oh, to be alive.

---

After what must have been a good half hour, you came across your door at last. You all but stumbled in, turning around and closing it shut with the weight of your body. After that terrible hike, on top of your lingering mana, all you wanted to do was climb into bed and be finally done for the day. A rustling noise caught your attention though, and you turned around to face the room proper.

“Captain?!”

---

“You have to quiet down. Do you want them to find us?”

He had you sitting up on the kitchen counter, the digital glow of the appliances near you the only source of light. You could hardly see, but that didn’t matter to him—his eyes more adept to navigating the darker world; so, when he sunk his teeth into your sensitive skin, it came as a surprise.

It was over quickly—too quickly. He ran his tongue along the punctures and you whined, subjected to this for what felt like hours by now. It was only enough for you to start bleeding, only enough to whet his palate—he had you crying, the pleasure of his fangs not nearly as satisfying if he took them away so soon.

“Come on,” you squirmed. It was becoming unbearable. You had gotten lightheaded ages ago. “Drink, already!”

This was the reaction he wanted. You knew because he chuckled, low, and spread your trembling legs, stepping closer. He was enjoying this; you felt him—of course you did. This was a game to him. Something to keep him entertained in the midnight hours. You wondered, faintly, if he could feel you as well.

“You taste so good,” you felt a canine while he spoke, gently brushing against your neck. “I can’t savor you?”

In the fog of your mind, it took you a moment to register his question, and another moment more, attempting to formulate a response. You knew he wanted someone to hear. You knew he wanted them to come out and witness the mess he left, sinking his teeth and taking what was his.

Your contract bonded you to him in such a way that it seemed unfair at times. You were his. How much of you were you allowed to keep for yourself? You weren’t so sure.

Emotions rotated around, clear as day. This only elevated his personal humor, as he leaned back to watch you. “No?” he asked, smirk evident on his face. “Well then.”

🚀Cowboy Bebop🚀

Spike Spiegel

Types of Kisses Gift Giving ✨Sterile ✨Lighthouse ✨/r/SpikeSpiegel A Trip to the Cinema ✨Sleeping Doggy Dog Love Me Not [ao3 link] ✨Cheesy Come, Cheesy Go Shark Week ⚪Spike, in the Mornings Kiss the Cook(s) Cowboy Caregiver ✨Erratum Discussions [ao3 link] Interlining Dilemmas Bedroom Funk Vicinity The Most Magical Place on Mars ✨In Comfort; Let Me Rest My Eyes Closed [ao3 link] ✨Futile [ao3 link]

Jet Black

Love A Bit Rough In Which You Haven't Kissed the Cook (Yet) Kiss the Cook(s)

Vampire Money (Vampire Spike AU)

What's Life Like, Bleeding on the Floor? [ao3 link] ⚪✨I've Really Been on a Bender and It Shows [ao3 only] These Eyes Have Had Too Much to Drink Again Tonight [ao3 link]

Cotard and I Alone (Spike Spiegel/Grim Reaper Reader AU)

✨Dedicated Life [ao3 link] Cracking Visions [ao3 link] Attuned Inside [ao3 link]

🏴‍☠️One Piece🏴‍☠️

Trafalgar Law

Heart in Time

Roronoa Zoro

Swordplay Lost Little Marimo

🔮Black Clover🔮

StopRewind (Yami Sukehiro/Rookie Magic Knight Reader)

✨I've Been Told So Many Stories of Adventure, Power, and Glory [ao3 link] It's on the Tip of My Tongue [ao3 link]

💯Mob Psycho 100💯

Misapprehension (Meeting Reigen on a Dating App)

✨Ghostbox [ao3 link] Spiritbox [ao3 link]

🥊Boku no Hero Academia🥊

Hawks

---

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.”

---

He remembers suffering, pain, and endurance. Most of it came from living within the organization. His handlers, while allowing him more of an insight to the world than ever before, were no less cruel than the ones who drove him there in the first place. As the years passed by, he grew far from that scrawny little boy he had once been—but he still felt no more of a man than before. And when he opened up his own hero agency, he constantly felt waterlogged and wrung out; schedule leaving little time for rest, always something to do, always on the move.

Despite his successes—going above and beyond, reaching higher and higher—he couldn’t seem to escape the cage he had been placed in, all those years ago. There were many rules he had to abide by and regulations to follow; driveling and snooze-inducing topics that didn’t really matter in the end and that he didn’t care much for. He couldn’t help but laugh about it—like a pet bird, he thought. Cooped up and clipped wings, meant only to flutter an inch off of the ground, stand there pretty, parrot phrases said a thousand times over.

He wasn’t allowed any friends. They were a distraction, they told him; he should work hard, keep busy. There was even the order that he was not allowed to date. Any type of relationship, whether it was romantic or sexual, would not only be quickly made public but labeled as a sign of rebellion and opposition to the organization that had treated him so well. Manipulative. Deliberately threatening what little privacy he had. Stripping him bare for all the world to see.

When he met you, he was twenty. He had recently ranked within the top five in the Pro Hero Charts. Despite trying to beat it out of him, Hawks had always had a bit of a rebellious streak—a life of strict handlers and rigorous outlines had shaped him quite a bit differently than they had expected—but after taking the fifth slot, he had decided to test exactly how secure the latch on the cage door really was. And while that might sound like something much more devious to an onlooker, for Hawks, it simply meant rattling the bars for a bit. For fun.

He phrased it much like he’d heard countless of times before, scrolling through social media: he needed some mental health days. He didn’t know this himself—didn’t allow himself the chance to know, really—but he really did need it. He went on vacation. It took a lot of convincing for it to get approved by his handlers, much less getting it past the higher ups—he just ranked fifth, it’d do wonders to ride that high, they insisted.

Regardless, his time off—his first ever official, willing, much awaited for and desired time off—went through. To celebrate, he slept for most of the first day, only leaving his bed to grab takeout at the front door and take the occasional trip to the restroom. He lavished in his slumber; since the transfer, he couldn’t find a single time in his life where he could sleep in late—much less was physically able to.

It was by the second day that the initial appeal wore off, and he found himself fidgeting about. Tossing, and turning, and very much incredibly bored; he missed his work, he found. As troublesome and uninspiring as the fact was—it was sadly true. Inevitable, even. At that point, he had spent the majority of his life working. It felt wrong to not be on his feet. He felt guilty channel-surfing.

The rest he had so constantly craved didn’t feel quite as rewarding as he thought it would be.

---

On the third day, he had decided a quick trip to the corner store couldn't hurt, as long as he was fast enough not to get noticed on the way there and back. He had to stretch his wings, surround himself with the sounds of everyday life. He was going stir-crazy cooped up in his nest—and that was a depressing thought. He put his shoes on and took a moment to ponder. Hawks was confident about his speed and agility—a nondescript trip to the convenience store should be easy. Within the organization, he was praised for his covertness, after all—was the fastest-rising hero, after all. It should have been easy.

It was not easy.

It was a saying that was ripped right off of a certain article headline—he was too fast for his own good. Despite his reflexes, despite all the training, the drills, the hardships he had to endure up until that point, he was just a bit too quick on the draw. When you are at your most cautious, that is when you are most likely to make a mistake—he had been told that many times. After ranking fifth, he had stopped listening.

It was on this third day that he met you. He didn’t run into you—couldn’t—but he very nearly did, bracing himself against the automatic doors, causing them to pop out of place by mistake. This is where he stumbled, weight suddenly shifting, but then he felt hands upon him—one on his shoulder, another at his chest, firm—and he regained his balance once more.

“Are you okay?”

He looked up. Your concern was plastered on your entire face—the angle of your brows, the seriousness of your eyes, so trained on him that he was struck, suddenly. Of all his years of being Pro, he has had a multitude of people worried for his well-being. At the top of the charts, it came with the job. Cheering, and screaming, and crying; many people cared about him.

When they needed him, that is.

You looked at him. You looked into his eyes, like you were peering into his soul, and asked him—“Are you hurt?”

He tried convincing himself that this was not a fight. Every bone in his body trembled with the force of it. It left him unable to breathe, the adrenaline coursing through him with an intensity he’s never felt before. He could be bleeding, he thought, idly. “No,” he said, eventually. He felt like he was losing. “No, I’m good. Dandy, even.” And it was habit more than anything, when he flashed you his most charming smile, “But thank you for worrying. I really appreciate it. Really.”

Sweat caught in his hairline, threatening, and he watched as you took in his features. The longer you stared, the more self-conscious he felt; how strained he must look, how tense his muscles must be beneath his shirt—you still held him, he realized, faintly. He felt like passing out.

And with that, he shot you finger-guns. He struck a little pose. He hated it. “I’m okay!” he backed away now, sidestepping around you and out the front door. Popping it back into place with more force than necessary, he laughed—a rough, loud thing—and with a wave of the hand, “Have a good day!” And he took off into the skies.

Rocketing above the clouds, he told himself—I’m okay. I’m okay. I’m okay.

---

Two days later, he remembered that he had wanted the sort of fried food you can only get at a convenience store. The salty-cheap kind, the perfect kind, the quickie-chickie kind. The city was big, he thought, the world even bigger, so when he nearly ran into you again he felt as if someone must be pulling at some unseen strings somewhere, up in the heavens. Like he could look up to find the curtains rising. They never did, of course. They didn’t exist.

What he got instead was your voice again—exactly the same from within his dreams—asking, “Are you okay?” Hands at his shoulder and chest, you steadied him. The door clunked beside you.

Eyes skybound, he pursed his lips. Puckered them. Exhaled. Then he nodded, slipping out of reach, and jammed the door straight. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, I’m good. Great, even.” And even though his wings fluttered and he felt his feathers start to rise, he asked with a quirked brow—“Are you okay? I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

It took you a moment to answer, watching him toe further and further away. “Yeah, I…” And it was at this point where a familiar glint in your eyes appeared, and you did a double-take. “Hawks?”

Despite the immediate bile rising to the back of his throat, his smile came more naturally this time. Dancing backwards, he flapped his wings; once, twice, he was off his feet. Saluting, he spun, gave a flourish, and was off.

---

He was twenty, number five, and on vacation for the very first time. Fried chicken was good, he remembered, sitting in the shadow of a tree, down several back-roads, obscured from sight, and chowing down on some karaage next to you. It was the day after your second encounter; he had entered stage left to see you center stage once again.

His sixth day off in a row; summer, the sun setting down towards the horizon line, and the convenience store door had been knocked out of its slot once again. He had laughed, head thrown back at the obscurity of it all, and rammed it back into place. He offered to buy you a snack, an apology for bothering you so—he insisted—but once he had his receipt, he didn’t turn tail and run. Not this time.

No, he invited you to come sit with him, enjoy the sunset, talk for a bit. You were on his mind, constantly, and he almost told you as much. Almost. You, who looked at him, point-blank, and not wondered for your own safety. He learned your name and your occupation, what it was that you did throughout the day, and what brought you to the corner store. He stuffed his face; and it’s not like you didn’t know who he was—you recognized him, of course—but there was just something about you. He couldn’t quite place it. Your pretty eyes and the way they looked at him. His heart thumped in his chest.

What was it about you?

He pondered this as he spoke, vividly, about his favorite hero. He couldn’t quite remember how the two of you got on that topic in the first place but you were laughing at the unconventional taste of it—and everything else then ceased to matter.

His heart thumped in his chest. He couldn’t breathe. The hairline at the nape of his neck was damp with it—the sudden urge to fling himself across the country. To fly so far up, so fast, he’d completely lose air. You looked at him, so earnestly, and he thought: oh. Your face. Your smile. Your eyes on him and him alone. And he was used to the attention—number five and all wrung out—but there was something about your gaze that struck him to his core, made him feel frozen and burned from the inside-out all at once.

Oh no.

He was not allowed to date. He didn’t have that luxury, the private life. No, he could not be with you. Oh, how he wanted to. Wanted to flip out his phone—and show you the little Endeavor charms, just to see you point out all the artistic liberties—and ask for your number. To ask you out. Hope and pray a disposable face mask would help disguise him enough. He considered the possibility of renting out an entire restaurant, just to secure his own concealment. He hoped you liked umai.

But would the staff talk? Would you? Would there be lenses positioned at the entrance, already phoning the tabloids—already phoning his handlers? The Secret’s Out! Love Bird Hawks!

He wiped the grease away on the leg of his pants, hand lingering over his pocket. You were telling him about your favorite hero—their aesthetics and sense of justice—but you paused, suddenly. He looked up.

“Oh,” you seemed nervous. “N-not that you aren’t amazing as well, Hawks...! Didn’t you just rank number five? And it’s only been, what, two years since you debuted?” You tinkered with the keyring in your lap as you spoke, fiddling with the dangling chain, almost discreetly. He couldn’t help it. He looked down. There, between your clamped fingers, sat an acrylic charm. The light hit it, just so, revealing a brilliant scarlet. You fidgeted. A feather.

His smile felt strained, threatening to disappear off of his face as the bile rose once more. “Time moves so fast,” it felt like a slog. Each day crawling along with an itinerary several miles long. He wanted to tear it up, desperately, into tiny little shreds, burn it to ash, and throw himself into the pyre as well. “Tenth feels like it was just yesterday.”

He didn’t ask for your number. He resolved to never go to that corner store ever again.

On that sixth night, he laid in bed, alone, thinking about his favorite hero. Number two. He wondered what that was like, as he watched the moon up in the sky, higher than he could ever dream of flying; his body the cage that tethered him. He wondered what that was like. Number two. Endeavor, his brilliant, blazing inferno in the sky, embers in his wake, impeccable track record, eyes on the prize—but never enough. Hawks watched the moon up in the sky between the gaps in the window blinds, strained and worn out, chasing, and wondered—will it ever be enough?

---

It was well-past noon, and you and Yami had wandered aimlessly throughout the forest talking. It turns out, he was serious about getting to know you—but his version of this seemed to only consist of asking unrelated questions one after another until you were sure he didn’t actually care about the answers he was getting at all. It became quite repetitive, a question and a reply, the captain barely sparing a moment to reflect on your answer given until he’s moved on to the next.

He probably does this to all the new guys, you thought, stepping over a fallen tree branch in the path, to help them feel included. You were going to be living under the same roof—you figured the plan was that Yami would spend some quality time with you before returning back to his normal routine. Break the ice, learn some facts about you, converse a little. The two of you were, after all, supposed to be working closely together from then on out. It made sense that he would be working from a mental script—he was the captain. This was apart of the job.

Nothing else to it. Nothing at all. But I didn’t know Yami was such a poor conversationalist…

It was starting to get ridiculous. You watched as he bent to pick the branch off of the ground. Pausing for a moment, he slowly rose to full height with it in hand, an unidentifiable look sitting on his face. Eyes on the branch, you watched as his eyebrows furrowed. And then, in a large swooping motion, he whipped the branch to the side. You blinked. He did it again, and again, and again, and with one step forward one more time, before straightening back up again.

After a pause, he looked at you, tossing the branch to the side. He said—“What do you like to eat?”

For a moment, all you could do was stare. What kind of a demonstration was that? And that’s what he decided to ask you? Mouth opening trying to formulate a response, you were needlessly cut off by a rising, grumbling noise. It came from Yami’s direction. The longer it continued, you realized that it was coming from the captain himself. Namely: his stomach.

“Oh!” you bit back a laugh, understanding the question now. “Oh, you’re—okay, yeah! We can find a place in town. Here—” a ring left one of your fingers and hovered in midair between the two of you. “There’s a place I really like that serves—”

“There you two are!”

Voice drowned out by the sudden interruption, the two of you looked skybound. Up higher than the trees, a figure on a broomstick waved, her dark robe stark against the sky. Flying in a sweeping circle, she found a break in the treeline and descend; the wide brim of her hat fluttering in the wind as she did. Landing, she walked over with the stick over her shoulder. Her eyes shone like jewels, tinted lips curving the closer she got. She was recognizable even from a glance—Vanessa Enoteca.

“I was sent to look for you guys!” she said, with a hand on her hip. She was as beautiful as they say. Perhaps moreso, in person. “Figured you guys would be in town by now, but now that I think about it—this makes way more sense!” She smiled at you like she knew something, but you were certain you had absolutely no clue on what exactly that something was. Before you had time to respond however, her gaze traveled. “A quiet little outing—I didn’t expect that from you, Yami!”

The captain shifted his weight, reaching for a new cigarette and swatting at your still-floating ring, causing it to return to your finger.

The action didn’t go unnoticed, but, “Lunch is ready,” she was carrying on. “Let’s get back and eat!” And with that, she turned on her heels and started down the path with a bounce in her step.

Hesitating, you adjusted the now resting ring on your finger. The final piece of the puzzle put itself into place in your mind as Yami’s hand came down gently on your shoulder as he passed you, leaning down so his next words were heard by you only—“Next time,” he said, scratching the hairline at the back of his neck. The action drew him closer, and his next words came quieter, a rumble that shot exactly to where it shouldn’t—“There’s a place I like. I’ll take you.”

---

Despite the order of finding work, it seemed like the entire squadron was there; filling their plates high and chatting all the while, loud and boisterous—this was the Black Bulls you knew. Sitting in a circle around a rather large table, chairs and sofas had been moved to gather around; the common room transformed into a space to share a meal together. The noise was incredible, each person’s voice raised to speak over the other, seemingly in a constant loop that grew louder and louder by the second.

“Captain!” called the man with the mohawk. Magna Swing, with his gloves still on and sunglasses pushed up towards his hairline. “I saved seats for you!” He patted heartily at the loveseat beside him, nestled between him and Finral. “Come eat!”

Vanessa found a seat on the opposite end of the table—and it appeared that the only remaining place for you was right next to Yami. A bit sheepishly, you followed him into the fray and sat down. It was a bit of a tight fit—the loveseat was of average size but Yami’s bulk was anything but average. An unfortunate shift in your seat could have your thighs pressed up against each other—and following that specific line of thought, you snuck a peek sideways out of the corner of your eye.

He was silent, face once again unreadable as he filled his plate with the buffet before him. The reach of his arm going across the table towards the various foods stretched his muscles nicely, and when he pulled back, the shape of his biceps had you—

At least Finral was on the other side of you. “Welcome back,” he smiled. “You two were gone for a while.” There was a certain lit to his voice, one that brought to mind the memory of earlier in the day, when just about everyone had laid witness to the misunderstanding in front of the base.

Your face burned. “N-no! We were just talking!” You looked towards Yami but any additional input you hoped he would have provided was nonexistent—his plate now towered high with several portions worth of food. He slapped thieving hands away, the movement drawing your eyes to the ring encircling his finger. Stealing the light, it sat vivid against his skin and the scars that embedded him. A new connection; a bond formed between the two of you, the ring a symbol of your—

“We were just talking,” was your explanation. For everything. “Just walking around the woods!”

Finral gave you another smile, polite this time, and raised his glass to his lips. “Okay, okay. I won’t embarrass you.”

“Nothing to be embarrassed about,” came Yami’s voice before the overloaded plate was dropped in front of you. “Figured we’d talk in peace. Finally. What with you hogging up my new ride’s time and all.” His face was still indescribable, but the angle of his brows were curious as he locked eyes with Finral. “Couldn’t even offer a simple hello before you started portaling across the entire kingdom.”

There was a certain hardness coming from the captain. A pressure that weighed you down, leaving you sinking into the cushions as suddenly an awkwardness settled within the room; a haze that slowly drowned out every voice. Not so subtlety, conversations stilled and all eyes came to your side of the table.

Avoiding every gaze, you focused your attention on the food. There was just about everything on that plate, the entire buffet’s worth of selection spilling over each other and tumbling down the tower every so often—and a glance at Yami found him without a plate of his own. Admittedly, with so many different flavors and textures mixed together, it didn’t look very appetizing at all—but a fork was passed over to you, so you started to dig in, if only to appear that you weren’t paying attention.

Picking at the bread, you listened as Finral sputtered. “I was just doing what you asked of me!” his eyes flickered in your direction. “Come on, I’m not trying to—we still have a lot of places to mark—”

“Now you suddenly want to work.” Coming from Yami, it didn’t sound like a question.

You knew of Finral’s reputation—he was known to slack off, often found leisuring around the castletowns instead of working. You frowned, remembering that day in the alleyway. The two of you were paired up immediately, imprinting upon countless and countless of locations, so really, who’s fault was it that you were often together? Besides, Finral was working—what was wrong with that? From what you’ve heard, he was usually off flirting…

Cutting through your thoughts like a hot knife, your attention was pulled across the table towards the starry-eyed boy from before as he called out to you. The conversation happening at your side drowned out as you tried to remember the kid’s name.

“Asta!” he supplied. “From Hage Village!” You didn’t know where that was. “I didn’t get the chance to ask you before—what kind of magic do you use?”

His obliviousness to the confrontation happening literally right in front of him was a breather, causing a soft reset in the vibe at the table overall. Slowly, conversations started to pick back up and the noise level steadily grew—not to what it once was, but high enough to no longer be as obvious about the eavesdropping as before.

“It’s ring magic,” you explained, trying to concentrate. With multiple conversations happening all around you—including the one currently flying over your head—you were finding it exceedingly difficult to hear yourself. “I can do a lot of things with it, but it follows the basic functions of rings as a whole.”

Asta shoveled food into his mouth as he looked at you in awe. Without swallowing, he asked, “What’s that?”

“Communication. At least, that’s how I think of it.” You thought of playing with your mother’s jewelry box as a child, and fiddling with her rings. They were cheap things, bought on whims, but you didn’t care. They were beautiful; hers, a piece of her left with you while she worked long hours, away from home. You felt your heart start to swell at the thought of it. Inspired, you carried on. “A ring usually signifies a bond or status, so I can use them as communication or tracking devices. Opening portals is what I do the most though—it’s just so much easier to take one step as opposed to walking all the way across town.”

Suddenly solemn, your eyes lowered as you remembered: “It’s not a really desirable attribute though, since it’s so easily replaceable with actual magical items. And it’s no good in a fight.”

“What are you talking about? It sounds like you could do all sorts of cool stuff,” Asta chewed. “Besides, it doesn’t matter what other people think—aren’t you here because of your magic?”

You didn’t know what to say.

“If you want to learn how to fight, I can teach you!” A messy-haired boy spoke up from the other end of the table. You recognized him as Luck Volta; and if his reputation is anything to go by, you knew taking him up on that offer was a bad idea.

His static raising your hair already, you frantically shook your head—“No, thank you, really, I’m not good at that—”

“If you need help with your magic, you should ask Gauche!” A small girl was stuffing her face. As she paused to down her drink, you were able to catch a glimpse of her features—Charmy Pappitson. She pointed in the direction of the man in question. “He’s usually using an item, too—he could probably give you some good advice!”

Gauche Adlai was looking at a photograph in his hand, hardly touching his food at all. Monotone, he replied, “I only help my sister.”

“Focusing on one aspect of your magic isn’t necessarily a bad thing,” Vanessa sipped directly from a bottle. “You’re working on portals, right? I heard you can make a whole lot more than you used to—and it’s only been a week! You should give it a proper spin.” Before you could ask what that meant exactly, the shine in her eyes appeared again as she stood up from her seat. Circling the table quickly, she came to a stop behind you. With each arm, she pulled both Finral and Yami closer, encaging you in a huddle of sorts.

---

Where his soul would end up, you knew. You did not want to know. The life he lived before—money, and lives, and crime, and rise—you were certain. The below awaited him. Despite everything after, ascension was never in his cards; the pearly gates would not take him, you knew. But if eternity in the wastes was his fate, you knew without a doubt—you would beg on your hands and knees to be let in as well. Your sentence, infinite as it might be, would mean nothing without his presence; empty, perpetually.

(For Spike, you were willing to raise your scythe towards The Creator himself.)

You kept him mortal for as long as you could. You couldn’t turn back the clock—he was as conscious as his body would allow him to be—but you were afraid that if you didn’t push his soul back into place, you would never see him again. He was your human just as much as you could tell he fancied you his death.

Mortality could only last for so long. You knew this quite intimately. Carnally. Eventually, of course, his body would not be able to hold him. Rejection of the soul was common enough—to roam or to ascend—but, you were quite slow to realize, it seemed Spike was trying to artificially replicate that process.

“To be with you,” he had said, once, lying in his own pool of blood, after you had questioned him about it.

He was out on a hunt, alone, in the darker shadows of the solar system. The chase was a fairly long one; they were fast, fear driving the bounty further and further—but Spike was on their heels, not giving up. Not when the reward was so high. Not when he had sat in that ship, bored and hungry. It went awry, unfortunately, when the wanted decided running simply wasn’t enough: the bullet had lodged deep into Spike’s side. He stumbled, coming to a slow, painful stop. And after a long moment against the wall, he collapsed in the alleyway as the hunted escaped.

Under normal circumstances, Spike would be dead within moments—a reaper sent to collect. He had lost too much, running himself dry, with no one around to help him and not enough strength to stand. Fortunately, for you, his soul was still yours to take; caught outside the net of impermanence, ever within reach.

So, you watched.

His body was a nice one. Lean and kept in shape, crisscrossed with scars and remnants of old injuries—nose healed wrong and knuckles slightly askew. Parts of him not even his, parts of him missing, parts of him he wasn’t even fully aware of. He was beautiful. You had spent so much time staring at him, watching the light fade from his eyes as he rapidly drowned in red. Deliciously.

He was yours, that much was for certain. With his soul in your hand, you could do whatever you wanted with it. “You want to be with me?”

“Yes,” he’s never looked so sure, bleeding out. “Take me.”

Tugging at the tendon brought forth a noise from within him. You’ve heard it before. You pulled harder. He squeezed his eyes shut. He breathed. He breathed again.

Once more, through a trembling smile, barely held together against the brick wall—“Take me.”

Eyes locked. You stood towering over him, the beginnings of his soul in one hand and your scythe in the other. For a moment, one blissful second in bullet time, you allowed yourself to dream of an eternity with him. Together, forever, until hereafter ran out. You thought of a reaper companion; Spike wasn’t someone who would wield a scythe—you couldn’t imagine it—but movement from the corner of your vision stole your attention before you could indulge further.

You supposed you should inform him. “Your body is being moved.”

His eyes grew wide as the blue and red lights came alternating. “Take me,” he said, desperately now. “Before they pump me full again. Before you leave me again. Take me.”

His spirit clung to you as his physical form was rushed to a hospital, the ride brutalizing and overwhelming. When you simply held him, he tried again—“Reaper,” wavering at the seams, he peered inside of you. “Do you hear me? I want you to take me. Please.”

On his knees, he looked so pathetic. Spike had never begged you before. You were so taken aback by this pure vulnerability, so suddenly, that all you could do was stare. You held him. He clung to you. You held him. His body was refilled.

(You loved him. There was only one way to be with him forever. You were going to love him forever.)

You made up your mind. Without further words, you began pushing him back into his body.

It was the first time Spike had ever fought against you. Still weakened beyond belief, all he could manage was to thrash around, wildly, away from the direction of his physical form. Twisting and kicking, it broke your heart—what was left of it, anyway—but of being of the other, you overpowered him, easily, and got him two-thirds of the way in before you gripped his jaw in your hand, rougher than you intended—but you leaned closer regardless.

“You have to go back,” you told him. “It’s not your time.”

“The hell it isn’t,” voice as low as you’ve ever heard it, he wasn’t begging now. Far from it. “It was my time long ago.” And when your grip slackened, his lips crooked. “I’m not afraid to take my chances with the big man, himself. At least he wouldn’t think twice about where to send me.”

You shoved him the rest of the way in. There, above his still form, you hoped he wouldn’t remember anything when he woke up—however long from now that may be. He had lost so much, so quickly. You hoped he would wake up. You hoped it was soon.

And when his eyes remained closed, monitors slowly beeping, and his partner finally got word of his whereabouts, you stood in the corner for the entire length of his visit. Quiet. Staring. Watching.

Jet, with his back towards you (always), spoke aloud, “You haven’t taken him yet.” He stayed silent for a moment, perhaps waiting for a response. When you gave him none (always), he turned his head in your direction, just a fraction. “Playing with him will only hurt him more.”

The words were out before you could even stop them—“I’m not playing with him. I don’t want to hurt him.”

“All you’ve ever done is hurt him!” In the droning silence of the cold, white, hospital room, his voice was louder than ever. “If it’s his time, than it’s his time. I let you on my ship and you don’t do a single thing but needlessly haunt my partner. He spends most of his time looking for you, and you don’t even have the decency to—”

“I don’t want him down there,” if you had tear ducts, you supposed they would be flooded. Drowning, “I don’t want him in agony for the rest of time.”

“He’s already in agony!” a metal fist firmly in the wall, Jet fully faced you for the first time since the two of you met. “Look at him,”  a gesture to Spike’s motionless form. “He constantly puts himself in danger because of you. If you don’t want him down there, figure out a solution—eat his soul for all I care—just stop him from doing this to himself!”

He broke, then. “He’s hurting more than just one of us.”

(You are going to love him forever. You are going to love him forever. There was only one way. There was only one way. You want to love him forever. You want to love him forever.)

---

After you severed his soul from its mortal existence, your list of stories returned to you—and with it, the countless patients left within your care. Eternity went on. Word eventually came from above: you had your duty—as he is now just as much of you as you are yourself, the two of you would continue to reap. Together. And like that, eternity went on.

He was granted no scythe. He was not summoned for judgement. When you asked around about it, your answer came: he was you. You were him. A reaper only needed one scythe, after all.

You supposed he would have been sentenced, had the proper procedures taken place. Eating him surely was the most drastic approach you could have taken—but for Spike, you would have done anything to keep him close. As it so happened, that sort of thing doesn’t happen too often—not often enough for it to warrant substantial consequences on your end, anyway.

You severed Spike Spiegel’s soul from the land of the living. That was the job you were assigned—and you completed it. He was dead. No one could argue otherwise; no one could say you did it wrong. You had guided him; and it appeared The Creator agreed as well.

You asked him how it had felt to be devoured.

“Didn’t feel like anything,” and his form was as beautiful as it was in life. More so, now. Enhanced in a way only dispatching could achieve. He stood before you—you were ever so grateful you could still speak to him like this, apart of you as he was. “It wasn’t warm and it wasn’t cold…It felt like nothing.”

Nothing. You supposed that made sense. Here, in this realm, there was nothing. There was you—and now him, too.

Reaping souls was a lot like hunting bounties, Spike had said, once, after a particularly flighty essence had tried to escape its fate. He liked it when they ran. You watched and likened it much to a cat playing with it’s food. How he trailed, and played, and brought the end to their mortal existence.

(You lost track of how long it had been—was he like this in life, too? Hunting bounties; the thrill of the chase driving him forward, further, faster.)

And then, he found his gun. Admittedly, you didn’t know much about human firearms. You always figured he was a good shot—but the sheer accuracy in which he severed souls with these new ethereal bullets…

“Where did you find that?” you asked him, when he had used it, suddenly, shockingly, out of the blue on another struggling patient. One shot, ripping the soul from the body. Two shots, sending it on its way.

“I’ve always had it,” he reached around behind him and tucked it into the waistline of his pants. “I guess.” Shifting his weight, he looked at you; hand on his hip and appearing every bit apart of this world as you. The shadows hung under his eyes now, darkening his features—wonderful and sublime. A true reaper. Yours. “I never bothered to check.”

You didn’t quite believe that. If this was meant to be his scythe, his eternal tool, than he would have known about it from the start. He would have told you, if he knew, you were certain. But—it would have been hard to hide it, if he was lying. Even from himself, the gun that looked so much like his own back in the living world would have been inherently noticeable to him. To you. Though—admittedly, as often as you had spent watching him, in this realm and the other, he still found ways to surprise you.

(You wanted to believe him.)

You opened your mouth to speak these thoughts but was pulled into an embrace before the words could manifest. And when his lips met yours, otherworldly and daring, everything else swiftly left your mind. No, you were his and he was yours. That’s all that mattered. His soul belonged to you, intertwined within your very being, deep, incorporeal and everlasting, inseparable, until the day your sentence was over.

If, by then, you simply disappeared into nothingness, you hoped he would fade alongside you. Surely, he would; you and him as one. Nothing else would matter at that point.

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.

---

He emptied an entire magazine into the dark. He would not be able to reload for quite the while. And he hates small fry—would rather feel the thrill of the bigger hunts—but those would have to do if he were to go in with no bullets; casings littering the bedsheets as he gasped, wildly. Dry-heaving and choking on nothing, breathing and stuttering, heart beating through his chest, ringing in his ears, inconsolable, as he tried, desperately, to find purchase.

That’s when you reached for him. Grabbing his elbow, he startled, panicked, and leveled the gun between your eyes. He looked through you. Quickly, he realized who was touching him. He leaned into it, heavily, until you fully supported his weight as he shook and stammered.

Of course, you were not able to interact with his physical form in a way that mattered—so what really happened was his body passed right through you, collapsing onto the mattress where it grew quieter. His essence clung to you in your arms.

You knew Spike had nightmares. You’ve watched him shake and scream in his sleep countless of times, but you’ve never once tried to comfort him. You didn’t think you could. You’ve never tried. You regretted all those decisions as you held him tighter, unsure of what to do.

You wondered how this was possible. You didn’t know much about the workings of the human body—not anymore anyway, you supposed. His heart didn’t give out, right? His body was still breathing. Did this have something to do with the brain? Was this something else entirely? Some external factor, something to do with his lost story and your mere constant presence by his side? You were unsure—but pondered on these thoughts only briefly. It didn’t really matter how it had happened.

You held him. He held on to you. You held him. He held on to you. Your fingers found his hair, running through the curls until it seemed to calm him, if only just a little. He held on to you. You held him.

It took a long time before he was able to speak; swallowing around nothing as he tried to find the words. “Angel,” he was out of breath. “My angel.”

Against your better judgment—“I’m not an angel. You know this.”

He shook his head, almost furiously. Desperately. “You’re my angel. Watch over me, always.” A pause. And then, quiet, almost too hard to hear—“Please.”

You couldn’t refuse. Not when he asked it like that, bullet casings surrounding his body, warm still; tethered to this plane by whatever force allowed it to. It didn’t stop it’s movement completely—the chest a telling comfort—but you knew, soon, you would have to send him back.

---

He likes to read, occasionally. It’s no good to train only the body, after all.

Not every bookstore was the same—big or small, cluttered or pristine—but there was something about that particular one, the one that sold them used, located down in the asteroid belt, that he found himself traveling to more often than not, when he found the need for something new.

If he were an honest man, he would wager that it would be more accurate to say that his visitations were for a particular person and not the selection in which they sold. Paperbacks, worn and pre-thumbed, with the corners bent, and notes scribbled in the margins—he had no part in any of that. No; while it was true that Spike enjoyed a good book here and there, he could not possibly work through the text at the rate he was buying them.

He is not an honest man. He would walk in, nonchalant, and browse the selection. After a while, scanning the shelves, he would end up near you; he’d strike up a harmless conversation—“Have you read this one?” “Does this sound interesting to you?” And, well, he couldn’t just leave empty-handed, right? His nightstand became cluttered, and the coffee table grew unusable. The bridge, the workshop, the glove compartment in Swordfish. He bought a bookshelf.

“I get good recommendations when I go there,” he argued, trying to be nonchalant about it when Jet had figured it out.

They were a poor choice of words, Spike realized, when his partner said: “Sure,” with an amused smile playing along his lips; humor and warmth dripping thick in his voice. “Book recommendations. I understand, Spike—that’s your business.”

“No, really,” he suddenly felt like a school-child; the overwhelming urge to defend himself, violently. And it would be a while longer yet for him to fully understand exactly why he was feeling this way, but—“Books. I go there for books, Jet. Books. Why else would I go to a bookstore?”

“Yes, I get it,” Jet still looked at him in a way that pissed him off. “Books.”

Despite the teasing remarks, Spike held firm in his stance. He even believed it himself, for a time. There could not possibly be any other feasible explanation as to why he kept coming back to this specific location, on this small of a settlement, so far out and away from their usual haunts, than the particular selection they held.

Not so soon after his previous relationship. Not when his heart still beated for her. Not when she still appeared in his sweetest dreams. No, this could not be that, especially when he did not know you and you did not know him. Strangers—less than so. You only spoke to him pleasantly because it was your job, and it was his own disillusioned mind that saw it as anything more.

So, he stopped going. He worked through a stack or two of paperbacks, crumpled and tattered. Life resumed as usual.

But he missed chatting with you. After your attention was on him, he would ease the conversation out of the confines of the small store—“Life treating you well?” “You ever worked out your situation?” And the two of you would talk; minutes, sometimes up to an hour, the clock ticking away until the old manager would come out from the backroom and tell you to get back to work. 

There wasn’t much work to do, you had told him, after the manager would hobble back out—probably off to go play solitaire on his outdated computer—and it would be just the two of you, once more. Update the database, tidy up the shop. Foot traffic was slow, most days. You would rather be talking to him, you had said, once, offhand.

Perhaps you were simply indulging him. Maybe he was too friendly. All the more reason to stay away. He didn’t want to appear as a creep. He didn’t want to appear desperate.

Not after her. Not after he couldn’t stay away.

Jet seemed to pick up on the lack of asteroid belt-related trips. Before, Spike would find a multitude of excuses to go. Now, he came up with reasons to avoid it entirely.

“There’s nothing there,” he would say, deliberately avoiding his partner’s eyes. “Not even any good bars—hey, why don’t we hit some bounties? We could use the extra money.”

But that pocket change used to go towards his collection of books. After amenities and necessities, he would spare some for the trip he would inevitably take; paperbacks in the back of his mind and you at the forefront. Always.

It slowly dawned on him that he didn’t have many hobbies, outside of that. He would drink, he would smoke, go out and play pool. He didn’t know if he even liked reading, if he were being completely honest. It was just something that he’d always done, after they taught him how. Something that they said he was good at. A good hobby. Enriching. Enlightening.

She had even appraised his collection, that first night she came over. Spike wondered—if he went back, would that apartment be empty? Those shelves he had spent years filling; text after text, ripped to shreds, left to cover a landfill—or did they preserve it? Collecting dust and bad memories, waiting, and waiting, and waiting.

Waiting for what?

He looked at his room aboard Bebop and found it mostly empty; his closet, his bed. Not much had changed, except the fact that everything had changed. He looked at his bookcase. He wondered if you would praise it, just like she did. Or would you look at it with disgust? Would you scan the titles and recognize every letter—every stain and scuff—and tell him he was a freak? To stay away from you. To never speak to you again.

Spike closed his eyes and stared into the abyss. He came out on the other side and saw only himself. Like looking at a mirror. He wanted to shatter it; to throw it against the wall and watch the splinters crack his reflection—he wanted to grab the shards and watch him tear himself to shreds. Hundreds, thousands of pieces, so broken and battered that no one could ever dream of repairing it ever again. To see his hands wet with it, to hold it tighter, to stop waiting around and finally finish the job himself.

Kicking, and screaming, and dry-heaving, Spike wanted. He wanted—

He didn’t know what he wanted. Perhaps he never did, at all. A man, with his two own eyes, sitting there on the piano bench; sitting, and reading, and waiting, and wanting, and singing—grab a glass because there’s going to be a flood!

Spike knew one thing for sure: he was always good at reading. So, he read. He worked through a stack. Then another. Life resumed like normal. Bullets, and blood, and books, and blue.

He thought of her. He thought of taking her home, to his apartment too big for him, and her looking at his shelves, all in a neat little line, backs against the walls, in every room. With bated breath, he would watch her. He imagined her eyes, wide with disgust and blue, and she’d turn to him and say, “Freak. You’re such a freak.” And that would be that. Finally.

He thought of you. He thought of you and he thought of you and he thought of you and he thought of you and he thought of you and he thought of you and he thought of you and he—

And he wanted.