#cowboy bebop fic

[stargazer-dreamer]

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.

[keigologies]

sick heart, sick body, s. spiegel

syn. you both got some healing to do.

gen. romance, sick fic.

warnings. canon typical spike banter.

word count. 2.1k.

note. this was posted on ao3 forever ago and i said it was cross-posted here, but i ... clearly never actually did that... until now... oops (?)

spike has known you for most of his bounty hunting career. you came on the team a year after he himself joined jet, proving yourself to be not some wayward hitchhiker they'd have to take care of on their own dime, but a genuine asset: budgeting skills like no other (which the bebop crew really needed help with, though they would object to if questioned), ways of drawing out bounty heads into false senses of security (without causing a fire fight, something spike could really learn from, according to jet), disciplined in all the ways that matter. you're a quick learner; given the time and patience, you'd been able to pick up on his fighting style and you'd learned enough about mechanical engineering to help him and jet in repairing things on the bebop and the other spaceships on board.

all that to say: you're strong and spike has never known you to be anything else. you're smart, quickwitted, a powerhouse bounty hunter with all the skills that matter. you may be a little quiet, a little meek at points, but you're strong, almost untouchable.

so it surprises him when you come down especially hard with a severe case of the flu. it sounds so... primitive, he thinks, just some stupid earth sickness that honestly can't compete with some of the (quite frankly) awesomely-titled sicknesses that have come to be since the colonization of other planets; really, he justifies to himself, venus sickness sucks, but it is a cool name.

he cringes when he hears you cough for what might seriously be the hundreth time tonight and then mentally punches himself for taking the piss out of what you're going through right now. jet had said you'd contracted it while you guys were hanging around in tijuana and spike had been off tracking bounties; it was just coughing and congestion at first, but apparently, it eventually morphed into something way more severe. you'd quarantined yourself immediately to keep them safe, which spike has respected since he got back earlier in the day, but he shares a bedroom wall with you and damn him if you think he's going to allow you to keep suffering like this without him interfering.

your next coughing fit sends him up and out of the comforting warmth of his bed. it's not like he's angry with you or anything - sure, the coughing is getting on his nerves, but he knows you can't help it and he's not that much of a heartless asshole to be mad at you for keeping him from sleeping specifically because you're ill. really, he finds himself wanting (needing, maybe) to check on you, to make sure you have everything you need so you can rest easy and recover faster.

he realized a long time ago that he'd become jaded about the world. with everything that happened in the before the bebop era, it was clear why he'd become so disillusioned and nonchalant about things. with his past, things just didn't matter as much; he still had life to live, but he'd decided to be a little more reckless about things. he didn't want to waste time worrying about things that didn't concern him, now or ever: whatever happens, happens.

your being sick isn't really any of his business because outside of him having to listen to you cough all night for as long as you're ill, it doesn't concern him in the slightest. he means, it shouldn't concern him because it really shouldn't, but there's a part of him that's... open to the idea of being concerned for you and your wellbeing, which is strange to him because he shut himself off from ideas like that decades ago, it seems like. it's not that he's incapable of it, of caring for another person, but rather that he feels it's more of a betrayal. he'd given his heart to another and he'd never truly gotten it back.

though, in the five long strides it takes him to cross from his door to your own, he thinks that maybe he had gotten it back, years ago even, and he was too afraid to admit it to himself. so many things he'd held himself back from for years, all in the name of a woman who had disappeared into the ether without so much as a trace. she was gone; dead or alive, julia was gone and she had been for a long time. it's been time for him to douse that torch for a while now.

and when he comes to this conclusion in those five strides, he thinks that you getting sick might be a blessing in disguise, at least for him, because he's realizing now that he's been taken with you for quite some time. he's not sure when it first started, this infatuation with you, but it certainly isn't recent. he supposes it doesn't matter, however, because he's realizing it now, on his way to rescue you from an earth virus that definitely had a way lamer name than other sicknesses, which is a comment he's sure you'll laugh at and agree with him about if he brings it up.

once he finally raps his knuckles on the sliding metal door leading to your bedroom, he hears the beginning syllable of "come" before it's interrupted by a ragged cough. your voice, rough and almost whispered, struggles to say "come in," but you finally manage it and he opens the door just enough to slide in, ducking under the door frame.

"you feeling alright?" he asks, closing the door behind him. "you've been hacking up a lung all night."

you do your best to laugh, but it's a sad attempt, barely there and hoarse. a piece of him wilts at the sound, sad to hear you in such a bad condition. "better than i was yesterday."

"sure doesn't sound like it," he answers, turning towards you. he withers a little more.

you look so small in your bed, under what he can only guess to be every single available blanket on the bebop. you have dark circles under your eyes, your cheeks sunken and your skin pallid in accordance. you look like you have one foot in the grave.

"jesus," spike says, crossing the small room to your bedside and sitting on the edge. "you look awful. have you been eating?"

somehow, he's able to recognize your shrug under fifteen different blankets. "we're almost out of food. didn't wanna bother jet about it or throw the budget out of sorts."

"are you being serious right now? fuck the budget. you have to eat when you're sick like this." he genuinely frowns and presses the back of his hand to your forehead and then cheeks. "and you're burning up. did you just decide to forgo medicine in the name of the budget too?"

you shrug again.

"you're the worst." 

but you can tell he's joking because if he really thought that, he wouldn't be here at all. he stands and when he turns to look at you, you've got a questioning expression on your face.

"oh, don't look at me like that. i'm not just going to come in here, berate you for being stupid about being sick, and then leave. i'm going to go see if i can track down some medicine."

"it's not gonna be any of that weird shit you keep in the first aid kit, is it?" you ask, a grimace clear on your face.

"okay, first off, that weird shit is home remedies and they work just fine. second, no, i'm not stupid. that stuff isn't going to cure what you have, so don't worry your pretty little head, alright? the newt stays in the kit another day."

the last comment makes you laugh and this time, it's not as hoarse as it was a few minutes ago, which makes him smile to himself. with you being in the state you are, it's nice to hear a few seconds of your cool, clear laugh. something about it anchors him to this moment in time, reminds him that he's not as cold and as standoffish as he's always presented himself to be in this new life of his; no, he's capable of caring for people like this, of loving someone like this. he's got something good here with you and he's always had it, he's just never let himself think that it was his to actually indulge in.

"i'll see what i can find. in the meantime, start deconstructing that 'money is more important than my pressing health needs' mindset you apparently have going on, okay? i mean, really, you were worried about the budget? you know jet would agree with me here, as much as he complains about not having money. plus, shit that you can't account for happens."

"okay, okay, i get it." you accompany your words with an eye roll, but the smile is clear on your lips, which are cracked from dehydration. "can we save the lecture for when you get back? or just save it for jet altogether since i know you'll end up snitching to him about this eventually anyway?"

spike scowls, but it's obviously playful. "don't go catching an attitude with me. i'm generously playing nurse for you right now when i could very well just let you suffer here alone."

"oh, this is you playing nurse? then you really oughta work on your bedside manner, spiegel. it's atrocious."

he shakes his head and begins backing away from you, arms crossed over his chest. "keep acting like that and maybe i'll feed you that newt after all."

"yeah, yeah, yeah. i think jet's been hiding chamomile tea somewhere in the living room. make some for me, please?"

"you're real lucky i'm in the mood to be compassionate," he jokes, finally turning to open the door. "you want honey with it?"

"if we have any."

"you got it. don't fall asleep before i get back or i'm ratting you out to jet about this tea too."

he hears your hum of affirmation as he steps into the hallway and when he closes the door behind him, he allows himself to assess the whole interaction. if this had occurred at any point before now, he would have felt entirely disgusted with himself, but at present, he realizes he doesn't really mind. you've taken care of him an innumerable amount of times since joining him and jet, serving as the defacto nurse on the bebop, and this could easily be just him returning the favor, but it feels like so much more than that. 

because it is. if it was anyone else, if was any other time, he wouldn't be feeling this way: soft and warm on the inside like heat without his trusty cigarette. when he'd left the syndicate and faked his death, he'd sworn off love and adoration and affection. they had been his downfall once, they would not ruin him a second time. sure, he'd come to trust jet more than he'd trusted anyone before, but he kept even him at arm's length, afraid of what might happen if he let him come too close to orbit. 

and while it worked for the most part, spike has been learning (for what he assumes is quite a long time) that cutting those kinds of human connections of out of one's life isn't the way to go about healing, especially when the person one wants to love has proven time and time again that they're worthy of being trusted. there is no life without love because life without love and companionship is a sickness of the heart and he's let it fester for far too long.

so when he comes back to your room with a hot mug of chamomile tea with honey, a few pieces of hard tack he scrounged up, and some generic medicine, and he finds you asleep? he doesn't find himself all too annoyed with you like he threatened he'd be. no, instead, he feels a little bad when he has to wake you up to drink and eat and take the medicine he had to go digging through too many drawers for. and when you apologize for keeping him up with your coughing, he tells you you're the worst next door neighbor for it (a joke), but he's glad he can help you (not a joke).

and when you ask him if he'll stay for a while (just to make sure i'm not going to die in my sleep, you reason), he agrees and lays under your fifteen blankets with you until your breathing evens out and you're fast asleep, and even then, he stays just a little bit longer than he needs to, relishing in the feeling of sharing a bed with another person again.

he figures you've both got some healing to do, so you won't mind if he falls asleep with you. 

© keigologies 2023. do not translate, copy, or repost my work on any site.

[haveyoureadthisfanfic]

Summary: 38 Anime characters (and 2 western animated characters) wake up in a luxurious mansion. Currently theyre just exploring, but after the first 40 chapters its a "Watch your own Show" fic. 

Author: @the-ravenclaw-werewolf

[deancasanimebang]

1,2,3, Let's Jam

Anime: Cowboy Bebop

Author: @bleuzombie​

Banner Artist: @sketcheun

Story Artist/Beta: @nickelkeep

Rating: Mature

Word Count: 6,962

Pairing: Castiel/Dean Winchester

Warnings: Graphic Depiction of Violence 

Additional Tags: Organized crime, Violence, Guns, Lovers to Enemies, Spaceships, Dystopian Future, Bounty Hunter Dean, Crime Lord Castiel, Blow Jobs, Trans Dean Winchester, Found Family, Stabbing, Smoking, Minor Character Death

Summary:

Bounty Hunters Dean, Vic, and Hacker Kevin are dealing with the aftermath of theft and sabotage at Charlie’s hands when Dean discovers signs of his lost love Castiel. Instead Dean discovers the man who killed Castiel. But Leviathan is more than he seems.

Link to Fic || Link to Banner Art || Link to Story Art

[kirbyskisses]

kirby’s kinktober (thirty-one)

aftercare//spike spiegel (part 2)

happy halloween. i’m shadowbanned, but thank you everybody for me followed me through this crazy month. 

you almost to laugh at the way spike’s eyes never leaves your form.

he stands, sculpted form still naked as he puts fresh sheets onto the bed where you’d just made love.

love. you said you loved him. him. it wasn’t a slip of the tongue. not some random “i love you” brought upon by the shaking strength of your orgasm. not some general statement that you loved the feeling of his body - his cock pulling and pushing into your wet cunt. you weren’t remembering some other man or woman while in an orgasmic haze.

you looked into his eyes and with a slow, breathy tone said “i love you, spike spiegel” until he spurted ropes of hot cum inside you.

it wracks only his mind like a war flashback despite not being from more than 5 minutes ago.

“spike?” you call in a sing songy tone. it reminds him of faye for a bit before bring him to the present.

right.

the present.

focusing on the present now. the present where your beautiful, dark body that he was just entangled in stands with his wet and heated stains still on your thighs.

“oi! spike!” he shoots up. that one reminds him of jet.

“jeez! yeah?”

“you gonna stare at me all night or get in shower before we run out of hot water?” you chide but your face softens when he follows you like a lost child.

you moan at the refreshing feeling of the hot water and your hands wash each other. you scrub his hair.

his heart is racing. this is dumb. he’s not some hormonal teenager - you’d bathed him plenty of times when he was recovering from his injuries, too weak to move his arms.

now you say you love him and the touches make his brain into mush. he sighs and pulls you into a deep kiss under the hot water without warning.

“you really meant that?” he asks huskily when you pull apart, spit still connecting you. “loving me? the cowboy who got blood all over your couch and doesn’t even have a proper job.”

“i make enough money and you’ve been through hell i don’t expect you to get a job.”

you laugh but his brown eye is serious. he really means it. suddenly, you’re the insecure teenager as he takes in every nook and cranny of your body and facial expression. you bite your lip and let out a shy, “yeah.”

“‘course i did. but you’ve been through years of physiological and emotional trauma so it’s not like i expect it back. if that’s what’s got your head all stalled, feel free to forget it.”

he pauses and gives a sullen nod before turning away. you get the feeling he won’t say it back and it puts a pain in your chest. the pain is only fleeting however as you kiss his shoulder from behind and admire the scratches you carved down his smooth back.

“i liked that little song though.” you smirk, genuine humor and affection radiating off of you again in an instant.

spike lets out a pithy chuckle, turns off the water when dries both of you off, boxers on and a fluffy towel around his neck when he picks you up in a bridal carry.

“what the - you know i can walk from a bathroom to a bed, right spike? it’s like 5 feet away.”

his serious expression gives way to that same coolheaded, slightly cocky grin you’ve come to memorize when he lays you on the bed and restarts the sweet, vinyl record again, leaning to kiss you deeply again and again and again.

“yeah, and i also know you can cook. but let me get some chicken fried rice and warm blankets for the woman I love. then when we wake up - round two? i want to hear it again.”

“hear what again?” you tease but his hand, roughed from fighting for so long turns your chin to him - eye focused on you and you alone; no dream, no nightmares, no bounty hunting or smoking, just your eyes and the faded marks he just washed.

“i love you.”

[thestarlightsymphony]

some spikefaye angst inspired by 'Smoke and Mirrored Soul'

[social-mockingbird]

sunlight eyes

(an Obiyuki Cowboy Bebop AU)

obiyuki bingo 2023, yeehaw! this is my first time participating, and I’m really excited to see all of the entries and post my own! this particular fic is based on the finale of cowboy bebop (with some changes, obviously) because apparently I like sadness. it was hilarious to see the similarities between the two shows: namely the existentialism and tendency towards poetic monologues, except it’s hopeful in AnS and sad in CBB. go figure. enjoy!

________

Zen’s eyes were dead before the rest of him was, and he was pointing a gun at her.

“You didn’t come because of the rain?” Her hands were in her pockets in a deliberate act of nonchalance. They were also the only part of her that was shaking.

“I was supposed to kill you,” Zen said, steady in his aim. “That day, if I had killed you, I would have been free.”

“So why didn’t you?” Shirayuki could feel her composure slipping. Zen’s eyes were so dark, devoid of anything human. Once they’d been brighter than the summer skies. She’d lain under their gaze and flown. “Why did you choose to be chased, Zen, it doesn’t make sense.”

“Why did you love me?”

“What?”

The gun was rattling. “Why did you love me?”

Shirayuki couldn’t breathe. She’d waited for him that day, waited and let herself cry, letting the thunder mingle with her sobs, and she’d wondered then if there had ever been any love in his eyes, or if it was just the thrill of illegality. She’d been poisoned by him. She’d fallen in love with an illusion, and now she was terrified of waking up.

Zen had put down his gun. His hands were on her shoulders. He was embracing her, fingers in her hair, breath on her neck. She couldn’t move a muscle.

“Let’s just run away somewhere,” Zen said in her ear, and his voice was warm on her skin. “Just the two of us. Escape this world—go where no one else is. Fly away with me, Shirayuki. Please. It’ll be like a dream.”

Something deep in Shirayuki’s chest snapped. She could feel her feet on the ground, solid on the wet gravel. She could feel how his hands were clenched behind her back, not touching her despite his loving embrace. He was almost falling into her, heavy, trapping her in place.

And yet, if she opened her mouth, she knew she’d say yes. ___

There was a time when the smoke would have bothered her lungs, when she would have hated the acrid taste on her tongue, when she would have stolen the smokes from her friends’ fingers and crushed them under her boots. Shirayuki had been a healer, and she’d believed in the sanctity of the body.

But now she breathed in the nicotine with a straight face, reveling in the calm it brought her thudding heart.

The year was 2071, and it was always raining. Someone poked her arm.

“Thinking too much, cowgirl?”

“Not thinking at all.” White hair in an arc of blood. Birds like reapers carrying his soul away in their wake. Blue eyes turning to glass.

“Then what’s that frown for?”

“Obi, stop.” Shirayuki dodged his prodding finger, almost stepping out from under the wing of the ship into the pouring rain.

It was raining then, too. Hazy like a nightmare.

In response, Obi slung a blanket over her shoulders. His hands were warm even through the fabric. He never could seem to lash back out at her. 

“You’ll catch a cold like that,” he said, grinning as Shirayuki fumbled with the blanket and draped it over her arms like a cape. “Mitsuhide’s making breakfast.”

“Eggs again?”

“It’s all we’ve got, so don’t complain,” Mitsuhide yelled from somewhere inside the ship. How he’d heard Shirayuki from that far was a mystery. Maybe he was running on autopilot.

Obi’s skin had the same greyish shadow as Shirayuki’s did in the overcast light, but there was still a rosy undertone to his face that hadn’t been there in a long time. She’d never admit it did her good to see some color in his cheeks. Obi had been fresh out of snark and sarcasm lately since his last impromptu trip, and it had bothered her more than she’d like to admit to see him looking so serious.

“I’m not going to leave again,” Obi said quietly.

“Huh?” Shirayuki turned, finally looking him in the eye. Gold was so different than blue.

“My memory came back.”

Shirayuki blinked. “I thought it wasn’t going to. Obi, you hit your head so hard.”

Blood on the pavement, blood on her hands. She’d screamed his name when he wouldn’t wake up. That day he’d promised to tell her where he was going every time he left—and for someone so secretive, he’d never broken that promise.

“Nothing good came of it,” Obi laughed, bitterness on his tongue. “There was nowhere for me to return to. Torou’s long gone. I can never be Nanaki again. This—you were the only thing I could return to.”

“Obi, wait—”

“Let me finish, please.” Obi, usually so deferent to her, was facing her with thunder in his eyes. Shirayuki closed her mouth.

“You’re leaving. I can see it in your eyes. That mess with Zen and with Izana is getting to you, and you’re going to leave, and knowing you, you’re going to do it when I can’t go after you.”

Shirayuki dropped the cigarette to the ground and crushed it under her boot to avoid looking at him.

“You’re going to do something hopelessly noble and horrifically stupid and I—Shirayuki, I can’t lose you.”

“You wouldn’t be losing me, Obi, I’m not going there to die.”

“Zen’s gone,” Obi said quietly. “Isn’t he?”

He was falling like a trapeze artist without a net, boots sliding on the rain-slick rooftop. She’d felt something tear in her throat when she screamed and she scraped her hands and knees when she fell beside him, cradling his body in her arms, hoping there was still light in his eyes, shaking him, praying. Why couldn’t she stop crying?

“Izana’s men killed him,” Shirayuki was able to say, wondering vaguely why her cheeks were wet. “I have to go after him. He can’t keep doing this to people, it’s not right. He killed his own brother because of me.” “This is…a dream?”

Zen pulled her close, blood-spattered hands clutching her lapels. He was so heavy in her arms.

She hated herself for lying to Obi. There was nothing noble about what she planned to do. Izana had killed Zen, and there was a hole in her heart that needed fixing.

His gaze was far away, and he was smiling, looking through her.

“Yeah,” she’d choked. “Just a dream.”

There was one other thing she couldn’t tell Obi. She prayed he couldn’t see it in her face.

“Food’s getting cold,” Mitsuhide shouted from inside, and Shirayuki got caught up in racing Obi for breakfast, glad she didn’t have to keep fielding his questions. There would be time enough to answer all of his questions if she was right. And if she wasn’t, well…he could find the answers on his own.

____

It was quiet on the ship when Shirayuki left her room. They were drifting gently through space, sleeping with the stars, and she took advantage of the silence, sneaking to the dock. The tiny exploration ship sagged a bit, but it would do.

She heard the click before Obi stepped out of the darkness, pointing his pistol at her.

“Where are you going?”

Shirayuki lifted her hands, pivoting to face him. She hadn’t noticed him in the shadows.

“Where are you going?” Obi repeated. He was close to her now, gun lowered to her belly. She knew it was just a way to get her to talk. He’d told her the day he boarded the Bebop that hurting her was never something he planned to do. She’d taken it as a joke then, but he’d kept his promise. Obi never seemed to break his word. Unlike her.

“You told me once,” Obi said, resting the gun gently against Shirayuki’s stomach, flicking the safety on, “that the past didn’t matter.”

“I don’t care what your real name is,” Shirayuki had grumbled, the softness of her hands contrasting with her sharp tone. “I don’t care what you did before. Can you just stop letting your past rule you? It doesn’t matter. In the end it’s just a stepping stone. And no one dwells on those.”

Obi looked at the girl bandaging his arm, feeling her warm fingers on his skin, and wondered why there were tears standing in her eyes.

Shirayuki nodded.

“Then why are you so tied to yours?” Obi had lowered the gun now, and was almost leaning into her space, nose inches from hers.

“I’m not,” she protested. “I have to go, Obi, please—”

Obi grabbed her arms, not hurting her, but keeping her in place. “I never thought I’d see the day you went for revenge, Shirayuki. If I know you, that’s not what this is, despite what you want me to think. Please don’t lie to me.”

Why had she loved Zen so much?

“You’re right, it’s not for revenge.” Shirayuki was desperate now. She could feel her heart beating, her pulse picking up, and it was getting harder to tamp down. “I have to go, Obi, I have to see if-if he really loved me and if I loved him and if it was worth it.” She broke his gaze and looked at her feet. “I have to see if he’s worth dying for.” Her voice was too shaky and quiet for her liking. “He decided I was and I want to return the favor.”

Obi felt cold. “You—that’s not something you repay, Shirayuki. Death doesn’t have to be life for life, especially when the person who died for you didn’t really love you in the first place.”

That’s what Obi wanted to say. He wanted to shake Shirayuki, wanted to tell her that she shouldn’t throw her life away. That Zen had loved the game of her hatred for Izana more than he’d loved her. That he’d loved defying Izana by being with her. That Zen died because Izana didn’t forgive betrayal, and his revenge was vicious. Obi knew enough after talking to Mitsuhide, and everything else he’d figured out on his own.

But he didn’t.

Obi instead put his hands on Shirayuki’s shoulders and pulled her into his arms.

Weightless on his feet, sunlight in his eyes. Obi was light in every sense of the word.

Shirayuki snaked her fingers around Obi’s waist, burying her face in his neck. It was all she could do. It hurt to hold him but she wasn’t letting go.

When he put his hands on her shoulders, she didn’t feel like she was being weighed down, only filled up. “This isn’t something you solve by dying,” Obi said in her ear. “You’re gonna carry that weight of feeling like you don’t understand and don’t deserve someone’s sacrifice, and that’s okay. He wanted you to live, Shirayuki—I want you to live.” Obi held her tighter. “And if that means carrying the weight with you, say the word. But please don’t go down this path. Don’t die for someone who doesn’t deserve you.”

Shirayuki stiffened and Obi was terrified she’d been offended.

“I’m not going there to die, Obi,” she said, almost too quietly for him to hear. She slid her hands up his back, over the planes of his shoulders. Obi shivered, just a little. “I’m going there to find out if I’m really alive.”

Obi leaned back and looked her in the eyes.

“Well, now, if that isn’t the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard,” he said, laughing a little, raising an eyebrow, and then Shirayuki was pulling him forward with her hands in his hair, and Obi couldn’t remember anything else he’d planned to say because Shirayuki’s mouth was the softest thing he’d ever tasted. She kissed him long and sweet, letting him hold her waist and press into her, and Obi tried his hardest not to think about how much this felt like a goodbye.

Shirayuki pulled back first, hands gentle on the back of Obi’s neck, a little dazed. She hadn’t really thought before kissing Obi and now she couldn’t think at all.

Why had she loved Zen?

Obi was leaning down, chasing her mouth, and she tilted up into him, closing her eyes. She felt tears on her cheeks and realized they weren’t hers, and her hands went to Obi’s face, cupped his jaw, wiped his tears with her thumbs. Zen kissed her like a guilty man and held her like a dragon.

Obi was oh-so-gently stroking her sides with his thumbs, and through his tears was able to smile into her mouth when it made her gasp.

Obi made her feel like she was flying, and like she’d have somewhere to land.

Obi said her name and ran a hand into her hair.

It was so hard to figure out why she’d loved Zen.

Resting her head on his shoulder, reveling in his warmth, Shirayuki felt safe and contented. It was so easy to love Obi. “I’ve never carried anything, Obi,” Shirayuki said, under her breath, half-hoping he couldn’t hear. “Not really. Not with you around.”

She hadn’t loved Zen. She couldn’t. Not really.

She was never meant to.

“Then don’t. Live with me.”

Shirayuki pressed her lips to his cheeks, one after the other, kissing away the still-present tears.

“I still have to fight Izana,” she told him, and Obi nodded once.

“Don’t you dare do it without me.”

____

The elevator door opened and Shirayuki charged out, red hair and a spray of bullets, and Izana’s men dropped like dolls onto the slick linoleum. The main doors opened when she slammed into them, driving her shoulder into the curving floral dragons that embossed the wood. The roof exploded. Shirayuki flung up her arms and dove for the ground, debris raining down on her from above. She could hear Izana’s footsteps on the great stairs at the front of the room. She stood and shook herself, ears ringing, as Izana descended under the newly revealed night sky.

“I told you before, Shirayuki,” Izana said, pulling two silver katanas from a sheath on his back, “Zen’s death meant yours was next.”

“And if I return the favor?”

Clack-clack-clack went her pistol as she reloaded it. Izana quirked a brow.

“Either way, Zen doomed you to die. This was your destiny from the beginning.”

“Zen’s death has nothing to do with me anymore.” Shirayuki took aim, closed an eye. “Let’s end it all.”

“As you wish.”

She moved before he did, boots clattering halfway up the stairwell, bullets clashing with Izana’s blades. Shirayuki swooped under, shooting a katana out of Izana’s hand as he swiped at her, slicing her thigh, her side. Izana’s hand came down on her gun as hers grasped the handle of his sword, and they were locked, arms shuddering as they fought for control.

“You don’t control me,” Shirayuki growled. “You never did.”

Izana stepped back suddenly, reclaiming his sword, pushing her gun back into her hands.

“Then show me.”

Izana’s sword was a silver arc spinning towards her gut, and Shirayuki fired, knowing she wouldn’t be able to get out of the way, watching the bullet gleam, dreamlike, watching it find the mark.

Izana fell.

His sword stopped inches from her stomach.

Obi was holding the blade of the katana in a gloved hand, turning it in the air, flinging it far. His fingers were cut and bleeding and they were both alive.

Izana coughed, once, and quit breathing.

Then Obi was wrapped around her and Shirayuki went limp in his arms. ____

The first rays of dawn made the courtyard blindingly bright. Izana’s men watched the figure stagger out from the wreckage, raising guns and swords.

Obi set Shirayuki down and kissed her cheek, lowering his stance, prepared to run. He was holding Izana’s swords. Shirayuki raised her arm, pointing at Izana’s men, fingers in the shape of a gun. The smile came easily to her face now. It was so easy to smile when there was nothing weighing you down.

“Bang.”

And they charged.

--------

@snowwhite-andtheknight

[wetsoggybeans69]

I read a Vicious x Gren fanfiction a while ago, and im still devastated by it.

[stargazer-dreamer]

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.

[hartxstarr-art]

Half Life

Summary: He has nothing now. Friendships, and lovers, and goals, and dreams—he wonders if he ever had anything at all. The syndicate falls, and so does Spike. Faye feels quite the same.

Content Warnings: Angst and hurt/comfort. Not everything is fine.

Notes: Also on ao3. 700 word count. Post canon. Christmas.

Drinking martinis by myself on a sunday. Drinking martinis again on a monday.

“Half Life” by Trocadero. As a Red vs. Blue fan, I don’t necessarily view this song in a romantic sense. It’s about family, it’s about friendship, it’s about comrades in arms; it’s about losing someone you love, and missing someone you love, and thinking about someone you love—in this case: a sister about her brother.

Faye and Spike, after they find him broken and battered.

---

She knew now, as it came back to her in waves, that she grew up privileged. It never got below freezing in her hometown, so her father had them go someplace where it snowed for the season, during her holiday breaks; a ski resort or a log cabin, across seas, continents, chasing the snow and a cup of cocoa. They would play in the frost, get warm by the fire, and eat heartily; stews, and roasts, and candied fruits.

Spike never celebrated any holidays. He never had any vacations. He told her this on one of the rare days he felt up to talking, laying on the couch, no longer wrapped up as tightly. He stares up into the ceiling, and Faye thinks he isn’t looking at anything at all. Can’t. Not yet.

She got everyone something, a few weeks back—when everyone was still here, that is. A fancy-looking keyboard for Ed, a squeaky toy for Ein, a new toolkit for Jet, cologne for Spike. Not cheap stuff. She didn’t know why she did it at the time, but she knows now. Too bad it’s too late for that.

Jet always got him something, Spike said. Every year. A lighter, a wallet, a utility knife; in that order. Sturdy, practical. Very Jet. He hung up lights, wore funny sweaters, made Spike’s favorite meals. She thought she saw a ghost of a smile, at the recollection of the past three years.

She felt her heart sink.

It’s mid December, now. She doubts Jet will do anything this year. Not after that. Not after the limp still in his step and the constant furrow between Spike’s brows. Not after the quiet and the loss. She knows he knows this, too.

She wishes it didn’t feel so much like a ghost town aboard the ship. No more clicking of keys or barking. No music or whistling. Just the shifting of Bebop, it’s rumbling and rattling, the soft hum of energy. It’s stifling—no talking, no movement; like time has stood still, frozen, the tightness of the throat, near the top. Itchy.

Jet goes into the bonsai room. Spike has used up his word count for the day, laying his head upon his pillow and closes his eyes. He isn’t sleeping. Faye sits still for a moment. Debates. Heads to the storage. She finds the lights, rummages for the tape, gives up, takes the remaining box of adhesive bandages, and gets to work. It’s sloppy, and uneven, but by the end of the evening, she has the sitting room lit up in a colorful array.

She wipes sweat with the back of her hand and notices Spike lift his head, finally. He blinks. “Oh,” he says, which is one more word for the day—and it’s such a simple sound, but she found achievement in it, welling in her chest, her hands at her hips, as she surveys her work with renewed vigor.

She gestures, “Merry Christmas!”

He swallows. Chews the inside of his cheek. Puts his head back down, lifts it again—cranes his neck, looks at the lights. Faye watches them flicker in his eyes.

Finally: “It’s a bit too early, isn’t it?”

She huffs. “It’s the eighteenth.”

“Of November?”

“It’s December.”

“Oh.” He lays his head again. He’s silent for a long time. And then—“It’s been a month.” Simple. A statement. The passing of time.

“Yeah,” it comes out like a croak. She tries to compose herself. Stops, fails, feels the tears start falling. “Yeah.”

She cries, and Spike closes his eyes again. His mouth goes into a thin line before he gets to his feet, unsteady, aching, determined, and when he reaches for her she collapses into him, landing them backwards into the couch. She holds him, and it hurts, but she holds him, and she’s never held Spike before but he lets her now. Lets her finally notice the faintly protruding ribs and skinny limbs; and she searches her memory to see if he’s always been like that, always this small, this broken, and she cries even more when she remembers.

“Merry Christmas,” he says, slowly, thoughtfully. “It looks nice.” A beat, after she sniffles. “Thank you.” And she starts over again.

[bohemian-rhapsody-in-blue]

Bebop Crew July Challenge, Day 1: Midnight

Thanks to the @bebopcrew community for the prompt list! I’ll be writing fics based on their July 30-Day Challenge all this month (if I can!); I’ll also be posting them to AO3 here!

Fittingly, I wrote most of this around/past midnight—my sleep schedule is so messed up these days that I’m most productive between the hours of 11 PM and 4 AM, so that’s probably when I’ll be getting most of these stories posted. So if you see me posting, for instance, my fic for Day 1 on what’s technically July 2, well…that’s what I have to say for myself.

This fic was also (minorly) influenced by @graysongraysoff’s first fic for Beboptober 2020, “3, 2, 1…Let’s Jam!”

Also, enjoy this rejected first line: “There are many benefits to being a marine biologist bounty hunter….”

As the clock ticked past midnight, Spike and Jet sat on neighboring barstools, keeping a sharp lookout for the bounty head who was rumored to pass through this bar tonight—or from a message from Faye indicating that the bounty head had visited the bar where she was stationed, instead. There had been no sign of the guy for a while, and the only messages from Faye just consisted of her complaints of boredom. (The bar was on a relatively remote asteroid, after all.) The anticipation and the silence—other than the occasional attempt at conversation from Jet or the crack of peanut shells (no drinks for them tonight, or at least minimal drinks; they needed to focus)—gave Spike a lot of time to think about the reasons he’d become a bounty hunter in the first place. The reasons he’d chosen this offbeat, freelance profession to fill this part of his life—such as it was.

Sure, the paychecks were irregular, often scanty, and—more often than the crew would like—nonexistent. And he wasn’t one to pretend that the money didn’t matter, that he was purely in the bounty-hunting business for the love of the job or whatever. And sure, one could go on and on about catching bad guys, keeping them off the streets, bringing justice to the world—and Spike supposed those were advantages too, though he preferred to leave the philosophizing to Jet. And they definitely weren’t the reason he’d picked up the work. Anyway, on nights like these—when he and Jet and Faye were in their element, and he was sure a fat stack of Woolongs was on their way—Spike preferred to focus on the more practical benefits of the job.

Spike knew he’d chafe in some corporate 9-to-5 job, or in retail or customer service, or in any position with set hours and fake smiles and a supervisor breathing down his neck. He’d struggle and squirm as if wearing an ill-fitting jacket. And he couldn’t imagine having to say things like “actionable items” or “let’s circle back” with a straight face. He often griped and complained about the woes of bounty hunting, but he was feeling unusually optimistic tonight, and he had to admit, the freedom that this job afforded him suited him perfectly.

Take the work hours, for instance. Twelve A.M. and he was wide awake, raring for a catch; in twelve hours he’d probably be passed out on the Bebop’s couch. And the job was so unpredictable that in another twelve hours, he might still be asleep. This was the kind of schedule that suited him; he wouldn’t have it any other way.

And to be honest, midnight wasn’t a bad time to be up and working. The sky outside the bar was pitch-black, but the streets hummed with life. As Spike looked around, he saw flickering neon signs, sporadic streetlights, headlights of cars and spacecrafts, and the occasional tiny flame of a lighter filling the darkness. And while he and Jet were quiet, the bar was replete with lively conversation, raucous laughter, and the sounds of games of pool, foosball, and darts, often accompanied by wild cheering. These were technically Spike’s work hours. This bar was sort of his office. The gun resting securely at his side served as his office supplies. What boring corporate job would let him say that?

For another thing, he didn’t have to deal with any stupid dress codes; he never had to memorize the meanings of words like “business casual” or wear the same polo shirt with the same embroidered logo of the same megacorporation as everyone else. He did business dressed up in a suit and tie because he wanted to, and, in his opinion, it looked stylish as hell. (As bonuses, it also allowed him a lot of freedom of movement and was very comfortable, as was evident from the few times Ed had stolen and wrapped herself in it, gleefully flapping the ends of the sleeves.)

Perhaps the best aspect of the job, though, was that every day of it was different. It brought the Bebop crew in contact with such a wide variety of criminals and other strange characters—from senile old chessmasters, to vindictive bombers using teddy bears as their weapons, to homicidal genetically-engineered clowns—that no two people they encountered were ever the same. And if Spike decided a bounty head was too boring, or too much of a small fry, he didn’t have a boss forcing him to take it. (More often, he had an empty bank account and a disapproving look from Jet forcing him to take it—but that was neither here nor there.) Also, the work took Spike and his crewmates pretty much everywhere in the Solar System. He was constantly on the move, never staying in any one place for long. It suited his restless spirit perfectly—and made sure that nothing, or no one, from his past would be able to catch up to him.

“Spike.” Jet’s voice startled him out of his thoughts. “That’s the guy.”

Spike glanced over to where Jet was gesturing, and sure enough, the muscular, grizzled man entering the bar, with a suspiciously gun-shaped bulge under his trenchcoat, matched the description in the criminal records and the picture on Big Shot exactly.

With a grin, Spike rested his hand on his own gun. “Let’s get him.”

Sometimes, when he was in a more brooding mood than tonight, he’d reflect on how his life never felt real. How it felt more like a constant dream he could never wake up from. The ephemeral, meandering nature of bounty-hunting, with its strange and amorphous structure, felt dreamlike sometimes, too. And for someone on the outskirts of society, seeking autonomy—well, he guessed that applied to his whole group of crewmates, in one way or another—it was perfect. As much as he liked to complain about the job, it fit him better than he’d like to admit.

And here he was now, in the dead of night in a random bar on an even more random asteroid, easily dodging the bounty head’s blows and landing his own—without making too much of a scene that attracted the rest of the bar. The fight was over quickly enough that the man didn’t even need to pull out his gun. Just the way Spike liked it. As he threw the final punch that rendered the man unconscious and Jet tied him up, he was completely comfortable. Relaxed. In his element.

There were worse ways to spend a dream.

[painted-magnolias]

Something kept Spike from dying after the final battle.

[guideaus]

im finishing up buddy daddies and its cute

[koropukgoro]

I wrote a silly thing teehee runs away

“…So, what is it?”

“I’m not sure myself—but it’s worth 500k, and that’s enough for us.”

Spike’s nimble fingers twiddled the device around, tracing its edges and weird patterned ridges. It was small, with almost illegible symbols, and clearly looked important, even in its insignificance. 

“Does it even do anything? Or perhaps there’s something inscribed on it—maybe if we bother Ed enough, they’ll do some digging.”

Jet scoffed, “you’re not the only one curious, but sometimes, given our record, it’s better to not poke the bear’s den, Spike.”

To that, Spike flipped the device up like a coin, catching it in his other hand. He smirked when Jet’s face briefly lit with worry. “But where’s my fun then? Cowboys like me gotta get some action outta a job… babysitting is boring.” 

“Boring is going to pay for next week’s groceries. You can afford to be bored once in a while.” Jet was right, even if Spike made a face that suggested otherwise. So, he shrugged his shoulders, and carried the device over to the next room, waving his free hand along the way. 

“Sure, sure. Maybe this time we’ll actually get some beef… and maybe cheese. I can go for a homemade deli sandwich right now…” 

“We don’t get paid in advance, hold your horses.” Jet’s voice was fading as Spike navigated the interior of the Bebop, slipping through the sliding door into the hallway. If he was gonna be bored with this gig, might as well spend it watching television. 

As usual, Spike was doing exactly what Jet would have quipped him for—carelessness with the prize. It wasn’t like Spike was clumsy; Spike had been known for his crafty fingers, and knew when to be delicate, but nothing could stop him from stimulating his brain like tossing the device up and down, between hands. 

 It wasn’t until his foot caught on the carpet did Spike miss a toss, letting out a shout as their prized possession tumbled to the floor with a click. 

Wait, a click? Did something open on it? Spike crouched to the floor, gingerly swiping up the object of desire for examination. Indeed, a small hatch had opened, with the cowboy pressing it close to his vision and squinting to get a better look inside. 

Another click, then a sharp pain—enough to make Spike wince and drop the device again. Something had pricked him, with evidence to boot as a tiny trail of blood left the side of his finger. “What the hell?” He thought out loud, realizing the prick was beginning to feel numb. Shit, poison?! His mind tried to keep up as he shot to his feet, leaving his prize behind to go seek out help. Jet would have been where he left him in the living room, and Ed—oh, Ed could have been anywhere on the ship. They weren’t one for standing still. 

 Only Spike didn’t make it to the door, even. The numbing feeling had snakes up his arm to his entire being, and his bones were beginning to ache in the joints. What’s worse, Spike felt himself breathing hard, like he was fighting the urge to vomit. His eyelids felt heavy, with his fingers attempting to grasp at the door’s controls before he slammed into the floor, knocked out cold. 

*** 

The first thing Spike took note of was his crushing headache. Lazily opening an eye, he let out a groan, covering his face with a hand. Why are the lights so damn bright? His mind wandered to what he last remembered before shooting up in his seat. That’s right! Stupid fuckin’ gadget had poisoned him. Well, so he thought. Aside from his migraine and aching joints, Spike certainly didn’t feel poisoned. Maybe nauseated—but who would make a device that just leaves you a little stomach sick? Not with that kind of price on its head. 

 That was a question that’d have to wait. Right now, Spike needed to assess his surroundings. He should have still been in the hallway, if memory served, but as he peered around… this definitely wasn’t the hallway. First off, those lights were too fucking bright—beaming above him like headlights. He could almost hear the hum of the electricity in the bulbs, like an annoying buzz in his throbbing eardrums. This made him rub his head, groaning again at his migraine. Next thing he took note of was how wherever he was, stretched on forever. The sleek, metal floor and walls that seemed so far away kept going and going, almost infinite in his limited field of view. That in of itself was definitely not terrifying, making Spike’s stomach lurch again with new nausea. 

 Just gawking was not going to solve this. The cowboy rose to his feet steadily, testing his sense of balance as he did so. Spike proceeded to feel his pockets, only brushing against a few spare change and his empty cigarette box. Where did the device go? Spike bit his lip as he remembered dropping it, but as his eyes darted around, he couldn’t see the likes of it against the floor. What he did see was something in the distance of the infinite expanse, a bit out of his range of vision. Squinting, Spike couldn’t get a better look from his position—only that it was big; he began taking a small walk, picking it up as a jog to close the gap. 

 It was a ship of some sort. Definitely not as big as his Swordfish II, but definitely big enough to squeeze one pilot inside. Brushing his hands along it, Spike tried to get a good look into the cockpit, taking note of the circular design, almost like an oversized dinner plate. It was sleek, like some of the newer ships he had seen in a few browsing magazines—new age stuff, with the highly advanced technology only those with lined pockets could buy; something a cowboy like him couldn’t begin to dream of owning. Besides, those sleek engines just weren’t tasteful. Spike might have had rough fixes with his Swordfish II, but at least it built character. 

 But why was it here? And where was here, anyway?! If his headache wasn’t drilling holes into his brain, maybe Spike could stop and entertain theories. All he did was sigh, slumping against the side of the circular ship and wishing he had one last cigarette to help him through this situation. Digging into his pocket, Spike fished out his phone. Maybe he could get a signal—Nope, that hope was dashed before it could even exist. “Stupid junk,” he muttered in frustration, tossing it to the floor and watching the plastic snap off its side. He could get a repair later, he thought. If the cockpit didn’t seem sewn shut, he could have maybe attempted to fly this dinner plate, too, but alas. Clearly the thing had a set of keys that was necessary—Spike felt out of luck. 

 As he kicked at the floor with his heel, trying to vent out his frustration, Spike heard a sound. Immediately he pressed his back to the ship, sinking down into a crouch and peeking over the side of its circumference. 

 Nothing… odd. As he turned to move his position, a large shadow interrupted him. No sooner than Spike snapped his head up did he meet a large, black, and…wet object. Wet and cold. It was spewing like a loud vent, too, sucking in hot air and exhaling enough to make Spike’s hair fly. Then came the large, even wetter sheet of pink—slathering Spike head to toe with… slobber? 

 Swearing and shouting, Spike pushed away as fast as he could from his assailant. The stench of dog breath stained the air as he coughed and sputtered, wiping the humid saliva off his face. Cracking an eye open, the cowboy almost doubled over in shock at what he had to crane his neck to see. 

“Ein?!” 

BARK!

 Spike slammed his hands over his ears, shouting back at the oversized Welsh corgi. As if sensing the man’s discomfort, it whined, lowering its head in an apology. Spike’s heart was pounding in his chest—he was struggling to wrap his brain around it. The damn dog was huge! Bigger than the Swordfish II, hell, bigger than the Bebop for all he knew. Dogs don’t just grow to the size of damn buildings—! Unless? Spike slowly turned back, eyeing the ship once more. Of course. Why didn’t he think of this sooner?! 

 Not that it made any sense, but he had nothing else to really go on—the only logical leap (and trust me, it was a leap) to make was that somehow… Spike had shrunk. The device that pricked his finger with that poison was the ship he found his back to at the very moment—it had shrunk him. 

 But… how? Spike was starting to feel his nausea creep back, feeling his body quiver at the very idea of what his reality had become. No wonder everything was so bright—so loud—he was just small! He didn’t want to contemplate how small at the moment; what mattered right now was how to fix this, and he clearly wasn’t going to be able to do it himself. 

 So, with a deep breath, Spike finished wiping the dog drool off his jacket and straightened his stance. It felt uncanny, having to crane his neck back to stare up at one of the shortest dog breeds, with his hands on his hips and refueled determination.

  “Ein!” He spoke in a commanding tone, “listen up!” 

 The dog tilted its head as if to indicate it was doing just that. Spike grinned, “good boy! Now, I need you to give me a lift to Jet!” Ein watched as Spike walked up to the dog’s front leg, confidence in his step. Making sure his sleeves were rolled up and ready, Spike grabbed onto two big handfuls of fur and began to pull himself up. Thankfully, Corgis were one of the shortest dog breeds, making the trek much quicker if it were otherwise. Once the man got a sure footing on the dog’s back, he gave Ein’s neck a pat. 

“Alright boy, now get going!” 

 Ein decided shaking was a better idea. Spike immediately lost his grip, letting out a cry as he was thrown right off the dog and slammed into the floor. His side exploded with pain, making Spike groan and struggle to sit up. 

 “What the fuck was that, you mutt!” He shouted up at Ein, who simply trotted over to stare down with a big panting grin. If Spike wasn’t in immediate pain, he would have given the animal a flip of the bird and a lecture to boot. Ein wasn’t done, though, and before Spike could scramble away, the dog’s snout lowered itself down, jaws open. Somehow, the animal knew to be gentle with its package, grabbing Spike by his jacket’s nape and hoisting him up into the air. He had been scruffed, like a damn kitten! “Put me down! You fuckin’ dog I said put me—“ the animal began to walk, making Spike’s squirming for freedom quiet down. Last thing he needed was to double down on his new injuries and break a rib… It wasn’t like Ein was ignoring him, at least.

 In fact, Ein was doing exactly what Spike had requested; Ein was going to bring Spike to Jet. 

*** 

[kirbyskisses]

kirby’s kinktober (thirty)

vanilla//spike spiegel (part 1)

you had found spike months ago.

you were a local doctor, just trying to do your best to support anybody needed it, regardless of if they had the woolongs to pay.

even though you were relatively well known on your planet, you were surprised when the tall, well-built, green-haired man was laid out on your doorstep anonymously.

bullets - or sword slashes, you couldn’t really tell - had torn through his suit. he was hastily and improperly bandaged, as if somebody with no experience had rushed to stop the bleeding.

he only had one eye, blood having soaked his prosthetic to the point where it was unusable. when he woke up, after some days of pain and delirium, his cool voice mentioned that he was happy to only have a black eyepatch where it used to be.

“now, i can focus on the present.”

it took you months of conversation to figure out what he meant, and to learn his whole story. you get the feeling he probably would’ve never told you if he had anywhere to go or anyone else to be.

but in the present, he’s just with you. living over your clinic - learning everything about you, rolling his eye at your insistence that he not smoke, but following your directions despite his mock annoyance.

he can’t explain why.

maybe it’s just because it’s nice to have somebody who cares for him without risk of danger. you make him feel alive, finally awake from his dream.

the least he can do thank you is just try to take care of his body after he spent so much time doing it for him.

and now your bodies are intertwined.

your cunt is pressed against the underside of his cock. it’s hot and throbbing against your clit, an addictive feeling that makes you grind against him. he groans, head falling back as you move along, coating him in both your juices.

your hands are softer than anything he’s felt in years, gently pressed on the sweaty skin of his mid-section. his abs heave as he breathes in, warm breath mixing with yours as he kisses you softly.

you swallow the groan he makes once you’re sinking down onto his length.

he’s no longer thinking about the friends he’s left behind, or a memory of lost love, or the bloody, angry, fear inducing haunting of vicious.

“just you.” he mutters. “fuck, i just need you, buttercup.”

“i need you too, spike.” your hands go up from his stomach to his chest and neck, and when you reach his face he moans at your serene touch all over the edge of his chin

anyone with eyes can see how enamored he is with you and how adoring he is of your touch, your voice, your eyes, your breath, and the pace that you keep when pleasuring him.

when he gently pins your and ruts his hips, dipping more of his length into you gently, you moan. it compliments the soft croon of the old vinyl records spinning on your bedside table - some old earth artist who he can be bothered to remember right now. because every thought right now is about the way you make him feel.

carnally, yes. but also, his heart is beating and shivers are going down his body as your hands lock together and your noses touch. he loves the mix of sounds - it’s a love song playing now. he knows this one. with a shaky exhale of pleasure he mouths the lyrics without thinking, fingers holding your face to guide your expression back to his unbreakable gaze.

“at your best, you are love. you're a positive motivating force within my life. should you ever feel the need to wonder why, let me know.”

when spike realizes he’s done it, muttered song lyrics while his cock deeply sheathed into your spasming little cunt, he turns red in the cheeks. it’s corny, but something equally romantic happens to distract him.

you say it first, those three words followed by his full name, not expecting anything back.

“i love you, spike speigel”

he stills, swallows deeply and spills his cum into your vulnerable cunt, mixing your high with his.

[thestarlightsymphony]

for my long-time mutual whose work blows me away; @aldreantreuperi you are a star in the Bebop writing scene!!

give this a read, if you want some sweet and flirty spikefaye 😁