⋆˙⟡ laney⊹ ࣪ ˖

Master List <𝟑 .ᐟ

⟢ cowboy bebop - (spike)

oneshots —

i miss you - angst/comfort

fifty clicks out - angst

fifty click out pt.2 - fluff/angst

thoughts of you - nsfw

faded scars - angst/comfort

quiet on venus - fluff

faye’s advice - slight nsfw

the space between - angst/comfort

drabbles —

spike mlm headcanons

spike flm headcanons

Spike Spiegel FLM Headcanons —

tw: slight nsfw mentions

a/n: guys, this took me legitimate months to write. i am burnt tf out. just went through the worst semester of my life. i hope all is well!! please enjoy, and happy holidays!! <3

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- Spike likes being a protector. He doesn’t always show it, but deep down he feels it. There’s a part of him that needs to make sure people are safe—especially when it’s you. He’s always known how capable you are, that you don’t need him to worry. But sometimes, he just can’t help it. He’ll make sure you’ve got cover, that you’re not taking on too much during a mission—even if that means he’s putting himself at risk.

- Spike is an observer. He works on instinct, and for most of his life, that instinct is what’s kept him breathing. He notices the small things—things that don’t even matter half the time. He can read strangers in minutes, so when it comes to you, there’s no hesitation. He knows your habits, your tells. Sometimes, he notices your mood shifts before you do.

- If you know one thing about him, it’s that he’s a goddamn tease. Since the day you met him, he’s liked pushing your buttons just to see what happens. Now it’s not just you—you see the way he talks to other people, poking where he shouldn’t, acting like it’s all harmless. You watch him smile like he doesn’t know what he’s doing, but he always does. His only claim is that he gets bored easily—hardly something you can “hold against him.”

- Spike’s a gentleman, okay?? Though, he’s always been subtle about it. He loves in small ways — the kind you almost miss if you’re not looking. You notice how he’s the first to pour your drink, how you never have to light your own cigarette. The way he pushes your hair out of your face, how his eyes always seem to find you. It’s the way he acts around you, without saying a word.

- He likes buying you things. Mentioned something at the market once? He’s already gone back and picked it up. Said you liked a certain candy six months ago? He grabs it every time he sees it. He doesn’t make a big deal of it—just leaves it where you’ll notice it. On your desk, in your ship. And if you bring it up, he acts like he has no idea what you’re talking about, though the smirk on his face says otherwise.

- Sometimes—Spike can be a bit of a hot head. He’s impulsive, reckless at times. He gets stuck in his own head. And honestly, he’s not the only one on the ship like that—he’s surrounded by short tempers and unresolved tension. But when you came along, things felt different. Quieter. Clearer. He actually had someone there who wasn’t waiting to explode. You manage to get through to him on most things; it’s just… nice, having someone who keeps him grounded.

- Aftercare with Spike is unspoken—soft. He doesn’t rush to move, doesn’t try to fill the silence. He lies close to you, his fingers tracing slow paths over your body as he watches you. He studies your breathing as your body relaxes. He soaks in every detail, every inch of you. His touch is light, careful. His ego would never let him admit it, but this—quiet closeness—was always his favorite part.

- Spike’s a pretty private person. There aren’t many people who are allowed in his room, or who get to touch his things—or, god forbid, drive his ship. He’s protective by nature, cautious about what he lets people have access to. But you just happen to be part of the select few. He doesn’t tense when you step into his space or handle his belongings. He lets his guard down, just enough. With anyone else, especially Faye, he’d never allow it. There’s a fine line with his trust, and somehow, you’ve earned your place beyond it.

there is just something about these twins bro

Spike Spiegel MLM Headcanons —

tw: slight nsfw mentions

a/n: i actually had a lot of fun writing this so i’ll most likely do flm also!

dt: my friend @6cherrybombs6

————————————————————————

- Spike is truthfully a lover boy by heart. He’d never admit it, but he loves taking you out on dates. He makes an effort to remember places you like, things you’ve talked about. He’s not big on “I love yous” or “I miss yous,” but he makes sure you know he cares. He likes finding ways to surprise you, even if he pretends he doesn’t. (I just know he’s a secret romantic.)

- He likes being in charge—not that you can’t be, but this man LOVES to provide. He likes taking care of you, specifically in bed. He puts himself to work. TRUST.

- Spike without a doubt craves intimacy. He’s never been a big fan of PDA, but he’s thinking about it the whole time, and when you guys get back to the ship, he cannot take his hands off you. Spike needs you physically—not just sexually, but the little things here and there: skin to skin, that quiet stillness while you’re alone; he likes just knowing that you’re there.

- You were honestly Spike’s first real relationship. He’d had plenty of one-night stands with men, casual hookups—hell, he even gave women a try. It took him a long time to get comfortable with who he was. He definitely struggled with his sexuality, mostly because of how people saw him and how he carried himself. Spike’s not the type you’d catch right away—too unreadable, too nonchalant. You wouldn’t notice unless he wanted you to. So when you came along, you kind of changed everything. He found himself actually wanting instead of hiding.

- He flirts like his life depends on it. He likes to pretend he’s all slick, calling you “handsome” or “pretty boy,” like it’s all a game. But as soon as you do it back, he freezes, his face tinted red. He tries to play it off like it doesn’t affect him, but it’s written all over him.

- Spike is definitely the jealous type. He doesn’t like showing that he is, but if you know anything about Spike, it’s very obvious when he is. When a guy hits on you, he usually just sits back and observes, letting you take care of it. He doesn’t usually say anything to you because he trusts you, but he DOES pout about it later. Now, if a guy is getting too close to you or handsy, he will step in and make it very clear you are, in fact, taken.

- Spike likes to roughhouse, let’s be honest. And because you’re both men, he can be a little more physical. He likes messing around with you, shoving you, hitting you with light jabs, occasionally sparring with you—especially if it turns into something more heated. Nothing turns him on more than intense foreplay.

- Spike LOVES when you get dressed up. Whether it’s for a disguise on a mission or a date you’ve been looking forward to, he loves a man in a suit. And yes, he’s aware of his casual attire, so maybe it shouldn’t have such a strong effect on him. But fuck—when it’s you, it’s a completely different story.

- He’s never been one to be very open about his emotions. He’s a little closed off—not because he wants to be, but because he doesn’t want to feel weak. He doesn’t like it, but he’s always felt the unspoken rule of men not discussing their emotions, let alone with another man. Still, he does try to work on it with you. You’ve always made an effort to make him feel welcome—safe, even.

The Space Between —

now playing: petals - hole

summary: you were raised to be an assassin, trained how to feel, how to live—until one day a bounty hunter showed up and made you question everything.

a/n: hope you enjoy!

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You had spent most of your life running missions under an elite organization. Trained from a very young age to control your emotions—how to react to situations, how to fight with precision. How to win.

They raised you to be a killer—an assassin of sorts.

Your parents had given you up when you were only five, all because of your high potential. You were monitored daily, kept on a strict schedule.

They couldn't have been more proud—watching their only child work their way up.

They saw it as an opportunity, an advancement. If their projections were right, you could earn them thousands—maybe even millions.

Your parents never saw you as a person, but as a machine. A possession.

Gradually, as you grew older, you became more self-aware—more curious as to why you had stayed after all this time.

Maybe it was the money, or the rush you felt when taking someone's life.

Maybe it was because it was the only thing you'd ever known.

You had your own morals, of course—your own dilemmas. You'd always had issues with the system, though probably not for the right reasons.

You could admit you liked your job more than you should. You'd always known it was wrong, but ultimately, the thrill outweighed the ethics.

They had become looser with you as the years went on. You had proven countless times that you were perfectly capable of wiping out as many contracts as they needed.

You had become one of their top weapons, only taking high-value assignments. Your plans, your routines—everything had followed the same rhythm.

Until recently.

A few months back, you had a run-in with a bounty hunter. He was alone at the time, more skilled than you were used to seeing.

It wasn't too unusual to see a bounty placed on someone you were tracking, though you usually beat them to it.

You had arrived simultaneously, both attacking the target from opposite sides. Unfortunately for him, he didn't stand much of a chance. He was down within seconds—half beaten to death, barely breathing.

The bounty hunter tried to negotiate while you stood over the unconscious body, offering half the reward if you spared him.

You debated for half a second, realizing the guy wasn't worth your time.

External conflict was something you tried to avoid, and besides, you weren't interested in whatever scraps the government had to offer.

So, you let him take him.

The guy hadn't been a real requirement anyway—you'd gone after him more for cleanup purposes. Loose ends never sat right with you. But if he was ending up in custody, then it was the government's problem now.

You walked away, convinced you'd never see him again. Yet somehow—days later—fate led you to the same bar.

He recognized you almost instantly, sitting next to you with a small smirk.

"You stalkin' me, cowboy?" you asked, eyeing him for a moment.

"Could ask you the same thing." He grinned.

"Name's Spike. What's yours?"

You weren't too sure about him at first—most conversations, you approached with caution. Still, he wound up sitting next to you for a few hours.

He was definitely curious—something about you clearly intrigued him.

Your guard lowered as the night went on. Spike offered you drinks you couldn't refuse. You didn't realize at the time, but his charm was already starting to get to you.

You were still careful with what you said, only offering vague answers when asked about your work, though he was genuinely surprised to find out you weren't a bounty hunter.

He raised a brow when he found out what kind of money you pulled in—easily five times the amount he made in a single job.

He didn't push any further into your personal life, but you still somehow managed to leave with his number.

Relationships weren't something you did well. There were strict rules on interactions within the system, and affairs between workers were extremely frowned upon.

You had free rein outside, but it wasn't something you looked for—nothing serious anyway. You'd done the occasional one-night stand, seen a few guys every so often.

That's kind of all you expected out of Spike.

But for some reason, he stuck around.

You weren't sure when it stopped being casual.

One night turned into a string of them. The bar was somewhere you frequented often after that—somewhere you found yourself going when you were lost.

Eventually, you started going back to your place.

At first, it was just physical. Nothing out of the ordinary. Something you expected.

You knew this.

Then something shifted—quiet mornings, shared meals, conversations dipping a little deeper each time. He started to show up unannounced, no explanation, letting himself in and out as he pleased.

You didn't stop him—parts of you even welcomed it.

He had turned into something that you wanted. Someone you weren't sure you deserved.

He saw you in a way no one else had. He never asked you to change, never tried to 'fix' you, just accepted things how they were.

Maybe that was why you had grown so close—why you finally felt understood.

You never planned on letting anyone in, but maybe you deserved comfort, even if you didn't know how to take it. 

Faye’s Advice —

now playing: freight yard - the garden

tw: slight nsfw

summary: faye finds out you’re still a virgin and insists on you asking spike for pointers.

a/n: it took me a fat minute to figure out how i wanted to write this,, it took multiple attempts but it is done! hope you like it!

————————————————————————

Somehow, Faye had managed to get the information that you were still a virgin.

Which was devastating in itself.

But Faye being Faye just couldn't let it go.

She was tame at first—the occasional jab every now and then. Her light teasing wasn't anything you couldn't handle. But eventually, it escalated into a full-blown lecture—an entire hour-long conversation about how you needed to get laid.

How she just couldn't stand by and let her best friend miss out on the "other side of things.”

And somehow—somehow this discussion spiraled into her convincing you to talk to Spike about it. How you needed advice from the "experienced."

You probably should've laughed it off, just ignored whatever shit she had to say.

But for some reason, the idea stuck with you.

You sat with it for an hour, debating the whole thing in your head—surely it wasn't a good idea.

Right?

Wrong.

Now here you were, all quiet and nervous, sitting on Spike's lap.

He was originally taken back by your sudden questions. Sure, you guys were close, but this?

You definitely took him by surprise.

He eventually snapped out of it, giving you the whole speech. He went on about how it should be with someone you care about, how important communication is.

That it shouldn't be rushed because it mattered.

It should be someone you trust.

His advice had quickly turned into a demonstration of sorts.

Your gaze fixed on him, his hands resting at your waist. You'd been zoned out for a few minutes now—barely catching what he said.

"Eye contact is huge," he started. "It's easy to get lost in the moment, but if you're watching, it's easier to spot when something's off.”

"You with me?" he asked, watching you closely. You nodded in response, your eyes lingering on his lips a second too long.

Spike tilted your head up with one hand below your chin. "Now, if a guy tries to have you on top for your first time—"

"He's an asshole." His tone serious.

A soft laugh slipped out of you, earning a gentle smile from him.

"Glad you think this is funny," he retorted.

Your face flushed. "No—I just... it's sweet is all."

Spike huffed a quiet laugh, his head tilting as he studied you. He fought to keep his composure, but it didn't go unnoticed by you—the way his eyes flickered, the way his jaw tensed.

"You wanna keep going?" he asked, his voice genuine.

You replied with a simple nod, letting out a breath you didn't know you were holding. He was quick to maneuver you both in one fluid motion, his hand never leaving your waist as your back hit the mattress with a soft thud.

He laid just above you, hands on both sides of your body, your legs falling open just enough to let him in.

A faint smirk appeared on his face, like he had done this a hundred times—he knew exactly what he was doing.

"A lot of people think missionary's basic, but it tends to be the most intimate," he went on. "We could get into a few others—" His mind wandered for a moment, his eyes glancing away before he could get too far.

"—but this is probably your safest bet," he said, composing himself—subtly readjusting. His weight on you sent a jolt through your body.

He was being patient with you, which wasn't something he always did.

But you could see it—

He was looking out for you, and it was written all over his face.

He moved suddenly, taking your hand in his, letting himself sink closer to you. A subtle blush crept across your face as you fought the urge to look away.

"I've always thought holding hands made it feel more real—" His hand tightened around yours, almost automatic. "—more connected."

You could feel your heart pounding in your chest.

"You like hand holding?" you asked, caught off guard by his sudden gentleness. You'd always admired his softer side, even if it rarely showed.

"Don't quote me," he said, quickly dismissing it.

Spike's hand lingered in yours, his closeness keeping you steady. Your free hand drifted—lazily resting on his shoulder. He inhaled sharply.

"What else makes it feel real?" you questioned, your vision narrowing in on him.

His body tensed as he let out a slow breath, eyes tracing over you. The air shifted ever so slightly.

"Few things," he said, voice low. You felt his chest move with every breath.

"It's the little stuff," he paused. "Places that get overlooked." His gaze falling just below your chin—deliberate, focused. You drew in a breath.

"The ones you don't even realize you like."

You didn't even have to ask; you knew exactly what he meant.

Your fingers slipped into his hair as you pulled him closer. "Like this?" Your voice barely audible. Your lips brushed his neck, a gentle kiss trailing after.

His hand stilled at your waist.

"Yeah—" His expression unreadable. "Just like that." He spoke, letting his full weight press into you, a sudden pressure between your legs.

He leaned in slow, his lips ghosting over yours—eyes half-lidded. The space closing between you as you met him halfway.

This kiss was soft and unspoken; your lips moved with quiet certainty. His hand gently cupped your face as the other pulled you closer, drawing a small gasp from you.

It deepened slowly, your fingers tangling in his hair. You tugged just enough to hear him groan. He pulled away slightly, peppering kisses to your jaw.

"This still part of the lesson?" you whispered as he made his way down your neck. A sound escaped him against your skin, his eyes wandering back to yours. "Depends." He paused.

"You still payin' attention?"

Your head fell back as he nipped at your neck, a sharp breath leaving you.

"Hard to focus," you muttered.

You could feel him smirk against you as he huffed. "Yeah, well—don't go tellin' Faye I'm a good teacher, I'll never hear the end of it." His forehead fell to your shoulder as the moment lingered.

"Maybe she's onto something," you teased.

He raised his eyebrows in response, glancing at you with that stupid smile.

"Careful, she might actually start thinking she's right."

Quiet on Venus —

now playing: don’t come home today - good morning

summary: you never planned on settling down with spike, let alone having a kid—but here you are. somehow, it works.

a/n: ohh this took longer than i was hoping but i hope you like it!! i’ve never written anything remotely involving a child so i hope i did okay haha. enjoy spike with child!

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The sun poured in through the windows of the ship. The Bebop was currently docked just outside one of the cities on Venus.

You’d been living there for almost two years now. It was quiet for once—something you never thought would happen.

A lot had changed in the past few years. Your life, by some miracle, had done a complete one-eighty.

No more bounties. No more running.

You actually managed to settle down somewhere nice, away from everything—though you never thought it would be with Spike of all people.

Life was weird sometimes. Things shifted, changed—all right in front of you. It was something you didn’t even realize until everything finally slowed down.

You and Spike had always been close. The longer you stayed on the ship, the more your relationship grew.

What started as late-night vent sessions turned into casual hookups and subtle dates—if you could even call them that.

He never sat still long enough for it to be anything serious, but one day, it changed.

It was sudden. Scary, even for him.

Having a baby wasn’t exactly on the agenda.

—

But it happened.

It was fast and unexpected, like most things in your relationship. Yet you survived—pushing through, like you always did.

And now here you were, watching Spike sit on the floor with your little girl.

He wore a soft smile on his face as she fed him imaginary food and sipped on invisible tea—both lost in their little game.

“More tea,” she cooed, lifting her cup.

A small laugh escaped him as he lifted the teapot to her. “Of course, your majesty.”

He always claimed he hated kids, but the way he looked at her said otherwise. She was the perfect balance between the two of you—Spike’s stubborn stare, your quiet kindness. He couldn’t ask for more.

She stilled for a moment, eyeing him carefully. “Daddy, your crown!” she gasped.

Spike’s eyes widened slightly as he looked around. “Where is it?” he asked.

She glanced around the room, quickly spotting it behind her. Scooting closer, she placed the tiara gently on his head. “Princesses have to wear their crowns,” she said sternly.

He let out a laugh. “Alright, alright.”

Her focus shifted back to the tea set as his eyes fell to you, studying you just long enough to let you know he was there.

You and Spike always made an effort to visit everyone. It was a part of your life you weren’t ready to let go of yet.

They’d always be your family, in a way.

You followed Spike’s gaze to the doorway—Jet stood there with his arms crossed, a lazy smile on his face.

He’d tell you all the time how he never expected a family out of you two. How he never thought he’d see the day Spike got his shit together.

Years ago, you probably would’ve told him the same thing.

Spike eventually stood and walked over to him, clearly invested in whatever Jet was going on about. It only took a second for you to notice the look on your little girl’s face—almost wistful.

He never managed to get far, small footsteps trailing behind him, never wanting to leave his side.

She stood for a moment before tugging at his shirt, Spike noticing a few seconds later.

“You wanna say hi to Uncle Jet?” he asked, swiftly picking her up.

Her face flushed a soft pink as she buried her head in his neck.

She took after you in small ways—your gentle shyness showing through the most.

You watched as he coaxed a quiet hello from her, Jet playfully tickling her side.

Her bubbly laugh filled the room as Spike stole a few glances at you. He wrapped up his conversation shortly after, making his way toward you.

“Is that Momma?” he asked, fingers curling around hers.

Her smile widened at the sight of you, giving a small nod in response.

Her hands were already reaching out to you as he lifted her off his hip, gently lowering her into your lap.

“Hi, baby,” you said softly.

She nestled into your arms, Spike dropping into the seat beside you without a word. He kept it casual—like he hadn’t just made sure you weren’t sitting alone.

“You have fun with Daddy?” you whispered, kissing her head gently.

She nodded, her expression growing tired.

She mumbled lightly, barely audible—you knew she’d be asleep in seconds. Spike’s arm draped across the couch behind you, his fingers brushing your shoulder—anchoring himself after a long day.

“You want me to put her down?” he asked quietly, running a hand through his hair.

“I got it,” you replied.

Spike only nodded, leaning back and closing his eyes. You shifted closer, resting your head against his chest. His arm stayed where it was, fingers tracing gentle circles on your shoulder.

The sound of his heartbeat was all you could hear, her breaths slowly falling in rhythm with his. Your eyes drifted closed as you sat in the moment, realizing—

this was all you’d ever need.

Faded Scars —

now playing: jigsaw falling into place - radiohead

tw: mentions of scars (battle wounds & insinuated self harm)

summary: changing in front of your mirror, lost in thought about old scars and insecurities—until spike walks in.

a/n: ur literally so sweet, thank u so much!! sorry this took a minute, i hope you like it!!

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You were tired as you retreated to your room. It had been another long day—not intense, but still long and taxing.

You and Spike had been out gathering information for a new bounty that had popped up. It was a part of the job you were never really interested in, but Spike seemed to enjoy it, so you didn’t mind tagging along.

Your trail had run dry a few hours ago, so you decided to turn in early. Spike, of course—being too stubborn to quit—stayed behind, insisting he’d find more information on the guy.

You mumbled to yourself as you dug through your closet, trying to find clothes you hadn’t already worn. Your body ached from hours of walking.

After managing to fish out a new shirt, you turned your back to the closet.

You caught a quick glimpse of yourself in the mirror—standing in just your underwear, shirt loose in your hand. You were fast to look away.

Your stance shifted like it might change something.

You shouldn’t do this to yourself, but it felt routine at this point—like you wanted it.

Reluctantly, you walked toward the mirror, already scanning your whole body. Your eyes traced every scar they could find. Most were faded and old, but even then, they were still too prominent for you.

Each one had a memory tied to it. You remembered some more than others, regret clinging to most of them.

You hated how you did this, how you kept looking like you expected something new.

You could never really stop.

It felt like it was out of your control. One month it would be all you could think about—every mirror, every reflection—any chance you got, you were staring. The next, it was like they weren’t even there, like they had vanished.

Unfortunately, this was the former.

Your thoughts were soon interrupted by the door opening. He was quick to walk in casually, not even knocking.

You jumped slightly out of embarrassment.

“Hey,” he said, closing the door behind him. A faint blush crept across your face as you hesitantly covered yourself—you swore he had the worst timing.

You responded with nothing but a nod.

“Starin’ at yourself, pretty girl?” he asked. You already had your shirt pulled over your head at this point.

You tsked under your breath. “Could say that,” you replied, eyes falling to the ground. You wouldn’t usually be bothered by something like this—he’s seen every inch of you countless times—but your brain was already spiraling.

Your shirt fell just below your ass as he stood behind you—gently peppering your neck with kisses.

Your body stiffened, nudging him without even thinking. His eyes flickered to yours like he already knew.

His movements went still, watching you for a moment. A soft silence fell between you. Spike wasn’t always good at communicating, but he noticed shifts—especially with you.

“What’s wrong?” he asked. Your throat tightened at his words. You were hesitant to meet his gaze.

“Just tired,” you deflected.

He took your hands in his, carefully facing you.

“You don’t gotta hide from me.” His words were gentle.

It was written all over your face, whether you liked it or not—Spike could read you better than anyone.

Your eyes stayed fixed on your hands, searching for anything to focus on—desperately fighting the tears that were surfacing.

His thumb brushed across faint scars on your wrist. You flinched without thinking, like your body was registering pain that wasn’t there. Your hands slipped away from his.

Concern flickered across his face.

He’d touched your scars before, never with any judgment. But this time felt different, and you could tell he felt it too.

Spike knew about all your insecurities, even the little ones—the ones you said didn’t matter.

Because they mattered to him. They always have.

“That, what you’re hung up on?” he asked, studying your face.

A few moments passed, and when you didn’t speak, he took your silence as an answer.

“You’re beautiful—don’t tell me you didn’t know that.” His voice was soft, with just a hint of teasing, like he was stating the obvious. He’s only told you more times than he could count.

His hand brushed the side of your face. Your eyes finally met his.

“Spike—” you started.

He shook his head. “I’m serious.” He squeezed your hand. “You’re the most beautiful girl I’ve ever met.” His hand never left your face.

“Even with your scars.”

You looked away, face heating up.

“You’re just saying that,” you mumbled. You knew he wasn’t lying; it just took a lot of convincing sometimes.

“Don’t give me that,” he said, voice low and patient. Spike always had a way with words. It was one of your favorite things about him—how effortlessly he did it, like he wasn’t even trying.

“I don’t lie.” He said with a smirk, earning a sharp look from you. He was an effortless tease too.

“Quit while you’re ahead, Spiegel,” you warned, a small smile on your face. He took your hand once more, kissing it gently.

He smiled back, proud of himself as usual. “I’m always ahead,” he replied smoothly, earning a small laugh from you.

The gap between you slowly closed as he wrapped his arms around you. “You’re okay,” he whispered, the two of you staying there for a moment.

“I meant what I said,” he said, pulling away slightly, just enough to look at you. “And I’ll keep saying it until you believe it.”

You hugged him tightly, head buried in his chest. “Thank you,” your voice barely audible.

His hand rested against the back of your head. “Anytime,” he whispered.

Thoughts of you —

now playing: she - tyler, the creator

tw: masturbation/sexual thoughts, post-climax guilt

summary: spike jacks it in the shower cause he’s in his feels.

a/n: not dead!! just took me ages to write, i had like five drafts of this thing and it kicked my ass, enjoy needy spike!

————————————————————————

The ship was quiet, the low hum of the engine filling the background.

Spike sat in it—alone. Everyone else was asleep. He should've tried to sleep hours ago, but something inside him didn't want to.

Maybe if he stayed awake long enough, the loop wouldn't reset. Maybe he could ride it out, like something would change.

It never did.

It was always the same shit, night after night.

Lost bounties, fresh injuries, no fucking money.

This wasn't exactly new for him—he'd been here time and time again. That constant looming feeling, almost like he was drowning.

But something was off this time. It dragged on longer than it usually did, longer than he liked.

He found himself standing in the bathroom, steam pooling around him like smoke. The lights flickered softly above him, his thoughts erratic.

His eyes were hazy as he stepped into the shower, warm water washing over him like a blanket. He tried clinging to the sensation—anything to distract himself.

But nothing seemed to work.

His mind wandered to you—because of course it did.

You were the only thing that was different. The only light that stood out.

You were always so kind, so—gentle with him. He thought about the way you smiled at him, like you could see right through him.

The way you looked at him taunted him—it made his chest ache. The way you loved him, cared for him—it scared him.

How could you be so kind?

How could you care that much?

Every now and then, he found himself pushing you away. Almost testing to see if you'd come back.

A small part of him wanted you to walk. To leave him there. Like he wanted proof he didn't deserve you.

He knew it was fucked up. Knew how cruel it was.

He stood motionless, water rushing down his back, his forehead pressed against the wall.

Why hadn't he ruined this yet?

Why was he starting to try?

Spike wasn't really one to complain—not about personal stuff, anyway—but days seemed to bleed into each other, like he couldn't wake up.

He shut his eyes, shaking his head. Last night came flooding back.

The way you held his face. How you asked about his day, how he was feeling—even though you already knew the answer.

You cared for him in ways he could never ask for.

You did more than he deserved.

He longed for you.

Needed you.

He felt desperate. Disgusting.

He missed the way you felt, the way you clung to him. How you whispered in his ear like he was the only thing that mattered.

He blinked slowly, vision clearing for a moment as the realization hit him.

"Fuck..." he huffed, looking down at himself.

He was hard—just at the thought of you.

Was he really this pathetic?

Probably.

His jaw tightened as he debated his next move, and with a sigh, he caved. He took himself in hand, running his thumb over the head. The sudden contact made him flinch.

He started out gentle, taking his time. He thought about how pretty you looked sitting on top of him, the way you sunk down onto him, taking him so well.

You were always so good for him.

He hated how he thought about you, remembering every minute. The noises that would slip out as you rocked back and forth, that half-lidded gaze. You looked at him in a way he didn't understand.

His pace quickened as he braced himself, face buried in the crook of his arm. He fought to push the rising guilt away. This wasn't something you deserved.

He remembered how soft your lips were, all the kisses trailing down his body. And God—you looked beautiful with your mouth around him. He missed the way your eyes glistened.

He felt himself twitch as he tightened his grip, precum dripping down his hand. He wanted to ruin you. Fuck you senseless. Water rushed down his face, his eyes squeezing shut. Low groans escaped him as his body tensed.

How could you be so nice to him?

His body moved on instinct, chasing something he didn't even really want. It pissed him off how second nature it was. Another shitty habit he couldn't break—an easy release when things got bad.

He could almost hear your voice, saying his name over and over again. The way you pulsed around him, aching for him—absolutely drenched. It drove him insane.

A familiar pressure started to build. His legs tensed. His breath ragged, hand moving frantically below his waist.

He wasn't going to last much longer.

He felt lightheaded, his body swayed.

The moment replayed in his head—your moans filling the room, your body shaking, begging for more. He was mesmerized as you came undone.

That was all it took.

He gasped as his body shuddered, his knees falling weak.

He came—hard.

His ears were ringing as warm spurts hit the wall in front of him. He rode it out as long as he could, his motions becoming sloppier with each stroke.

Then his hand dropped, the water slowly washing away the mess—still, once again.

A hollow feeling settled in his chest. He stayed pressed against the wall, trying to steady himself, warmth returning back to his face.

His eyes stung, a single tear falling down his face.

What the hell was he really doing?

Fifty clicks out pt.2 —

now playing: dawn chorus - thom yorke

summary: you send him nothing but a ping.

a/n: @6cherrybombs6 hope you like it!!

————————————————————————

It had been three weeks at this point.

You knew before you left that you were in deeper than you wanted to be. Some parts of your past had started to corner you—problems you'd pushed down were resurfacing. It wasn't anything you couldn't manage. Not really.

You'd done what you could. It wasn't perfect, but it was handled—mostly.

Maybe you were just scared. Maybe you wanted the normalcy back.

You hadn't stopped moving since the day you left, and it was starting to show.

So you caved.

It was late. You were tired. Probably not thinking straight. You stared at your comm for what felt like an hour before you pinged him.

Nothing but some coordinates and a message that read:

"If you're close."

That had been hours ago at this point.

You had been standing there long enough to convince yourself he wasn't gonna show.

You were in some worn-down port. You weren't familiar with the planet—it was dirty, unkempt.

You were on your second cigarette of the hour, trying to clear your head before finding some sleazy motel to crash in.

He saw you before you saw him.

You were near the end of the dock, arms resting on the railing in front of you. Your wrist was wrapped in gauze. A thin cut marked the side of your face. Bruises covered your legs.

You looked like hell.

The air felt heavier as he got closer. You knew he was there—you could feel it.

"Guess we were close," he said calmly.

You didn't look at him right away. A familiar pang hit your chest. You didn't want him to see you like this.

"Took you long enough." You kept your eyes forward.

You turned your head, just enough to meet his eyes. He looked tired, his casual demeanor absent. You felt a small wave of relief wash over you.

“Well, you weren’t exactly easy to find.”

His eyes scanned you—he noticed you were favoring your left leg.

"You alright?" he asked, concern laced in his voice.

"I'm okay," you lied.

You stood quietly in front of him. The cigarette in your hand was almost entirely ash. You dropped it to your right, wincing as you put it out.

The pressure on your leg sent a jolt through your body. He stepped closer—gentle, cautious. Like he didn't want to scare you.

"You're limping," he said, placing one hand on your side and taking your hand with the other. He steadied you slightly.

You gave him a small shrug, like it didn't matter.

His eyes fell to your wrist. His thumb brushed lightly over the gauze.

"What happened?" he asked, jaw tense.

You hesitated. Truthfully, you didn't really wanna get into it with him. Spike had a hard time dealing with you getting hurt—especially when he wasn't there to protect you.

He was already reading your face, trying to catch what you weren't saying.

"I handled it," you said softly.

Your words hung in the air. Heavy.

His eyes never left yours. You could see the regret—like he shouldn't have let you leave.

His hand moved to your face, fingers resting near the edge of the cut. You didn't flinch—you just leaned into it.

"I'm okay," you confessed.

"Sure." He said it calmly. You were always a terrible liar.

He dropped his hand, then found yours. Your hand was cold against his. He held it gently, like it was the easiest thing in the world.

“Was worried about you,” he started. “Started thinking you weren’t gonna come back.” His voice was low.

You glanced up at him, then to the side.

“I think I was always gonna come back,” you said, just above a whisper.

“Had me fooled.”

A comfortable silence fell between you.

Spike still had ways of surprising you. He wasn't really the softest guy, but he knew when you needed it.

“I missed you,” you confessed.

His eyes softened slightly.

“It was… lonely,” you continued. “I don’t think I wanna be alone, Spike.”

He let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding.

He hated how small you looked—fragile. You knew you could take care of yourself, but he couldn’t help it.

“I know.”

He wasn’t gonna let you go again.

He studied you, pulling you closer to him.

He thought about all the things he could say—things he'd probably never admit. He wanted to tell you how relieved he was, how grateful he was that you were still breathing. Alive.

But he didn't.

He leaned in slowly. You followed.

His hand found your face again as he pressed his lips against yours.

It wasn't rushed or desperate.

It was soft—like he wanted you to know he was there.

You pulled away slowly, hovering close to him for a few seconds.

"You wanna go?" he asked, his tone low.

You nodded in response. His hand never left yours.

Fifty clicks out —

now playing: when the sun hits - slowdive

summary: you’re leaving. spike catches you on the way out.

a/n: i’m incapable of writing anything happy, so we’re getting angst, enjoy!!

————————————————————————

You stood quietly in your room; you stared at your bed blankly. Your eyes felt heavy, almost blurry. You felt like you were in a trance—like if you didn't move, maybe time would stop.

You told yourself you weren't stalling; you were just taking your time.

You reached for your duffle bag. The weight of it made your chest hurt. You had packed like you weren't coming back, even though you tried to convince yourself that wasn't the case.

It was just what you needed. That was all it was.

Your mind went to Jet. That conversation looped in your head like it was taunting you. It had kept you up all night. The look on his face, the hurt in his eyes. He had tried playing it tough—sending you off with words of wisdom, telling you to be careful.

That only made it worse.

You tried to pretend like you could leave whenever you wanted. That this wasn't something you needed.

It was supposed to be temporary.

But temporary had turned into a few years of living on the same ship. It had turned into something way more than you expected—more than you felt like you deserved.

For once, temporary had felt like forever.

You didn't want to leave. Not really.

You forced yourself down the hallway before you could change your mind. You couldn't handle any more goodbyes. It was early enough—maybe you could just sneak out.

Fate, of course, had its own plans.

When you saw him, you stopped almost instantly.

You silently hoped he would just let you go. Maybe he wouldn't say anything. Maybe he'd just let you walk.

Seconds felt like minutes.

"Where you going?" he asked. You almost flinched at his tone. It was calm, curious even.

You turned to him, not wanting to meet his eyes. You could feel the weight of his stare.

In that moment, you were certain he already knew the answer.

"Home," was all you said. Short, simple, easy. You said it knowing he wouldn't take it.

Spike wasn't dumb. He was careful and meticulous.

"Home, huh?" he said, leaning against the wall. He crossed his arms, and his eyes never left you.

You shifted on your feet as you readjusted your bag. You nodded slowly. You felt like you were admitting defeat.

"You coming back?" he asked softly. He could see it in your eyes—how tired you looked.

He had known for about a week now. Something had been off with you, but Spike wasn't one to push. Whether he'd admit it or not, he was good about boundaries. If you wanted to tell him, you would.

Your throat tightened. You didn't want to have this conversation. Your lips parted like you wanted to say something, but nothing came out.

You hated how he stood there so casual—nonchalant.

"Dunno," you said, barely above a whisper.

Spike exhaled through his nose. He didn't like that answer.

That was when you knew it was real—and fuck, you hated it.

Your eyes dropped to the floor. He cared, even though you didn't want him to. You almost wanted him to shove his hands in his pockets and walk away. That was the Spike who didn't care. It usually pissed you off, but you wanted it just this once. You wanted him to make it easy.

"We're pretty far out. Nearest ports fifty clicks that way." he said, nodding lightly over his shoulder. Your eyes met for a moment.

"Didn't wanna throw you guys too off course." Your tone fell flat.

He stood there for a moment. "Right," he said, pausing. "How thoughtful of you."

You sighed as you ran your hand through your hair. Dealing with Jet was one thing, and you had barely handled that. You had hoped you could just disappear—but of course, Spike couldn't let that happen.

That wasn't how Spike functioned, and you knew that all too well.

"Where are you really going?" he asked.

There it was.

Your eyes were already glassy. A single tear fell. You were quick to wipe it away, your hand staying on your face as you glanced away.

"Spike," you started, your voice quiet. You looked at him again and dropped your hand. "I gotta take care of some things," you confessed.

You couldn't lie to him. Not Spike.

Not after the countless late-night talks in your room. Not after all the confessions over shared cigarettes. Not after he had let you see the side of him no one else really got to see.

He would've expected this from Faye. Hell, even from himself.

But you? You weren't the one to disappear unannounced. He could tell you were scared. He saw how your hands shook, how you avoided his gaze. But he also knew how stubborn you were. He knew that once you made up your mind, there was no changing it.

He saw himself in you, in more ways than he liked. And he wasn't just going to let this slide.

"You in trouble?" he asked.

Your stomach twisted. You hated the part of yourself that wanted to tell him. That wanted him to save you. You hated how easily he read you.

"Maybe," you confessed.

His face was unreadable. He shifted, standing up straight.

"We can help. You know that, right?" he asked.

He knew you were aware—he just couldn't figure out why you weren't taking it. He watched as you nodded, not saying anything at all.

Another tear slid down your face. This time, you didn't wipe it away. His jaw tightened.

"And you're not gonna tell me what's going on?" he asked.

Your eyes dropped to the floor again, the silence answering his question.

"Figures," he huffed.

You knew he wasn't mad—just trying to piece it all together. He was disappointed, sure, but not mad. He couldn't be. Not really.

He knew what it was like.

Spike stood still for a moment before reaching into his pocket. He tossed a small communicator to you. You caught it on instinct, your fingers wrapping around it.

You stared down at the screen and ran your thumb across it. The lump in your throat never went away. You didn't want to leave like this—but you knew there was no right way to do it.

"Call if it gets bad," he said calmly.

You looked up at him, as if you were searching for something—anything. But nothing came. You knew, deep down, you had already made up your mind. You were going to leave, just like you planned.

"I'll see you," you said softly. Your words lingered between you.

Spike didn't say anything else. He just nodded.

You turned before you could second-guess yourself. Before you could convince yourself to stay.

You didn't look back.

I miss you —

now playing: august 10 - julie doiron

summary: reader wants to be left alone, but spike knows where to find her.

a/n: never posted on here before but i miss spike like a mf

————————————————————————

The sun felt warm on her skin. Her mind was calm. She loved days like this.

Days like this were rare.

Her eyes fluttered open as she watched the clouds drift by. She imagined all the stars that sat behind them, just out of reach. She was kind of glad she couldn't see them—she was tired of drifting through space.

Slow days in space made her feel hollow. Even with the gravity on the ship, she still felt weightless. She hated that feeling.

She had practically begged to stop at the nearest planet—convinced everyone they needed a "day off." Jet was persistent about staying on route. He tried to tell her they'd had weeks off—no bounties, no calls, no emergencies. But she didn't care. Days on the ship weren't days off to her.

She eventually won him over, and she hadn't stepped back on the ship since. Her eyes fell to her watch, a shadow casting over her face.

4:30 p.m.

Perfect. About six hours of no contact. She closed her eyes again. Her hands were behind her head, legs crossed. It felt like she could fall asleep at any moment.

As she bounced her foot, she heard a noise next to her—gentle footsteps in the grass. She didn't even have to open her eyes to know who it was. A faint smell of cigarettes and cologne washed over her.

"How'd you find me?" she asked.

The footsteps stopped, followed by the sound of him sitting next to her.

"Had a hunch," he said calmly.

She hummed to herself as she opened her eyes.

She glanced up at him. He was staring off into the distance with that same old look on his face. He always looked a little lost, like he was somewhere else.

He looked at her—their eyes met for a moment.

"This is where I found you last time," he said, digging in his pockets.

That was when she remembered. They had been here before—a long time ago. She must've just gravitated back to this spot. The view was pretty, right in front of a lake. She looked back toward the sky.

"Y'know, Jet's pretty pissed you left your comm," he said, flicking his lighter open.

It didn't come as a surprise. She knew how he was. A small puff of smoke drifted into view above her.

"Let him be," she said softly. She didn't care what Jet thought—she liked being alone. The stillness of it all.

Spike already knew that, of course. She and Faye had a tendency to disappear as soon as they touched ground.

He always had a way of finding her, though. It had become almost a habit of his. She picked up on it pretty fast. Maybe she liked it. Maybe she waited for him to show.

Spike had always been hard to read. It was like he was in a constant state of faking it. She'd slowly picked up on his tells—they were small, but he wasn't as slick as he thought.

She noticed how quick he was to light a cigarette when he was stressed. How he'd close his eyes when he didn't want to talk. How he'd fidget with his lighter when he was being impatient.

But sometimes, she'd fall short. Sometimes, she didn't understand him at all—it was only slightly defeating, of course.

Didn't mean it didn't scare her.

He wasn't one to talk about feelings, so when he actually came to her with something, she knew it was serious. She knew it was gnawing at him in ways she didn't know how to fix.

She felt honored, in a way—that he felt safe enough to go to her.

But what really scared her was when he pulled away, when he left without saying anything.

When he felt like a ghost.

She quickly came to as Spike nudged her gently—a cigarette in hand, waiting for her to take it.

"Lost you for a second," he said calmly. She could hear the smirk in his voice.

As she reached for it, their fingers brushed together.

She stayed a few seconds too long. His eyes fell to her. She looked away as she took a drag, her face heating up slightly. She silently hoped he didn't notice.

He did.

He was always a little too observant. That was another thing she hated. He could read her like an open book, saw through everything—yet he remained a subtle mystery to her.

She took another hit before handing it back to him. She wondered when she started to care so much.

When did she realize she wanted him to stay?

Why was he trying to disappear?

She glanced back at him once again. She hesitated for just a second.

"Spike?" she asked.

He took a long drag and closed his eyes.

"Hm?" was all he said.

She watched him carefully. Her heart ached, ever so slightly.

"I miss you," she said softly.

He took the cigarette from his mouth, eyeing her for a moment.

"I'm right here," he responded, like it was obvious.

She stared at him like she was trying to tell him something. Then she gave up—looked away.

He followed her gaze. Spike knew what she meant; he just wanted to pretend he didn't. He knew he was hurting her. He just didn't know how to stop.

"I miss you too," he confessed.