#anyway dangerous habits for best arc hands down i said it and i meant it

[epiitaphs]

🌟

From Costar: Taurus's "can be apathetic to the needs of others if they are motivated to achieve their own goals."

John has positive traits in him somewhere, but the more negative ones tend to show through a little more and tend to be highlighted by both himself and his friends (whether or not they're dead yet). But anyway, at the end of the day, John is always out for himself. He cares a lot about his friends, but he really can't avoid screwing them over one way or another - whether it's intentional or not. Sometimes, he also has to be compelled into caring about other peoples' problems when they come to him for help.

He sums it up pretty well in Dangerous Habits pt1 (#41) by saying “I'm the one who steps from the shadows, all trenchcoat and cigarette and arrogance, ready to deal with the madness. Oh, I've got it all sewn up. I can save you. If it takes the last drop of your blood, I'll drive your demons away.” And it’s true, when he wants to solve a problem, he will, but the collateral damage he lives can be severe. He always lands on his feet, though. 

[neonthewrite]

Field Trip

Another contest prize! The request this time was for some quality fluff between Jacob Andris, a human, and Vel, a young wood sprite of Wellwood. Jacob is the gentlest giant around, so it's no wonder that little sprite wanted to hang out with him!

Reading time ~5-10 minutes

~~~~~

Jacob smirked when Bowman flitted towards him. As he predicted, the fussy sprite wasted no time scolding him. “Could you be any more of a stompy giant?!” he complained, banking in a wide arc around Jacob’s long, striding gait. “You’ll scare everyone off before you even show up.”

Jacob had put a lot of work into walking carefully enough to avoid that exact situation. Even knowing he could do more, he was confident in his skills. Naturally, that did nothing to stop Bowman from scolding him. Jacob would worry about the little guy if he ever kicked that habit. “Nah, I won’t,” he countered. “I had you to warn everyone I was coming. They know I’m on the way. Bet I’ll even have a big welcome party.”

Bowman scoffed. “Welcome party or not, you’re blasted loud, Jacob. No storm clouds to be seen and yet there’s thunder.”

That earned another chuckle from Jacob. “Dude, what’s got you so worked up? Trying to convince people you trained a giant again?”

Bowman groaned, and Jacob spotted the look on his face before he could flit away. “Bowman, you don’t need to fret about it. I’ll be on my best behavior, like I always am. No one will find a reason to scold you, at least not from me.”

Another little scoff. This time, Bowman swooped close so he could land on Jacob’s shoulder. With his perch claimed, he finally admitted “Fine. You’re right. But if someone gets upset, I might just get chased out of the village. Last visit a nestling climbed into your hood but I’m the one who got bopped for it!”

Jacob laughed, though he tried to rein it in with Bowman perched on him. “Dude, they wouldn’t do that. And if they did, you can just chill with me. That’s not so bad, right?”

“Ha. If any nestling gets in trouble, I’m pointing at you, giant.”

Jacob rolled his eyes, but wasn’t surprised. “And if someone tries to bop you, I’ll probably have to let ‘em. Wouldn’t want anyone to think I’m not trained, right?”

“Oh, climb a dead tree. And then behave. We’re almost there.”

~~~

Jacob had visited Wellwood several times before. It never went as badly as Bowman assumed it might, though not for lack of griping. Most of the residents of the village trusted Jacob to be near their vulnerable homes; he’d stood up for them against other humans before, after all. He protected the secret even from his own family. Even those who were still wary of him didn’t begrudge others a chance to visit with him. Jacob had no intention of forcing someone to be around him if they didn’t want to, anyway. He had plenty of visitors as it was.

True to his word, he behaved well. He put up a calm front for Bowman, but in reality Jacob was careful to watch every move. He didn’t want to break that fragile trust he’d built up with the wood sprites of Wellwood.

While some of the younger sprites came to see Jacob, with their parents nearby just in case, Bowman had spent some time wheeling about in the air, chasing or being chased by other sprites his age. It was a pleasantly uneventful afternoon, as far as Jacob was concerned.

He made his way back to his clearing near dinnertime. While the sprites all wandered home to eat, Jacob wanted to be well away from the village. Seeing him eat made them nervous sometimes, and it made him feel awkward. He’d go have his dinner at his camp and the sprites needn’t be bothered.

The clearing, his temporary residence whenever he visited, was just as he’d left it earlier. His tent waited to one side with some firewood piled next to it. A plastic cooler sat in the shade next to a bucket for water. He had a sturdy line tied between two trees to hang up some of his other belongings, particularly food he didn’t want some forest critter to drag away.

He took a few steps towards that line only to halt in surprise at the sound of a giggle. The sound startled him enough that he swayed in place from the sudden stop. It was not a sound he expected out here, not with the village so far behind him.

“Alright, very sneaky,” he said to the open air before looking down at the pocket on the front of his hoodie. An innocuous pouch of fabric, it fascinated most of the sprites that encountered it. They didn’t have pockets on their clothes at all, so he didn’t have to wonder why.

Gingerly, Jacob reached a hand into the pocket, wary of bumping into tiny wings at the wrong angle. A small figure shifted away from his fingers and another giggle emitted from the pocket, and he couldn’t help a faint smile of his own. Whoever it was, they were young and quite pleased with themself for their deception.

A deception Jacob would take the blame for, he was certain.

“C’mere, kiddo,” he said, scooping his hand beneath the miniscule sprite and ferrying them out into the open. Little movements fluttered on his palm as they settled, and before he even had them in view he felt little hands clinging to his thumb for stability.

It turned out to be one of the nestlings, an absolutely tiny child with wings too small to do more than flutter along on the ground. His light brown hair was mussed and staticky from the pocket, and his wings stretched out as soon as he was back in the sunlight. He grinned at Jacob as he rose to eye level with the would-be giant. “Hi, Jacob! I was hiding!”

“I noticed,” Jacob replied, amusement coloring his voice. “You’re … Vel, right?”

If possible, the boy’s grin brightened. “Yeah! I’m Vel! I wanted to see your, um, your camp! So I was real sneaky.”

That exuberance was hard to deny, so Jacob only shook his head ruefully. “You don’t need to be sneaky to come visit me here, Vel. I’m sure your parents wouldn’t mind bringing you, but you should have asked so they’d know where you went.”

The boy stuck out his lip in a defiant pout, and his little wings flared open in a show of confidence despite the way his arms still wrapped around Jacob’s curled thumb. “But I wanted to be sneaky! And my mama wouldn’t have said yes, not when it’s dinnertime. But I thought, maybe, I could just have dinner here! Then when we go back she won’t get upset!”

Oh she’ll be mad alright, Jacob thought. Just probably not at you. It looked like Bowman’s worrying earlier would come to pass and Jacob would earn a few tiny bops.

He looked over his shoulder as if he might see a pair of angry sprite parents darting out of the woods right then and there. When he looked back, he was met with some very potent puppy eyes from Vel. “Okay,” he conceded, earning another enthusiastic grin. “But you’ll have to be good, and you have to promise me you won’t hide in my pocket again, okay? It’s not safe for you to be in there without me knowing.”

Vel nodded vigorously. “Okay! Yeah! I’ll be good, Jacob, I promise!”

“Good, we don’t want to make your mom worry any more than she already will,” Jacob replied with a faint smile.

Jacob had no doubts the kid would do his best, but really the responsibility all rested with him. He sighed and determined not to let that thought worry him; it wasn’t like he would let Vel wander into something dangerous, and the kid really couldn’t go all that far on his own. His wings were still small, occasionally fluttering involuntarily.

He moved his hand closer to his chest, offering his tiny guest better stability as he continued towards his hanging food bags. “You might end up having a dinner of human food, I can’t remember everything I brought,” he warned.

Vel didn’t seem worried. “Yay! Is it candy?”

Jacob had to chuckle at that. He grabbed one of his bags down from the line and made his way to his dormant campfire to have a seat. “No, I’m not gonna feed you candy for dinner,” he chided. “You need something healthier to make sure those wings grow big and strong.”

Vel pouted up at him, but didn’t have any further arguments. He clung tighter to Jacob’s thumb as he settled himself on the ground. He watched the sturdy food bag curiously, eyeing the zipper as Jacob opened it up.

First things first, Jacob rummaged in the bag with his free hand until he found a handkerchief, little more than a worn swatch of cloth he’d meant to use as a napkin. This he set on the ground before finally lowering Vel down. “Here you go, bud. You can sit here so you’re not right in the dirt, sound good?”

Vel scooted himself to the edge of Jacob’s hand, pausing to survey the offered picnic blanket before he hopped down. His wings fluttered and his arms shot out to his sides so he could prevent a stumble, and then he grinned proudly up at Jacob. “Thanks, Jacob! It’ll be fun! I’m gettin’ hungry! What’re we gonna have?”

Jacob couldn’t help an endeared smile. He gently nudged at Vel’s tiny stomach, earning a burst of giggles. “Hungry, huh? Let’s see what I have, maybe we can fill that tummy right up.”

“I betcha have a lot,” Vel mused, dropping to a seat while Jacob searched through his bag. “That bag is big enough for a whole house! Maybe two!”

“It’s pretty big alright,” Jacob agreed. “Gotta have a lot so I don’t run out while I’m visiting. Then I’d have to eat leaves, and those don’t fill me up as well as they do for you sprites.”

Vel giggled some more, but was distracted from responding when Jacob produced a few clear baggies from the large canvas bag. Raisins, granola, trail mix, and a few other things that kept well were separated into the bags; Jacob set aside a few that definitely wouldn’t work (thankfully Vel didn’t notice the M&Ms in the trail mix before it was out of sight again). Jacob picked out a raisin and a broken shard of a banana chip, thinking they’d be plenty to get the kid started.

He held them out and Vel, his eyes wide, took both in his hands with an endearing kind of reverence. “Thanks, Jacob! These look really good! This … what’s this yellow thing?”

Jacob helped himself to some granola, but before eating any he explained the food for Vel. “The yellow thing is a dried piece of a banana. It’s a kind of fruit. The other thing is called a raisin. It’s a dried berry. They’re still good like that, I promise.”

Vel wrinkled his nose in thought, then eyed up the two unusual fruits in his lap. “That sounds like winter food,” he pointed out. “But they’re not cold!”

"Nah," Jacob agreed, keeping an eye on the fascinated little sprite. "Maybe they were cold when someone dried them out. I don't know how they make 'em."

Vel nibbled at the banana chip and pondered it. Jacob took the kid's distraction as a chance to sneak a few more bites of granola. Vel didn't seem as worried about it as most of the adult sprites, but Jacob didn't plan to take any chances upsetting him. The kid had an innocent trust in the would-be giant in his midst. Breaking that trust would be deplorable.

After a few minutes of quiet, Vel finally had a verdict. "I like this banana thing," he announced, holding up the piece he'd barely made a dent in. "You said it wasn't gonna be candy, but this is just as good as candy! It’s kinda hard but I don't mind 'cause it's really yummy!"

"Well, good," Jacob said with an endeared smile. "It’s good for you. Much better for those wings than candy would be " To punctuate his claim, Jacob nudged one of Vel's fluttering wings with a fingertip.

Vel squirmed away on his makeshift picnic blanket, clutching his banana chip close to his chest as he did. “Wait, wait, I wanna try the other thing too!” he said in between giggles.

Jacob relented and nodded pointedly at the raisin Vel had left behind in his scrambling. “Oh, that thing right there? I thought you were leaving it for me.”

Vel gasped and dove for it. “Nooo, I still want it! I promise!”

“Alright,” Jacob conceded, doing his best put-upon expression. “Go ahead and try it out. Whatever you don’t manage to fit in your tummy can go home with ya, okay? Maybe your parents would like it.”

And maybe a peace offering will get me out of trouble, he amended silently.

Vel fidgeted to settle himself comfortably again. “Yeah! I bet they’d like to try it. Winter food that isn’t cold is so weird!”

Jacob hummed thoughtfully. “I bet it is,” he said, sneaking some more of his own food while Vel was preoccupied. “I wonder what your mom and dad will say about it.”

~~~

Soon enough, it was time to head back to the village. The sky was turning orange at the edge of the horizon. No matter the begging faces he got, Jacob’s resolve only wavered a bit. He really couldn’t let the kid stay out too long without his parents knowing where he was.

Arriving back at the village, he had a feeling he knew which of the trees held Vel’s home. A number of adult sprites fluttered around it in agitated patterns. They barely noticed his return to the village.

Until he cleared his throat. “Um. Hey, guys.” He held up his hand, fingers curled for the security of the nestling sitting on his palm. “I had someone sneak back to my clearing with me when I left for dinner.” Vel waved at the nonplussed adults.

Several of them darted over to Jacob, heedless of his size. Among them was none other than Bowman himself, who came to a hover right before Jacob’s face. “What did I tell you about behaving?!” he scolded.

Jacob blinked and leaned back. “I did behave! Vel here is very sneaky. So I gave him some dinner before bringing him home.”

Vel was grinning at a sprite woman that had landed right on Jacob’s hand to check on him. “I was so sneaky, mama!” he announced. “We had fun! Jacob let me keep the leftovers!”

At least he had Vel to smooth things over. Jacob could tell by Bowman’s narrowed eyes that he’d be bopped later. “It was just a little field trip. Won’t happen again without permission, I promise.”

“It better not,” Bowman warned, as if that was all it took to keep a nestling from misbehaving and landing Jacob in trouble.

[kpopfanfictrash]

Zephyr

Author: kpopfanfictrash

Pairing: Jungkook / Reader

Word Count: 2,696

Rating: PG-13

Summary: An accompanying drabble to Exes and Supher-o’s. This drabble takes place before the events of Exes and Superher-o’s and follows Jungkook as he’s rescued by a superhero love interest.

A/N: The reader in this drabble is not the reader in Exes and Superher-o’s.  

[ PART OF MY JUNGKOOK BIRTHDAY DRABBLE GAME ]

While standing in line at the check-out counter, Jungkook examined the oranges he’d picked out in his basket. Idly, he recalled Minutia saying the color orange came after the fruit, not before. She loved to spout factoids like that; Jungkook did a pretty good job of tuning her out, but her random facts always seemed to stick in his head.

Minutia was the superhero Jungkook was assigned to as handler. She was fairly loud, fairly opinionated and fairly dedicated to kicking people’s ass on the regular.

She’d mentioned the orange fact when ISA – International Superhero Agency – had recommended Minutia change her superhero suit color to orange. She’d felt very strongly about this and in the end, Minutia had won. 

Usually, she did.

Realizing the line before him had moved, Jungkook took a step forward. No longer distracted by thoughts of the color orange, he took the opportunity to scan the grocery store around him.

It was a habit of his – an unfortunate side effect of both his job and the knowledge which came from it. After high school, Jungkook attended an elite military academy on the east coast, but it only took six months before ISA found him.

He’d been out for a morning run when two men in suits cornered him for what they called an opportunity. They’d explained about a different path than the military; an alternative from merely serving his country. Both agent and handlers at ISA held no national loyalty – they merely protected civilians from absolute evil.

Barely had the offer left their mouths before Jungkook accepted.

Of course, Jungkook learned soon after superhero handlers were little more than baby-sitters, but that was beside the point. He genuinely cared about Minutia and knew the work they did together was important – even if his position kind of sucked, since Jungkook was more than capable of defending himself.

Handlers were required to be proficient in various martial arts; they often trained the newbie superheroes who arrived at the Agency. Jungkook was a ninth-degree black belt in Taekwondo, a red belt in Jiu Jitsu and a tenth-degree black belt in Judo. He also had a blue belt in Krav Maga, but this had more to do with lack of time than capability. Jungkook could assemble and disassemble most weapons in the time it took most people to fire them, but all that meant nothing in the face of superpowers.

Minutia could simply freeze Jungkook and kill him if she wanted to; he’d never see it coming.

Not that Minutia would kill him, of course. Stifling the image, Jungkook moved up in line. His super was relentlessly moral, even if she had some rough edges and enjoyed pushing boundaries.

It was the rest who worried Jungkook, like the supervillains they fought. Aided by supernatural powers, supervillains were capable of great destruction. It was the main reason Jungkook stayed at his job – if anyone stood a chance against supervillains, it was superheroes.

“Bag?”

Surprised, Jungkook looked up. “Huh?”

“Bag,” the cashier girl repeated, rolling her eyes. “Do you want a bag?”

“Oh – no.” Jungkook shook his head. “I have my own. I –”

An explosion rocked the street outside, shattering the windows in a hailstorm of glass.

On instinct, Jungkook dove to protect the rude cashier with his body. There was bulletproof lining beneath his clothes, for which he was grateful. He’d just come from shooting practice at Headquarters and hadn’t had a chance to change out of his gear.

Glass harmlessly bounced off his torso, although a few shards sliced his face, leaving blood as he winced. Reaching up to grip counter, Jungkook surveyed the damage.

All the windows of the supermarket had been blown in. The blast seemed to have originated from the street – at least, Jungkook assumed this based on the direction of people running.

“Stay down!” he yelled, and launched himself over the counter.

People obeyed, crawling towards the store’s interior aisles. Jungkook hoped there was a door in the back, otherwise they’d trap themselves like fish in a barrel. He wasn’t surprised when people followed his command. People tended to respond positively to authority in times of chaos.

Yanking a Glock from his jacket, Jungkook dashed from the store. Cocking his head to one side, he surveyed the street for danger.

There – at the end of the block, he saw a cloud of dust settling.

Keeping his gun steady, Jungkook rushed towards the scene. Halfway there, he realized he’d left his groceries behind and nearly groaned. Oh, well, it couldn’t be helped. Such was the life of superheroes and handlers.

As though in response to his thought, someone emerged from the chaos.

Only one person; tall, with hulking muscles and what looked to be three arms. Nope, wait – that was machine gun. Fuck.

Jungkook lunged to the side as the man opened fire. Luckily, much of the street was deserted from the blast and few people were hurt. Propping himself up on one knee, Jungkook squinted from behind an overturned car and fired.

Five shots, each in quick succession aimed at the man’s torso. Three of them hit, sending the man to his knees, only for him to snarl, his gaze snapping upwards.

Jungkook watched in horror as the bullet wounds began to heal, pushing metal from flesh with alarming speed.

Of fucking course, he was a supervillain.

Flipping around, Jungkook pressed his back to the car and considered his options. He should call for Minutia, or another super – teeth gritted, Jungkook pushed this option aside. He could do this on his own; this was a fight he could win.

Winning against rejuvenation wasn’t unheard of for someone like him. It meant his opponent healed abnormally fast from their injuries, but they could be overwhelmed if Jungkook kept up momentum.

Before he could finish this thought, the car Jungkook sat against flipped overhead.

Eyes wide, Jungkook watched it crash and roll down the street. A small crowd darted away as they screamed and Jungkook stifled an eye roll. Civilians were so predictable. They never got out of the way like they should; instead, they pressed closer and tried to video it all on their cell phones.

Twisting around, Jungkook found the supervillain grinning at him while he flexed a muscle.

The machine gun lay discarded in a pile of rubble. Jungkook’s heart sank, since it meant the villain was out of ammo, which likely meant he’d been using it in other locations.

When the villain wrenched a storm grate from the ground, Jungkook came to his senses. Survival was priority number one. Fighting someone with only rejuvenation would’ve been hard enough; it would be near impossible to fight someone with rejuvenation and strength.

Rolling away, Jungkook managed to escape said trajectory of the grate.

Metal smashed into the space he’d just occupied, leaving a human-sized dent in the pavement. Flipping himself upwards, Jungkook shot as he moved. This was a move best left to the movies, unless you happened to be an obsessed-with-video-games-superhero-handler trained in four different kinds of martial arts.

Jungkook was just that. 

“Catch me if you can!” he yelled, taking off down the street.

He zig-zagged as he moved, craning his neck to peer overhead. The new plan was: keep the villain’s attention on Jungkook until help arrived, which wouldn’t be long. Given the immediacy of the destruction, ISA would likely dispatch someone with the ability to fly.

All he had to do was stay alive until then. Smirking a little, Jungkook dug in his heel and spun around.

Luckily, he had a few tricks up his sleeve.

Pushing up the sleeve of his jacket, Jungkook waited until the villain was within fifteen feet, then pressed a button. 70 mA of electrical current shot out from his wrist, arcing with blue-white light to hit the villain in the chest. A product created by Namjoon, otherwise known as the superhero, Brainblast.

The volt was enough to stun or kill any other man, but the villain simply gasped and sunk to his knees.

He writhed for a moment, clawing at skin which simultaneously burned and healed. The distraction was all Jungkook needed to run, aiming his gun and – someone swooped down to blast the villain back with air.

A smirk on your face, you lowered both hands to your sides.

Jungkook skidded to a stop. Your superhero alias, Zephyr, was one of the most popular superheroes on the face of the planet. Intelligent, formidable, and rated a seven on the ISA power scale, despite only having one superpower: control over the air and winds.

You were also ridiculously hot; Jungkook had harbored a crush on you for years.

He still remembered the day you arrived at the Agency. Higher-ups said Zephyr (the Greek god of the west wind) was traditionally a male name and wouldn’t make sense to serve as your moniker. You’d said to fuck off and written it down anyways.

This memory made Jungkook smile, even as you sent another wave of wind down the street. Shaking his head, he pulled himself back to reality.

Hovering a few feet off the ground, wind whipped at your hair. You’d explained to him once you didn’t really fly – it was more the wind currents obeyed your commands and took you where you needed to go. Jungkook didn’t really get the difference, but he couldn’t deny you looked badass doing it.

While the villain struggled to stand, you glanced down at Jungkook.

“You alright?” you asked, concern evident in your voice.

Jungkook tried not to frown. “I’m fine,” he said, despite the disheveled state of his hair and clothes. “I had him, you know.”

“Right.” Your expression turned dubious. “It’s just that –”

You were cut off by said villain throwing a car at your head, which you managed to stop with a thrust of your hand. The winds obeyed your command, wrapping around the car to set off to one side. 

Gaze narrowed, you rose even higher. “It’s not that you’re not capable!” You yelled to be heard over the wind. “But –”

A sewer grate flew through the air and, without turning, Jungkook shot it down from the sky. Pieces rained around them like confetti.

You stared at him, wide-eyed. “Right.” Sheepish, you smiled. “Just keep doing that. Distract him and I’ll try to knock him out. Keep him alive, though!”

Jungkook nodded, giving a grim smile before moving forward.

He broke into a run, alarmed by how fast the villain seemed to heal. Even if two supers had the same power, they tended to vary in intensity. This villain must be rated high even without his super strength.

The device on Jungkook’s arm wouldn’t recharge for another five minutes, so he relied on his gun to keep the villain occupied. A shot to the kneecap; another to his shoulder. Keeping your words in mind, Jungkook tried not to hit anything vital. Even rejuvenation might not be enough to heal the man if he shot him in the heart.

High above, you flew gracefully upwards. Jungkook nearly stopped to stare; you arced through the sky like a dancer, claiming the winds as though you owned them. Caressing the breeze with one hand, you turned around and – fuck.

Jungkook had let himself get distracted. Swearing aloud, he dove behind the nearest car and heard something shatter.

Rolling to the other side, he propped himself up on one knee and shot. The villain yelped, stumbling forward as the bullet hit his elbow.

This time, it took greater concentration for metal to be squeezed from his skin. The villain panted as he stood, clearly winded and Jungkook’s heart leapt, realizing they’d tired him out.

This turned out to be the opening you needed.

Swooping down, you reached out a hand, and – wind whipping about like a force field – slowly closed your palm.

The villain gasped, his eyes going wide as he clutched his throat.

Shakily, Jungkook pushed himself upwards to stand.

One of the most dangerous powers associated with air manipulation was creating a vacuum. You achieved this by removing the air entirely; a feat which required great skill and concentration.

It only took a few minutes for the man to be so deprived of oxygen, his eyes rolled backwards. His legs wavered a second, then he slumped to the ground.

“Saoirse!” you yelled, floating down. “Cuffs!”

A woman with red hair – your handler, Jungkook presumed – ran from the nearest subway station to quickly cuff the man’s hands behind his back. Jungkook could see the moment the villain’s power drained from his limbs.

Standing before them, you watched, although it seemed to pain you.

Picking his way through the wreckage, Jungkook came to a stop by your side. Glancing your way, he noticed the breeze continue to play with your hair, as though it couldn’t bear to be parted for long.

“Do you ever wonder what this does to us?” 

Confused by your question, Jungkook blinked. “What do you mean?”

“This,” you said, waving a hand at the wreckage. In the distance, Jungkook could hear sirens screaming. “All the death, the destruction… even the people on the other side. Does it ever hurt you sometimes?”

Jungkook stared at you for a moment, unsure how to respond.

Truthfully, it did bother him when he saw himself in the villains they faced. Sometimes he was fighting genuine evil, but occasionally the villains had reasonable grievances – worse, sometimes they’d merely been raised to see the ISA as evil.

Jungkook couldn’t bring himself to hate those kinds of villains and yes, it did hurt when he took them out.

Sensing his hesitance, your shoulders slumped. Jungkook’s stomach twisted, wanting to fix whatever it was you were feeling. He hesitated, wanting to say you weren’t alone.

“Never mind,” you said, managing to smile. “Another bad guy defeated, right?”

“Right.” Jungkook’s gaze remained upon yours. “I guess.”

Before you could say anything more, Saoirse called your name.

“Guess I should go,” you said, rising into the air. When you glanced his way, Jungkook found himself wondering what you were thinking. “I… thanks for helping today, Jungkook.”

“Anytime.”

This time when he smiled at you, it was genuine.

You rose another few feet, then hesitated. “It’s been awhile since I came by the training arena, huh?” 

Jungkook shrugged, as though he hadn’t noticed, but he had. Of course, he had.

“You’re still the one they’ve got training the new recruits?”

“Yep,”

“Hm.” A small smile crossed your lips. “Maybe I should stop by. Show the newbies how it’s done. We could work up a sweat.”

Jungkook’s heart nearly stopped when you dropped him a wink. Before he could speak, you rose further into the air.

“Bye, Jungkook!” you called, and zipped off down the street.

The sound of your voice faded into the sounds of the city and Jungkook stood there another moment before coming to his senses. His phone began to ring in his pocket.

Fumbling for the device, he sighed when he saw the name on the ID.

“Hello?” he said, lifting the phone to his ear.

“YOU’RE ALIVE.”

Wincing, he held the phone further away. “Minutia?”

“Who else would it be? Of course, it’s me, you idiot! I had just gotten my morning coffee and was passing that pizza place when I happen to catch a glimpse of the TV – and what do I see? You, fighting a fucking supervillain alone!”

“I wasn’t alone,” Jungkook shot back.

“Yeah, those cowering civilians looked real intimidating.”

“Zephyr showed up at the end, it was fine.”

“Oh,” she said, somewhat mollified. “Alright, then. She’s cool. But seriously, JK – be more careful, would you? I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Pulling his hand away, Jungkook squinted at the receiver. “Huh?” he said, returning the device to his ear.

“Yeah, who’d pick up my dry cleaning?”

“Bye,” Jungkook grunted, and hung up the phone.

Still, he smiled as he turned to walk down the street. People stared as he passed, pointing and whispering about the state of his clothes. Jungkook heard the word super being muttered, although he didn’t bother to correct them.

He was too busy turning your words over again in his mind. Does it ever hurt you sometimes?

The truth was it did. All the time.

He just didn’t know if there existed a better path than the one he was on.

© kpopfanfictrash, 2020. Do not copy or repost without permission.

[aurorawest]

⭐️ ooooh! can you please give a "director's commentary" on chapter 2 from "Foundations" where Loki and Thor are in a pub and get confronted by these two awful guys??

Yeah! Gosh it feels like a long time ago that I wrote Foundations!

Some general commentary about this fic - one of my struggles with writing Loki was how to get into his head and make sense of the fact that in Thor 1, we have that deleted scene where he tells Thor that he loves him, and to never doubt it. Obviously that scene was cut, but Loki’s entire arc really does bear out that he loves Thor, so I really needed to find a way to reconcile, “Never doubt that I love you,” with Loki’s douchebaggery in Thor 1. So that really was the impetus for this fic - what are some things that have happened between them that could lead to Loki’s love for Thor never wavering, but would also convince him that keeping Thor from the throne was a good thing, so good that he should resort to fairly extreme measures to achieve it? I wrote this fic a bit out of order—chapter 3 came first, then 1, 2, and I wrote 4 and 5 more or less simultaneously.

The men watching him didn’t seem like a concern anymore, either. They were the princes of Asgard. Who would dare attack them?

“Drinking by yourselves, princelings?” a voice said from above them suddenly.

So in chapter 2, I wanted to show Thor’s hot-headedness, and I wanted it to involve Loki, because I wanted to show a conflict between Loki loving Thor for looking out for him...but also hating Thor for looking out for him.

Spoken too soon. Loki’s head snapped around much faster than Thor’s did. It was the two men who had been watching him. Surprise.

With a smile that he hoped was charming, rather than sloppy, Loki said, “Well, I wouldn’t say we’re alone.” Wait, was that supposed to be clever? The drink was getting to him. The drink had gotten to him.

Thor scooted his chair over and slung an arm around Loki’s shoulders. “Only because we haven’t found company yet!” he thundered. Loki tried to slither out from under his arm but Thor’s fingers clamped around his shoulder, so he resigned himself to his brother’s drunken clutches. “Join us, friends. And well met on this beautiful evening!”

I tried to mimic the dialogue patterns of Thor 1 and TDW for this fic much more than I typically do. Since most of my fic takes place post-Ragnarok, and I really love the tone of Ragnarok, I draw a lot of my style and tone from that. But I wanted to give this fic a feeling of being set in the past, long before Loki and Thor encounter 21st century humans.

[...] The men looked at each other and Loki felt another twist of uneasiness. One of them, his hair a fiery ginger that Loki couldn’t help letting his eyes linger on, 

This is a very subtle (like so subtle that I’m sure literally everyone missed it) reference to Theo Bell in the novel Loki: Where Mischief Lies, who’s a redhead. I have a head canon that Loki has a thing for redheads.

elbowed the other, who was brawnier and uglier, with a nose that looked like it had been flattened by someone else’s fists on more than one occasion.

Could I have just said his nose had been broken? Probably. I still kind of like the way I worded this.

“Perhaps if it was just you here, Your Highness,” the uglier one said. Loki stiffened, but Thor didn’t react. Either he didn’t get it or didn’t care. But Loki wasn’t so far gone in drink that he didn’t understand, nor did he miss the way the redhead’s eyes narrowed at him. It sparked a flash of irritation in him—he was the prince, they had no right to look at him that way. But he looked down at the table, a habit honed in court, where it was easier to bow his head and dig his nails into his palms rather than argue with Father.

Loki digging his nails into his palms hard enough to draw blood has become one of his tics, the more I’ve written of him. This...may have been the first time I referenced it?

With a chuckle, Thor said, “It is just us here.”

The man laughed too. It was much less nice than Thor’s dumb, likable laugh. “Aye, Prince. You and your greasy brother.”

Head canon: Loki’s hair looks greasy because he hates its natural curl and he dumps product on it. He would rather it looked bad in any other way than be curly.

The smile fell off Thor’s face and he removed his arm from Loki’s shoulders. “What?” he said, suddenly sounding far less drunk.

“It’s not the grease we mind,” the redhead piped up.

Loki raised his head, sensing danger. It was best not to be looking at your lap when you knew it was coming. His daggers were a comforting weight on his forearms, but Thor hadn’t brought a weapon tonight. Why would he? Loki went out into the city by himself all the time, and he never had any trouble. And if one of them was going to have trouble, it would certainly be Loki—less trusted, less loved. Too pale, too quiet. Unnatural.

Loki is definitely an unreliable narrator here. He sees hatred and distrust everywhere he looks. There’s obviously an element of truth to that (as we’re about to see), but on the other hand, he’s been drinking at this pub for ages with no trouble. He knows the bartender. Loki’s mind really prioritizes negative experiences (I guess most people do but Loki, anxiety and depression ridden Loki, really does).

“No, not at all,” the man said. “Who hasn’t skipped a bath now and then? No, the thing is, we don’t drink with faggots.���

I remember after I posted this fic, I went back a few days later and added the tag ‘period typical homophobia’ because of this line.

The room didn’t actually fall silent, but it might as well have. There was a loud ringing, and it took Loki a second to realize it was in his own ears. His chest felt like something heavy, like the hammer Mjølnir that was kept in the weapons vault, was compressing it to nothing, and he was fairly sure that his heart had stopped beating.

Thor hasn’t been given Mjolnir yet.

The man’s grin was practically ghoulish. “Probably thinks no one sees him going into that whorehouse, the one where they keep the lads—”

I purposefully left it vague whether this is true. But since this is the director’s commentary, I can tell you - it’s true! Loki does frequent a brothel with male employees. He actually has sort of a long term relationship with one. The guy is in love with Loki. Loki is...not. There comes a point where the guy confesses his feelings to Loki. Loki never comes back after that. Later, on The Statesman after Ragnarok, Loki finds out the guy was killed in Hela’s purge. He feels pretty awful.

The scrape of Thor’s chair on the wood floor was deafening. [...] “That,” he said in a dangerous voice, “was not a very nice thing to say.”

Kind of an understatement, Thor.

The redhead took a step back. The ugly one, who’d just aired Loki’s—dirty laundry? Skeletons?—didn’t. He was mixing metaphors. This was something he’d preferred to think of as simply a thing that he just didn’t talk about, but now that it had been announced to a roomful of people, it seemed like something he should have been much more ashamed of. Surely people didn’t stare like that otherwise.

Loki is...not exactly uncomfortable with the fact that he’s attracted to men. He knows, or thinks, that it’s outside the norm, but he doesn’t think that he’s doing something wrong. I have a reference in some fic...somewhere...I can’t remember which one, about how Asgardians live such a long time that most of them will try having sex with someone of the same-sex, even if they don’t really think they’re attracted to people of the same sex. It might be in one of my fics for the Loki Rarepair Bang? Anyway, later, Loki will come to understand that. At this point, he’s still kind of like...I don’t know anyone else who likes this. I was really trying to walk a line between him being ashamed and him knowing, deep down, there was nothing wrong with him.

Then again, they may have been staring because of the look on Thor’s face. “Apologize to my brother,” Thor said.

The man looked at Loki and grinned. Loki folded his wrists inwards and fingered the hilts of his daggers, but he said in a low tone, “Thor, it’s fine.”

[...] “Best listen to your brother,” the man said with a leer. “Or maybe I should say ‘sister.’”

Personally, Loki didn’t find this insulting, 

Probably because it’s a terrible insult.

but Thor clearly did. 

Loki isn’t entirely comfortable with this fact. Thor sends mixed signals. He doesn’t have a problem with anything about Loki, and yet, he still gets mad about an insult like this. Obviously, it’s meant as an insult, which is why Thor gets angry - it’s not the content so much as the fact that these assholes are attacking Loki.

[...] Loki knew that a normal Asgardian should be offended by all of this. The disrespect, if not the accusation itself. [...]

But all Loki could see were repercussions spidering out from this moment, repercussions from getting angry, from standing up for himself, for fighting back. An Asgardian was supposed to fight back. But Loki knew that he couldn’t win either way. If he fought back, his father would say he should have calmed the situation. If he didn’t, everyone would think he was weak. And in any case, the fact that there’d been a confrontation in the first place would be blamed on him.

At the heart of a lot of Loki’s issues is this idea that he can’t do anything right. He knows what he would naturally do, but knows it’s not acceptable. He knows what he “should” do, but he also doesn’t think that’s acceptable. He feels caught in this impossible place where it’s literally impossible to win the approval of his father...which is the one thing he wants.

[...] In a blur, Thor’s fist swung out, connecting with the man’s face with a wet crack of bone and cartilage. The man dropped like a stone, but when he hit the ground he tried to roll away. His red-headed friend stepped forward, bringing a fist up.

I remember really, really not wanting to write a fight scene here, haha.

In a second, Loki was on his feet, holding out a hand that was suddenly grasping a dagger. The redhead jolted to a stop as Loki extended it so the point rested inches from the tip of the other man’s nose. With an icy smile, Loki said, “I wouldn’t.”

I very much love writing Loki wielding his knives.

The redhead’s face twisted in a snarl, but he lowered his hands to his sides. There was that taken care of, at least.

Thor kicked the other man out from the table he was trying to crawl underneath, grabbing him by one of the pauldrons on his shoulders and hauling him to his feet. The man took a wild swing at Thor and missed. In return, Thor head-butted him, smashing his already ruined nose to an unrecognizable, bloody pulp. Then he slammed the man down on the table, one hand around his neck. The tabletop splintered and bowed with the force of the blow. Their ales splattered everywhere.

“Thor,” Loki said warningly. “That’s enough. He’s an idiot—let him go.” But Thor was too far gone. The rage of battle, he liked to call it. Loki preferred to think of it as dumb, animal bloodlust. The man’s face was turning red while he wheezed, and his attempts to hit Thor were growing weaker.

“Thor.” Loki took a chance, lowered his dagger, and stepped forward. He wrapped a hand around his brother’s shoulder and pulled him back, though of course his strength was no match for Thor’s. If Thor wanted to kill this man, he could, and Loki would be powerless to stop him with mere strength. Sorcery, yes. But that was what had gotten them into this in the first place. And besides, Loki didn’t think Thor would thank him for magicking him. “Stop. It’s not worth it.” Thor bared his teeth and squeezed his fist tighter around the man’s neck. The man’s eyes popped and his wheezing became a thin whistle, then the absence of anything in his gaping mouth as Thor cut off his air supply.

For a moment, Loki studied the man. He’d thought—he’d assumed—that he would feel a bolt of horror, of a desperate need to stop this so a life could be spared. But as he looked down and searched for that feeling, he just found a cold emptiness. What did he care if this man died?

I believe that Loki is a deeply sensitive person, who cares and loves with absolute abandon...if you make it to the very inner reaches of his heart. Otherwise, he probably doesn’t give a shit about you. I want to show that here, that Loki has this very cold-blooded side. It’s not that he likes killing people or inflicting pain, but it doesn’t bother him.

What he cared about was not causing more trouble than had already been caused. About making sure Thor didn’t do something rash and stupid. And about not getting the blame himself for something that he hadn’t started, because for his whole life, people had been ready to believe the worst of him.

Here’s some set-up for Loki’s eventual scheme to prevent Thor from taking the throne. Loki knows Thor acts without thinking. Here, he wants to stop it. Later, he’ll use it against Thor. Here, Loki is very much fighting against people’s perception of him. He wants to be loved. This flips for him later, where he embraces what (he thinks) people think of him and really tries to become the villain. It’s not a natural fit on him.

“Brother, please,” Loki hissed. “Stop. Think.”

This is an intentional echo of Loki’s dialogue to Thor on Jotunheim in Thor 1.

And why should this work now, when it rarely did? But Loki felt the tenseness go out of Thor’s shoulder, and after a second, he released his hold on the man, pushing him away. The force of the push slid the man across the table and headfirst onto the floor, but he was moaning, so clearly he wasn’t dead.

For the first time, Loki glanced around the alehouse. If there hadn’t been silence before, there certainly was now. Everyone in the place was staring, and not in a friendly way. The look in Birger’s eyes was unmistakable. 

I used the name Birger for the bartender because I figured I wouldn’t want to use it for a more important character.

[...] He [...] smiled as though nothing was wrong, met Thor’s eyes, and walked to the door. Spine straight, shoulders back, the half-smile on his face that he wore when he didn’t want anyone to know how much he was breaking inside.

Loki is a practiced actor. There’s far more going on inside his head than he’ll ever let on.

He didn’t even know why this, of all things, should crack one more piece of him. Certainly, it wasn’t the idea of gossip about him. There was already gossip about the fact that he liked men as well as women. Mother already knew, anyway. She’d sat him down one day, several months after she’d noticed his eyes following not just some of the attractive serving girls, but also boys, and had the excruciatingly awful Talk with him that he was sure Thor had gotten from their father, not from her. “You know to take precautions to prevent disease, not just pregnancy?” she’d asked, and he’d managed to stammer, his face bright red and burning, “Yes, Mother, of course.” Honestly he hadn’t thought much about it, but the only thing that could have made that moment worse was admitting ignorance.

“Will you be my fester-man?” has Loki remembering talking about his attraction to men with Odin, and how absolutely mortifying it was. Odin’s side of this talk is telling Loki that whoever he wants to sleep with is fine, but he needs to marry a woman and produce an heir.

But Thor was here to witness this, and maybe that was what made it seem so awful. Thor, who meant the world to him, but whom he worried saw him as lesser. Lesser than his friends, the Warriors Three and the Lady Sif, lesser than every other Asgardian. Lesser than Thor himself. Why wouldn’t he see Loki as lesser, when Thor was going to be king? When despite this display tonight, he’d receive no more punishment than a stern talking-to from Father?

Loki had kept his cool, Loki had defused the situation—they were walking away from this with everyone alive because of him. And yet he was the one who everyone would see as the one who hadn’t done things quite right, while Thor, who’d nearly killed a man out of anger, would have his actions waved away. Loki’s circumspection was a flaw, while Thor’s hot-headedness was a virtue. Loki would never hold the throne because he wasn’t Asgardian enough, and Thor was too Asgardian for his own good.

Really the core of this section and Loki’s bitterness—Loki can do nothing right, and Thor can do no wrong. Loki sees his outsider status as both a flaw, but also as an advantage. He does feel he did the right thing in this situation, but he knows no one else will feel that way. Thor’s reaction was maybe not good, but it’s what everyone would expect.

It wasn’t that Loki didn’t appreciate that his brother had almost killed a man to protect him. It was just, he didn’t need to be protected, and he could see the outcome of this writ large as though it was scrawled across the front of the palace. It made him want to scream. It made him hate Thor with such a scalding fierceness that it scared him. He couldn’t hate Thor. But nothing was fair, and Thor never did anything about it.

He hates Thor. He loves Thor. One thing this fic really taught me about Loki was how he lives with cognitive dissonance every moment of every day. He holds these massive contradictory feelings inside him and they just sit next to each other, totally irreconcilable. 

The two of them walked the dark streets of Asgard in silence, Thor’s heavy breathing quieting the farther they got from the alehouse. [...] “I suppose you want to know if what they said is true,” he said, staring straight ahead into the dark. His eyes found the palace, shining golden in the distance.

Thor made a noise. In his periphery, Loki saw his brother look towards him. “I know it’s true,” Thor said. “I mean, maybe not the part about the…um, establishment, but you liking men, I already knew that.”

Swallowing, Loki said, “And?”

“And what?”

Loki stopped walking and it took Thor a couple steps to realize it. As Thor turned back to him, Loki asked, “And… [...] Do you care?”

[...] “Why would I care?” Thor asked. And then, “Did you think I would care?”

“I…” Loki hugged his arms over his chest until he realized it looked childish, like he had something to hide, something to be ashamed of. Dropping his arms to his side, he said, “They cared in there.”

Thor snorted and shook his head. “They were fools. I’ve never known you to put any stock in the opinions of fools, brother.”

“So you don’t,” Loki pressed. It seemed of the utmost importance that Thor actually say these words. Loki needed him to prove it, not with his fists, but on Loki’s territory, by saying it. Out loud. Unequivocally. Plainly.

Loki needs to be told things verbally. He needs people to tell him, straight up, ‘I love you.’ ‘You’re worthy.’ Etc. Which I think is why Odin’s ‘No, Loki,’ is so devastating to Loki. Loki places so much important on words and doesn’t really look at people’s actions (Thor, incidentally, is the opposite).

Shaking his head, still looking befuddled, Thor said, “No. There’s nothing to care about.” Then he paused and took a step closer. Reaching out to put a hand to the back of Loki’s neck, he said, “Loki. Even if there was, you’re my brother. And I still wouldn’t care.”

I remember really wanting to get this right. I think when I first wrote this line, I had Thor say, “You’re my brother; of course I don’t care.” But I wanted Thor to just...not care. It doesn’t really have anything to do with Loki, Thor just isn’t a bigot. But I also wanted the sense of like, even if he did care, the fact that it’s Loki would make him rethink this.

Loki wanted to hug him. But that vein of resentment was still there and it stopped him. Instead, he swallowed hard and just stood there for a moment, Thor’s hand cupping the back of his head while he felt something inside him splintering.

And for the first time, he identified it. It was the feeling of his jealousy and love butting up against each other, two immovable forces that wouldn’t yield to the other. With a flash of insight that felt more like seeing into the future, like a faint hint of his mother’s witchcraft (none of which had been passed down to him), he realized this battle was going to shape his life.

He’s right.

And right then, he wasn’t sure love would win.

Nooooo Loki, it will!

“Loki?” Thor said, sounding unsure.

He forced himself to smile, and as he met Thor’s eyes, the resentment receded. Reaching up, he wrapped a hand around Thor’s forearm and said, “Thank you.” There was more to say, but it was beyond him. It was too much.

“Nothing to thank me for,” Thor said, sounding relieved. Then, he ruffled Loki’s hair, which he knew Loki hated. But this old, familiar argument was safe, and they retreated to it as they continued their walk back to the palace. Loki smoothed his hair down and wished he could do the same with the cracks in his life. Something felt changed, and it was frightening, and he felt in his bones that there was no going back to safety, no matter how much he might try.

Safety is an incredibly important feeling to Loki. I return again and again to it in my fics. There are certain people that make him feel safe, and these are the people he loves above all others. You can count them on one hand: Thor. Frigga. Stephen Strange. There’s an element of physical safety to this, but mostly it’s emotional safety. There are people who will let him be who he is, and he’ll do anything for them because of it.

Thank you so much for asking!! It was really fun to return to this fic.

Fanfic Writers: Director’s Cut

[talesofhorrorofficial]

A Shattered Life

I don't know when you're going to read this, but I can tell you when it started: I was out for a walk alone in the woods when the entity came for me. It was beyond a blur. It was, for lack of a better term, absence of meaning. Where it hid, there were no trees; where it crept closer, there was no grass; through the arc it leapt at me, there was no breeze of motion. There was no air at all.

As it struck, I felt the distinct sensation of claws puncturing me somewhere unseen; somewhere I'd never felt before. My hands and arms and legs and torso seemed fine and I wasn't bleeding, but I knew I'd been injured somehow. As I fearfully ran back home, I could tell that I was less. I was vaguely tired, and it was hard to focus at times.

The solution at that early stage was easy: a big cup of coffee helped me feel normal again.

For a while, that subtle drain on my spirit became lost in the ebb and flow of caffeine in my system. You could say my life began that week, actually, because that was when I met Mar. She and I got along great, though, to be honest, I'm pretty sure I fell in love with her over the phone before we even met.

It was almost as if the strong emotions of that first week made the entity fight back—it was still with me, latched on to some invisible part of my being.

The first few incidents were minor, and I hardly worried about them. The color of a neighbor's car changed from dark blue to black one morning, and I stared at it before shaking my head and shrugging off the difference. Two days later, at work, a coworker's name changed from Fred to Dan. I carefully asked around, but everyone said his name had always been Dan. I figured I'd just been mistaken.

Then, as ridiculous as this sounds, I was peeing in my bathroom at home when I suddenly found myself on a random street. I was still in my pajamas, pants down, and urinating—but now in full view of a dozen people at a bus stop. Horrified, I pulled up my clothes and ran before someone called the cops. I did manage to get home, but the experience forced me to admit that I was still in danger. The entity was doing something to me, and I didn't understand how to fight back.

Mar showed up that evening, but she had her own key.

"Hey," I asked her with confusion. "How'd you get a key?"

She just laughed. "You're cute. Are you sure you're okay with this?" She opened a door and entered a room full of boxes. "I know living together is a big step, especially when we've only been dating three months."

Living together? I'd literally just met her the week before. Thing was, my mother had always called me a smart cookie for a reason. I knew when to shut my yap. Instead of causing a scene, I told her everything was fine—and then I went straight to my room and began investigating.

My things were just as I had left them with no sign of a three month gap in habitation, but I did find something out of the ordinary: the date. I shivered angrily as I processed the truth.

The entity had eaten three months of my life.

What the hell was I facing? What kind of creature could consume pieces of one's soul like that? I'd missed the most exciting part of a new relationship, and I would never understand any shared stories or in-jokes from that period. Something absurdly precious had been taken from me, and I was furious.

That fury helped suppress the entity. I never imbibed alcohol. I drank coffee religiously. I checked the date every time I woke up. For three years, I managed to live each day while observing nothing more than minor alterations. A social fact here and there—someone's job, how many kids they had, that sort of thing—the layout of nearby streets, the time my favorite television show aired, that kind of thing. Always, those changes reminded me the creature still had its claws sunk into my spirit. Not once in three years did I ever let myself zone out.

One day, I grew careless. I let myself get really into the season finale of my favorite show. It was gripping; a fantastic story. Right at the height of the action, a young boy came up to my lounger and shook my arm.

Surprised, I asked, "Who are you? How did you get in here?"

He laughed and smiled brightly. "Silly Daddy!"

My heart sank in my chest. I knew immediately what had happened. After a few masked questions, I discovered that he was two years old—and that he was my son.

The agony and heartache filling my chest was nearly unbearable. Not only had I missed the birth of my son, I would never see or know the first years of his life. Mar and I had obviously gotten married and started a family in the time I'd lost, and I had no idea what joys or pains those years contained.

It was snowing outside. Holding my sudden son in my lap, I sat and watched the flakes fall outside. What kind of life was this going to be if slips in concentration could cost me years? I had to get help.

The church had no idea what to do. The priests didn't believe me, and told me I had a health issue rather than some sort of possession.

The doctors didn't have any clue. Nothing showed up on all their scans and tests, but they happily took my money in return for nothing.

By the time I ran out of options, I'd decided to tell Mar. There was no way to know what this all looked like from her side. What was I like when I wasn't there? Did I still take our son to school? Did I still do my job? Clearly, I did, because she seemed to be none the wiser, but I still had a horrible feeling that something must have been missing in her life when I wasn't actually home inside my own head.

But the night I set up a nice dinner in preparation, she arrived not by unlocking the front door, but by knocking on it. I answered, and found that she was in a nice dress.

She was happily surprised by the settings on the table. "A fancy dinner for a second date? I knew you were sweet on me!"

Thank the Lord I knew when to keep my mouth shut. If I'd gone on about being married and having a son, she might have run for the hills. Instead, I took her coat and sat down for our second date.

Through carefully crafted questions, I managed to deduce the truth. This really was our second date. She saw relief and happiness in me, but interpreted that as dating jitters. I was just excited to realize that the entity wasn't necessarily eating whole portions of my life. The symptoms, as I was beginning to understand them, were more like the consequences of a shattered soul. The creature had wounded me; broken me into pieces. Perhaps I was to live my life out of order, but at least I would actually get to live it.

And so it went for a few years—from my perspective. While minor changes in politics or geography would happen daily, major shifts in my mental location only happened every couple months. When I found myself in a new place and time in my life, I just shut up and listened, making sure to get the lay of the land before doing anything to avoid making mistakes. On the farthest-flung leap yet, I met my six-year-old grandson, and I asked him what he wanted to be when he grew up. He said, "Writer." I told him that was a fine idea.

Then, I was back in month two of my relationship with Mar, and I had the best night with her on the riverfront. When I say the best, I mean the best. Knowing how special she would become to me, I asked her to move in. I got to live through what I'd missed the first go-around, and I came to understand that I was never mentally absent. I would always be there—eventually. When we were moving her boxes in, she stopped for a moment and said she marveled at my great love, as if I'd known her for a lifetime and never once doubted she was the one.

That was the first time I'd truly laughed freely and wholeheartedly since the entity had wounded me. She was right about my love for her, but for exactly the reason she'd considered a silly romantic analogy. I had known her my whole life, and I'd come to terms with my situation and found peace with it. It wasn't so bad to have sneak peeks at all the best parts ahead.

But of course I wouldn't be writing this if hadn't gotten worse. The entity was still with me. It had not wounded me and departed like I'd wanted to believe. The closest I can describe my growing understanding was that the creature was burrowing deeper into my psyche, fracturing it into smaller pieces. Instead of months between major shifts, I began having only weeks. Once I noticed that trend, I feared my ultimate fate would be to jump between times in my life heartbeat by heartbeat, forever confused, forever lost. Only an instant in each time meant I would never be able to speak with anyone else, never be able to hold a conversation, never express or receive love.

As the true depth of that fear came upon me, I sat in an older version of me and watched the snow falling outside. That was the one constant in my life: the weather didn't care who I was or what pains I had to face. Nature was always there. The falling snow was always like a little hook that kept me in a place; the pure emotional peace it brought was like a panacea on my mental wounds, and I'd never yet shifted while watching the pattern of falling white and thinking of the times I'd gone sledding or built a snow fort as a child.

A teenager touched my arm. "Grandpa?"

"Eh?" He'd startled me out of my thoughts, so I was less careful than usual. "Who are you?"

He half-grinned, as if not sure whether I was joking. Handing me a stack of papers, he said, "It's my first attempt at a novel. Would you read it and tell me what you think?"

Ahh, of course. "Pursuing that dream of being a writer, I see."

He burned bright red. "Trying to, anyway."

"All right. Run off, I'll read this right now." The words were blurry, and, annoyed, I looked for glasses I probably had for reading. Being old was terrible, and I wanted to leap back into a younger year—but not before I read his book. I found my glasses in a sweater pocket, and began leafing through. Mar puttered in and out of the living room, still beautiful, but I had to focus. I didn't know how much time I would have there.

It seemed that we had relatives over. Was it Christmas? A pair of adults and a couple kids I didn't recognize tromped through the hallway, and I saw my son, now adult, walk by with his wife on the way out the door. As a group, the extended family began sledding outside.

Finally, I finished reading the story, and I called out for my grandson. He rushed down the stairs and into the living room. "How was it?”

"Well, it's terrible," I told him truthfully. "But it's terrible for all the right reasons. You're still a young man, so your characters behave like young people, but the structure of the story itself is very solid." I paused. "I didn't expect it to turn out to be a horror story."

He nodded. "It's a reflection of the times. Expectations for the future are dismal, not hopeful like they used to be."

"You're far too young to be aware like that," I told him. An idea occurred to me. "If you're into horror, do you know anything about strange creatures?"

"Sure. I read everything I can. I love it."

Warily, I scanned the entrances to the living room. Everyone was busy outside. For the first time, I opened up to someone in my life about what I was experiencing. In hushed tones, I told him about my fragmented consciousness.

For a teenager, he took it well. "You're serious?"

"Yes."

He donned the determined look of a grown man accepting a quest. "I'll look into it, see what I can find out. You should start writing down everything you experience. Build some data. Maybe we can map your psychic wound."

Wow. "Sounds like a plan." I was surprised. That made sense, and I hadn't expected him to have a serious response. "But how will I get all the notes in one place?"

"Let's come up with somewhere for you to leave them," he said, frowning with thought. "Then I'll get them, and we can trace the path you're taking through your own life, see if there's a pattern."

For the first time since the situation had gotten worse, I felt hope again. "How about under the stairs? Nobody ever goes under there."

"Sure." He turned and left the living room.

I peered after him. I heard him banging around near the stairs.

Finally, he returned with a box, laid it on the carpet, and opened it to reveal a bursting stack of papers. He exclaimed, "Holy crap!"—but of course, being a teenager, he didn't really say crap.

Taken aback, I blinked rapidly, forgiving his cussing because of the shock. "Did I write those?"

He looked up at me with wonder. "Yeah. Or, you will. You still have to write them and put them under the stairs after this." He gazed back down at the papers—then covered the box. "So you probably shouldn't see what they say. That could get weird."

That much I understood. "Right."

He gulped. "There are like fifty boxes under there, all filled up like this. Deciphering these will take a very long time." His tone dropped to deadly seriousness. "But I will save you, grandpa. Because I don't think anyone else can."

Tears flowed down my cheeks then, and I couldn't help but sob once or twice. I hadn't realized how lonely I'd become in my shifting prison of awareness until I finally had someone who understood. "Thank you. Thank you so much."

And then I was young again, and at work on a random Tuesday. Once the sadness and relief faded, anger and determination replaced them. After I finished my work, I grabbed some paper and began writing. While the weeks shifted around me, while those weeks became days, and then hours, I wrote every single spare moment about when and where I thought I was. I put them under the stairs out of order; my first box was actually the thirtieth, and my last box was the first. Once I had over fifty boxes written from my perspective—and once my shifting became a matter of minutes—I knew it was up to my grandson to take it from there.

I put my head down and stopped looking. I couldn't stand the river of changing awareness any longer. Names and places and dates and jobs and colors and people were all wrong and different.

I'd never been older. I sat watching the snow fall. A man of at least thirty that I vaguely recognized entered the room. "Come on, I think I finally figured it out."

I was so frail that moving was painful. "Are you him? Are you my grandson?"

"Yes." He took me to a room filled with strange equipment and sat me in a rubber chair facing a large mirror twice the height of a man. "The pattern finally revealed itself."

"How long have you worked on this?" I asked him, aghast. "Tell me you didn't miss your life like I'm missing mine!"

His expression was both stone cold and furiously resolute. "It'll be worth it." He brought two thin metal rods close to my arm and then nodded at the mirror. "Look. This shock is carefully calibrated."

The electric zap from his device was startling, but not painful. In the mirror, I saw a rapid arcing light-silhouette appear above my head and shoulder. The electricity moved through the creature like a wave, briefly revealing the terrible nature of what was happening to me. A bulging leech-like mouth was wrapped around the back of my head, coming down to my eyebrows and touching each ear, and its slug-like body ran over my shoulder and into my very soul.

It was a parasite.

And it was feeding on my mind.

My now-adult grandson held my hand as I took in the horror. After a moment, he asked, "Removing it is going to hurt very badly. Are you up for this?"

Fearful, I asked, "Is Mar here?"

His face softened. "No. Not for a few years now."

I could tell from his reaction what had happened, but I didn't want it to be true. "How?"

"We have this conversation a lot," he responded. "Are you sure you want to know? It never makes you feel better."

Tears brimmed in my eyes. "Then I don't care if it hurts, or if I die. I don't want to stay in a time where she's not alive."

He made a sympathetic noise of understanding and then returned to his machines to hook several wires, diodes, and other bits of technology to my limbs and forehead. While he did so, he talked. "I've worked for two decades to figure this out, and I've had a ton of help from other researchers of the occult. This parasite doesn't technically exist in our plane. It's one of the lesser spawns of µ¬ßµ, and it feeds on the plexus of mind, soul, and quantum consciousness/reality. When details like names and colors of objects changed, you weren't going crazy. The web of your existence was merely losing strands as the creature ate its way through you."

I didn't fully understand. I looked up in confusion as he placed a circlet of electronics like a crown on my head in exact line with where the parasite's mouth had ringed me. "What's µ¬ßµ?"

He paused his work and grew pale. "I forgot that you wouldn't know. You're lucky, believe me." After a deep breath, he began moving again, and placed his fingers near a few switches. "Ready? This is carefully tuned to make your nervous system extremely unappetizing to the parasite, but it's basically electro-shock therapy."

I could still see Mar's smile. Even though she was dead, I'd just been with her moments ago. "Do it."

The click of a switch echoed in my ears, and I almost laughed at how mild the electricity was. It didn't feel like anything—at least at first. Then, I saw the mirror shaking, and my body within that image convulsing. Oh. No. It did hurt. Nothing had ever been more painful. It was just so excruciating that my mind hadn't been able to immediately process it.

As my vision shook and fire burned in every nerve in my body, I could see the reflected trembling light-silhouette of the parasite on my head as it writhed in agony equal to mine. It had claws—six clawed lizard-like limbs under its leech-like body—and it cut into me in an attempt to stay latched on.

The electricity made my memories flare.

Mar's smile was foremost, lit brightly in front of a warm fire as the snow fell past the window behind her. The edges of that memory began lighting up, and I realized that my life was one continuous stretch of experience—it was only the awareness of it that had been fragmented by that feasting evil on my back.

I'd never managed to be there for the birth of my son. I'd jumped around it a dozen times, but never actually lived it. For the first time, I got to hold Mar's hand and be there for her.

No. No! That moment had shifted seamlessly into holding her hand as she lay in a hospital bed for a very different reason. Not this! God, why? It was so merciless to make me remember this. I broke down in tears as nurses rushed into the room. I didn't want to know. I didn't want to experience it. I'd seen all the good parts, but I hadn't wanted the worst part—the inevitable end that all would one day face.

It wasn't worth it. It was tainted. All that joy was given back ten thousand fold as pain.

The fire in my body and in my brain surged to sheer white torture, and I screamed.

My scream faded into a surprised shout as the machines and electricity and chair faded away. Snow was no longer falling around my life; I was out in the woods on a bright summer day.

Oh God.

I turned to see the creature approaching me. It was the same absence of meaning; the same blank on reality. It crept forward, just like before—but, this time, it hissed and turned away. I stood, astounded at being young again and freed from the parasite. My grandson had actually done it! He'd made me an unappetizing meal, so the predator of mind and soul had moved on in search of a different snack.

I returned home in a daze.

And while I was sitting there processing all that had happened, the phone rang. I looked at in awe and sadness. I knew who it was. It was Marjorie, calling for the first time for some trivial reason she'd admit thirty years later was made up just to talk to me.

But all I could see was her lying in that hospital bed dying. It was going to end in unspeakable pain and loneliness. I would become an old man, left to sit by myself in an empty house, his soulmate gone long before him. At the end of it all, the only thing I would have left: sitting and watching the falling snow.

But now, thanks to my grandson, I would also have my memories. It would be a wild ride, no matter how it ended.

On a sudden impulse, I picked up the phone. With a smile, I asked, "Hey, who's this?"

Even though I already knew.

Author's note: Together, my grandfather and I did set out to write the tale of his life. Unfortunately, his Alzheimer's disease progressed rapidly, and we were never able to finish. He's still alive, but I imagine that, mentally, he is in a better place than the nursing home. I like to think he's back in his younger days, living life and being happy, because the reality is much colder. It's snowing today; he loves the snow. When I visited him, he didn't recognize me, but he did smile as he sat looking out the window. 

[turtlesinreview]

TMNT Mirage Comics Issues 2-7

Since I read all these together I’m reviewing them together. I may or may not do this by arc or by issue in the future. I’ll see how it goes.

To me, at least so far, the closest thing I could think to compare the writing style of TMNT to is ‘If Axe Cop were written by grown men’. I don’t mean this as an insult in the slightest either. Eastman and Laird are a pretty clever and hilarious comic making duo, and these comics prove it. There’s this tinge of absurdist humor throughout the overall plot while the in-character humor is witty and natural. It has yet to feel like a chore to read, even the parts that are essentially expositions dumps.

Because those exposition dumps are fucking insane.

This is what I mean when I say it makes me think of Axe Cop. The plot gets more and more absurd with each passing page. It feels like the whole thing is taking you for a ride, but it also doesn’t feel like it has a horrible case of ADD either. The plot is always progressing, and there’s even a bit of downtime here and there to build up the characters. It’s great!

Where the style greatly differs from Axe Cop is about everywhere else. Like I said we get to know the characters a lot better. The mood is usually ‘gritty’ while still being clever and comedic, and while you may often find yourself surprised that something is happening, it never feels unnatural for it to happen. You go through the whole experience going ‘okay, this makes sense’, and there’s always a sense that what’s happening is a danger to the characters, no matter how ridiculous it may seem.

Essentially, the comic takes itself just seriously enough, making it a pretty enjoyable read, at least so far.

From this point on I’ll try to divide topics. I’ll keep writing out of the mix since I just went over it above, but I’ll add it in its proper place for future reviews/rambles. I’m still getting a feel for what I’m trying to do here.

Story

Let’s see if I can do this without going into ‘overly detailed’ territory. I have a bad habit of doing that.

The turtles, through watching TV, learn about these mobile mousetraps called mousers, which Splinter is concerned over since they’re apparently meant to rid the city of the rat problem. This means they may make their way into the sewers.

Turns out Baxter Stockman, the mousers’ creator, is actually using them in robberies around the city and plans to hold the whole thing ransom with his mousers. Apparently he was going to cause his own little 9/11 by destroying one of the twin towers. He tries to get his assistant April in on in, but when she refuses he tries to fucking kill her ass. The turtles save her and a new friendship is formed.

After Baxter announced his plan to the public, April and the turtles go back to his lair to stop him. There’s this tense moment where April and Donatello are trying to shut down a self-destruct program while the others fight off the mousers. They save the day and April becomes their buddy. The boys head back to the lair and that’s when shit really hits the fan.

After a bit of panic the boys get a hold of April and she agrees to house them. Due to some crazy-ass mixup the cops go after April’s van and a fucking insane chase scene ensues.

Afterwards the boys stay at April’s for what I think is a couple weeks if I remember correctly. We get a lot of nice little character scenes here. Anyway after fighting some rouge foot soldiers out for revenge the boys run into a building called TCRI and it induces a flashback in them.

They go to figure out shit about their past and find Splinter in the process. Unfortunately they ALSO run into some aliens and are accidentally teleported to another planet/dimension. I think it’s planet.

They meet a robot named Honeycutt who...well I posted a bit of his origin earlier. It’s convoluted and I love it. He can make a teleporter, but he refuses to because he doesn’t want it being used for evil. This leaves the turtles stranded and also means two opposing forces, the Federation and the Triceratons, are trying to get their hands on him for their own purposes. Chase scenes and a fight in a bar ensues.

Eventually the Triceratrons get a hold of Honeycutt and the turtles stowaway on their ship, where they somehow put themselves into a stasis via meditation where they don’t need oxygen.

I don’t think that’s how that works.

Anyway this results in them betting captured and put in gladiatorial combat. After they win the fight they hold the Triceraton ruler captive, but he gets stupidly shot down by his own men leaving them with no collateral. It works out fine though because they get teleported back to the TCRI building at just the right time.

On Earth April is worried about them, and apparently everyone saw the big ray of light the teleporter (or transmat as it’s called in the comics) let out when the turtles were sent to that far off planet. No one’s been able to get inside TCRI so the government has been called to storm the building.

The turtles are reuinited with Splinter and he and the aliens explain they they were just trying to get off the fucking planet. They explain their chemicals are what transformed them all into who they are today by accident, and it’s thanks to Splinter being a talking old rat that they ultimately didn’t destroy the turtles and even tried to bring them back. Okay so there’s more to it than that but I’m condensing it here.

The transmat needs to charge and be repaired again, but the government is starting to storm TCRI. Honeycutt and the aliens work on the transmat while the security system (with the help of the turtles if I recall) try to fend off against the feds so they don’t discover their alien allies.

The arc ends with the turtles and Splinter teleported into April’s tub, and I have no idea what became of everyone else.

Characters

One of these days I’m going to write a looooooooong essay about how much I enjoy the design evolution the turtles went other. Y’know, once I’ve seen enough of each series to warrant such an essay. I honestly think the turtles tend to look better with (almost) every iteration, and it should be somewhat obvious where I don’t.

I bring this up in this section and not the art section because in some parts of the comics I’m ashamed to admit I can’t tell which fucking turtle is talking when. While their voices are starting to become more distinct, the only way to visually tell them apart is what weapon they’re holding, or if they’re doing something a specific turtle would do.

A big example was before the bar fight. The first time I read it I assumed it was Michelangelo buying the beer, but upon rereading it I realized it’s probably actually Raphael.

But does that also mean Raphael was the one hitting on this space babe? Because that seems more like a Michelangelo thing to me!

Y’see, I assume THAT’s Raphael because I know that Raph’s the first one to use the ray gun, and I’m pretty sure he was standing next to Honeycutt at the time.

Of course in that panel Leo has moved to the other side of Honeycutt, so maybe they’re just relocating every fucking panel. The point I’m trying to make here is forgive me for getting the turtles mixed up sometimes. Especially Mike and Raph whose weapons I can’t use as stronger indicators to their identities.

Anyway, the returning characters, I.E. the turtles, are pretty fucking great in this. They’re starting to show and develop their own unique personalities, and it’s nice to watch the evolution as it happens. Leo is about the same as he was before, and has seemed to change the least, for the time being at least. I do like the little ‘If Raphael can fire a laser then I definitely can’ moment because it’s an early establishment of the rivalry they’ll probably share throughout the series, or if nothing else the rivalry they share in other iterations of the story.

Otherwise Leo was just as kickass as he was in the first issue, leading the team and being the badass ‘fight with honor’ brother for the most part. He was also the level-headed one when it was clear Splinter was MIA, as opposed to Raphael.

Speaking of Raphael, he had a lot of great moments in these issues, and it sure shows why this version of him is pretty damn beloved and used (I mean besides it being the initial/canon version).

The moment that stood out to me was how despite Leonardo’s protests and insisting he help clean up at home, he decided ‘no fuck that I’m going to find Splinter myself’ and just left and came back whenever the fuck he felt like it. It’s the moment that cemented him as the impulsive hothead, a trait I feel guilty for hoping will come back and bite him in the ass later.

Another highlight was when he was sizing up April after he took a shower. Nothing of note here. Just thought the scene was funny.

Also holy shit. Sometimes I forget just how short the turtles are. I guess they are still teens. Moving on.

Donatello was the one I usually identified as ‘the one who isn’t doing anything’ in this comic, but that’s pretty unfair. He actually does a hell of a lot. Combat aside, we also get an indication of his techy side in the first panel of the second issue.

Donatello was my favorite turtle in the ‘87 series. It was because he was sensible and intelligent, and back then those were the types of characters I liked. Oh an he was purple. I like purple. Anyway, he comes up with a few good battle strategies, and holds his own in combat pretty well in these issues.

His best moment so far is probably in the second issue, though, where he’s helping April reroute the mousers and deactivate the self-destruct system. He pretty much establishes himself as the brains of the team.

Michelangelo establishes himself as the carefree and cocksure brother during all this. He was eager to be a distraction for one of Donatello’s plans, and he even had some smug comments for a certain Triceraton guard.

That’s probably my favorite scene with him.

April’s really cool. She quickly establishes herself as the surrogate mother figure for the turtles, but sadly she’s under utilized in the latter issues I read where she mostly just hangs around New York worrying about the turtles. I’m sure she’ll have more to do later, but it’s nice that they have a ‘normal’ friend as well.

This is my first exposure to Honeycutt, and I can say while he has the dumbest origin ever, I really like him. He’s a man(bot) that sticks to his convictions, even if it risks the safety of himself and his friends (though he does CARE about said friends). I have a lot of respect for him, and I hope he shows up more after this arc.

I don’t have much to say about everyone else. Splinter was barely in this set of issues, and the alien race that Kraang is based off of...well, so far I like what other series have done with them more. Hopefully this isn’t the last of them though, so my opinion may change.

The Federation and Triceraton were...neat? Funny? I liked ‘em, but the races didn’t wow me too much. I liked the random extras in the background more.

Art

Issues 2 and 3 were a leg up from the first issue. They even used what I think is charcoal for the shading. That said, the people still looked pretty gross, at least in my opinion.

That said, I think the style is truly established in the fourth issue. Less is more really applies here, and that shows as the comic goes on. I think the overly detailed shading, while not terrible, was an overall detriment to the first few issues. Four through Seven look leaps and bounds better than the first three, at least in my opinion.

Not only that, but the art gets a lot better with each passing issue. I think one of the ideal comparisons for this is April. I’ll put an issue 2 image of her against an issue 7 image and let you be the judge. Hopefully you can see what I mean.

Not only April, but the turtles also look a lot better. They’ve become much more expressive, have a lot more motion to them, and their beak-noses aren’t doing that awkward crunching thing as often after the third issue. As before, I’m very excited to see the direction the art goes in the coming arcs.

Final Thoughts

I’ll admit, it was hard to resist the urge to read more of the comic while I was writing up this review. That’s probably going to be the most painful part of updating this blog. However, that should tell you how enjoyable this comic is. It’s hard to put down, and engaging all the way through.

This arc was pretty neat, and I’m excited to see what happens next. I know I said that last time, but I have a feeling this is how I’ll feel for a while if the quality remains this consistently good. Only one way to find out!

[babygirl06301]

Spike Analysis - “Lover’s Walk”

“Lover’s Walk,” bitches! Of the Spike-centric episodes we’ve had in the past, I wouldn’t say that this episode is the absolute, hands-down, best…but it’s pretty fucking good. Let’s start this by acknowledging that Spike is hella cute throughout this entire thing. Did you do that? Good.

So, we’ve got Spike. We’ve got Buffy. We’ve got Angel. We’ve got marshmallows and holy water grenades. I’m gonna be honest here, I don’t really know where to start with Spike’s development in this episode. I’m not going to go through it scene by scene necessarily, but I’ll try and keep you up to date with what scene I’m thinking of when I’m talking about one thing or the other.

Alright. Last we heard, Spike and Dru had left town after the whole Angelus thing. Spike said he’d never come back. Well, that didn’t fucking happen, did it? Please notice that in this episode, he said again that he wouldn’t come back to Sunnydale. Spike’s always been a shit liar, ya know? Dru’s broken up with him because he’s too soft (which…did she see him when she sired him? Sensitive as fuck, that one. Cute as hell, but still). Therefore, Spike’s back in Sunnydale. He knocks over the sign, which seems to become a recurring theme for him, and he’s drunk as shit. Of course, later in Angel, he mentions that it isn’t so easy for vampires to get drunk, so he must have been smashed. Which is, apparently, the only kind of “smashed” he’s been able to get since Dru left him.

I mentioned in the “Becoming: Part 2” analysis, and will continue to mention it numerous more times, but seeing Spike not be William the Bloody is always great. I much prefer Spike the Sensitive over Spike: Guy Who Killed Two Slayers. But this episode is like…bad. You know what I mean? Like, he’s very distraught over Dru and it’s kind of strange. Not in a bad way because I’d rather him weep and throw dolls than brood (sorry, Angelcakes).

Sidebar: that scene were Spike passes out in the outdoor area at Angel’s mansion and his hand catches on fire in the morning? Did you guys know that James did that stunt himself, but like, you’re supposed to put it out within two seconds because the protective layer (that keeps your hand from actually catching fire) will wear off? But James thought it’d be funny to let it go a bit longer, so he burnt the literal shit out of his hand, but he hid it from everyone because it was his last shot and he was afraid that, if they ever asked him back again, they wouldn’t let him do his own stunts anymore?

Anyway. So then Spike kills the shopkeeper and kidnaps Willow and Xander so Willow can do the love spell for him. That scene in the factory where Spike sort of confides in Willow is the best shit ever. Jumping a little forward here, one of the key components of Spike’s character development in this episode is that he’s interacting (again) with Buffy, but also with Willow and Angel. And by interacting, I mean that he’s not trying to kill them. Spike hadn’t really interacted with Angel in a semi-positive way before this episode. It was typically with Angelus, and otherwise, his contact with Angel was violent. I know he did threaten to kill Willow a few times, but I think his focus was more on Dru than anything else at that point. Although, I don’t think he didn’t kill anyone because “I want Dru back,” I think he didn’t kill anyone because “…nah.”

Back to Willow. Spike talking to her about Dru and how much she hurt him is ***super cute!!!*** But beyond that, Spike basically said that he’d rather die than not be with Dru. Die. Again, like I said in the previous post, Spike’s character is drenched in paradox, but a vampire’s whole goal (on a basic level) is to survive. So? But all that makes sense within the realm of his character because Dru was his first relationship. Isn’t that strange to think about? Not his first love, but his first requited love. I’m sure we all have some semblance of an idea of how people usually react when their first relationships end. Let’s keep going because, aside from being adorable, that scene doesn’t speak a whole lot to his development.

I have conflicting feelings about the situation with Joyce in the kitchen. Like, on the one hand, I don’t think Spike would kill her, but on the other, he’s still evil. I mentioned in the last post that Spike has a certain respect for mother’s (based on his past), but I’m not sure that that would affect his animalistic instinct to kill. Maybe in this episode, though, it would. Because he came back to Sunnydale to kill Angel, seemingly, but he didn’t do anything to anybody the entire time besides knocking Xander out. I think the explanation with the kitchen scene is just that Spike needed a mom. He needed someone to be on his side for a little while.

Okay, Spuffy flag on the field. Is that a good sports thing to say? I don’t care enough about athletics to try for a better one. So, we remember Buffy locking Angelus out of her house in season 2, right? Because he’s evil, blah blah. And we remember her inviting Spike into her house so they could discuss taking Angelus down. “Lover’s Walk” is the first episode in which Angel returns to Buffy’s home since he came back from whatever hell dimension he was in. And, as soon as Buffy saw him there, she invited him back in. Because the circumstances had changed. Well, excuse me, but I think after the brief truce her and Spike had, the circumstances were well fucking changed, so why didn’t she disinvite him from her house? She could’ve thought he wouldn’t come back? No. She’s never trusted Spike, why in God’s name would she think the vampire notorious for killing two Slayers would stay out of her life? She knew she could take him/he wasn’t dangerous? Bullshit. To his face, yeah, but we’ve got substantial evidence (even into seasons 6 and 7) that Buffy is afraid of William the Bloody on some level. And if nothing else, shouldn’t she have locked him out just to protect her mother?

It’s just fishy to me, that’s all I’m saying. Not that it’s inherently Spuffy, maybe she’s just lazy, but that’s all I’m saying. Let’s move onto what will come to be known as the Magic Box. We get that awesome shot of Buffy, Angel, and Spike ready to fight like hell. Including “Tabula Rasa,” this is the first of two times that Spike has been trapped in the magic shop because he pissed off a big bad (The Mayor/loan shark) and his vampire minions.

So, these three fighting together lends itself really nicely to including Spike into the Sunnydale scene. He never really did become a Scooby (minus, maybe, the months after Buffy’s death), but those few moments were sort of like an “I could get used to this” thing for the audience.

Be kind rewind here for a second: the speech. You know the one I mean. The “you’ll never be friends” speech. One of my all-time favorite things about Spike is that he’s literally always right (if it doesn’t involve himself). Here’s the thing: Spike seems to feel very comfortable in the fact that he’s a hopeless romantic. Old habits die hard, I guess, but that’s really strange. Because we can see, especially in the following season, that he hates feeling as though he’s less than a man or that he isn’t “bad” or isn’t dangerous. Anything that makes him seem weak, he hates. Now, being a romantic doesn’t imply weakness, but Buffy sure fucking thinks so. She said he was pathetic, he was a loser, whatever. I’m sure some of that was to piss him off, but I’m also sure some of that was meant to act as irony within the writing because what the fuck does she think she’s been doing with Captain Forehead over here?

Moving on from that, it’s honestly such a good bit on love. I’ve heard literally so many people say that it’s the best quote on love they’ve ever heard. For someone who’s known for being shit at poetry…

I have one last quick thing to say about The Speech, and then we’ll wrap up. I kind of love the theme the show took with Spike and the symbolism of blood (I’m referring to the “Love isn’t brains, children. It’s blood” line). I can think of at least three times within the space of the show that Spike has reiterated the importance or the purpose of blood for one reason or the other. It makes sense because he’s a vampire, but it’s more than that. It’s like it’s some holy thing that holds a lot meaning and weight, like it’s sacred to him. I guess Spike has a bit of a history of exaggerating his feelings with things, but it’s interesting.

We’ve only got a bit left here. So, we can tell that the fighting made Spike feel a lot more confident in himself. Probably Drusilla implying that he’d gone soft and then leaving him made him feel emasculated and staking a few vamps was the antidote. One thing I want to quickly point out there: it’s almost like a bit of foreshadowing for his arc with the chip, right? Like, it’s pretty obvious that as long as Spike can kill something, he’s a happy camper. Then he says that thing about torturing Dru until she likes him again. And then he says what is probably my favorite quote from this episode, other than his speech on love: “Love’s a funny thing.” The reason I love it so much is because that’s pretty much Spike’s character in a nutshell. I mean, all the things he’s done or been put through for love is pretty fucking astounding. Not to mention, this sums up basically all the Scoobies’ lives at the moment of this episode. Yeah, love’s pretty damn quirky when you catch your significant other making out with a friend’s significant other and then you fall through some stairs and get impaled with rebar.

Last thing I want to point out in this episode: Buffy breaks up with Angel (for a time, anyway). She says she can fool everyone but not herself…or Spike. All I’m sayin’ is: some things never change.

So, that’s it! A little bit longer than “Becoming: Part 2,” and I got off track a lot, but hey. I’m not exactly sure which episode I’m going to analyze next. Season 4 is very fractured when it comes to Spike. He’s got a lot of really important revelations: the chip, being attracted to Buffy (when Faith was in her body), realizing he could hurt a demon, adjusting to working with the Scoobies for money. But all that shit is in separate episodes. And I don’t think I’ll be able to talk about some of the better Spike episodes like “Something Blue” because there wasn’t really development, just some really cringy kissing noises. So, I think what I’m going to end up doing is maybe a post or two where I combine a couple episodes and talk about them and, if there’s still something left over to talk about, I’ll tack it onto whatever the last season 4 post is. Or make a bulk, season 4 post. I dunno, but I’ll figure that out later. Hope you enjoyed my rambles!