Tumgik
stargazer-dreamer · 2 months
Note
hi! was wondering when the next chapter of the yami fanfic would be posted? <3
hello! unfortunately, i cant say with certainty when it’ll come out…its slowly, slowly being worked on—but it is being worked on! im sorry its taking so long, really.
0 notes
stargazer-dreamer · 3 months
Text
three of my favorite works i posted in 2023:
erratum discussions. this is one of my favorite fics ive written in general, i love it so much. while i did finish and post it in 2023, i had also worked on it in 2022. it’s been with me for quite the while now, and every note and kudo and comment means so much to me…i have begun a sequel to this fic! but as i am a slow writer, i cannot promise it will come out any time soon. fun fact: this fic marks the second time spike references a specific mcr song, which has become A Thing for him in my writings, apparently.
frivolities. fun fact: both “erratum discussions” and “frivolities” are lyrics from the song reckless battery burns. “frivolities” comes before “erratum discussions,” and i started writing this one before erratum discussions, so it was only appropriate that i named it that way, in my mind. these two are brothers to me. but anyways, i didnt want to write anything for hawks. at all. in 2022, i posted one hawks imagine and i wanted that to be it…but i couldnt seem to stay away from the little bird <3
in comfort; let me rest my eyes closed. im not nice to spike on most days. but i decided to be for this one. i think the imagery and word choices turned out pretty good! i dont quite remember, but i believe i wrote this in a day or two—so it makes me happy it was pretty well received <3 fun fact for this one: the title takes lyrics from an english cover of the chainsaw man opening.
2 notes · View notes
stargazer-dreamer · 4 months
Text
These Eyes Have Had Too Much to Drink Again Tonight
character: vampire spike spiegel
reader: gender neutral
content warnings: power imbalance. mild painplay. dubious consent.
notes: also on ao3. 300+ word count. vampire money verse.
You could leave your life behind you, he had said, under the shadows and shining with light. Will you come with me?
---
“You have to quiet down. Do you want them to find us?”
He had you sitting up on the kitchen counter, the digital glow of the appliances near you the only source of light. You could hardly see, but that didn’t matter to him—his eyes more adept to navigating the darker world; so, when he sunk his teeth into your sensitive skin, it came as a surprise.
It was over quickly—too quickly. He ran his tongue along the punctures and you whined, subjected to this for what felt like hours by now. It was only enough for you to start bleeding, only enough to whet his palate—he had you crying, the pleasure of his fangs not nearly as satisfying if he took them away so soon.
“Come on,” you squirmed. It was becoming unbearable. You had gotten lightheaded ages ago. “Drink, already!”
This was the reaction he wanted. You knew because he chuckled, low, and spread your trembling legs, stepping closer. He was enjoying this; you felt him—of course you did. This was a game to him. Something to keep him entertained in the midnight hours. You wondered, faintly, if he could feel you as well.
“You taste so good,” you felt a canine while he spoke, gently brushing against your neck. “I can’t savor you?”
In the fog of your mind, it took you a moment to register his question, and another moment more, attempting to formulate a response. You knew he wanted someone to hear. You knew he wanted them to come out and witness the mess he left, sinking his teeth and taking what was his.
Your contract bonded you to him in such a way that it seemed unfair at times. You were his. How much of you were you allowed to keep for yourself? You weren’t so sure.
Emotions rotated around, clear as day. This only elevated his personal humor, as he leaned back to watch you. “No?” he asked, smirk evident on his face. “Well then.”
You don’t know how much blood you lost that night, or how load your moans were, but after a while neither of you seemed to care.
13 notes · View notes
stargazer-dreamer · 5 months
Text
🌟Stargazer-Dreamer Masterlist🌟
those with ✨ indicate my personal favorites
those with ⚪ indicate that it is NOT a reader insert
🚀Cowboy Bebop🚀
Spike Spiegel
Types of Kisses Gift Giving ✨Sterile ✨Lighthouse ✨/r/SpikeSpiegel A Trip to the Cinema ✨Sleeping Doggy Dog Love Me Not [ao3 link] ✨Cheesy Come, Cheesy Go Shark Week ⚪Spike, in the Mornings Kiss the Cook(s) Cowboy Caregiver ✨Erratum Discussions [ao3 link] Interlining Dilemmas Bedroom Funk Vicinity The Most Magical Place on Mars ✨In Comfort; Let Me Rest My Eyes Closed [ao3 link] ✨Futile [ao3 link]
Jet Black
Love A Bit Rough In Which You Haven't Kissed the Cook (Yet) Kiss the Cook(s)
Vampire Money (Vampire Spike AU)
What's Life Like, Bleeding on the Floor? [ao3 link] ⚪✨I've Really Been on a Bender and It Shows [ao3 only] These Eyes Have Had Too Much to Drink Again Tonight [ao3 link]
Cotard and I Alone (Spike Spiegel/Grim Reaper Reader AU)
✨Dedicated Life [ao3 link] Cracking Visions [ao3 link] Attuned Inside [ao3 link]
🏴‍☠️One Piece🏴‍☠️
Trafalgar Law
Heart in Time
Roronoa Zoro
Swordplay Lost Little Marimo
🔮Black Clover🔮
StopRewind (Yami Sukehiro/Rookie Magic Knight Reader)
✨I've Been Told So Many Stories of Adventure, Power, and Glory [ao3 link] It's on the Tip of My Tongue [ao3 link]
💯Mob Psycho 100💯
Misapprehension (Meeting Reigen on a Dating App)
✨Ghostbox [ao3 link] Spiritbox [ao3 link]
🥊Boku no Hero Academia🥊
Hawks
With Hawks ✨Frivolities [ao3 link]
14 notes · View notes
stargazer-dreamer · 5 months
Text
Futile
character: spike spiegel
reader: implied afab
content warnings: forced birth control, forced surgical procedures.
notes: also on ao3. 400 word count. remastered version of sterile
You heard him echo throughout the ship, humming under his breath; a simplistic rhythm escaping past his lips, days, weeks after the fact.
“…They can fix me proper with a bit of luck.”
---
He had gotten a vasectomy, years before you met.
That was fine with you. Plenty of people got them, for various reasons; health, or lack of interest. Convenience. At that point in both of your lives, having—and, not to mention, potentially raising—a child wouldn’t be the smartest decision that either of you could make. And besides—ultimately, it was his body, in the end. It was his choice. And that was fine with you.
What got to you, however, was the way he worded it when you had asked him about it.
“Oh, yeah,” he drew out, in that casual, uninvested way he got, sometimes. “I had gotten it done years ago—kind of forgot about it, actually.” He avoided your eyes, in a way that made you think he hadn’t forgotten. Not after a decision like that. “I had to get it done,” he said, with his lips pursed. But the side closest to you curved upwards when he turned away. “I couldn’t—you know.”
You didn’t. And he wouldn’t elaborate.
“I would have gotten it done, anyways,” he shrugged, noncommittal. After a beat, after you sat there and began to process his words—“And then,” he gestured. “My eye.”
You didn’t know why he brought it up—it was fake, you knew. He’s told you. He lost it in an accident, years ago, and had it replaced. It was something that he never really brought up, and you didn’t want to pry, not after what must have been such a traumatic experience; but now, as he left you sitting with more questions, you couldn’t help but wonder: how was a vasectomy and an artificial eye related? You felt like you were missing something.
Something important, perhaps.
He made a noise, one you couldn’t quite decipher. And then—“Protection! It’s all about protection.” He wagged a finger, like he did when he was quoting Jet; but this time, the voice he used wasn’t his impression of the man at all. It sounded different. Distinct. Older. Slower.
Spike shrugged, again, and looked at you. But he evaded your eyes once more, something, somewhere, drawing his gaze. “I would have gotten it done, anyways,” he repeated, quieter, and scratched at his cheek. His third shrug lingered, leaving his lips lowering, his gaze far and off. “You know.”
And you wondered, then, if he would ever look at you again.
19 notes · View notes
stargazer-dreamer · 7 months
Text
Frivolities
character: hawks
reader: gender neutral
content warnings: intrusive/suicidal thoughts
notes: also on ao3. 2k word count. pre-series. "hawks-centric" in a way that's more about hawks and less about the reader.
Soul sold, the boy known as Takami Keigo was no more. A pretty bird, Hawks preformed tricks for pellets, beaten and battered, and at age eighteen he was ranked tenth in the Pro Hero Charts. An impressive feat, for one so young.
Working hard and wishing he wasn’t working at all, he woke up again and again. And again and again. And again and again.
---
He remembers suffering, pain, and endurance. Most of it came from living within the organization. His handlers, while allowing him more of an insight to the world than ever before, were no less cruel than the ones who drove him there in the first place. As the years passed by, he grew far from that scrawny little boy he had once been—but he still felt no more of a man than before. And when he opened up his own hero agency, he constantly felt waterlogged and wrung out; schedule leaving little time for rest, always something to do, always on the move.
Despite his successes—going above and beyond, reaching higher and higher—he couldn’t seem to escape the cage he had been placed in, all those years ago. There were many rules he had to abide by and regulations to follow; driveling and snooze-inducing topics that didn’t really matter in the end and that he didn’t care much for. He couldn’t help but laugh about it—like a pet bird, he thought. Cooped up and clipped wings, meant only to flutter an inch off of the ground, stand there pretty, parrot phrases said a thousand times over.
He wasn’t allowed any friends. They were a distraction, they told him; he should work hard, keep busy. There was even the order that he was not allowed to date. Any type of relationship, whether it was romantic or sexual, would not only be quickly made public but labeled as a sign of rebellion and opposition to the organization that had treated him so well. Manipulative. Deliberately threatening what little privacy he had. Stripping him bare for all the world to see.
When he met you, he was twenty. He had recently ranked within the top five in the Pro Hero Charts. Despite trying to beat it out of him, Hawks had always had a bit of a rebellious streak—a life of strict handlers and rigorous outlines had shaped him quite a bit differently than they had expected—but after taking the fifth slot, he had decided to test exactly how secure the latch on the cage door really was. And while that might sound like something much more devious to an onlooker, for Hawks, it simply meant rattling the bars for a bit. For fun.
He phrased it much like he’d heard countless of times before, scrolling through social media: he needed some mental health days. He didn’t know this himself—didn’t allow himself the chance to know, really—but he really did need it. He went on vacation. It took a lot of convincing for it to get approved by his handlers, much less getting it past the higher ups—he just ranked fifth, it’d do wonders to ride that high, they insisted.
Regardless, his time off—his first ever official, willing, much awaited for and desired time off—went through. To celebrate, he slept for most of the first day, only leaving his bed to grab takeout at the front door and take the occasional trip to the restroom. He lavished in his slumber; since the transfer, he couldn’t find a single time in his life where he could sleep in late—much less was physically able to.
It was by the second day that the initial appeal wore off, and he found himself fidgeting about. Tossing, and turning, and very much incredibly bored; he missed his work, he found. As troublesome and uninspiring as the fact was—it was sadly true. Inevitable, even. At that point, he had spent the majority of his life working. It felt wrong to not be on his feet. He felt guilty channel-surfing.
The rest he had so constantly craved didn’t feel quite as rewarding as he thought it would be.
---
On the third day, he had decided a quick trip to the corner store couldn't hurt, as long as he was fast enough not to get noticed on the way there and back. He had to stretch his wings, surround himself with the sounds of everyday life. He was going stir-crazy cooped up in his nest—and that was a depressing thought. He put his shoes on and took a moment to ponder. Hawks was confident about his speed and agility—a nondescript trip to the convenience store should be easy. Within the organization, he was praised for his covertness, after all—was the fastest-rising hero, after all. It should have been easy.
It was not easy.
It was a saying that was ripped right off of a certain article headline—he was too fast for his own good. Despite his reflexes, despite all the training, the drills, the hardships he had to endure up until that point, he was just a bit too quick on the draw. When you are at your most cautious, that is when you are most likely to make a mistake—he had been told that many times. After ranking fifth, he had stopped listening.
It was on this third day that he met you. He didn’t run into you—couldn’t—but he very nearly did, bracing himself against the automatic doors, causing them to pop out of place by mistake. This is where he stumbled, weight suddenly shifting, but then he felt hands upon him—one on his shoulder, another at his chest, firm—and he regained his balance once more.
“Are you okay?”
He looked up. Your concern was plastered on your entire face—the angle of your brows, the seriousness of your eyes, so trained on him that he was struck, suddenly. Of all his years of being Pro, he has had a multitude of people worried for his well-being. At the top of the charts, it came with the job. Cheering, and screaming, and crying; many people cared about him.
When they needed him, that is.
You looked at him. You looked into his eyes, like you were peering into his soul, and asked him—“Are you hurt?”
He tried convincing himself that this was not a fight. Every bone in his body trembled with the force of it. It left him unable to breathe, the adrenaline coursing through him with an intensity he’s never felt before. He could be bleeding, he thought, idly. “No,” he said, eventually. He felt like he was losing. “No, I’m good. Dandy, even.” And it was habit more than anything, when he flashed you his most charming smile, “But thank you for worrying. I really appreciate it. Really.”
Sweat caught in his hairline, threatening, and he watched as you took in his features. The longer you stared, the more self-conscious he felt; how strained he must look, how tense his muscles must be beneath his shirt—you still held him, he realized, faintly. He felt like passing out.
And with that, he shot you finger-guns. He struck a little pose. He hated it. “I’m okay!” he backed away now, sidestepping around you and out the front door. Popping it back into place with more force than necessary, he laughed—a rough, loud thing—and with a wave of the hand, “Have a good day!” And he took off into the skies.
Rocketing above the clouds, he told himself—I’m okay. I’m okay. I’m okay.
---
Two days later, he remembered that he had wanted the sort of fried food you can only get at a convenience store. The salty-cheap kind, the perfect kind, the quickie-chickie kind. The city was big, he thought, the world even bigger, so when he nearly ran into you again he felt as if someone must be pulling at some unseen strings somewhere, up in the heavens. Like he could look up to find the curtains rising. They never did, of course. They didn’t exist.
What he got instead was your voice again—exactly the same from within his dreams—asking, “Are you okay?” Hands at his shoulder and chest, you steadied him. The door clunked beside you.
Eyes skybound, he pursed his lips. Puckered them. Exhaled. Then he nodded, slipping out of reach, and jammed the door straight. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, I’m good. Great, even.” And even though his wings fluttered and he felt his feathers start to rise, he asked with a quirked brow—“Are you okay? I didn’t hurt you, did I?”
It took you a moment to answer, watching him toe further and further away. “Yeah, I…” And it was at this point where a familiar glint in your eyes appeared, and you did a double-take. “Hawks?”
Despite the immediate bile rising to the back of his throat, his smile came more naturally this time. Dancing backwards, he flapped his wings; once, twice, he was off his feet. Saluting, he spun, gave a flourish, and was off.
---
He was twenty, number five, and on vacation for the very first time. Fried chicken was good, he remembered, sitting in the shadow of a tree, down several back-roads, obscured from sight, and chowing down on some karaage next to you. It was the day after your second encounter; he had entered stage left to see you center stage once again.
His sixth day off in a row; summer, the sun setting down towards the horizon line, and the convenience store door had been knocked out of its slot once again. He had laughed, head thrown back at the obscurity of it all, and rammed it back into place. He offered to buy you a snack, an apology for bothering you so—he insisted—but once he had his receipt, he didn’t turn tail and run. Not this time.
No, he invited you to come sit with him, enjoy the sunset, talk for a bit. You were on his mind, constantly, and he almost told you as much. Almost. You, who looked at him, point-blank, and not wondered for your own safety. He learned your name and your occupation, what it was that you did throughout the day, and what brought you to the corner store. He stuffed his face; and it’s not like you didn’t know who he was—you recognized him, of course—but there was just something about you. He couldn’t quite place it. Your pretty eyes and the way they looked at him. His heart thumped in his chest.
What was it about you?
He pondered this as he spoke, vividly, about his favorite hero. He couldn’t quite remember how the two of you got on that topic in the first place but you were laughing at the unconventional taste of it—and everything else then ceased to matter.
His heart thumped in his chest. He couldn’t breathe. The hairline at the nape of his neck was damp with it—the sudden urge to fling himself across the country. To fly so far up, so fast, he’d completely lose air. You looked at him, so earnestly, and he thought: oh. Your face. Your smile. Your eyes on him and him alone. And he was used to the attention—number five and all wrung out—but there was something about your gaze that struck him to his core, made him feel frozen and burned from the inside-out all at once.
Oh no.
He was not allowed to date. He didn’t have that luxury, the private life. No, he could not be with you. Oh, how he wanted to. Wanted to flip out his phone—and show you the little Endeavor charms, just to see you point out all the artistic liberties—and ask for your number. To ask you out. Hope and pray a disposable face mask would help disguise him enough. He considered the possibility of renting out an entire restaurant, just to secure his own concealment. He hoped you liked umai.
But would the staff talk? Would you? Would there be lenses positioned at the entrance, already phoning the tabloids—already phoning his handlers? The Secret’s Out! Love Bird Hawks!
He wiped the grease away on the leg of his pants, hand lingering over his pocket. You were telling him about your favorite hero—their aesthetics and sense of justice—but you paused, suddenly. He looked up.
“Oh,” you seemed nervous. “N-not that you aren’t amazing as well, Hawks...! Didn’t you just rank number five? And it’s only been, what, two years since you debuted?” You tinkered with the keyring in your lap as you spoke, fiddling with the dangling chain, almost discreetly. He couldn’t help it. He looked down. There, between your clamped fingers, sat an acrylic charm. The light hit it, just so, revealing a brilliant scarlet. You fidgeted. A feather.
His smile felt strained, threatening to disappear off of his face as the bile rose once more. “Time moves so fast,” it felt like a slog. Each day crawling along with an itinerary several miles long. He wanted to tear it up, desperately, into tiny little shreds, burn it to ash, and throw himself into the pyre as well. “Tenth feels like it was just yesterday.”
He didn’t ask for your number. He resolved to never go to that corner store ever again.
On that sixth night, he laid in bed, alone, thinking about his favorite hero. Number two. He wondered what that was like, as he watched the moon up in the sky, higher than he could ever dream of flying; his body the cage that tethered him. He wondered what that was like. Number two. Endeavor, his brilliant, blazing inferno in the sky, embers in his wake, impeccable track record, eyes on the prize—but never enough. Hawks watched the moon up in the sky between the gaps in the window blinds, strained and worn out, chasing, and wondered—will it ever be enough?
---
The next morning, he went back to work.
39 notes · View notes
stargazer-dreamer · 8 months
Text
It's on the Tip of My Tongue Chapter 2
character: yami sukehiro
content warnings: denial of feelings, jealousy
reader: gender neutral; ring magic user
chapter list: 1, 2 [you are here]
notes: also on ao3. 2k word count. pre-relationship. part of the stoprewind verse
Mealtimes at the Black Bulls were chaotic. In the week leading up to your official first day, you had no idea—you hadn’t dined a single meal with them. Either out for lunch with Finral during a break, or so focused on getting your room cleaned that you didn’t notice the plate left for you at the door until it grew cold, you hadn’t sat down at the table with everyone until the ebony robe sat upon your shoulders and the paperwork was properly filed away. And even then, it took the witch coming out to find you and bring you back already in the thick of it to get you to understand exactly how hectic things could get.
It was well-past noon, and you and Yami had wandered aimlessly throughout the forest talking. It turns out, he was serious about getting to know you—but his version of this seemed to only consist of asking unrelated questions one after another until you were sure he didn’t actually care about the answers he was getting at all. It became quite repetitive, a question and a reply, the captain barely sparing a moment to reflect on your answer given until he’s moved on to the next.
He probably does this to all the new guys, you thought, stepping over a fallen tree branch in the path, to help them feel included. You were going to be living under the same roof—you figured the plan was that Yami would spend some quality time with you before returning back to his normal routine. Break the ice, learn some facts about you, converse a little. The two of you were, after all, supposed to be working closely together from then on out. It made sense that he would be working from a mental script—he was the captain. This was apart of the job.
Nothing else to it. Nothing at all. But I didn’t know Yami was such a poor conversationalist…
It was starting to get ridiculous. You watched as he bent to pick the branch off of the ground. Pausing for a moment, he slowly rose to full height with it in hand, an unidentifiable look sitting on his face. Eyes on the branch, you watched as his eyebrows furrowed. And then, in a large swooping motion, he whipped the branch to the side. You blinked. He did it again, and again, and again, and with one step forward one more time, before straightening back up again.
After a pause, he looked at you, tossing the branch to the side. He said—“What do you like to eat?”
For a moment, all you could do was stare. What kind of a demonstration was that? And that’s what he decided to ask you? Mouth opening trying to formulate a response, you were needlessly cut off by a rising, grumbling noise. It came from Yami’s direction. The longer it continued, you realized that it was coming from the captain himself. Namely: his stomach.
“Oh!” you bit back a laugh, understanding the question now. “Oh, you’re—okay, yeah! We can find a place in town. Here—” a ring left one of your fingers and hovered in midair between the two of you. “There’s a place I really like that serves—”
“There you two are!”
Voice drowned out by the sudden interruption, the two of you looked skybound. Up higher than the trees, a figure on a broomstick waved, her dark robe stark against the sky. Flying in a sweeping circle, she found a break in the treeline and descend; the wide brim of her hat fluttering in the wind as she did. Landing, she walked over with the stick over her shoulder. Her eyes shone like jewels, tinted lips curving the closer she got. She was recognizable even from a glance—Vanessa Enoteca.
“I was sent to look for you guys!” she said, with a hand on her hip. She was as beautiful as they say. Perhaps moreso, in person. “Figured you guys would be in town by now, but now that I think about it—this makes way more sense!” She smiled at you like she knew something, but you were certain you had absolutely no clue on what exactly that something was. Before you had time to respond however, her gaze traveled. “A quiet little outing—I didn’t expect that from you, Yami!”
The captain shifted his weight, reaching for a new cigarette and swatting at your still-floating ring, causing it to return to your finger.
The action didn’t go unnoticed, but, “Lunch is ready,” she was carrying on. “Let’s get back and eat!” And with that, she turned on her heels and started down the path with a bounce in her step.
Hesitating, you adjusted the now resting ring on your finger. The final piece of the puzzle put itself into place in your mind as Yami’s hand came down gently on your shoulder as he passed you, leaning down so his next words were heard by you only—“Next time,” he said, scratching the hairline at the back of his neck. The action drew him closer, and his next words came quieter, a rumble that shot exactly to where it shouldn’t—“There’s a place I like. I’ll take you.”
---
Despite the order of finding work, it seemed like the entire squadron was there; filling their plates high and chatting all the while, loud and boisterous—this was the Black Bulls you knew. Sitting in a circle around a rather large table, chairs and sofas had been moved to gather around; the common room transformed into a space to share a meal together. The noise was incredible, each person’s voice raised to speak over the other, seemingly in a constant loop that grew louder and louder by the second.
“Captain!” called the man with the mohawk. Magna Swing, with his gloves still on and sunglasses pushed up towards his hairline. “I saved seats for you!” He patted heartily at the loveseat beside him, nestled between him and Finral. “Come eat!”
Vanessa found a seat on the opposite end of the table—and it appeared that the only remaining place for you was right next to Yami. A bit sheepishly, you followed him into the fray and sat down. It was a bit of a tight fit—the loveseat was of average size but Yami’s bulk was anything but average. An unfortunate shift in your seat could have your thighs pressed up against each other—and following that specific line of thought, you snuck a peek sideways out of the corner of your eye.
He was silent, face once again unreadable as he filled his plate with the buffet before him. The reach of his arm going across the table towards the various foods stretched his muscles nicely, and when he pulled back, the shape of his biceps had you—
At least Finral was on the other side of you. “Welcome back,” he smiled. “You two were gone for a while.” There was a certain lit to his voice, one that brought to mind the memory of earlier in the day, when just about everyone had laid witness to the misunderstanding in front of the base.
Your face burned. “N-no! We were just talking!” You looked towards Yami but any additional input you hoped he would have provided was nonexistent—his plate now towered high with several portions worth of food. He slapped thieving hands away, the movement drawing your eyes to the ring encircling his finger. Stealing the light, it sat vivid against his skin and the scars that embedded him. A new connection; a bond formed between the two of you, the ring a symbol of your—
“We were just talking,” was your explanation. For everything. “Just walking around the woods!”
Finral gave you another smile, polite this time, and raised his glass to his lips. “Okay, okay. I won’t embarrass you.”
“Nothing to be embarrassed about,” came Yami’s voice before the overloaded plate was dropped in front of you. “Figured we’d talk in peace. Finally. What with you hogging up my new ride’s time and all.” His face was still indescribable, but the angle of his brows were curious as he locked eyes with Finral. “Couldn’t even offer a simple hello before you started portaling across the entire kingdom.”
There was a certain hardness coming from the captain. A pressure that weighed you down, leaving you sinking into the cushions as suddenly an awkwardness settled within the room; a haze that slowly drowned out every voice. Not so subtlety, conversations stilled and all eyes came to your side of the table.
Avoiding every gaze, you focused your attention on the food. There was just about everything on that plate, the entire buffet’s worth of selection spilling over each other and tumbling down the tower every so often—and a glance at Yami found him without a plate of his own. Admittedly, with so many different flavors and textures mixed together, it didn’t look very appetizing at all—but a fork was passed over to you, so you started to dig in, if only to appear that you weren’t paying attention.
Picking at the bread, you listened as Finral sputtered. “I was just doing what you asked of me!” his eyes flickered in your direction. “Come on, I’m not trying to—we still have a lot of places to mark—”
“Now you suddenly want to work.” Coming from Yami, it didn’t sound like a question.
You knew of Finral’s reputation—he was known to slack off, often found leisuring around the castletowns instead of working. You frowned, remembering that day in the alleyway. The two of you were paired up immediately, imprinting upon countless and countless of locations, so really, who’s fault was it that you were often together? Besides, Finral was working—what was wrong with that? From what you’ve heard, he was usually off flirting…
Cutting through your thoughts like a hot knife, your attention was pulled across the table towards the starry-eyed boy from before as he called out to you. The conversation happening at your side drowned out as you tried to remember the kid’s name.
“Asta!” he supplied. “From Hage Village!” You didn’t know where that was. “I didn’t get the chance to ask you before—what kind of magic do you use?”
His obliviousness to the confrontation happening literally right in front of him was a breather, causing a soft reset in the vibe at the table overall. Slowly, conversations started to pick back up and the noise level steadily grew—not to what it once was, but high enough to no longer be as obvious about the eavesdropping as before.
“It’s ring magic,” you explained, trying to concentrate. With multiple conversations happening all around you—including the one currently flying over your head—you were finding it exceedingly difficult to hear yourself. “I can do a lot of things with it, but it follows the basic functions of rings as a whole.”
Asta shoveled food into his mouth as he looked at you in awe. Without swallowing, he asked, “What’s that?”
“Communication. At least, that’s how I think of it.” You thought of playing with your mother’s jewelry box as a child, and fiddling with her rings. They were cheap things, bought on whims, but you didn’t care. They were beautiful; hers, a piece of her left with you while she worked long hours, away from home. You felt your heart start to swell at the thought of it. Inspired, you carried on. “A ring usually signifies a bond or status, so I can use them as communication or tracking devices. Opening portals is what I do the most though—it’s just so much easier to take one step as opposed to walking all the way across town.”
Suddenly solemn, your eyes lowered as you remembered: “It’s not a really desirable attribute though, since it’s so easily replaceable with actual magical items. And it’s no good in a fight.”
“What are you talking about? It sounds like you could do all sorts of cool stuff,” Asta chewed. “Besides, it doesn’t matter what other people think—aren’t you here because of your magic?”
You didn’t know what to say.
“If you want to learn how to fight, I can teach you!” A messy-haired boy spoke up from the other end of the table. You recognized him as Luck Volta; and if his reputation is anything to go by, you knew taking him up on that offer was a bad idea.
His static raising your hair already, you frantically shook your head—“No, thank you, really, I’m not good at that—”
“If you need help with your magic, you should ask Gauche!” A small girl was stuffing her face. As she paused to down her drink, you were able to catch a glimpse of her features—Charmy Pappitson. She pointed in the direction of the man in question. “He’s usually using an item, too—he could probably give you some good advice!”
Gauche Adlai was looking at a photograph in his hand, hardly touching his food at all. Monotone, he replied, “I only help my sister.”
“Focusing on one aspect of your magic isn’t necessarily a bad thing,” Vanessa sipped directly from a bottle. “You’re working on portals, right? I heard you can make a whole lot more than you used to—and it’s only been a week! You should give it a proper spin.” Before you could ask what that meant exactly, the shine in her eyes appeared again as she stood up from her seat. Circling the table quickly, she came to a stop behind you. With each arm, she pulled both Finral and Yami closer, encaging you in a huddle of sorts.
“Okay you two, I think we can all agree that Finral can take a little break,” she smiled. “Yami! Why don’t you two lovebirds go on that mission you were talking about earlier?” She shot you a wink, “The two of you are perfect for the job!”
42 notes · View notes
stargazer-dreamer · 1 year
Text
Attuned Inside
character: spike spiegel
reader: gender neutral. grim reaper
content warnings: canon-typical violence. hospitalization. suicidal tendencies
notes: also on ao3. 2k word count. set within the cotard and i alone verse. unreliable narrator. a look at your pressing thought. and after
He got a hold of your scythe, once. It was an ugly thing—but he sure didn’t think so. Not with the way he looked at it. Not in the way he wanted it.
“In the last few years, I’ve seen my fair share of death. But I’ve never seen you guide any of their souls,” he tilted his head in your direction but his eyes still trained on the crescent blade. “Do you still take—” here, his lips split, like he already knew the answer before he even asked: “—or is mine the only one you care about?”
---
Where his soul would end up, you knew. You did not want to know. The life he lived before—money, and lives, and crime, and rise—you were certain. The below awaited him. Despite everything after, ascension was never in his cards; the pearly gates would not take him, you knew. But if eternity in the wastes was his fate, you knew without a doubt—you would beg on your hands and knees to be let in as well. Your sentence, infinite as it might be, would mean nothing without his presence; empty, perpetually.
(For Spike, you were willing to raise your scythe towards The Creator himself.)
You kept him mortal for as long as you could. You couldn’t turn back the clock—he was as conscious as his body would allow him to be—but you were afraid that if you didn’t push his soul back into place, you would never see him again. He was your human just as much as you could tell he fancied you his death.
Mortality could only last for so long. You knew this quite intimately. Carnally. Eventually, of course, his body would not be able to hold him. Rejection of the soul was common enough—to roam or to ascend—but, you were quite slow to realize, it seemed Spike was trying to artificially replicate that process.
“To be with you,” he had said, once, lying in his own pool of blood, after you had questioned him about it.
He was out on a hunt, alone, in the darker shadows of the solar system. The chase was a fairly long one; they were fast, fear driving the bounty further and further—but Spike was on their heels, not giving up. Not when the reward was so high. Not when he had sat in that ship, bored and hungry. It went awry, unfortunately, when the wanted decided running simply wasn’t enough: the bullet had lodged deep into Spike’s side. He stumbled, coming to a slow, painful stop. And after a long moment against the wall, he collapsed in the alleyway as the hunted escaped.
Under normal circumstances, Spike would be dead within moments—a reaper sent to collect. He had lost too much, running himself dry, with no one around to help him and not enough strength to stand. Fortunately, for you, his soul was still yours to take; caught outside the net of impermanence, ever within reach.
So, you watched.
His body was a nice one. Lean and kept in shape, crisscrossed with scars and remnants of old injuries—nose healed wrong and knuckles slightly askew. Parts of him not even his, parts of him missing, parts of him he wasn’t even fully aware of. He was beautiful. You had spent so much time staring at him, watching the light fade from his eyes as he rapidly drowned in red. Deliciously.
He was yours, that much was for certain. With his soul in your hand, you could do whatever you wanted with it. “You want to be with me?”
“Yes,” he’s never looked so sure, bleeding out. “Take me.”
Tugging at the tendon brought forth a noise from within him. You’ve heard it before. You pulled harder. He squeezed his eyes shut. He breathed. He breathed again.
Once more, through a trembling smile, barely held together against the brick wall—“Take me.”
Eyes locked. You stood towering over him, the beginnings of his soul in one hand and your scythe in the other. For a moment, one blissful second in bullet time, you allowed yourself to dream of an eternity with him. Together, forever, until hereafter ran out. You thought of a reaper companion; Spike wasn’t someone who would wield a scythe—you couldn’t imagine it—but movement from the corner of your vision stole your attention before you could indulge further.
You supposed you should inform him. “Your body is being moved.”
His eyes grew wide as the blue and red lights came alternating. “Take me,” he said, desperately now. “Before they pump me full again. Before you leave me again. Take me.”
His spirit clung to you as his physical form was rushed to a hospital, the ride brutalizing and overwhelming. When you simply held him, he tried again—“Reaper,” wavering at the seams, he peered inside of you. “Do you hear me? I want you to take me. Please.”
On his knees, he looked so pathetic. Spike had never begged you before. You were so taken aback by this pure vulnerability, so suddenly, that all you could do was stare. You held him. He clung to you. You held him. His body was refilled.
(You loved him. There was only one way to be with him forever. You were going to love him forever.)
You made up your mind. Without further words, you began pushing him back into his body.
It was the first time Spike had ever fought against you. Still weakened beyond belief, all he could manage was to thrash around, wildly, away from the direction of his physical form. Twisting and kicking, it broke your heart—what was left of it, anyway—but of being of the other, you overpowered him, easily, and got him two-thirds of the way in before you gripped his jaw in your hand, rougher than you intended—but you leaned closer regardless.
“You have to go back,” you told him. “It’s not your time.”
“The hell it isn’t,” voice as low as you’ve ever heard it, he wasn’t begging now. Far from it. “It was my time long ago.” And when your grip slackened, his lips crooked. “I’m not afraid to take my chances with the big man, himself. At least he wouldn’t think twice about where to send me.”
You shoved him the rest of the way in. There, above his still form, you hoped he wouldn’t remember anything when he woke up—however long from now that may be. He had lost so much, so quickly. You hoped he would wake up. You hoped it was soon.
And when his eyes remained closed, monitors slowly beeping, and his partner finally got word of his whereabouts, you stood in the corner for the entire length of his visit. Quiet. Staring. Watching.
Jet, with his back towards you (always), spoke aloud, “You haven’t taken him yet.” He stayed silent for a moment, perhaps waiting for a response. When you gave him none (always), he turned his head in your direction, just a fraction. “Playing with him will only hurt him more.”
The words were out before you could even stop them—“I’m not playing with him. I don’t want to hurt him.”
“All you’ve ever done is hurt him!” In the droning silence of the cold, white, hospital room, his voice was louder than ever. “If it’s his time, than it’s his time. I let you on my ship and you don’t do a single thing but needlessly haunt my partner. He spends most of his time looking for you, and you don’t even have the decency to—”
“I don’t want him down there,” if you had tear ducts, you supposed they would be flooded. Drowning, “I don’t want him in agony for the rest of time.”
“He’s already in agony!” a metal fist firmly in the wall, Jet fully faced you for the first time since the two of you met. “Look at him,”  a gesture to Spike’s motionless form. “He constantly puts himself in danger because of you. If you don’t want him down there, figure out a solution—eat his soul for all I care—just stop him from doing this to himself!”
He broke, then. “He’s hurting more than just one of us.”
(You are going to love him forever. You are going to love him forever. There was only one way. There was only one way. You want to love him forever. You want to love him forever.)
---
After you severed his soul from its mortal existence, your list of stories returned to you—and with it, the countless patients left within your care. Eternity went on. Word eventually came from above: you had your duty—as he is now just as much of you as you are yourself, the two of you would continue to reap. Together. And like that, eternity went on.
He was granted no scythe. He was not summoned for judgement. When you asked around about it, your answer came: he was you. You were him. A reaper only needed one scythe, after all.
You supposed he would have been sentenced, had the proper procedures taken place. Eating him surely was the most drastic approach you could have taken—but for Spike, you would have done anything to keep him close. As it so happened, that sort of thing doesn’t happen too often—not often enough for it to warrant substantial consequences on your end, anyway.
You severed Spike Spiegel’s soul from the land of the living. That was the job you were assigned—and you completed it. He was dead. No one could argue otherwise; no one could say you did it wrong. You had guided him; and it appeared The Creator agreed as well.
You asked him how it had felt to be devoured.
“Didn’t feel like anything,” and his form was as beautiful as it was in life. More so, now. Enhanced in a way only dispatching could achieve. He stood before you—you were ever so grateful you could still speak to him like this, apart of you as he was. “It wasn’t warm and it wasn’t cold…It felt like nothing.”
Nothing. You supposed that made sense. Here, in this realm, there was nothing. There was you—and now him, too.
Reaping souls was a lot like hunting bounties, Spike had said, once, after a particularly flighty essence had tried to escape its fate. He liked it when they ran. You watched and likened it much to a cat playing with it’s food. How he trailed, and played, and brought the end to their mortal existence.
(You lost track of how long it had been—was he like this in life, too? Hunting bounties; the thrill of the chase driving him forward, further, faster.)
And then, he found his gun. Admittedly, you didn’t know much about human firearms. You always figured he was a good shot—but the sheer accuracy in which he severed souls with these new ethereal bullets…
“Where did you find that?” you asked him, when he had used it, suddenly, shockingly, out of the blue on another struggling patient. One shot, ripping the soul from the body. Two shots, sending it on its way.
“I’ve always had it,” he reached around behind him and tucked it into the waistline of his pants. “I guess.” Shifting his weight, he looked at you; hand on his hip and appearing every bit apart of this world as you. The shadows hung under his eyes now, darkening his features—wonderful and sublime. A true reaper. Yours. “I never bothered to check.”
You didn’t quite believe that. If this was meant to be his scythe, his eternal tool, than he would have known about it from the start. He would have told you, if he knew, you were certain. But—it would have been hard to hide it, if he was lying. Even from himself, the gun that looked so much like his own back in the living world would have been inherently noticeable to him. To you. Though—admittedly, as often as you had spent watching him, in this realm and the other, he still found ways to surprise you.
(You wanted to believe him.)
You opened your mouth to speak these thoughts but was pulled into an embrace before the words could manifest. And when his lips met yours, otherworldly and daring, everything else swiftly left your mind. No, you were his and he was yours. That’s all that mattered. His soul belonged to you, intertwined within your very being, deep, incorporeal and everlasting, inseparable, until the day your sentence was over.
If, by then, you simply disappeared into nothingness, you hoped he would fade alongside you. Surely, he would; you and him as one. Nothing else would matter at that point.
(Surely.)
25 notes · View notes
stargazer-dreamer · 1 year
Text
In Comfort; Let Me Rest My Eyes Closed
character: spike spiegel
reader: gender neutral
content warnings: angst
notes: also on ao3. 500+ word count. angst/comfort. some fluff.
Take a shower with him. Wash his back. Take the bottle of shampoo from his hands and apply them to yours; run your fingers through his hair and gently scratch at his scalp. Watch as he closes his eyes. Watch how the stress leaves his body in waves and his muscles relax. He’ll lean into your touch, unconsciously, as a little smile spreads across his lips; content with the perfect combination of your hands on him and the warm water raining down around him.
Take the shower head and wash the suds away. Let the water dance around him, kiss his forehead and tell him you love him, you love him, you love him so. Watch how he ducks his head and scratch at his cheek. He’ll lower his voice—as if there was anyone around to hear. Almost drowned out by the shower, he’d mumble, “I love you, too.”
It’ll be quiet, and private, and wrapped up in an uncharacteristic timorous display, but it’d be true. Bird wings fluttering like the beat of his heart, he loves you. Everything you do for him, mean to him, do to him.
Regardless, despite everything, it repeated like a mantra in the back of his mind: he doesn’t deserve you. This simple kindness, your undivided attention, it was all too much. Almost. No, deep inside, he’s beyond happy you chose him. Out of everyone in the solar system, anyone at all, you were there kissing praises against his skin and devotion into his marrow.
He doesn’t think he deserves you. Stubborn to a fault, he denies himself the good things in life; simple or grandiose, the sky on the horizon line. Lost and pathetic stray he was, straight out of the gutters, he doesn’t think he deserves you. Built from nothing but blood and grime, he tells himself—he’s destined to fall, and fall, and fall; clipped wings, down to the lowest layer of the wastes.
And fell he did. His heart beating through his chest, he looked at you. You, who cupped his face so softly, feather-light, he thought he could break. And he was. Cracking at the seams, fat tears welled up in his eyes, mixing with the shower as they rolled down his cheeks; he cried.
He cried and you held him. He cried and you didn’t think any less of him. Falling to his knees in the tub, you went down with him—arms surrounding him with his face tucked into the crook of your neck. There was no one around to see, no one but you to witness this moment of rare vulnerability, but you didn’t want to take any chances.
Let him know he’s safe with you. Let him take his time. He loves you, and he loves you, and he loves you so. He deserves nice things. Happiness, and love, and companionship. You. Tell him this but understand, more than anything, that he needs time. Let him know you’ll always be there. Understand why he holds you ever closer at this. Swimming in his cycle, hold him tight; tight enough to let him know that he’s falling in the opposite direction—towards the sky, that horizon that pulled itself nearer by the day.
Reach for him. He’s already roosted a nest inside your heart. Reach for him. When dawn breaks, you’ll see him reaching back for you.
71 notes · View notes
stargazer-dreamer · 1 year
Text
the most magical place on mars
character: spike spiegel
reader: gender neutral
summary: he told you he would take you wherever you wanted for your date. he forgot to mention that he hated theme parks
notes: pokemon with a bit of a disney filter. copyright friendly, of course
✩ he never liked theme parks. he supposed, when he was younger, amusement parks were more his thing—fast rides to get his adrenaline pumping—but theme parks never sparked any interest in him
✩ especially this one. based around a popular video game series he had absolutely no interest in, cute and cool monsters alike filled the scenery as the two of you walked through the front gates
✩ no, he didn’t care for theme parks. but the way your eyes lit up as you pointed out a sign that said “route 1” (whatever that meant) warmed his chest, so he didn’t mind how much the tickets had cost—he was on a date with you. seeing you happy made him happy
✩ immediately, you wanted to buy the iconic chupika ears. putting them on, you tried to get him to wear a pair but he was able to get out of it by pointing out a nearby popcorn stand
✩ pockmon world was known for its seasonal rotating popcorn buckets—but you wanted the standard one. it was circular shaped and represented the in-game device used to trap monsters in (“catch, spike, catch. you don’t trap them, you catch them.” “i don’t see a difference here”)
✩ armed with a cheap refillable snack, he followed behind you as you dashed off to the next thing
✩ costumed characters occasionally passed by, and he had to take pictures of you with your favorites. he had to wonder, with the more spectacular holograms floating about, why the park would subject its employees to sweat in the suits rather than focusing on creating more advanced AIs, but that was none of his business
✩ not when he focused the lens on you standing next to a brown fox-thing. your smile was infectious
✩ he couldn’t help it. he was having a good time
✩ the two of you waited in lines, rode some rides, and looked at the attractions
✩ before he knew it, it was lunch time
✩ miraculously, there was a table open in one of the sit down restaurants. spike scanned the menu and let out a sigh of relief. walking around the park, it seemed like all the food stalls were heavily pockmon themed. pock puffs? plowsoke tails? food tins? none of the names explained exactly what kind of food they were and he had gotten a bit frustrated (you had even munched on something that looked distinctly like kibble?)
✩ sandwiches, curry, he knew what those were. actual food, finally. you explained that all the dishes were in the recent game, but he didn’t really care. he ordered a pasta
✩ it wasn’t very flavorful. you had taken several pictures of it, though
✩ after lunch, you wanted to look around the gift shops to kill time before the parade started
✩ the floats, and the music, and the confetti sure was a sight, even spike had to admit that. apparently, it featured just about every monster in the game. he was not aware there was so many of them
✩ “have to catch them all,” or whatever. he got it now
✩ something that he was embarrassed to admit—he was starting to favor a specific monster after seeing it in the parade
✩ you dragged him to a shop that sold all of them in plushie form and pressured him to tell you which one it was so you could buy it for him
✩ it took a good ten minutes, but he caved, and with a shaking finger he pointed at the tiny kappa-looking one
✩ your first reaction was to laugh, which did not help with his embarrassment
✩ “your favorite pockmon is tadlo?”
✩ “…it looks funny. look at its face”
✩ regardless, the two of you left the shop with a plushie each. he looked at his. it had six stubby legs. he thought it only had four
✩ the two of you spent the entire day at the park. at the top of the capsule-shaped ferris wheel, the fireworks started
✩ when you turned to him to point one out, he kissed you. softly against your lips, he told you he loved you
✩ he wasn’t a fan of theme parks or pockmon, but spending time with you was something he would never pass up
21 notes · View notes
stargazer-dreamer · 1 year
Text
vicinity
character: spike spiegel
reader: gender neutral
content warnings: unhealthy relationship; obsessive and possessive behavior, stalking. sex mention. intentional injuries
summary: he loves you, but he doesn’t quite know how to handle that
✩ he’s down to try just about anything, at least once
✩ you want him to choke you out? he’ll do it. you want to tie him down? go ahead! he has virtually no gag reflex and can hold his breath for an outstanding amount of time, if you’re into that. in public, in private; all you have to do is bring it up, all you have to do is ask
✩ all that he asks of you in return is that you don’t ever leave him
✩ yeah, this guy’s got abandonment issues. you could even say he’s a little bit obsessed with you. or a lot, depending on your reaction to finding this out
✩ the more you push him away, the more the anxiety rises within him. the more the anxiety climbs, the more…problematic he could become
✩ he’d intentionally get too reckless during hunts so that you’ll take care of him afterwards. he needs your shoulder to walk. he needs you to cook for him. he needs you to change his bandages—and now that you can see the full extent of his injuries, you would be just plain heartless if you were to up and leave him, wouldn’t you?
✩ he’d plant a tracking device on you, just to keep an eye on your whereabouts. where do you go when he’s not with you? for how long? do you linger at specific locations? and what are those places?
✩ he’s already lost one love, before. he lost her because he looked away. because he let her out of his line of sight
✩ he won’t ever let you go
✩ he gets jealous very easily. not long after, he gets possessive. don’t get close to anyone else. don’t talk to anyone else. don’t look at anyone else
✩ why would you, if you have him? he’s all you need. he’ll make sure of that
✩ if you’re his, that’s what you would be. nothing else
✩ there isn’t much he wouldn’t do, to keep you by his side. know that if you’re going to pursue him, because it’s going to have to be you if you want more than an occasional hookup
✩ it would be your fault, if things go wrong
146 notes · View notes
stargazer-dreamer · 1 year
Text
Cracking Visions
character: spike spiegel
reader: gender neutral. grim reaper
content warnings: nightmares. locking yourself into the relationship you created
notes: also on ao3. 400+ word count. set within the world of dedicated life (read that first). early days aboard bebop
When he slammed the door shut on his old life, violently, and started anew, you were right there behind him. His shadow. His anchor. You followed him through the rain until he was able to rest his feet for a bit.
In a large fishing vessel, too big and too cramped, in the blanket of the night, he shot up in bed and grabbed the gun from beneath the pillow.
---
He emptied an entire magazine into the dark. He would not be able to reload for quite the while. And he hates small fry—would rather feel the thrill of the bigger hunts—but those would have to do if he were to go in with no bullets; casings littering the bedsheets as he gasped, wildly. Dry-heaving and choking on nothing, breathing and stuttering, heart beating through his chest, ringing in his ears, inconsolable, as he tried, desperately, to find purchase.
That’s when you reached for him. Grabbing his elbow, he startled, panicked, and leveled the gun between your eyes. He looked through you. Quickly, he realized who was touching him. He leaned into it, heavily, until you fully supported his weight as he shook and stammered.
Of course, you were not able to interact with his physical form in a way that mattered—so what really happened was his body passed right through you, collapsing onto the mattress where it grew quieter. His essence clung to you in your arms.
You knew Spike had nightmares. You’ve watched him shake and scream in his sleep countless of times, but you’ve never once tried to comfort him. You didn’t think you could. You’ve never tried. You regretted all those decisions as you held him tighter, unsure of what to do.
You wondered how this was possible. You didn’t know much about the workings of the human body—not anymore anyway, you supposed. His heart didn’t give out, right? His body was still breathing. Did this have something to do with the brain? Was this something else entirely? Some external factor, something to do with his lost story and your mere constant presence by his side? You were unsure—but pondered on these thoughts only briefly. It didn’t really matter how it had happened.
You held him. He held on to you. You held him. He held on to you. Your fingers found his hair, running through the curls until it seemed to calm him, if only just a little. He held on to you. You held him.
It took a long time before he was able to speak; swallowing around nothing as he tried to find the words. “Angel,” he was out of breath. “My angel.”
Against your better judgment—“I’m not an angel. You know this.”
He shook his head, almost furiously. Desperately. “You’re my angel. Watch over me, always.” A pause. And then, quiet, almost too hard to hear—“Please.”
You couldn’t refuse. Not when he asked it like that, bullet casings surrounding his body, warm still; tethered to this plane by whatever force allowed it to. It didn’t stop it’s movement completely—the chest a telling comfort—but you knew, soon, you would have to send him back.
For now though, you continued to hold him in your arms. Safe. Yours. You exhaled. “Okay,” you said. “Okay. I will.”
35 notes · View notes
stargazer-dreamer · 1 year
Text
bedroom funk
character: spike spiegel
reader: gender neutral
content warning: unintentional misunderstandings (on if you are being murdered tonight or not)
summary: spike’s looking pretty sus right now
✩ his room was pretty bare
✩ if bebop didn’t have built in bunks, he would be sleeping on a mattress on the floor
✩ if the rooms in bebop meant for personal use weren’t designed with storage compartments in mind, his television would be sitting on the floor next to said bare mattress
✩ years ago, back on mars, the apartment that was given to him came pre-furnished. couches, and tables, and chairs, et cetera. he didn’t have to think about any of that
✩ at his age, it’s bit embarrassing, for him, to admit he doesn’t know how to decorate his space…so he doesn’t
✩ he let you aboard, and led you through the old ship, quiet and alone, and took you to his room. you looked at the empty walls and the limited items scattered around the consoles—the bullet casings and abandoned cigarette boxes—and thought wow. he’s going to murder me. i fell for a good-looking guy and his pretty words and let him take me to a secondary location. and now he’s going to kill me
✩ a love hotel would have been better than this, spike realized, after the door shut behind him and you stood there, frozen, taking in the lack of sight
✩ he could have tidied up the place—if he had known this is where the night would take him. but alas, a paid-for room was too expensive for his wallet right now, and he would rather chew his arm off than go to your place (it was too soon for that. he was that type of guy). he knew bebop would be empty. he didn’t know it would look this empty
✩ another thought passed through his mind—if he had tidied up, if socks didn’t litter the floor and the ashtray weren’t partially filled, it may have looked even worse. unlived in. an empty room with the sole purpose of taking unsuspecting people there to—
✩ oh.
✩ “this looks bad, i know,” he admitted. to himself. to you. “but i’m being honest here—this isn’t what it looks like. we can—find a better place, maybe, or—”
✩ it was an offer out. god, he hoped it sounded like one. it’s not often that spike found himself lost without words but there he was. he should have thought about how this would look to you. it’s been a while since he started thinking with his other head
40 notes · View notes
stargazer-dreamer · 1 year
Text
interlining dilemmas
character: spike spiegel
reader: gender neutral
content warning: lack of communication
summary: spike wears clothes. that’s normal. he can be tight-lipped about some things. that’s—well...
✩ he doesn’t actually like wearing ties
✩ he’s told you this, one day, after you asked him why he always wears them so loose
✩ “it’s an old habit,” he said, stilling your hand when you went to tighten it. “from years ago. i used to wear one—” his pause was sudden, like the smile across his lips. he raised your hand to kiss at your fingertips. “for work”
✩ “what did you do?” you asked, genuinely interested. it felt like he kept a large part of his life tucked away from you—which was fine, to have secrets, but whenever a piece dangled in front of you, you always had to chase it. it wasn’t a bad habit to want to know more about him, after all
✩ unfortunately, he didn’t want to share most of the time. “a lot of different things,” he said instead, his smile persisting. trying not to let the corners of his mouth pull too far. he bent down to kiss your forehead. a quiet apology. “we had a dress code, though. the tie was apart of the deal”
✩ he wore his ties loosely, sometimes hanging down his chest. without an outer layer, he liked to throw it over a shoulder to get it out of the way
✩ you offered to get him a tie pin, something that would help it from flying in his face, but he’s denied you every time
✩ “it’d restrict my movement too much. it’s alright, baby, i can handle it”
✩ you didn’t really think it was alright. not whenever you saw him grab it and clench it between a shaking fist. not when he spun, and flipped, and kicked, and it moved out of place, in his way, frustratingly so
✩ so, you changed tactics. you tried coordinating an outfit for him. when he asked for a tie, you told him the outfit would look better without one
✩ he stared at his reflection in the mirror for a bit. his hand went to subconsciously straighten his tie—but there wasn’t one there
✩ he stared at his reflection in the mirror for a bit. he shrugged and thanked you for the outfit
✩ you did this several more times. his reaction was the same. you tried this several more times. his reaction changed
✩ eventually, he stopped reaching for the ties. eventually, he stopped wearing them all together
✩ eventually, he opened up to you about that old “job”
105 notes · View notes
stargazer-dreamer · 1 year
Text
Erratum Discussions
character: spike spiegel
reader: gender neutral
content warnings: implied/referenced self-harm. intrusive thoughts. inability to move on (from past relationships)
notes: also on ao3. 1k+ word count. “spike centric” in a way that’s more about spike and less about the reader
Page after page, it’s hard to move on. It’s hard to find out who you are, and what you are, and why you are, and where you are, and—
Spike tries. He tries so hard. Page after page.
---
He likes to read, occasionally. It’s no good to train only the body, after all.
Not every bookstore was the same—big or small, cluttered or pristine—but there was something about that particular one, the one that sold them used, located down in the asteroid belt, that he found himself traveling to more often than not, when he found the need for something new.
If he were an honest man, he would wager that it would be more accurate to say that his visitations were for a particular person and not the selection in which they sold. Paperbacks, worn and pre-thumbed, with the corners bent, and notes scribbled in the margins—he had no part in any of that. No; while it was true that Spike enjoyed a good book here and there, he could not possibly work through the text at the rate he was buying them.
He is not an honest man. He would walk in, nonchalant, and browse the selection. After a while, scanning the shelves, he would end up near you; he’d strike up a harmless conversation—“Have you read this one?” “Does this sound interesting to you?” And, well, he couldn’t just leave empty-handed, right? His nightstand became cluttered, and the coffee table grew unusable. The bridge, the workshop, the glove compartment in Swordfish. He bought a bookshelf.
“I get good recommendations when I go there,” he argued, trying to be nonchalant about it when Jet had figured it out.
They were a poor choice of words, Spike realized, when his partner said: “Sure,” with an amused smile playing along his lips; humor and warmth dripping thick in his voice. “Book recommendations. I understand, Spike—that’s your business.”
“No, really,” he suddenly felt like a school-child; the overwhelming urge to defend himself, violently. And it would be a while longer yet for him to fully understand exactly why he was feeling this way, but—“Books. I go there for books, Jet. Books. Why else would I go to a bookstore?”
“Yes, I get it,” Jet still looked at him in a way that pissed him off. “Books.”
Despite the teasing remarks, Spike held firm in his stance. He even believed it himself, for a time. There could not possibly be any other feasible explanation as to why he kept coming back to this specific location, on this small of a settlement, so far out and away from their usual haunts, than the particular selection they held.
Not so soon after his previous relationship. Not when his heart still beated for her. Not when she still appeared in his sweetest dreams. No, this could not be that, especially when he did not know you and you did not know him. Strangers—less than so. You only spoke to him pleasantly because it was your job, and it was his own disillusioned mind that saw it as anything more.
So, he stopped going. He worked through a stack or two of paperbacks, crumpled and tattered. Life resumed as usual.
But he missed chatting with you. After your attention was on him, he would ease the conversation out of the confines of the small store—“Life treating you well?” “You ever worked out your situation?” And the two of you would talk; minutes, sometimes up to an hour, the clock ticking away until the old manager would come out from the backroom and tell you to get back to work. 
There wasn’t much work to do, you had told him, after the manager would hobble back out—probably off to go play solitaire on his outdated computer—and it would be just the two of you, once more. Update the database, tidy up the shop. Foot traffic was slow, most days. You would rather be talking to him, you had said, once, offhand.
Perhaps you were simply indulging him. Maybe he was too friendly. All the more reason to stay away. He didn’t want to appear as a creep. He didn’t want to appear desperate.
Not after her. Not after he couldn’t stay away.
Jet seemed to pick up on the lack of asteroid belt-related trips. Before, Spike would find a multitude of excuses to go. Now, he came up with reasons to avoid it entirely.
“There’s nothing there,” he would say, deliberately avoiding his partner’s eyes. “Not even any good bars—hey, why don’t we hit some bounties? We could use the extra money.”
But that pocket change used to go towards his collection of books. After amenities and necessities, he would spare some for the trip he would inevitably take; paperbacks in the back of his mind and you at the forefront. Always.
It slowly dawned on him that he didn’t have many hobbies, outside of that. He would drink, he would smoke, go out and play pool. He didn’t know if he even liked reading, if he were being completely honest. It was just something that he’d always done, after they taught him how. Something that they said he was good at. A good hobby. Enriching. Enlightening.
She had even appraised his collection, that first night she came over. Spike wondered—if he went back, would that apartment be empty? Those shelves he had spent years filling; text after text, ripped to shreds, left to cover a landfill—or did they preserve it? Collecting dust and bad memories, waiting, and waiting, and waiting.
Waiting for what?
He looked at his room aboard Bebop and found it mostly empty; his closet, his bed. Not much had changed, except the fact that everything had changed. He looked at his bookcase. He wondered if you would praise it, just like she did. Or would you look at it with disgust? Would you scan the titles and recognize every letter—every stain and scuff—and tell him he was a freak? To stay away from you. To never speak to you again.
Spike closed his eyes and stared into the abyss. He came out on the other side and saw only himself. Like looking at a mirror. He wanted to shatter it; to throw it against the wall and watch the splinters crack his reflection—he wanted to grab the shards and watch him tear himself to shreds. Hundreds, thousands of pieces, so broken and battered that no one could ever dream of repairing it ever again. To see his hands wet with it, to hold it tighter, to stop waiting around and finally finish the job himself.
Kicking, and screaming, and dry-heaving, Spike wanted. He wanted—
He didn’t know what he wanted. Perhaps he never did, at all. A man, with his two own eyes, sitting there on the piano bench; sitting, and reading, and waiting, and wanting, and singing—grab a glass because there’s going to be a flood!
Spike knew one thing for sure: he was always good at reading. So, he read. He worked through a stack. Then another. Life resumed like normal. Bullets, and blood, and books, and blue.
He thought of her. He thought of taking her home, to his apartment too big for him, and her looking at his shelves, all in a neat little line, backs against the walls, in every room. With bated breath, he would watch her. He imagined her eyes, wide with disgust and blue, and she’d turn to him and say, “Freak. You’re such a freak.” And that would be that. Finally.
He thought of you. He thought of you and he thought of you and he thought of you and he thought of you and he thought of you and he thought of you and he thought of you and he—
And he wanted.
No, Spike is not an honest man. He never has been. But he likes to read, occasionally. It’s no good to train only the body, after all.
61 notes · View notes
stargazer-dreamer · 1 year
Text
It’s on the Tip of My Tongue Chapter 1
character: yami sukehiro
content warnings: misunderstandings
reader: gender neutral; ring magic user
chapter list: 1 [you are here], 2
notes: also on ao3. 2k word count. pre-relationship (but we’re getting somewhere). part of the stoprewind verse
Your room, when presented to you, was covered in a thick layer of dust and cobwebs. It took you a considerable while to feather and air it out—but you just couldn’t find the time to roll up your sleeves and get down to the dirt and grime of it all. Between that, imprinting locations with Finral, reviewing all your past and future responsibilities, and preparing for the transfer into the Black Bulls, you found little time to settle into your new home within the base.
You didn’t even get the chance to mingle with any of its other members, much less the captain himself. He talked real big, but you’ve hardly seen a glimpse of him all week. This frustrated you—he wandered in, in the middle of your day-to-day operations, uprooted your entire lifestyle, demanded you work under him specifically, yet he has not greeted you once. If he was going to be this sort of captain, he would have to earn your respect.
You, however, were finding a quick friend in the spatial mage—going from location to location got boring fairly quickly and, as polite as he was, he seemed to drop the act when Yami wasn’t looking.
“He works me to death! You know how hard it is managing funds while having to pay out property damages every other day, in between having to joyride him around the country? I have to do paperwork on the road!” Finral stepped through his own portal and waited patiently on the other side for you. “It’s the worst, really.”
There must have been a change to your expression, since he seemed to backtrack a little bit. “But it’s not so bad! Really! Now that you’re here, I’ll have more time to work through it!” He scratched at the back of the neck as his gaze traveled. A tilt of the head—like he was debating on saying his next words. “And he seemed pretty sincere when he said you’d only be doing the transportation thing. He usually leaves me to my own devices until he’s ready to head back or move locations, so you’ll probably get a lot of downtime…!”
He smiled at you, good-naturedly. “Lucky you.”
This did not help improve your quickly souring impression on the captain. You spared a moment to mark the area before moving on to the next. It turns out, Finral had well-over a hundred different locations he had imprinted upon, not including the local area—and the captain wanted you to retain all of them! The nerve!
Hardly ever having left your hometown, the sudden increase to your mental magic map took a little while to get used to; and with it rapidly expanding every day, it was a bit overwhelming, to say the least. Finral must have realized this early on, dividing up his list into digestible sections throughout the week—but the two of you were far from done yet. First came the important locations, then the common ones, next were the useful areas, followed by the more niche places…
Despite Yami’s command of all of Finral’s impressions, the two of you found no need to share his more personal locations, such as his family home and room back at the base. Those were for Finral specifically, and there was no need to hand over such keys.
As a seasoned spatial mage, his senses were naturally more adept at managing a mental map of the world; for you, it was far from the case. After going at it for a few hours, you found that you developed headaches that could only be mended with proper rest or mana-regaining methods, such as specialized drinks or medicine Finral would graciously provide. It was more of a nuisance than anything else—all you wanted to do was finish this first task, but you couldn’t handle the load.
That’s something you admired about Finral; he was a pretty capable mage.
The day finally arrived when the documents were properly filed; Captain Yami Sukehiro stood you in front of the rest of the squadron and introduced you properly—as properly as it seemed he could manage, at least—followed by a multitude of questions from everyone in the room.
Instead of navigating through the sea of voices yourself, the captain made short work of it for you. “No fighting, no hazing, no eating; you just ate, no looking at pictures, no one can hear you, no shopping—we’re busy.”
“We are?” you asked before he handed you, rather unceremoniously, the infamous black robe.
“Yes,” he replied, short, before addressing the squad once more. “This is my new ride, so I won’t be sharing. Finral’s still here, if you need quick transport.” You sputtered at his choice of words—his ride? Sharing?
“Oh! So you use spatial magic too?“ A starry-eyed boy inched closer. “That’s so cool! Can I see?”
“Oh, no,” you shook your head, but at his continued interest, showed him the band encircling one of your fingers anyway. Haunted by the memory of your shoddy escape the week prior, you started wearing multiple rings on both hands, in addition to keeping one tucked away in your grimoire pouch, just in case. “While I do use a form of spatial magic, I’m actually—”
“What did I just say?” You didn’t need to turn around to know who was towering behind you, the mana in the air stirring like crazy.
Despite that, the boy carried on, unfazed. “But sir! The use of any teleportation magic must take an incredible amount of control—”
“Which is why I need you to bugger off, so my ride can be in top condition for me. C’mon,” with a glance in your direction, he gestured with a jerk of the head and walked towards the front door.
Stepping outside in the dancing shadow of the trees, you were struck at the difference in lighting, how striking he really was. Out in the morning sunshine, you forgot the words you held for him for over a week. The blue morning glow of the waking sun didn’t do him justice, if this is what he truly looked like, underneath the new warm hue. The thin undershirt he wore did little to hide anything—especially since he chose to wear nothing over said shirt—skin all but bared to the world, in all it’s severe beauty.
He was a warrior alright and had the scars to match, crisscrossing his skin in rough patches; down his arms, across his shoulders, and up higher, to the one bisecting his brow, and the one set at the corner of his mouth.
To keep from staring at his lips, your eyes lowered to his jaw, and focused in on the stubble, down his neck, evolving into the hair leading to the peek of his toned chest underneath it all.
Suddenly, you felt the need for a cold drink. You spun a band circled around a finger. “Um,” you began. “Captain Yami Sukehiro?”
“Just Yami’s fine,” he said, and went to light a cigarette.
“Captain Yami,” you said instead, resulting in a click of his tongue and quirk of his brow. Actually just Yami, I guess. You’d work on it. For now, you were trying to remember what it was that you had been meaning to say to him.
He led you out here with some type of purpose. You stopped fretting with the robe in your hands. You had to speak your mind, first and foremost.
“Yami,” you met his eyes. Steel. Like his blade, you did not know how much power it hid. But you were not afraid. “You said you wanted me for my magic. You may be my captain now, but I do not intend to be taken advantage of. I will not be overworked.”
His reply was instantaneous. It was different than before, when he walked out of the alleyway; instead of his entire being, this laugh came from the chest—throwing his head back with the force of it. Your eyes widened, before it clicked. Before, you felt as if he was laughing at you—now, it was something different entirely.
He smiled at you, big and proud, and declared—“I like you.” Warmth welled up inside as a weight seemed to lift itself off of you; like the smoke rising from his lips. He lifted a hand and before you knew it, he was ruffling the hair atop your head. “I don’t give jobs to people who can’t handle it.” You blinked. “Don’t sweat it—you’re my ride. Simple as that.”
So what Finral told you was true. You were so lost in that thought, you didn’t notice Yami’s hand go to smooth out your hair, running down, until it stilled, cupping the side of your face. You felt warmth once more, but not from the inside. “What—what are you—”
“Getting to know one another, like I said we would.” Before you could piece together what he meant, he pinched at your cheek.
“Ack!”
“You’re too serious,” he said, like a statement. “You’ve been running around all week. Every time I tried to find you, you were off doing some other thing. When you were here, you were either off with Finral or busy in your room. When was I supposed to be with you?”
It sounded distinctly like a pout. You stood there, rubbing at your cheek, staring at him. Yami Sukehiro, with a plume of smoke surrounding him, trying to wave it away. Like a distraction. He shifted his feet. Put his hands in his pockets. Removed one to scratch at the back of his neck.
He clicked his tongue. The robe you had resumed fretting with was snatched from you, and before you could even process it, Yami’s hands were at your front, doing up the button and straightening up the hood around your shoulders. “You’re a Black Bull,” his eyes were downcast, focusing on his work. And then, quieter: “I said I wanted you.”
You remembered the alleyway, and the sun eclipsing him; his touch, and the way he held your hand. “Oh,” was all you could manage. The transfer was busy work. He must have not realized that. And when he gestured to your still fretting hands, all you could do was stare harder.
“You have more this time,” his hands went back into his pockets. “That’s good, for you.”
The subject change nearly gave you whiplash, despite the pause between. “Um, thanks?”
“Yeah. Anyways, mark this one too.”
It was a simple band. Black, with no embellishments; and when he tilted it in the light, it seemed to swallow the sunshine whole. Dark and—when you got a closer look—incredibly inviting. As you held it in your hand, you noticed it was lightweight. Sturdy, with a smooth finish. Whichever material it was made of felt powerful where it sat. Indestructible. It would not shatter so easily.
It was only after you marked it did you realize you’ve never imprinted upon a ring that didn’t belong to a family member.
After you were done, he slipped it on—left hand, ring finger. His non-dominate hand. A good choice, for his fighting style; he wouldn’t have to worry about changing the way he handled the grip of his sword. It would be out of the way, but at the ready if he needed it.
“There,” he said, with a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. You tried not to stare. “Had it made. Figured I’d need one for myself—your hands are puny.”
You sputtered. “Not everyone is as big as you!”
He carried on as if you didn’t say anything. “Thought maybe, if you gave me one of yours, I could wear it on a chain or something. But that seemed like a hassle, so this was what I got instead.”
He held his hand up to the light. One of the things Yami was known for was his magic attribute—it seemed fitting that he would choose an accessory that physically matched the aesthetic; though, you never would have guessed he cared about that sort of thing. A black hole, it claimed space for itself; tugging you in and pulling you within his reach. His hand was warm, when your fingers intertwined.
“It’s beautiful,” you told him. The compliment, however, got drowned out by another, more pressing noise.
“Attaboy, Captain!” someone cheered from an open window. Then, from someone at the front door—“I’m happy you found the perfect ring!”
You turned to see what seemed like the entire base crowded around each other in windows and the entranceway, making no effort to hide themselves as they watched the two of you.
“That’s the man’s way!” The man with the mohawk pumped his fist in the air. “Straightforward!”
The witch held up a bottle, “Let’s celebrate!”
The short one next to her nodded enthusiastically, “We’ll have a feast!”
The man with the hair covering his eye looked surprised. “So this is what they meant when they said Yami was after someone…”
It appeared, where you stood, that there had been a major misunderstanding. Rumors are already spreading in the workplace—on your first day, nonetheless! Involving your boss. Your mother had warned you to stay out of Black Bull scandals; but there you were, in front of the entire squadron, probably ruining Yami’s reputation even more. You dreaded the headlines already—the immigrant Magic Knight captain, abusing his position of authority. Alternatively: the rookie mage, a golddigger.
In your horror, you spotted Finral in the back. Meeting your eyes, he gave you a thumbs up.
“What are you bums doing standing around for?!” Yami charged forth. “Go find some work, all of you!”
Scrambling out of sight, the group dispersed rapidly. Based on the shielded grins and fading laughter, you did not think that reaction cleared up anything at all. What a start to the day.
116 notes · View notes
stargazer-dreamer · 1 year
Text
Dedicated Life
character: spike spiegel
reader: gender neutral; briefly referred to as “it.” grim reaper
content warnings: major character death. canon-typical violence. brief sexual interaction; mildly dubious consent. unreliable narrator
notes: also on ao3. 1k+ word count
You thought, perhaps, in another life—free of your shackles and chains—he would find no interest in you. Chasing death, or death chasing him, you would not have run across each other. Before judgement, or after, his soul would have been claimed; a stack of stories, a patient to someone else. Regardless, where your fate landed you, intertwined with his, he was placed within your grasp, in the very end.
---
You were a grim reaper. You didn’t know for how many centuries you had been forced into this sentence but it was all you knew, now. Perhaps you were human, once. An angel, maybe. What sin you committed lost as the years went by, until it didn’t matter to you much at all.
Being the guide to the afterlife wasn’t too bad, all things considered. The only thing that struck your cord was when your patient was lucid enough to ask what awaited for them on the other side.
“I don’t know,” you would say, as you readied your scythe. “I’ve never been there.”
And it was the truth, as simple as that. Once souls were freed you simply looked on as they ascended. You were told, once, that ascension didn’t indicate where the soul headed in the very end. Up was simply where the judgement room was located, and—if the soul was worthy—further ascension was permitted. If they did not qualify to see the pearly gates, they fell into the below.
(You thought, early on, perhaps, you were once in that room, long ago. What did you do to deserve such servitude?)
Your recent patient was one Spike Spiegel. A participant in organized crime and predicted to meet his end trying to escape that chapter of his life. If you cared, you would feel sorry for him—but, as it was, his story was one in a stack of many you had to work through, so you headed to his location and waited for his soul to appear.
You were told he fought with grace. They were wrong. There was nothing beautiful in the way his blood splattered the walls and the bodies in his wake. The fire, or the explosion.
He sat in his man-made machine and that was it—the moment you were to reap him. He had such an ugly expression. He was waiting for you, you knew. Your eyes had met, briefly, before he offered himself.
How nice.
You pushed his soul back into place.
Failure to complete your mission would end in your demise. You followed him. You watched as he struggled, and fought, and lived. You started to see what was so beautiful about him.
The day his funds were up was the day he met his partner, during the midnight hours. Jet Black—as the records showed—and they met in the rain.
How fitting.
Spike was charming when he wanted to be, but you weren’t so sure he had the same effect drenched, with his hair curling into his eyes. (Perhaps it would have worked on you, were you human.) His future partner was hesitant about letting him aboard his ship, but a gust of wind picked up, and the shadows shifted.
The man’s gaze settled on you. This wasn’t unheard of. Some mortals simply held better perception than others. Animals, for example. Dogs. After a moment, he looked ready to address you, but Spike spoke up, drawing the man’s eyes away.
“You see it too?” You could hear how his lips curved. “I think it likes me.”
That made you feel something. You didn’t know what.
In the end, Spike was allowed to live on the ship. Part of you believed it was a ploy to get him away from you. You would had been happy for him if it wasn’t your duty to sever him. You had to follow him everywhere. You supposed, one day, you would finish your duty. You didn’t want to finish your duty.
The rare days he could perceive you were the bad ones. He only saw you when hunts went for the worst. He always offered. You never took. On slow days, he would speak into the room, as if he could hear you. It was nice, if not a bit sad.
You never took him. (Oh, how tempting he was.)
Eventually, he got a dog. It constantly acknowledged you, and the acknowledgment only seemed to please Spike. Now, he could tell what part of the room you were in. Occasionally, your exact location.
His partner, on the other hand, was less than pleased with this turn of events. Horrified, even. Especially when he walked in on Spike blindly complimenting your eyes. “Striking,” he had said. “I could get lost in them.”
(You supposed he could, when he could see them.)
The woman did not hold perception. You were unsure, when it came to the child. You thought she was simply in-tune with the dog. You didn’t know how. The man tried to ignore you. You could tell you unsettled him, there on his ship. After his partner. You didn’t quite care.
One night, as he was getting ready for bed, Spike spoke up. “Come to bed with me.” A pause, before he climbed under the covers. “If you laid here, would I feel it?” He got no response, couldn’t, and eventually fell asleep.
Sitting on the edge of the bed, you wanted to stroke his cheek. For fear of waking him, however, you left him be.
You wondered why he chose to hunt bounties. You wondered why you had to reap souls. While your list of stories came to a sudden halt after him, his hunts existed in infrequent intervals. Money, and bullets, and blood, lost and grew, slowly and suddenly. You wished his soul not to ascend, away from you, into an unknown you feared for him. You wished to stay with him forever.
On a sick night, dazed and fever-hot, they could not afford to send him to a hospital. On that night, he offered himself up, once more. But instead of his soul, you swallowed him down, every inch you could take, as his moans filled his room, locked tight, dark, and alone. His soul lingered, singing, clinging to your form. Free to do as you wished as he begged for more.
(You hoped he would not remember, in the morning.)
As the days passed, months, years, in your duration with him, you thought, perhaps, you could keep him mortal forever. Human. Yours. It was on a dark day that he spoke aloud to you, “I have to finish this. Come and take me, when it’s all over.”
And with a bang, it was over. The destruction in his wake, blood on the walls. You never understood this side of him.
As he laid motionless and broken on the steps, you eyed his suspended soul as you approached closer. You had half the mind to coax it back into its vessel, to breathe life into him once more—but then came a more pressing thought. Grabbing his essence with both hands, you yanked it free from its mortal coil and smiled at it.
Finally, you had him. As the peanut gallery drew near, you held it close to your chest, like a physical thing. It was upsetting that he couldn’t meet your eyes, one last time. He never even acknowledged you once, in the duration of the entire fight.
But he fought with grace. And for that, you opened your maw and swallowed him whole.
18 notes · View notes