book. I'm not proud it made me cry, but made me cry it did. On the other hand, I'm (a) astonished that it references MDZS for inspiration but not SVSSS, though maybe that's because the author was afraid it'd make the ways she was cribbing from SVSSS too obvious, and (b) this book actually did have me when it settled down into being serious and cut some of the goddamn quippiness. Look, I'm not entirely opposed to a good quip. They can be fun, and I think I get what they were conveying in terms of character (that the protagonist wasn't really taking things in the "fictional" world seriously, up to a certain point), but they can also be very grating. On the other other hand I probably will be reading the sequel, unfortunately. So you know. Mixed fucking bag.

Leech by Hiron Ennes. I read a fair amount of horror this month and this was one of the standouts specifically because of its initial conceit and how that conceit was developed - which I don't want to say too much about because I think it's stronger to come into this book not knowing much about it.

Silent Reading (Mo Du) by Priest. It's not the cnovel that caters to me most personally that I've read so far, but it might be the best one I've read so far, if that makes sense as a distinction. The character work, the dynamic between the main characters, the tightening noose of the core mystery...I really liked this one, and definitely plan to go back and reread it. Might bind it, too, we'll see. I should finish Qiang Jin Jiu first.

Lady Hotspur by Tessa Gratton. I understand why Gratton didn't have Hal kill Hotspur in the end (as in the play this is drawing on for source material) but it definitely weakened the book, in my opinion, that she didn't. It would've been much stronger, narratively, if also a lot sadder. But ah well. Would've been absolutely slammed with bury-your-gays discourse. Anyway, I liked The Queens of Innis Lear better but I didn't dislike this one.

Winter Be My Shield by Jo Spurrier. I am very excited to read the rest of this series, which @mongooseland turned me onto by doing art for it. I don't know that I'd endorse it wholeheartedly for everyone - in fact, I definitely wouldn't, for one thing content warnings for heavily-referenced if not explicitly shown sexual assault - but I'm personally into it and looking forward to reading the next books, which are going to be difficult to find, alas. I have adopted a new terrible boy from this, if anyone was wondering.

Solaris by Stanislaw Lem. I feel like I did not understand this book and probably need to read some analysis of it to get a better sense of what was going on. Makes me wish I'd actually read it for the book club meeting about it, since maybe someone there would have a better idea of how to dissect what it's doing than I did.

Oracle by Thomas Olde Heuvelt. I didn't like this one as much as I liked his other two that I've read - it felt more action/adventure and less horror in a way that appealed to me less. It was still good enough that I'm glad I read it, and I'll continue to follow the author, but I was moderately underwhelmed - though, to be fair, that's more by comparison with his other work than it is comparison with other horror I've read, which it still outshines.

I'm currently reading Catching Chen Qing Ling: The Untamed and Adaptation, Production, and Reception in Transcultural Contexts (that's a mouthful) alongside rereading The Last Unicorn. Might try to finally finish reading Golden Witchbreed by Mary Gentle this month, finally read Cassiel's Servant by Jacqueline Carey, and maybe read one of the short story collections sitting on my shelf (The Way Spring Arrives and Other Stories, possibly). New Remnants of Filth volume and new Monstress (speaking of Marjorie Liu) are coming out this month, so those will probably make it into the rotation too.

taking mystery/thriller recommendations still, if anyone has any! I'm generally pretty good at just feeling my way around in the fantasy/sci-fi and nonfiction spaces, but I've got no idea where to start when it comes to other genres.

[0pawprint0]

All the autographs I got! The only person on my list I didn’t get was Matthew. His lines were long throughout the whole con. But I got a picture with him and he complimented my Shaggy cosplay, so I still consider it a win! He was super kind.

The Hazbin gang were all so sweet and talking to them was so much fun! They all seemed to love my Sir Pentious cosplay! Erika even asked for a pic to show Alex. He didn’t respond while I was there, but he’s a very busy person, so I get it completely ^^

I nearly cried when I got to meet Rob. I have looked up to him for so long and it was so amazing to finally meet him. He was as wonderful as you’d expect. It was super hard to choose which poster for him to sign because he plays so many characters I love. I ended up picking Donnie because TMNT 2012 is my favorite version and I never see anything for it. I was telling him about how even some of his super specific roles like Eric from The Little Mermaid 2 have stuck with me and he gave me a hug! He also addressed me in Donnie’s voice and knew how to spell my name without me even needing to tell him! Most people don’t spell it right. He also complimented my cosplay and asked me how to make it and everything (I was Sir Pentious that day). It was such a good time. I would talk with him all day if I could. I unfortunately didn’t get a picture with him because I didn’t have enough money (things tend to go wrong when I’m trying to save money and I had to pay to fix some things the month before fhfhfhdn). But I’m hoping to see him again one day and next time I will get a picture!

Grey was so fun to talk to! She actually had her hair put up with a pin to look like Azula (Avatar: The Last Airbender), another character she plays. She excitedly addressed me as Shaggy (the cosplay I was wearing that day), telling my sister and I to "throw Scooby Snacks at any monsters you see!" and told us not to unmask anyone :’) she’s so silly and fun I love herrr! She gave us a hug, too! Frank was super nice and loved the poster my sister brought for him to sign (she got it from an artist at the con) and he even did Scooby’s voice to us!

My sister is a big fan of Cameron Monaghan, so we went to his panel. She was able to get a pic and autograph with him, too! I don’t have the pictures with her because I don’t think she’d want me to post her face here lol.

I didn’t get an autograph from him because of money, but I also got to meet Johnny Yong Bosch! He’s most known for Ichigo from Bleach, but what I was excited for was talking to him about Danganronpa (he is Hajime and Rantaro)!

This is my haul I got from comic con (excluding the things that came with my ticket). I did, indeed, come home with 4 Miku figures. But one was free! Because at that booth it was buy 2, get 1 free.

I also got a Neighthan Rot doll for fairly cheap (they go as high as $70 online). Tbh a Monster High doll is the last thing I expected to get at a con, but I’m pretty down with it lol. Especially because it’s in great condition and still had his journal!

For the Harry Potter sticker and pin, we got those for free at a free Harry Potter trivia we went to because HP is my sister’s favorite book series. She also won a book she doesn’t have! It was like a Dumbledore side story (note: neither of us support or like Rowling as a person. She did not get any money out of us, as this was free).

The mushroom sticker was given to me by an artist as I passed their table! Their info is there on the sticker if you’re interested in their work!

The stickerssss! They make me so happy. There was so many more this artist had that I wanted, but I didn’t have the money for it, unfortunately. I got Ciel, Sebastian, Grell, and Undertaker (Black Butler), Bill, Stan, Wendy, Dipper, Mabel, and Waddles (Gravity Falls - they didn’t have Soos or Ford rip), Craig and Tweek (South Park), Sir Pentious (Hazbin Hotel), Stolas (Helluva Boss), Rampo (Bungou Stray Dogs), and Amaimon (Blue Exorcist).

This stuff came with my ticket! I LOVE the poster!

I didn’t get these, but I thought they were really funny.

Post 2/2

[yanara126-writing]

Communion

Billie didn't like watching Daud visit shrines to the Outsider.

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Read here or on Ao3 (1026 words)

Have fun! Comments always welcome! :)

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Billie didn't like watching Daud visit shrines to the Outsider. She didn't like the feelings it stirred in her, the things it made her think. Despite this she followed him to them every time he spotted one on a mission. It was always the same. First he would slow, losing focus, until he stopped entirely. Sometimes, when the mission was time sensitive, he would shake his head and move on, eyes hard as steel, but limbs moving like through tar. As if it tore at him physically to ignore the shrine. The further away they got the more he would relax. But when the mission didn't need priority, then he would go without fail. Drawn like a moth to the lamp, despite his own insistence that the Outsider was 'rotten, black-eyed bastard'. He would curse but he would go, and Billie would follow. This time was no different.

He found the shrine quickly, hidden in a windowless room, its only entrance blocked by a bookcase. Bille watched him, herself hidden just out of sight, as he rammed his sword into the thin crack between shelf and wall and yanked. The shelf gave under his strength and the extra leverage and started to topple and fell with a crash. It nearly crushed Daud, who'd thoughtlessly stepped closer and only just avoided being buried with a quick jump. When he stepped through the hole in the wall, drawn to the unnaturally steady purple light Billie followed with a transversal. He stared at the rune, no doubt hearing its song. He'd described to her once, as a haunting tune, barely something to be called a melody, like a buzzing mosquito that isn't loud but you can't ignore it anyway. He'd scowled around his cigarette as he'd explained it, gaze far away, as if he hadn't even quite known she was there.

He stared like that too now. She said something, some inane comment about how the Outsider must smell. He merely grunted absently when normally he would have answered something equally inane. Something like how if she ever smelled him she should take a proper bath afterwards.

"I wonder when he'll talk to me." The words escaped her with an unsettling urgency, pressing out of her lungs without her consent, carrying with them an undeniable truth. The feeling roiled in her chest, quietly and uncomfortably as she watched him step closer to the shrine, completely enraptured, a dour scowl etched into his face.

Daud grabbed the rune as if it had personally underpaid him. As soon as it left the purple cushion his face went slack and his entire body slumped as if all tension in his muscles simply evaporated. The hand holding the rune swung with uncontrolled momentum, a visual so comical it felt obscene to watch. He didn't drop the rune though. He never did.

Billie watched him stand in front of the shrine, unaware and unseeing, entirely helpless, and grasped the sword in her hand tighter. The feelings churning in her chest bubbled higher, boiling her organs and making her head swim.

Jealousy. She craved the power at his finger tips, the entirety of it, not just the echo passed to her. She wanted the freedom it promised, the attention of something greater. She wanted what the old man had promised her when he'd taken her in, had made her his second, had put a blade in her hand and a dream in her head. She wanted to usurp him, to control him, to be him.

Rage. It rushed through her veins, simmered under her skin. She was angry at the old man, that he had caved, was crumbling. Six months ago had marked his decline when it should have been their highest point. The assassination of an empress. He hadn't been the unbreakable rock he should have been for years, but still he had seemed unconquerable, an unbreakable wall between her and anything that could harm her. They had been invincible. All that remained now was an old man broken by his greatest success. Vulnerable, right in front of her.

Fear. If the rage made her blood boil then the fear made it freeze in her veins. Daud's crumbling scared her. What did it mean for her? In truth she knew, had been preparing for a while now, was prepared to do what was necessary, but still it scared her. What she was going to do to the man who'd raised her, who'd given her something to live for again. Delilah had called it Billie's own fatal flaw, the weak spot she had to hide if she wanted to make it. Looking at him now, completely out of it, so easy to take down while he was speaking with his god, it shook her to the core. She tried not imagine how he would look when she was done.

When he finally broke out of it and shook his head and pocketed the rune, the biting scowl back on his craggy face, Billie stayed still, the sword back on her hip.

"You were in daze." She didn't know why she told him. It wasn't new to him or to her. "I hope it was enlightening." I never seemed to be, not in any way that helped. The last time, back when he'd come back with the name Delilah on his tongue and urgency in his movement, had brought him back to some sort of active awareness and participation, but it had only made him more obsessive in his failures. This time didn't seem to be different judging by his sour face. She craved to know what he'd learnt, for a taste of it herself. She was terrified of it.

Daud gave her no answer, his gaze gliding over her without catching. She took it at as a dismissal and transversed away, back outside the building and to the outpost on the roof. She waited up there and watched as he made his made his way through the building, one unconscious guard at a time, until Timsh was arrested. Humiliated and ruined, but alive without a scratch.

No, Billie didn't like watching Daud visit the shrines.