#i just figured it had to be a callback from dante taking the fall for selling the kid cigarettes in clerks

[yeojaa]

( SWEET MAGNOLIAS. )

He was your unlikely muse;  you were the weird girl in the park.  Could you make it any more obvious?

pairing.  myg x named f!reader.  s2l.

genre + rating.   college!au.  fluff, angst, smut.  explicit. 

tags / warnings.  light cussing, yoongi being rightfully weirded out, a whole lotta softness, sadness if you squint at the right times, body painting, and then, of course, the most tender, dumbest lovemaking (unprotected but don’t be silly like them!).  there’s also a really bad callback to the titanic.  i’m not sorry.  lol.

wc.  8.2k

You try not to stare for too long, sweeping your gaze in wide circles so as to be as inconspicuous as possible.  You try not to let your eyes linger, follow the contours of his cheeks - soft, pronounced when he smiles - or the shape of his mouth - delicate, petal pink.  You try not to make it weird - but it’s decidedly, very weird.

You just can’t help yourself.

He’s always here around this time, laid out on a worn red blanket.  Sometimes, he reads.  Books like The Alchemist and the Stranger and once, Dante’s Inferno.  Other times, he pops a pair of headphones on - oversized, intimidatingly large over his ears - and closes his eyes.  Most rare of all, is when he’s not alone, joined at the hip by at least one other boy and on occasion, an entire group of six.  

They’re all interesting in their own ways.  

There’s one with shoulders the size of boulders, a mountain range situated beneath his shirts.  He has a weird laugh that sounds like windshield wipers and your mother’s spring cleaning routine.  He yells a lot and even across the lawn, you can sometimes make out his voice.

There’s the tallest one, with kind eyes and dimples so deep you question if there’s treasure buried in them.  He reads a lot, too.  You’ve seen him in the library more times than you can count, always dutifully tucked away in a back corner surrounded by scattered looseleaf.  Despite the course load he seems to have taken on, you’ve never seen him lose his cool.  You have seen him lose his phone, though, and pencils and textbooks and AirPods. 

There’s Hoseok, whose name you only know because he held your hair once at a fall sorority party.  You hadn’t been drinking but somehow, somehow, your roommate had convinced you to apple bob with her.  He’d been gracious enough to help you out, fisting your hair in a gentle grip.  It’s what spurred you to now always have an elastic on your wrist.

There’s the dancer.  He’s slight and even in stillness, far more graceful than you’ll ever be.  He’s got pillowy lips and hair that gleams like silk.  You’ve sketched him too, once or twice, but never more.  It just didn’t feel right - as if you’d never be able to translate that sort of beauty onto paper.  

There’s the one from your Art 340 Drawing II class.  You’ve wondered, on more than one occasion, how come he isn’t the model.  He’s got perfect proportions - defined jaw, strong nose, cheekbones carved from marble.  It’s almost off-putting seeing him in person;  it feels far more fitting for him to be displayed in a museum, with a plaque that reads Perfection, Mixed Media.

There’s the youngest one, Jungkook.  They call him maknae despite the fact that he dwarfs nearly all of them.  Maybe it’s just the clothes he wears:  boots that look like they’d break your neck and everything in slightly darker shades of black.  You run into him at least four times a week - trading greetings at the campus coffee shop and at the library.  You’re practically best pals by college standards. 

And then, of course, there’s him.  Your muse.  The one you can’t help but stare at - even when you’re trying your hardest not to.  The one who wears glasses though you’re almost certain he doesn’t need them.  The one whose smile is more gums than teeth, who looks unassuming and yet often breaks out into the strangest, most inspired dance moves you’ve ever seen.  The one who plays recreational basketball on Tuesday nights and who drinks more coffee than you think should be humanly possible. 

Min Yoongi.  

You sketch him like you’ll never see him again, dragging charcoal strokes across paper until your hand is muddied and the curve of his ear is looking worse for wear.  You repeat lines over and over, turning the mop of his hair into ringlets and waves, weaving dimension through the india ink that spills over his eyes.  You sometimes add his glasses;  you’re quite fond of the look on him.

You paint him sometimes, too, imagining how he’d look with periwinkle blue hair, or maybe dressed in shades of maroon.  You swath him in textured fabrics and lovely watercolours, turning him into a fantasy that’ll never see the light of day.  Pretty little daydreams with him fixed at the centre.

You fill your pages with his figure, the way he smiles when Hoseok does something silly or how he joins in when Jungkook laughs.  You study every bit and piece, learning him in every admiring way you can - despite the fact that you don’t really know him at all. 

It’s a staggering lesson in futility but one you take almost daily, armed with pencil and paper and not a single ounce of common sense. 

That is, until you’ve done the stupidest thing imaginable.  

No, not getting caught.  Not in the traditional sense, at least.  He hasn’t realised you sit on your bench - yes, your bench, with the sticky metal arm rest and illegible initials scratched into the back - and watch him almost every day.  You thank your lucky stars for that.

What you’ve done is much worse - punishable by death by embarrassment. 

You have no fucking clue where your sketchbook is. 

You could’ve sworn you had it in your bag when you’d returned to your room last night.  You can’t imagine you would’ve left it anywhere in the open, orphaning it on a campus full of idiots.  You were always so careful.  You don’t just lose things.

“I think it’s gone, girl.”  You’ve never wanted to yell at your roommate more - not even when you’d caught her and her boyfriend banging in your bed after you’d come home early on the long weekend or when she’d eaten all of your Cherry Garcia ice cream.  The desire bubbles about in your chest, fizzing angrily like an agitated soda bottle.  

“It’s here somewhere.”  The words grit between your teeth, insistent as can be.

“You’ve been looking for like, twenty minutes.”  

“It’s here.”

“I really don’t think it is…”  Jisoo doesn’t quite deserve how you explode, rounding on her with hands flying and eyes wild.  “You’re also going to be late for your class.”

Your words falter with the verbalisation of hers. 

Lucky for her;  unlucky for you. 

The hands of the clock above your desk wave at you mockingly.  You are, indeed, going to be late for your class.

“Shit!  Shit!”  Everything you’d torn out gets shoved back into your tote bag.  Band-Aids, mints, too many wayward pencils and pens.  You almost forget your phone, attention only drawn to it when Jisoo catches the strap of your backpack and yanks you back.  

“Don’t forget,”  she hums, far more kindly than your harebrained self deserves.

You forget all the reasons you’re upset with her.  “Thanks, Ji.”  You force a kiss on her cheek before you’re darting out of your room and sprinting across campus to Art 340.

“Nice of you to join us, Miru.”  It’s your professor greeting you as you run in fifteen minutes late, weaving through other students to find your seat near the far wall.  Laughter follows you, coiling around your ankles and over your shoulders as you settle into your seat, fully hidden behind the oversized easel.  

You can’t help the scarlet that paints your cheeks, creeping high across your temples.  You know no one cares - that Professor Kinsella is probably the most laidback professor you’ve had in your four semesters - but it can’t be stopped.  You’re already flustered from temporarily misplacing your sketchbook that everything else just feels like shit icing on your garbage cake.

“Sorry!”  It squeaks out - a mouse, eaten up wholly by cat-ate-the-canary laughter that sounds over your shoulder and not very quietly.

“Having a bad day?”

You’ve heard the voice a handful of times so it shouldn’t shock you the way it does, nearly knocking the graphite from your hand.  

“What?”

Kim Taehyung’s on the edge of his chair, one long leg stretched toward you, the other balanced across his knee.  You’re not sure how that’s meant to be comfortable but he makes it look effortless.  Then again, looking like him, living probably was effortlessly.  You can’t deny you’re a little envious. 

“Your face is all red.  You’re out of breath.  Feels like a bad day to me.”

You try not to dwell on the fact that, apparently, you look like an absolute mess.  “No, I’m good.”  It sounds fake even to your ears, tinny and wrought with anxiety.  

“You sure?”  He’s not really paying attention to you as he speaks, tracing the contours of the model across his canvas.  He begins where you’d never think to, framing the main masses with a languid twist of his wrist.  Unlike you, he doesn’t get caught up in the detail;  he sees the bigger picture for all it is, building from the outside in.   

You’re watching him for longer than you realise, whipping back around once it dawns on you.  “Why wouldn’t I be sure?”

“Who knows.”  There’s a playfulness in his tone that sets you on edge.  You’ve never heard it before, all rounded vowels and molasses laughter.  You mean to work as you listen, waiting for some indication of whatever lies just beneath the surface.

It’s a mistake.  Your stick of charcoal snaps in half when he continues, low and slow as if he’s dragging it out.

“—maybe you lost a sketchbook?” 

“Did you say…”  You can’t finish the sentence.  You feel like you’re about to be sick.  

The amount of mischief in his expression should be illegal.  It’s dancing in his eyes, curling wide and unabashed over his lips.  It’s practically radiating off of him.

“So, bad day?”  

He waits for you to pack up, hands tucked into the endless pockets of his black slacks.  At any other time, in any other universe, you’d be giddy.  Girls on campus would kill for even a second of Taehyung’s attention.  

(It’s true - you’d heard a group of them talking about it one time.)  

Here and now, you want to sink six feet under.

“They’re really good, you know.”  As if the compliment will dull the mortification that threatens to cleave you in half.  “You’re really good at capturing his boredom.  That’s not easy.”

“Thanks.”  You should make conversation;  it’s the polite thing to do.  

After all, he was kind enough to find and return your sketchbook.  Better him than someone else, right?  Better him than Yoongi himself?  That’s what you tell yourself, at least.  

Yoongi doesn’t know and therefore, it’s okay.  Semi okay.  Distantly related to the idea of okay.

As if he can read your mind, Taehyung speaks gently, with a hand that burns through the linen of your blouse.  You know he means well but it sears white hot, eviscerating your nerve endings.  “You have nothing to worry about.  I didn’t tell him.”

You don’t answer him.  There’s nothing to say - not really.  You’re far too lost in your own thoughts to acknowledge the effort he’s making.  Maybe this was life’s way of telling you to back off - to find another person to paint.  

Or maybe it’s brought you two together, says the silly, naive angel on your shoulder.

You’re ready to flick her off - launch her like some kind of poor Tinkerbell - when your name catches your attention.  It’s announced so dramatically that you double take, making sure you haven’t completely run through a picnic or accidentally slammed into someone. 

“This is Miru.” 

Cognisance comes slow and unhurried, even as your stare swivels wildly in search of context clues. 

Laid out before you, right under that familiar magnolia tree, is one blanket, three bodies, and enough takeout to last you an entire week.  

“Ohf, phey!”  With cheeks stuffed full, it’s hard to make out the two syllables.  They crowd against each other, offered in a garbled mess that has you regarding Jungkook with a mixture of concern and confusion.  He’s swallowing thickly before he rises far too quickly;  you watch a forgotten piece of kimbap go flying, lost to the dirt and bugs.  “Sorry.  Hi.”  

“Do you want to join us?”  It’s the angelic one, fitted with cherubic cheeks and a rounded Cupid’s bow.  “I’m Jimin, by the way.”  He pats the empty space beside him, eyes waning into crescents with the force of his friendliness.

Taehyung had asked if you wanted to grab dinner but you’d never imagined he meant this. 

You’ve never been subtle but you try your damnedest to peek at him from your periphery.  Unfortunately for you, he’s already sat down, fully made himself comfortable beside the last member of the group.

The one who, for all intents and purposes, appears as if he’d rather be anywhere but here.  If looks could kill, you think.  

“Don’t worry about him,”  Jimin says, so sweetly, with a small bento lid held towards you.  It’s already stacked with goodies - a selection of banchan and homemade-looking meatballs sitting alongside a poorly-shaped mound of rice.  “Sometimes, he gets like this.”  

You want to believe it.  Really, you do, but by the way Yoongi’s mouth curls in distaste, all signs point to it being a matter of you rather than a mood.

“Maybe if she respected peoples’ privacy, I wouldn’t have an issue.”

It’s a single sentence quietly spoken and yet it feels like an open-palm slap to the face.  Heat radiates over every visible inch, starkly coloured in contrast to the white of your top.  It burns as it licks over your cheeks and past your temples, tipping your ears. 

“I’m so sorry.”  It isn’t clear who you’re apologizing to, the words tumbling wet off your tongue like a waterfall.  

You’re gone before anyone can ask.

“That was a dick move.”  Jungkook is the first to break the silence, levelling his friend with a disapproving stare.  He’s not used to this side of him - the one that can tear a person apart with just a few words.  It’s not the Yoongi he knows.  It’s not really Yoongi at all.

“Yeah, hyung.”  It’s thinner, but just as reproachful.  “I’m sure she didn’t mean it.”

Yoongi’s laugh is dismissive but he won’t meet anyone’s stare - a tell-tale sign that he’s just a little affected by their words - choosing instead to shovel bites of soondae into his mouth.  “Mean what?  Invading my privacy?”

“She’s an artist.”  Taehyung doesn’t mean it as an excuse but by how Yoongi bristles, he’s certain the senior takes it as such.  Before the argument can begin, he continues, all while wrapping a piece of samgyupsal in lettuce.  “I doubt she meant any harm, so just cut her some slack.”  Fringe is flicked away from his eyes, something sparkling in the pretty brown of his irises.  “I’d actually be flattered, if I were you.”

“Then you be her model.”

You haven’t drawn in four days.  Well, not really.  

You’ve completed what you need for classes, filling your books with mandatory figures and notes on colour theory.  You’ve diligently mapped out proportions and brought to life sunsets and sceneries.  You’ve done everything you should be doing but nothing that you want to be.

It just doesn’t feel right.  Not anymore.

“I hear he’s a really nice guy.”  You can’t count how many times Jisoo has tried to cheer you up.  From picking up your favourite ice cream (the one she tends to devour anyway) to ordering in fried chicken, she’s been the picture perfect roommate.  It only makes you feel that much worse.

You were moping over something that was your fault.  And she had to pick up the pieces!  It seemed wildly unfair but when you’d told her to stop - insisted upon it with a wail into your pillow - she’d simply shook her head and wrapped you in her arms.  

For all of your stupid, silly little rows, Kang Jisoo was the best roommate you’d had in your entire university career.

“Just go outside.”  She’s perched on the edge of her bed, painting her toes a brilliant shade of neon green.  She’d offered to do yours too, but you’ve more or less refused to leave the comfort of your burrito blanket for anything beyond classes or food.  “You can’t avoid him forever.”  

“I can try,”  you mumble, words lost to the cotton of your sheets.  

Try - and fail, it seemed.  You’d already run into him twice.  Twice!  Even after you’d started taking absurdly long roundabout routes to your classes, the universe had conspired against you.  

The first time he’d been walking out of the gym, shoulder to shoulder with another upperclassmen you didn’t recognize.  You’d seen him coming from a mile away thanks to his obnoxiously bright Lakers jersey and you’d booked it back the way you’d come, nearly mowing down a couple making kissy faces at each other in front of the lecture hall.  

The second time was yesterday afternoon.  You’d thought he’d be in his usual spot - so close to your usual spot - that you’d gone to the coffee shop for a midday pick-me-up.  Even embarrassed, you weren’t about to suffer a caffeine deficiency.  You’d rounded the corner in the same instance he had and you’d sworn he’d seen you, recognition flickering across his face.  Fortunately, there’d been a door directly to your right and you’d all but thrown yourself inside.

It was the first and hopefully last time you’d be in a men’s washroom.

“I thought you were tougher than this,”  Jisoo hums, equal parts disapproval and kindness.  She levels you with a stare - you can feel it burning into your fortress of blankets - and sighs.  It’s a bit dramatic, you think.  

“Tell me you wouldn’t be doing the exact same thing!”

Then again, she’d probably never be stupid enough to lose something so important nor would she fixate so heavily on one person.  Your point still stands.

“Seriously, girl.”  

Her nail polish bottle bounces off your bed, tumbling to the floor with a quiet thump.  You look up in time to see her staring at you imploringly, so wide-eyed and innocent you can’t help but be a little suspicious.  “What?”

“I wanted to have Andy over.” 

It all falls into place then.  Her boyfriend’s in a frat and your (poor) dorm room is the only place they have any sort of privacy.  It makes you want to gag but you can’t blame her.  You’ve always had an unspoken agreement;  you’d just tossed it out the window the past few days. 

Guilt prompts you to extract yourself from your duvet, though you don’t stop the chorus of gross, gross, gross! as you begin gathering your things.  You almost leave your sketchbook, only opting to tuck it under your arm at the last minute.  

“Please, please, don’t use my bed this time.”

“We love you!”  She sing-songs as you tug your sneakers on and slip into the hallway.

You’re at a different bench across campus when you hear the voice.  It comes from behind you and to your left, accusatory and sharp.  You nearly jump out of your own skin, toppling over your water bottle and plastic paint palette. Orange watercolour soaks into the material on your thigh.  Dammit. 

“Are you following me?”

Min Yoongi stands not three feet from you, arms folded over his chest.  

Your heart stutters at the sight of him.  It’s hard to speak when it feels like it’s leapt into your throat.  

“What?”  You hate how you sound - a kid caught with their hand in the cookie jar.  You have nothing to be ashamed of.  At least, not right now.  You’d come all the way here, as far from the magnolia tree and red blanket as you could.  

“I said—”  His words are glacial and biting.  It’s suddenly winter, far chillier than spring should be.  You wish you’d brought a sweater or maybe, that the ground would open up and swallow you whole.  You can’t be cold when you’re dead.  “—are you following me?”

“Of course not!”  

There’s nothing but disbelief in his expression.  It paints itself in broad strokes, prominent in the shadows beneath his eyes and the curl of his mouth.  He says nothing.  

“Really.  I’m not.”  You’re insistent, apologetic.  Every nerve ending is shot, going haywire beneath your skin and lighting you up in shades of red.  The tips of your fingers are tingling.  “I’m sorry.”

“For what?”  You wonder if he’s baiting you now.  

“For…”   Words are cherry-picked and perfect, chosen with a shaking head and the utmost care.  “I shouldn’t have drawn you without asking.”

“No shit,”  he returns, completely deadpan.  He’s really not making this any easier.

“I didn’t mean anything by it,”  you continue, a little hopeful and a lot bashful.  “I just— I don’t get inspiration like this that often.  So I couldn’t let it go.”  You don’t need to add what you do, but you do so anyway, because you’ve never been great at making good choices.  “Your face is really unique and when you’re happy, it’s just so expressive and your smile is—”

There’s a siren blaring in your ears.  A red alert going off so loudly you almost miss the way he laughs.

It’s not the same one he offers to his best friends - far more reserved, exceedingly softer - but it’s there and it’s real and you don’t think you’ll ever forget this moment. 

“You’re laughing.”

He stops immediately.  Fair.

“I’m sorry.”  Again.  More.  Draped in apology and optimism that peeks out between your teeth and shines in the dark of your stare.  “Even though I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable, I did, and for that I’m sorry.  Really, really sorry.  Please don’t hate me.”

It’s hard to read him, even after you’ve spent hours studying his face.  There’s a distinct difference between seeing someone and knowing them, you realize.  You might be able to map out every wrinkle of his eyes - replicate every dot and freckle - but you have no idea what it all means or how it comes together to create something more. 

Silence fits between the two of you for what feels like a long time.  It’s not uncomfortable, though, so you allow it to settle.  You figure it’s better than his anger, in any case.  

“You could’ve just asked me.”

You can’t wipe the disbelief from your face.  “Would you have said yes?”

Yoongi shrugs, a small roll of his shoulders beneath the oversized sweater that dwarfs his frame.  “Don’t know, but I would’ve appreciated it.”  

Because that’s really what it came down to - the thought, not the action.  He’s not entirely sure you understand that yet but he’s willing to give you the benefit of the doubt.  Blame his softening on the steady repetitions Taehyung and Jungkook have made the past few days.  You were lucky to have them in your corner - even if that meant they’d been a thorn in his side.   

“Then… can I sketch you?”  You’re probably (read: definitely) pushing it.  You can’t help it. 

He doesn’t know whether to laugh or scoff at your audacity.  He decides on the former, with a shake of his head that swings his bangs across his forehead and a small, private smile.  “Maybe next time.” 

“Next time?”  You imagine he can’t hear you as he’s backing away and disappearing the way he came.

“See you tomorrow.”

True to his word, Yoongi lets you draw him the next time you see him (and the next time and the time after that). 

It’s different - working off someone who knows they’re being studied.  He holds himself a little more stiffly, a little more carefully.  His laughter isn’t quite as loud, his smiles more forced.  He apologises, even though he doesn’t need to.  

Even his untrained eye can see how you struggle to bring life to a robot. 

Over time, though, it comes - comfort. 

Like the quietly burning coals that melt him down from the inside out, he begins to warm up to you.  It comes slowly but it comes nonetheless, as steady as the sun.  You appreciate his effort - his patience - more than you can ever say.  

You know he gets it, though.  He always does.  It’s a Yoongi thing. 

“You can relax.” 

It’s just the two of you, swathed in sweat and waning light that casts shadows across his cheeks.  The days are longer than they’ve ever been and the both of you tend to lose track of time, spending hours under that magnolia tree. 

“I am relaxed,”  he returns, sinking further onto his back, elbows hardly acting to prop him up.  He’d been engrossed in a novel for the first half of the afternoon.  Another book you’d never bothered to read outside of high school English class.  You never really understood it - you much preferred to watch than read - but you loved when he’d recite the words to you, clear and bright and better than any melody.

“You’re trying to stay awake.”

“Isn’t that a good thing?”

“No.  You’re just as good of a model when you’re sleeping.” 

The smile is lazy, hazy like Sunday morning.  It reveals his gums and ticks higher on the left side.  It makes your heart skip a beat.  

“Go ahead then,”  he continues.  The entirety of his body sags, drops onto the bag he likes to use as a makeshift pillow.  You don’t imagine it’s all that comfortable but he never complains.

“If you’re tired, we can just head in, you know.”  

You always offer.  He never says yes. 

A part of you thinks he likes the attention.  It’s different from what he receives from anyone else - thoughtful and careful.  You think he might like the quiet, too.  The benefit of quality time without any of the effort.  

So you push on, charcoal edge meeting paper once more.   “Just another twenty minutes.”

“Why me?”  

The enquiry comes one day, completely out of the blue.  It skips your heart and breaks the pastel in your fingers, dust chalking them a lovely shade of lilac.  

“What?”  You’re not ready for how close Yoongi is - much closer than he ever is - and you shift back, away from the face you’ve spent months filling your sketchbooks with.  “Why you what?”

He’s completely nonchalant as he moves even closer.  

You can smell his cologne - a distinctly masculine fragrance that’s musk and cedar - and the coffee he’s been nursing for the last hour.  It fills your senses, recentring all of your focus so intensely that you don’t immediately recognise he’s continued speaking.

“Why’d you choose to draw me?  Why not someone else?”  He seems genuinely curious, even though it feels dangerous - a dangling string that’s meant to unravel you.

The answer doesn’t come easily, despite the fact it’s something you’ve asked yourself.

Why him?  Why Min Yoongi?

“I don’t know,”  you answer, perhaps too honestly.  “I saw you and it sort of… just clicked.”  How it sounds doesn’t escape you - like something plucked out of a bad romance novel.  “I didn’t expect it to be you.  I thought I’d draw you once - okay, twice - and then I’d move onto another subject.  But I just… couldn’t?”  

“So, what you’re telling me is it was love at first sight?”  It’s glaringly obvious he’s teasing you.  He’s got that grin of his, sly and feline as it creeps across his mouth.  

You don’t bristle, instead painted bright red like the sunset that streaks across the sky.

“I— I wouldn’t say that.”

“Well, you didn’t say otherwise.”

It’s an uncomfortable line of questioning.  You’re not used to it and certainly not from him.  You hesitate to speak, turning words over and over on your tongue in an effort to make yourself clear.  

You’re not weird.  You don’t want this to be weird.  But you can’t deny - it’s, decidedly, still very weird.

He tries again - a different tactic this time.  One that surprises you, despite the unique friendship you’ve forged over the past few months.  “What if I told you I was glad?” 

“Glad?”  It feels like an echo chamber.  Repetition.  As if you’re going in circles, chasing a tail that remains just out of reach.  “I’m not sure what you mean.”

“What if I told you I’m happy we met?”  

Your blink is owlish, fully caught off-guard.  “I’d say the same thing.  I’m happy we’re friends.”

Amusement rolls off him in waves, evidenced by the laugh that curls into the afternoon.  He shimmies closer and closer until there’s barely three inches between you.  His knee knocks against yours, bony and denim-clad.  You try to ignore the way it burns through your own jeans, sparking heat all the way up to the tips of your ears and down into the soles of your feet.

“What if I told you I don’t want to be just friends anymore?”  

It’s not a surprise, really.  It’s something that’s been on your mind the past few weeks, sown by offhand comments and little gestures you haven’t been able to ignore.  Jungkook had even practically shouted it at you just the other night.

“I’d say…”  You trail off, lost somewhere among the constellations in his eyes.

“You’d say?”  The words are parroted back at you, threaded together by gossamer thin hope. 

“I’d say you’re welcome.  For choosing you.”  The confidence isn’t your own.  It comes from him, crafted by the support he offers easily, hands out like keys.  Keys to his heart, you realise belatedly, with a sudden bashfulness.  Of course.

He can’t wipe the smile from his face.  It eats up every inch, dominating even the playfulness that shines through, turning it the prettiest shade.  It stands bright against his cheeks, staining the pale apples red.  “That’s it?”  

“What do you want me to say?”

You’re suddenly very determined - because you want to give this to him.  Just as he’s given you everything you wanted, you want to do the same.  In this little cut-out piece of paradise, there’s nothing quite as important. 

The one word isn’t much but it feels like a turning point.  “Yes.”

“You want me to say ‘yes’?”

He nods, just once.  There’s so much certainty you can’t doubt him.

“Then yes—”  

It doesn’t matter what you’ve just said yes to.  It doesn’t even matter that it could be something awful or really, anything under the sun.  All that matters is the feeling of his lips, soft and warm and dry on yours.  It’s better than any painting you’ve ever seen, any song you’ve ever heard.  It fills you wholly, stuttering your heart and bubbling giddiness in the pit of your stomach.

You probably sound a little silly, surprisingly breathless from such a little thing.  “Wow.”

“Good things happen when you ask,”  he states, solemnly.  You’d take him more seriously if he weren’t so dopey, grinning at you like he never has before.

“I’m never going to live that down, am I?”

“Nope.”

Luckily, you don’t mind.  Not if it gets you another kiss.  

You tell him as much and he happily obliges, stealing your breath and replacing it with sugar-coated stardust.  You ponder whether you might be able to create with those same particles, turning them into colourful streaks to paint his cheeks.  You’d like to find out.  

You want a lot of things with Min Yoongi, you decide. 

You don’t know how you ended up here.  

Actually, that’s a lie.  You do.  All because of a dumb joke, uttered in passing by Taehyung and now ingrained so deeply in your psyche that you haven’t gone a single day without thinking about it.

“Get out of there,”  he whispers right against your temple, lips following to soothe whatever’s got you preoccupied.  

“Where?”

“Right there, idiot.”  Fingers tap twice, a quick one-two against the side of your head.  

You can’t help but grimace, a wrinkling of your nose that your boyfriend chuckles at, pressing kisses across the bridge and over your cheeks.  “Sorry.”

“Don’t say sorry - just come back to me.”  To this moment, he means.

This strange little scene, with his fingers dressed in non-toxic paint and you stripped down to nothing but a flimsy cotton bra and thong.  

Have him paint you like one of his French girls, Taehyung had said.  It’ll be fun, he’d said.

You think it might be - if you weren’t bouncing with nerves, all five feet three inches of you fizzling with anticipation.  Yoongi was only painting you.  This was a bonding exercise.  Something to bring you closer, to breach the gap between lovestruck artist and inspired musician.  Nothing more.

“You’re beautiful, you know.”  It’s not meant to be a reassurance but simply a passing comment, like looking at the sky or seeing it snow.  So straightforward it makes you laugh, the sound bubbling about in your throat. 

“Thanks, Yoongi.”

“No, seriously.”  He levels you with a look.  You know the one - a touch stern but ultimately playful.  “I wanted to make something beautiful but…”  Digits wiggle, Atlantic blue sweeping over the tips and up his knuckles like the sea.  “I can’t really improve on something that’s already perfect.”

Your cheeks light on fire, as brilliantly coloured as the red in his - your - palette.  

He thinks it looks pretty against his hands.  The same ones that cradle your cheek, so precisely you want to remind him you’re a canvas and not clay.  

“You’re silly.”  

“ You’re silly,”  he returns, as if that’ll somehow win him this battle of wits.

 The roll of your eyes is undeniable.  “Good one.”

“You know, I’ve got a ton of paint, right?  Not your best choice, making fun of me.”  He punctuates each word with passes of his fingers.  Colour appears wherever he travels, dragged over your skin with dreamy twists of his wrist.  A line here, a circle there.  Goosebumps follow in their wake despite the fact that his touch is like candle wax - soothing and deliberate.

You wonder, idly, whether he can feel you burning up beneath him.

“So beautiful,”  he murmurs again, almost to himself as he dips his fingers into another dot of paint.  Pink this time - in the same shade as the magnolias outside.  He spreads the colour over your chest, right where your heart beats an erratic rhythm.  

He takes his time in admiring his handiwork, swirling the two shades together until it’s the most flattering shade of purple.

You try - and fail - to ignore the way it stirs something behind your ribs.  A need that flickers to life without any sort of warning and has you pressing your thighs together.  

“Can I take this off?”  It comes abruptly, with eyes that snap up to yours.  There’s already a hand tucked beneath the small of your back, right under your shoulders.  He already knows your answer - can see it in the blown out pupils that reflect his entire world back at him.  He still wants to hear it.

You’re unable to find your voice.  It’s gone, stolen by the way he ghosts his fingers up and down the sensitive notches of your spine.  You could get lost in this feeling, if he let you.  You almost do, only nodding when he moves no further, flat of his palm a solid weight right against the clasp of your bra.

You don’t mind that the band is coloured pink and blue when he tosses it aside.  You don’t have it in you to focus on anything but how he studies you now.  Openly admires you, like you’re the most incredible thing he’s ever seen.

“What?”  Mellifluous and adoring.  Music to his ears.

“I think I’m getting distracted.”

“I think so, too.”

“Is that okay?”  He speaks more to your boobs than you, single stained hand coming to rest across your ribs.  The pad of his thumb swipes over a single bud, perked and already far too sensitive.  He’d put his mouth on it, if not for the fact it’s now covered in paint.  

Fortunately, there’s still so much of you - places he hasn’t explored but suddenly, desperately needs to.  

From the column of your throat and all the way down to the valley of your breasts, he offers sweet kisses.  Open-mouthed adoration that leaves you needy and breathless and writing.  He catches your untouched nipple between his teeth, gently working it into the same state as its tinted twin. 

You shift beneath him, unable to stop the bolt of electricity that rips through you like a thousand volts.  It cracks your composure like lightning and sends your pulse racing like thunder.  “Of course.”

He hums, content, and nearly falls, dropping his cheek fully against your chest.  You’re so soft beneath him, velvet and pliant under his tongue.  

“I think I love you.”  It’s his voice but your words, spoken so faintly you almost miss it against the roaring in your ears.  

“I think I love you, too.” 

Yoongi stares up at you then, so full of wonder that you can’t help but look away.  It’s an incredibly intimate moment - so much emotion carried in one simple look that you’re not quite sure how to process it.  He’d been your inspiration and now you were his.  The realisation is almost too much, filling you until you feel like you might float away.

His hands act as an anchor, keeping you here with him.  

“You don’t have to say it back.”  It’s careful, loaded with his heart and every key to open it.  

“I know - I want to.”

He grins so breathlessly handsome that you can’t help but return it, rubied cheeks crystallised with delight.  Those same paint-stained hands of his find their newly discovered favourite home of your chest and he sounds like sin when he speaks.  “I want you.”

“You can have me.”

It’s all he needs before he’s ducking down and smothering every uncovered inch of you in sweetness.  His mouth burns hot but he’s unbearably gentle, searing the shape of his mouth over your breasts and across your collarbone.  He licks and sucks as he goes, soothing any ache left behind by the edge of his teeth.

You’re not quite sure where the bites end and the paint begins.  It’s all so pretty you don’t mind either way.  

But it’s not enough.  It’ll never be enough, you think, even as you whine airily, words stuttering out in a half-formed breath.  “Please touch me.”

“Where?”  He’s hardly given you room to answer, crowded so closely against you that you can feel his heartbeat all the way through to your own.  He’s so warm - so solid - upon you that you almost want to tell him that here, just as he is, is perfect. 

A momentary lapse in lust before rational judgment is clouded yet again. 

Instead - and with more demand than you mean - you grind purposefully against him.  A benefit to having him sitting how he is, knees hooked on either side of your hips.  He can’t pretend like he doesn’t feel it, cock twitching beneath the constraints of his boxer-briefs. 

Your eyes meet and he chuckles, nuzzling his head back into that spot between your neck and shoulder that has you whimpering.  The sound alone drives him crazy.

“You’ll be the death of me.”  Yoongi knows this like he knows the sky is blue or your smile is his favourite sight.

You’re teasing him when you catch his face, palms cradling the shape of his jaw.  “Then it’ll be a good death.” 

He doesn’t disagree - especially when he slips his clean hand along the length of your body.  He tweaks your nipple on its descent, tickles the underside of your ribs, and then finds the band of your underwear, all in one fell swoop.  A digit dips below the elastic, neatly clipped nail grazing the jut of your hip before shifting and dropping further.  

You keen when the pad of his finger grazes your clit. 

“Do that again.”  He doesn’t need to tell you twice.  When he repeats the motion, the sound spills off your tongue without restraint.  

He slips further down, pressing his hand to gently part your folds.  Digits glide easily, coated in slick that drips between your legs and sorely tests his patience.  Yoongi’s not sure what he’d expected but this is so much better it’s making his head spin - and he hasn’t even felt you yet.

“You’re so wet, love.”  Shame would swallow you whole if not for the way he speaks with reverence.  “How badly do you want this?”

“Don’t tease,”  you huff, rutting uselessly against the fingers that tease your centre, barely slipping in before resuming a lazy, leisurely path back up to the bundle of nerves that throbs at the contact.  He’s hardly touched you and you’re already at a six, entire body alight with need that thrums heavy in your veins. 

“Just tell me.”

“I want this.  I need this.”  You hope he believes you.  You’re not sure what you’ll do if he doesn’t.  “I need to feel you - please.”

His entire world is spinning, kicked on its axis by the way your tone pitches, demands and begs in the same lilting voice he so adores but has never quite heard like this.  He loves it.  “I need to stretch you out.  I don’t want to hurt you.”

You whine so prettily he almost cracks.  It’s enough to have him choking on his own words, not that he’s saying anything.  He’s too focused on how he sinks into you - a single digit but so tightly it feels like there’s no way he’ll survive his cock buried inside.  

You’re a dream come true.  He never wants to wake up.

“More.  Please.”  You’re so polite, he almost laughs.  You’d really taken his words to heart - always asking for what you wanted now.  He can’t deny how proud he is.  It blossoms in his chest, juxtaposed greatly against the salaciousness that drives him to do exactly as you ask.

His index finger slips in alongside the other.  You make that noise he loves, grinding your core against the flat of his palm as he curls his knuckles and seeks out that spot.  He knows he’s struck gold when he taps it experimentally, pressure turning light but unrelenting when a choked cry ricochets off your tongue and onto his sweat-slicked shoulder.

“Right there?”  

Your nod is enough of an answer. 

He redoubles his efforts, fucking you with measured glides of his fingers and precise presses against your g-spot.  In no time at all, you’re barely coherent, mumbling his name in a slew of breaths that has him grinning.  You’re a sight to behold, moaning so obscenely you’d be ashamed you weren’t so preoccupied by the fact that every part of you feels as if it’s about to splinter.

“Miru— Princess—”  Your clit aches and you nearly shriek when he applies pressure against it with the pad of his thumb, swiping your cum over it in slow circles.  He wants you so badly - just as bad as you want him- but he’s torn halfway between watching you unravel by his hand and wanting that same euphoria when he’s buried home in your dripping pussy. 

“Please, please, please.”  There are tears in your eyes.  You’re so close you can practically taste it, entire body shaking with the effort of keeping the coil from snapping.  “Yoongi, please.”

He’s a fucking goner then, filling you with a third finger and grinding his palm against your clit as you come apart beneath him.  

It starts in your toes, stealing feeling all the way up your calves and over your thighs.  You’re only aware you’re trembling because it vibrates through Yoongi’s body, looped back to yours when he mouths across your shoulders, sucking memories into your heated, sweat-sweet skin.  The stimulation is what keeps you from floating off on a cloud of bliss, the warmth in the pit of your stomach liquifying your bones. 

“Are you tired?”  Because you certainly look tired - too fucked out to properly meet his stare as he looms over you, both hands adjusted to rest comfortably over your hips. 

You are, but it doesn't matter.  You haven’t gotten what you wanted - not really - and you aren’t about to let it go without asking.

He’d taught you that.

You smile up at him, doe-eyed and alluring.  A hand reaches for his, curls around the fingers still glossy with your slick, and squeezes.  “I still need you.”

They’re words he’ll never tire of - also words that have him kicking out of his briefs and rolling your thong down your legs, all too eager.  He’s painfully hard, leaking pre-cum and purple at the tip, but he fists himself in slow, measured pumps regardless.  It’s a show for you, more than anything.

“ Please.”  So pretty, so ready.  He can’t resist.  

Yoongi sinks against you, the head of his cock brushing through your folds as he slots himself into place with his paint-free hand.  The other, still coloured garishly bright, brushes the curve of your lip, the delicate skin beneath your eye.  It’s so tender you can’t help but blink, caught off-guard.  

“I love you,”  you say, though you’re sure he’s meant to, too.  You can read it in his eyes - brilliant and bright like a beacon in the night.

He speaks with a roguish grin and a fluid press of his hips.  “I know.”  

You fit like two puzzle pieces, the stretch perfect as he sinks deeper, a low groan sounding from somewhere deep in his chest.  You’re so tight around him but he glides in easily, coaxed to fill you by your wetness and the soft, whiny noises you make.  

“Holy shit,”  he manages once he’s buried as deep as he can go, head spinning with the way you clench around him, nearly stealing the words off his tongue.  “Am I dreaming?”

Laughter is a salve - a catch-all remedy for anything that ails him.  It pulls him to the here and now, drawing his attention from the overwhelming bliss that creeps up his spine and recentring it on you, beautiful and bashful beneath him.

“No, you’re not.”  It’s a caricature of your voice but he doesn’t mind.  He loves that he can bring you to this.

“Thank God.”

Except it’s not God you’re thanking when Yoongi begins to move against you, dragging his cock through your walls with such slow, measured strokes you think you might combust.  It’s his name when he pulls almost fully out of you, teasing your entrance with the head of his cock, before snapping forward to bury himself to the hilt.  It’s his name that rolls off your tongue like a mantra, hoping and praying and begging for more as he consumes you wholly, in no half measures.  

It’s him - Min Yoongi, your muse, your love - that has you crying out, pleasure coursing through your veins as he adjusts and fills you at a completely new angle, brushing against your g-spot with every thrust of his hips.  

“Yoongi - please.”  You’re chanting the two words again, turning them into a song he’ll never get out of his head, when you spasm around him.  His eyes nearly roll back into his head, the sensation turning his rhythm sloppy as he chases the same high.  The hand that had previously been propping him up falls, thumb seeking out your clit as he charges toward the precipice. 

“One more, love.  Once more for me, okay?  I want you to come with me.”

He asks so nicely you can’t deny him - even as the overstimulation takes over.  You’re shaking so badly you’re not sure how he keeps you in place;  it’s a tremor that won’t stop, traipsing over every limb until you’re sobbing.  

“I love you,”  he chokes out as he tumbles over the edge, falling headlong into climax with you in tow.  It’s so strong it feels like it blinds you, spotting your vision with white as he fills you with his cum and continues to fuck you through it, milking every last moment just like you were his slowly softening cock.

You don’t have it in you to answer, far too exhausted by the last orgasm that has your limbs turned to jelly.  Yoongi doesn’t mind though;  he likes the just-fucked afterglow and how you sink into his arms when he slips out of you and onto his side.  

He eyes the cum that spills onto your thighs, pearlescent and going to waste.  He has half a mind to push it back where it belongs.

He only doesn’t because of the words you speak next, hardly above a whisper but loud enough that he groans, burying his face into your hair.  “So, thanks, Taehyung?”  

“Can you not?”  It’s a playful response, with teeth bared against the sweat-slicked nape of your neck.  

“Sorry.”  A beat.  He wonders if you’ve fallen asleep suddenly.  “I meant thanks, Titanic.”

author note.  this was a drabble prompt i got from the lovely @hecticwonderer​ and i kind of just...  ran with it.  oops. 

[aftermathdb]

DEATH BATTLE Review: Ryu vs. Jin.

Two martial artists with a dark side duke it out in the arena. We’ve got quite the battle on our hands, folks.

Ryu’s back in the ring. After a fight from Scorpion, the wandering martial artist is looking for another round against DEATH BATTLE Franchise newcomer: Jin from the Tekken series. And I guess if people get mad about the result, they can boot up Street Fighter x Tekken and do their own version.

Ryu′s Preview.

Ryu’s preview starts off pretty well. Going over a brief history, and background. We all know this by now. Gouken’s story, Sagat’s defeat, and the slightly modified Ansatsuken. We know how Ryu’s story goes by now, he’s already shown up before.

We don’t get the fingerpainting joke, so that hurts the score by about .01 points, but I round up. So, it doesn’t make much of a difference. Also the lack of mentioning that using the incorrect Kanji for the Joudan Sokutogeri gives you “Darehha Joke Foot” is a tad disappointing, but I can’t really complain.

The Dark Hado gets it’s own card, and it’s just really cool to see them get into more detail about it. It’s really cool to see it with more depth, and I hope that we can see more detailed cards about the super modes we see in the future.

Ryu’s feats are pretty cool to see too. Especially that boulder feat, blowing up a skyscraper, and surviving Balrog’s Gigaton punch (His fight with TJ gets a nice callback in the episode itself. Since it was one of my favorite episodes of all time, it’s really cool to see previous fights being referenced like that. I kinda wish they’d do more callbacks like this).

They do point out that his record isn’t as impressive as it might seem, considering that he’s Street Fighter’s mascot, but it’s still worth noting that he still won plenty of battles.

And his end line is badass.

Jin′s Preview.

At this point, I think it would be surprising if Jin’s backstory were skipped over. We see a bit of his childhood, some of his family life, and a bit of his grandfather.

Jin’s fighting style is gone over, and we see a lot of the skills he’s got on his side.

And this fighting style is pretty impressive. And we see a bit more about Jin’s backstory. Judging by it, it’s hard to determine where he falls in the morality scale. I mean, dragging the entire world into his own family problems is pretty bad, but he has good intentions. Road to hell I guess. Looks like I gotta update the team attacks doc I have lying around. Maybe I could take the route I did with Wonder Woman and Thor and just make a separate one for those two. Jin seems like the guy who only really has a kinship with Ryu in the crossover games.

Much like the Dark Hado, Devil Jin gets a rundown as well. Overall though, at this point, Jin only really has speed on his side. Ryu in his base managed to lift 36 tons, while Jin has only managed a bit over 30 by virtue of scaling. 12,000 pounds can make all the difference in a fight.

Even Jin’s feats are impressive. Aside from starting WWIII, a lot of these things are pretty standard for most protagonists…? - Where does Jin fall in the spectrum anyways? I mean, starting WWIII is a dick  move (putting it mildly), but it also seems that he would try to punch off Sephiroth’s head if given the chance. Maybe I’ll have him find some kinship in guys like Venom and Dante as well to help him out.

The end line that Wiz gives is slightly more badass than Jin’s “It will end with this bloodline!” quote.

The Battle Itself.

Torrian (Guy who animated a freaking lot) is taking this on. And the overall voicelines in the battle are recycled voice clips from their games. The music is Fight Like A Devil by Therewolf (music is unavailable on both youtube and iTunes as of me writing this). Lead on sound design is Chris Kokinnos.

The fight starts off pretty basically though. But the Pacing really picks up once Jin escalates the fight. They start in a dojo that looks like it came out of Tekken, but I’m not 100% sure. If someone knows the location of the first part of the fight, please feel free to inform me.

Overall, the fight is really well-paced. The music is really good, and seeing Ryu using his parrying move is just freaking satisfying.

And when Ryu unleashes the Hadoken, it just tells you that the fight is about to get real.

Ryu holds the upper hand for a good part of the fight until the location changes. With the Tatsumaki Sempukyaku just tossing Jin around like he’s a shirt in a dryer is badass. All of this is followed up by one of the most impressive Shoryukens to be seen, and the Shinku Hadoken to blast Jin in the face.

Of course, Jin goes Devil mode and more or less no-sells it, but for a moment there, one would think that Ryu ended it right there, and didn’t need to turn into Evil Ryu or use the Power of Nothingness.

Of course the battle doesn’t end. People would be asking what would happen if Jin entered his Devil form, and whether or not one of Ryu’s could defeat it.

Anyways, Jin uses his speed to gain the upper hand, and smashes Ryu through the floor…

Apparently, the dojo was right above the Spring Maiden vault. Who knew? Lionheart would certainly have some explaining to do if he weren’t dead (Woohoo! RWBY reference FTW!).

Jokes aside, Ryu enters his Dark Hado mode after the crash, and we get to see a recreation of the Cinder vs. Raven fight… Only with fighting game characters, and in the sense that it actually feels like they’re trying to attack each other rather than throw power around like Poison Ivy throwing around spores. Also, it’s with martial arts, and not big-ass swords that would make Cloud say "Your swords are clearly compensating for something.” (Woohoo! Final Fantasy reference FTW!).

Regardless, both of them end up back on the ground as Ryu’s Dark Hado peters out after Jin’s assault. But not before he enters the Mu No Ken (Better known as “The Power of Nothingness”) and starts to fight back and push him back for the two of them to finish up.

Finishing blow in

5…

4…

3…

2…

1…

Goddamn! that is some DragonballZ stuff right there. 

Also, Ryu then says “I walk the path of a true warrior.” Which is a nice callback to his previous fight. Intentional or not, that’s really cool.

Verdict + Explanation.

So, Street Fighter finally ended their losing streak. That’s really awesome. Overall, the fight takes a bit to pick up speed. It starts out pretty slow and methodical, but that’s standard for most fighting games. Once one gets the rhythm down, the fight really starts to pick up pace and it gets faster as each player tries to get a read on their opponents, much like how both fighters here had to stay one step ahead of the game to keep the advantage. And throughout the fight, Ryu made the best reads, as highlighted by his parries in the early portion of the fight. The fact that it feels like a fighting game is really cool.

Also a factor was how their powers had limits, which had to be scaled to other characters with similar or the same powerset. Jin’s father, Kazuya could only survive a satellite laser blast in his Devil form, and cause volcanic eruptions. The latter of which had a generous amount of force given to it.

Ryu on the other hand, had to be scaled and compared to the other Ansatsuken Dark Hado wielding warrior, Akuma. Ryu managed to survive Akuma’s Island busting attack, and regularly trades blows with him as well. It helps to justify the scaling.

Personally though, I’m not a fan of power scaling unless it’s rightfully justified. And I’d say that this does it very well in the justification department. Ryu can trade blows with Akuma, and has beaten him before, so his strength should be around the same level when in his Evil Ryu or Mu No Ken forms. Not that it matters, he was tough enough to take on pretty much all of Jin’s attacks. And while we didn’t get to see the Raging Demon, it was still a fun fight. Even though it apparently wouldn’t have worked (As seen in the notecards), it still would have been nice to have seen them in action.

Despite Jin’s speed edge, Ryu’s other stats just gave him the leg-up he needed to win in the end. And even when scaling Jin to a Gun-Jack Robot to try to give Jin an additional edge over Ryu in a scaling attempt that likely would have been in the comments section, they point out one little detail that ends the argument:

Akuma beat up a bigger meteor than the upgraded robot did.

Overall impression.

Like I said, I’m not a fan of Power Scaling. Though, given that there weren’t many other options to figure it out completely, I would place it as a “Necessary Evil.” But I would say that the word “evil” is a bit much. It’s still a great fight, with some pretty solid justifications for the reason.

8.3/10. It loses some ground since they had to use a lot of scaling to justify the feats and stats, but it’s still a great fight nonetheless.

Next Time…

……… Screw it.

WATCH OUT!

I will be a tad dissapointed if they don’t point out that Jack is technically a Ronin in either the episode proper or in his preview. Regardless, this is going to be fun.

Is there a fight that you want me to review? - Send an ask/request, and I’ll look into it! 

Do you want to read my fanfic based around DEATH BATTLE itself? click here!

Thank you for reading, and I hope to see you next time for…

Ronin Jack vs. Number 1.

[stillness-in-green]

Human Debris Masterpost (14/15)

Okay, gang, I am officially finished with the re-watch, and all that’s left is formatting and posting.  I’ll be doing that in two posts--one now, one later in the week.  in the meantime, lets get into the last big space battle, with...

EPISODE FORTY-FIVE — If This Is the End

We open right up with Chad and Dante this episode, engaged in combat with a some stripe of Graze unit or another.  These guys are taking more work to put down than the usual goobs, we see as it takes a lot of shooting, a grenade, and one of those Rodi machetes to get the job done.

Chad says that they’ve strayed from the battlefield and need to get back to the Isaribi.  Dante wonders aloud how the battle is going, and Chad, in a surpassingly rare moment of raising his voice, flares back that there’s no way it’s going well.  

Back on the main front, Orga is promising his teenaged followers girls and money (neither of which they have a damn clue what to do with, a disparity a number of reviewers observed back when this episode first aired).  Akihiro, ever the ascetic, fires back that he doesn’t have or need ‘em.

The fighting continues after the credits, with another brief shot of Akihiro, and, cursing at Arianrhod and still hurling machetes like a champ, Derma.  He’s down a Rodi-arm, too, which is a nasty bit of foreshadowing, I must say.  

Some Graze units close in on the Isaribi, but Chad and Dante return in time to drive them off before anything too serious can happen.  

Dante is the first one to react to—something, an alert beep starting up in his cockpit.  It could be the arrival of Isurugi and company, but, more likely, it’s a heads-up that Arianrhod’s forces are falling back, as another of Rustal’s signature false flag plays goes live.  

Dainsleif shots pepper the field, swiping the Hotarubi and Shino’s Flauros Ryusei-Go. Our Debris boys seem to have been enough on the outskirts that they don’t have to evade much; we get a shot of Akihiro, and can hear Chad and Dante reacting as well from their Rodis.

After two volleys, Arianrhod goes to standby, to see if any signals of surrender go up.  This gives Tekkadan some time to regroup, pulling people off the Hotarubi, and collecting some bodies, which we find Eugene, Chad and Dante paying some quick respects to, possibly having just finished moving the bodies in themselves.  Eugene uses harsh words—idiots cashing in before they got to the finish—while Chad apologizes that bodybags in a storage room is the best they can do for the dead at the moment, and Dante promises revenge for them.

Afterward, they report to Orga on the bridge, Eugene that they’ve finished moving things over, Dante with the more technical report about fried weapons control and reduced propulsion, and Chad with the bleak summary that the Hotarubi could be remote-piloted and used as a shield for the Isaribi.

Eugene asks what their next play is and, when Orga starts talking about McGillis and retreat, interrupts to ask where they’re going to retreat to. When Orga turns his gaze on this blatant display of lip, he finds the three staring at him very seriously indeed. Eugene looks actively angry; I think Chad and Dante are mostly just wondering if Orga’s really thought about what he’s saying.

Dante echoes Eugene, observing that they don’t have anywhere to go back to unless they win. Chad says that if it is the last battle (as Org has been repeatedly claiming), then they need to see it through. As I commented in the last post, neither Dante nor Chad show the slightest fear at the prospect of dying out here; they’re 100% willing to give everything they’ve got for the chance of victory.  (Orga’s used those tactics all along, of course, and here is where the fruits of those tactics finally begin to wither—but Orga’s tactical insight and how his deep-rooted insecurity feeds into his strategies are an entirely different essay topic.)

Shino interrupts to announce his own idea, and his audience goes from this:

to this (note the sudden profligation of sweatdrops):

Once the terminology is out of the way, however, the boys find that Shino’s plan is indeed to their tastes.  

‘Nice and simple,’ Dante says.  ‘Like us, right?’ Chad jibes.  

(Help, I love them.)

And we get one last lovely shot of this group-togetherness, as Orga allows himself to be pushed by his followers’ confidence into a plan you can see his gut instinct rejecting as too brash. Enjoy those smiles while you can, boys.

The whole gang guards the ships as the Hotarubi pulls the Isaribi on towards this last fateful shot; you can see Gusion and the Rodis swooping and circling around the ships along with all the other unique suits Tekkadan has.  

Akihiro and Ride, and probably a great many others, yell at Shino to shoot.

And—well, we all know how that went.  

One last thing to bring this episode to a close: it’s easy to miss in all the gut-curdling screaming Shino is doing as the credits kick in, but someone in a Rodi is bringing Hush back into the mobile suit bay.  No definite way to say who—maybe Derma, who’s backed-up Hush in the past?—but here’s the shot of it, in any case.

EPISODE FORTY-SIX—For Whom?

The bulk of the first half is taken up with the retreat from the combat, and the sacrifices made to ensure said retreat is successfully.  We can spot the Rodis here and there, but the first time one jumps out as significant is when Derma gets pegged by Arianrhod’s parting shots and an explosion goes off in his cockpit.  

A Rodi perched on top of the ship flies up and retrieves him, returning fire.  No one calls out on the commlines, so there’s no telling who it was.  Dante is the more dramatically appropriate choice, as he’s much more closely tied to Derma, but Chad does do an awful lot of rescuing people through the second season, and it might make sense for Dante and Derma to have been mirroring each other’s positions on the Isaribi’s sides while Chad held down the center.  

Thank god for whichever one of them it was, though, because as I believe I noted in posts made back when the show was still airing, Derma was the number one character I wanted to make it out of the series alive, and it’s thanks to the other Rodi’s quick response that he did.  

Later, we find Derma outside the medical area, now down one arm.  Atra apologizes that all the beds are full, to which Derma says it’s fine, that everyone else is worse off than him.  And I feel the need to point out here that, while several of the guys we see in the quick shot of the med-bay are indeed wearing more bandages than Derma, there are an awful lot of them who still have all four limbs attached, so I am—to say the least—skeptical that they are all in worse shape than Derma.  

Color me totally unsurprised that he would say so, though.

He slides down the wall, certainly already thinking about how useless he’s going to be even if he recovers, when our other three ex-red stripes show up en masse—a strikingly uncommon sight, outside of the opening credit sequences—to check on him.  

Akihiro goes down to one knee, saying his name, but there’s no response, and Akihiro himself is still clearly figuring out how to approach the issue.  

Dante jumps in to say that Derma’s lucky, that it was just his arm.  I’m sure he means well.  

Derma says, harshly, that he wishes he’d died out there, because—as he now says out loud—he’s no use to anyone as “an incomplete body.”  The camera cuts to an extremely tight shot of Akihiro, close enough to hear the low, ragged inhalation he takes.  

He then thanks Derma, which startles the boy’s eyes opened again.  

And it’s not, as one might expect who didn’t know exactly how many people Akihiro’s lost in his life at this point, a thanks for his service, or his sacrifice.  In a direct callback to the aftermath of the Silent War Arc (over ten episodes ago), when Akihiro told Lafter that he wishes he’d talked to Aston more when he was alive, Akihiro tells Derma that he’s glad he’s still able to talk to him.  

And then he thanks Derma again, for surviving, using the boy’s full name this time—Derma Altland.

Much like me by this point, Derma begins crying.  

God only knows how much of what Akihiro’s communicating he’s really receiving, but I think he must get the gist of it.  He knows Akihiro was Masahiro’s brother; he knows Akihiro had taken a personal interest in both Derma and Aston after Tekkadan took them in.  He knows, certainly, that Akihiro lost those Masahiro and Aston as surely as Derma himself did.  I’m sure Derma’s tears in this scene are, in part, shed for what he’s just lost, and for the uncertainty of the future, but my hope is that some of his tears are also for the gift that Akihiro’s just given him—the reminder that Derma matters, that there is at least one person in the whole wide, cold world that is glad of his existence.  

Shakily, he accepts the thanks.

And, barring a few shots taken from the closing moments of the first season, that is the last of the Human Debris for this episode.  Which is just as well, because much more would probably have destroyed me completely.  Lets move on along.

 EPISODE FORTY-SEVEN—Scapegoat

We rejoin our boys in Orga’s office in Tekkadan’s HQ, back home on Mars after quite a lot of time away.  They’re discussing McGillis when we first find them, with Dante putting in that he thinks the man is both dangerous and crazy, for still thinking about fighting Arianrhod.  

When Eugene floats the idea of turning McGillis and Bael over to Gjallarhorn, Chad and Dante get the first reaction, exchanging solemn looks, with Dante agreeing that it could be a chance for Tekkadan to just start over.  

It’s a nice thought, but one that ignores how much of a name Tekkadan has made for itself, as we will find.  Akihiro objects on different grounds, though, saying that the boss he knows would never betray an ally like that.  Recall that he praised Lafter for ‘seeing through her obligations’; even though he doesn’t really know and, given the man’s involvement in Aston’s death, probably doesn’t really like McGillis, Akihiro is against betraying him.  And of course, as far as his regard for Orga goes, Akihiro was handed his freedom by Orga, for nothing more than being an old ally and staying out of the way of the Third Division’s coup, back at the beginning of everything.

Orga agrees that it wouldn’t be the right thing to do, but hedges that ‘the right thing’ doesn’t matter to McGillis anymore.  We don’t get to see anyone’s reaction to this, as that’s when a news program starts talking about their ties to McGillis, and they have more pressing things to react to.  

Dante is impressed that Tekkadan made the news—as people thought of as revolutionary heroes, no less! I think this is probably a flash of Dante’s thing about recognition, rather than the first time he’s ever seen his group mentioned on the news—I mean, they have to have been on the news before, given all that stuff with Hashmal, right?  And protecting Kudelia?  And so on? But Dante’s always valued being known, and I’m pretty sure he’d take notoriety over being unknown any day, so even in a situation like their current one, he’s still a little pleased to see Tekkadan in the news.  

The others are decidedly less thrilled.

We find them again later, when Orga gathers everyone up to talk about how to proceed—namely, that anyone who wants to get out should do so immediately.

Dante protests, along with Eugene, while Akihiro watches with serious eyes, just saying Orga’s name under his breath.As protests grow louder, Zack cuts in to be the doom-saying Cassandra no one wants to listen to.  Derma is on-scene, we find in a series of crowd-pans, having drawn in close behind Chad and Dante.

Afterwards, as everyone is making their final preparations, Orga makes a last-ditch effort to give up first McGillis, and then himself, to Rustal Elion.  Rustal refuses—as to why Orga’s life alone isn’t enough, he gives Orga some schpiel about organizations being groups of members, and one person’s death not erasing another person’s crime.  Personally, I suspect it’s more that Rustal is canny enough to know it wouldn’t make Gjallarhorn look good, noble, or powerful to publicly execute a lanky Martian teenager for getting caught up in adult affairs—thus are tyrants exposed, and martyrs made.  The average citizen of the system probably only knows Tekkadan as an organization name, and better by far for them to stay that way—just a name, with no faces associated with it that might touch peoples’ hearts.

In any case, Eugene and Akihiro catch at least the tail end of this conversation, and while Eugene has Orga by the lapels, Akihiro is clutching at where his red stripe used to be once more, looking actually hurt that Orga would try to pull a stunt like this, that Orga could be so oblivious to how much he means to everyone.  (He’s a little off from where the red stripe would have been; I am willing to concede that he might also just be clutching at his jacket to keep from laying Orga out with a right hook.)

“You gave us life when we were nothing but walking corpses,” he says, and “You made a family for us.”  And more than a lot of the members of Tekkadan, Akihiro values family, as Orga well knows.  

Orga implicitly agrees to talk things over, which presumably is what leads him and Eugene down to the cafeteria, where we find Dante and Chad again.  Chad is summing things up, that they’re now on wanted lists and have nowhere to run, so long as they are who they are.  

This tips Kudelia off to the plan that will end up saving what few survivors that make it out of this series (good teamwork, guys!), and she asks why they don’t become someone else?  It’s impossible to change their personal data on Mars, but on Earth…

47.10

Chad namedrops Makanai as he figures out what she’s getting at, which I have to say I’m a bit impressed by, but then I suppose he had lots of time to figure out the exact nature of Arbrau and Chryse’s relationship when he was on Earth.  The gist of it is that, since Chryse is still technically Arbrau’s colony, all Chryse ID records are handled back in Arbrau, so if those records can be adjusted, Tekkadan can, in fact, disappear. And, as Chad has recalled, Tekkadan is on good terms with the best possible person in Arbrau to help them with that, its honest-to-god Prime Minister.  

The next bit of good news comes from Merribit and Dexter, here to announce that Tekkadan has scraped up some funds after all, and Dante turns a look on Chad like, “Holy shit, are we about to get away with this?” that I deeply enjoy.

Dante’s also the first to ask what’s going to happen to Tekkadan as the credits begin to roll, though. He’s not the only one the name means a great deal to, of course, but as I mentioned above, I’d imagine a significant amount of his current self-esteem is tied to Tekkadan’s fame, so it’s no surprise he’s the first one to voice hesitation about, essentially, betraying and abandoning the lily emblem they’ve been bearing all this time.  

Mika responds with a content smile that where Orga is, is where everyone belongs, which Dante accepts with a rueful kind of cheer.  Chad seconds that, even with a different name, they’ll still be themselves.  

Kudelia gets up to contact Makanai, and that’s when everyone realizes the outside lines have been cut.  Also we find out where Akihiro’s been, as he shows up with his lieutenant to announce that Tekkadan’s been surrounded by Gjallarhorn forces.  

EPISODE FORTY-EIGHT—Promise

After some intro material, Chad is the first person we hear talking after the credits, relating the state of Tekkadan’s communication—the cables have been cut, and all their LCS drones get shot down as soon as they send them up.  Dante summarizes as we cut into the group meeting, that without methods of communication, they can’t get any outside information, let alone contact Makanai like they’d planned. 

Eugene observes that, while Gjallarhorn hasn’t done anything yet, they could attack at any time, leading Dante to ask if they should attack first, then?  

Eugene shoots the prospect down due to the disparity in the size of their forces, and Akihiro asks Orga what they should do.  

Orga, for his part, reiterates that if they can make an escape, the victory is theirs—they demolish the building, make it look like they’ve been wiped out, then go ahead with the plan to contact Makanai.  This plan impresses Dante, who smiles about it only briefly before returning to a frown when Eugene stands up to remind everyone that they still don’t have a way to escape.  In lieu of two screenshots, I offer this in-between one.

(Do your best, Dante.)

Yukinojo gives the team a method, though—old maintenance tunnels—and Orga reiterates to everyone, over a batch of serious-face pan-overs, that the upcoming battle is not about killing anyone to end the battle, but rather about every single member of Tekkadan making it out alive.  

Dante makes a curious face here, as Orga tells them to never back down on living—he’s the only one to make a verbal response, rather than just nodding resolutely like we see Eugene and Chad do.  The obvious difference is that Eugene and Chad have both led before—even aside from his position as Orga’s second, Eugene was always in the captain’s seat of the Hotarubi, and Chad of course had his position as leader of Tekkadan’s Earth Branch. One can assume they’re both familiar with the concept of victory being how many heads you can count at the end of the day.

Dante, on the other hand, has always been out on the front-lines, in a mobile worker, a mobile suit, or even just a team of dudes with guns and armor.  I’m sure he’s very used to the idea that Tekkadan’s victory will be bought with Tekkadan deaths, one of which might be his own; historically, that’s what most of Orga’s battle strategies boiled down to.  Hearing that victory means him—means everyone—living is basically unprecedented for him.

As Orga walks away, Eugene complains a little about him, just like the old days, to which Dante responds in kind—that Orga seemed more like his old self just there.  Chad concurs, noting Orga’s confidence.  And they’re right; it’s been a long time since Orga’s had that fire and self-certainty.  Being free of all other chains and requirements, and no longer obligated to listen to McGillis, Orga is more like himself than he’s been in a long time—Dawn Horizon or earlier, I’d say.  (Orga and McGillis parallel each other in an interesting way in that regard, I think.  Neither of them is very good at adjusting the way they operate for scenarios outside what they know, though McGillis hides it better.  More on that another time.)

Feeling the group’s confidence, we get one of Akihiro’s rare smiles, and the four go off to get back to work.

At the tail end of the next scene, when McGillis finally realizes that he’s on his own for this one, he gives Orga a way to get a small group out, by taking a car while all of Gjallarhorn is focused on Bael breaking through the lines.  Orga contacts Chad to get the car prepared, and get Atra and Kudelia as well, as they’re heading for Kudelia’s Admoss Company.  This, I think, solidifies Chad as next in command after Eugene (who was off investigating the tunnels at the time), which is certainly gratifying to me.

We find Chad doing his best to carry out those orders in the next scene, where he, Kudelia and Merribit are having to convince a reluctant Atra to leave.  He doesn’t use an honorific with her name, I notice, which is a bit nice—it speaks to him seeing her as a peer, rather than someone removed from him by rank or social distance.  

This scene also puts him in the room for Kudelia saying right there out in the open that Atra is carrying Mikazuki’s child.  It’s easy to read it as a running gag in combination with his not knowing about Merribit and Yukinojo’s relationship, but it’s not played anything like as comedic, and Merribit’s reaction indicates that it’s the first she’s hearing of it, too. I’m pretty certain this is the first anyone outside the Bracelet Trio has found out.

For her part, Merribit is staying behind.  I’m certain she, too, is reluctant to leave behind the man she loves, but aloud, she claims that she still has work to be done.  She tells the other girls not to worry, that they’ll meet again—the iron flower won’t wilt so easily, which brings a smile to Chad’s face likewise.  

The next time we spot him, he’s finishing up getting the car ready.  

Two cars head out when Bael does; given later dialogue and setting shots, I’m assuming the second car is headed for Yukinojo’s best guess as to where the old CGS maintenance tunnels are going to surface?  Chad’s driving one car, we can assume since we don’t see him in the shots showing Ride and Orga or Kudelia and Atra seated, but someone else must be driving the other, and we never see the driver of that second vehicle.  

Anyway, they make it to Admoss in one piece, at which point Ride and Chad take up watch out the windows while Kudelia reunites with Cucubita, who’s been very worried.  When Cucubita drops the bomb that the news is saying Tekkadan is refusing calls to surrender, though, they close the curtains.

Chad’s the first one to articulate the understanding of why Gjallarhorn was so intent on blocking their communication—because Gjallarhorn is manipulating the media narrative, exactly like we saw them do back on Dort.  Orga knew already, of course, that Rustal had no intention of accepting a surrender from Tekkadan; now he knows that Rustal won’t even let the world see that Tekkadan tried to.  A scapegoat.

They put the talk aside, though, to get on with matters at hand—contacting Makanai.  Kudelia and Orga are the ones to make the call, though Chad and Ride are right on hand.

Makanai plays reluctant for a bit, presumably because he is so old and has been in politics for so many years that it is actually, physiologically impossible for him to just agree to something without being kind of an ass about it first.  (I love him.) As Orga goes to beg, though, Makanai interrupts with a cheery comment about how hard it is to refuse the one(/s) who saved his life.  He’s directing this at Orga, but it’s likely he’s referring to Tekkadan in general. Tekkadan, of course, is the organization that delivered him from exile and returned him to power.  One other alternative is also possible, of course.

Chad is the one who actually and directly saved Makanai’s life.  While we don’t know that Chad greeted Makanai at the beginning of this phone call, we do see Chad straighten up in response to Makanai’s aforementioned dialogue, and say the man’s name aloud in the way of one who knows when he’s being talked about and is responding accordingly.  Certainly I prefer the reading that Makanai’s line there is obliquely aimed at Chad, or at least Tekkadan-as-represented-by-Chad, because it means the Silent War arc was good for more than just stripping Tekkadan of assets and members, beginning the season-long process of knocking them all the way back down to where they started.  It means that Chad’s prior courage and devotion to duty are now the vehicles by which Tekkadan will be delivered.  Not bad for a third-stringer!

Makanai says, in any case, that they should hurry to Earth, as there’s someone there so worried about them that it’s hampering his (and therefore also Makanai’s) work, leading to a nice little exchange between the group and Takaki.  The prodigal returns!  Chad doesn’t lean over the video screen, but does contribute to the conversation, wide-eyed at the news that Takaki’s working at Makanai’s office now.

Takaki credits Orga for his current circumstances, though vaguely enough that we still don’t know exactly who landed Takaki this job, or if Makanai just reached out himself—a plausible enough idea, I think, given how much attention Makanai had clearly been paying to the young men of Tekkadan’s Earth Branch, both before and after the bomb.

In any case, after the call ends, Cucubita and Atra bring in some drinks for everyone (coffee?), which I imagine go almost completely untouched.  Chad points out that they still don’t have a way to get to Earth—Gjallarhorn will be watching the Isaribi. Seeing as Chad was piloting the Isaribi back in season one, and thus presumably the one dealing with port authority on both Dort and Earth, and Mars when they went back home, he probably has a good idea of what he’s talking about here.

As it has been since the first season, though, the girls from the Turbines are there to pick up the slack.  Orga is jubilant in his rebellion against certain death, and his mood is catching.

Chad and Ride bring the car around while Orga has a last conversation with Atra and Kudelia. Then, as Orga heads to the door with Ride, Ride says the cursed words: “It’s quiet.”  The soundtrack pretends not to notice what’s just happened, and we get a look around outside.  Chad is standing outside the car, and looks around at something.  

For the third time this season, I knew my favorite was dead, so dead, but nope, his luck continued to hold out!  Turns out he was just looking at Orga and Ride coming down the hall!  No problems at all!  

Ha ha…

I provide the rest of these screenshots with no further commentary, save to note that Chad’s reflexes are as sharp as ever, and wonder if this will be the scar that sticks with him where the healing tank washed all signs of the office bomb away.  I suppose it must be so.

Check back later this week for the last two episodes, and wrap-up, and thanks to everyone who’s read along this far.