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#spaye
goomyloid · 8 months
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it goes both ways
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crying-art · 5 months
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*microwävè noises*
mmmmmhhhhhhhthem
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lonichedgehog · 10 months
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Saw no one doing that one Twitter meme with these two, so I did it myself lmao
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yourfavewaifu · 5 months
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'Cause loneliness is a heavy burden. Solitude is too much a price to pay. ( wip )
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dear-scheherazade · 7 months
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haters to lovers
(template under the cut)
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template by @/ikra_kay on twitter
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thestarlightsymphony · 8 months
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I'm back to being super normal about them 💛❤️💙
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cakeinke · 11 days
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I can't decide which versions I like better, so y'all getting both :P Anyway inspired by Chemtrails over Country Clubs, there's a third piece I'm working on but it includes drawing the Bebop so I'm procrastinating
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jetspikecellar · 1 year
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Happy Valentine's Day😘
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bebopsource · 2 years
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Oh, it’s you. Long time no see.  Where are we?
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iammadeofstupid · 6 months
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mr-shimurka · 2 years
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It’s spa-time!
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goomyloid · 6 months
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yea
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crying-art · 5 months
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Maybe I’ll clean up the sketch later
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frankie-bell · 2 years
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That’s it. That’s their whole dynamic. 
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dear-scheherazade · 7 months
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smoke and the mirrored soul
spike spiegel/faye valentine || hurt/comfort, established relationship, domestic fluff, vulnerability
two lovers bring out the most vivid of hues from each other in the midst of the weary dark.
(or: spike helps faye recover from her wounds after an explosive run-in with a bounty.)
read on ao3
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"With her eyes closed she can visualize vivid hues spilling against the canvas of the room – cerise and carmine and the crush of soft velvet against her fingers, the tangy spin of saffron and cinnamon blending between the two of them, an elaborate angled brush sifting between colors and spurring light into the shadowed room. It's a brush he's placed into her hands, steadily guiding her arms to the canvas as she takes in the invigorating blur of life before her."
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Under the cool tailspin of her ceiling fan, Faye sits with her knees drawn to her chest in the middle of the mattress. The dimmed lamp on her bedside table glows starkly against the pitch dark of the room, streaking light across the metal floor. Twelve hours ago, she had been ammo-to-ammo with a highly-sought group of explosives dealers with better aim than she'd expect. The subsequent bruised shoulder and strained calf weren't severe enough to entail a hospital trip, yet painful enough to keep her confined to the bed. Over the past few months, though, she's found she has someone to keep her company when she falls, willing to lull her into a dull-ache sleep with the curve of his fingers alone.
The creaking of the mattress beneath her indicates that Spike's moving her way. The subtle warmth makes her hair stand on end and unties the knots in her stomach, and the tread of two worn hands up the course of her back soothes her into a comforting drowsiness.
"See anything you like?" she drawls sarcastically, her voice hitching as his fingers reach her spine.
"Nothing that amuses me," he mutters, the warmth of his breathing tickling her neck.
The tip of the Jericho's trigger finger ghosts over a worn scar on her shoulder blade, and it takes everything in her soul to not sigh.
"Where's this one from?" he asks.
"Fight with a casino customer. She got violent after a few losing rounds. Doesn’t help that I’m not a fan of being challenged."
"If by that you mean a hair-trigger temper, then sure.”
She snaps her head around to glare at him, and he raises his hands in mock-surrender.
“And here?" He traces over the recovering bruise on her shoulder.
"Run-in with that explosives dealer. He was throwing punches like it was all he had in him. Should have bothered putting that effort in to cover up the evidence," she snidely remarks.
She can tell by the sharp inhale he takes that something's filling his mind like thick, unruly fog.
“It’ll clear up in a few days.” she reassuringly adds. "And you’ve had your share of fights too, you know. Can’t imagine the injuries you’ve built up.”
"S’pose you’re right." He pulls off his navy blue t-shirt and crumples it into a pile on the sheets.
As she uneasily shifts towards him, her eyes run a maze across him to reveal his body littered with scars that she fears the origin of. Meeting her gaze as his mahogany eyes drill into her, he silently allows her to draw closer.
Drawing her attention to every inch of him, her heart nearly shatters as she eyes the remnants of a slice of a blade against the curve of his ribs. Running the tips of her fingers over his shoulder blades, she gently presses into his skin to work out the tension wrought in his muscles. She trails her hands down to his lower waist, noting his slowed, calm breathing.
She examines the bandages wrapped around his waist, and notices the edges fraying and thinning. "You want me to replace them?"
He nods. "Only after I finish with yours." Using her arm to push down her weight, she turns her back to him. The pressure wears out her shoulder and she winces, seething at the pain coiling throughout her upper back.
Spike recoils at the sound, eyes stiffening with concern. He immediately stretches out his hands and grasps her upper arms to stabilize her as she sinks into the mattress.
"Thought I told you to take it easy."
"Can it,” she half-laughs and swallows, trying not to seethe as the pain radiates. “I’m trying to take care of you, too."
His voice slinks to her like the crawl of molasses, wrapped in a sorrow that sears into her. "I know, Faye. I know."
She melts under the mellow tone of his voice – he makes her name sound celestial drifting off his lips.
“Give me a minute. I’ll get you some ice,” he offers.
The mattress creaks as he shifts his weight across, stepping off to saunter to the kitchen as he closes the door behind him. The hallway light narrowly filters onto the floor.
How sickeningly tender was this scene – battered and bruised under the heat of the fight, only to stumble into each other’s arms, caving in with their spirits diluted. Even in this warm array their jabs and jolts at each other never did end – if anything, they were exacerbated by each other’s impatience at their recovery time.
She wouldn’t trade it for the world, she muses, as she watches Spike’s lanky shadow hinged in the doorway, treading a path back to the bed. He sits down with one leg curving into the sheets and the other hanging off the bed, foot pressed staunch against the floor.
With a tender, circular motion, he presses the ice into her right shoulder, easing the tension out of her left as he does so. The sensation is jarring, melting into her skin against the warmth of his hand. The blood in her shoulder flows again, and the pain dims to a slow throb as he wraps an elastic bandage around the bruise.
He shifts her leg so that her calf rests on his knee and moves the ice down, compressing the muscle. She closes her eyes, taking in the caution in his touch. The pull in her leg gnaws at her, but she takes a shaky breath in and tries to keep still.
When he finishes his round, she shifts back to face him, his hands clutching her waist to prevent her from straining herself.
She grasps the edge of the bandage from around his waist and unwraps it like she's weaving fabric between her fingers, taking the new roll of bandages from the bedside table as she inspects the old wound.
"Looks like it's recovering nicely," she notes as she watches the healed skin.
"Thanks for helping me handle it."
"I'm going to start giving you my hourly rate if you keep making me your personal nurse," Faye chides as she tries to keep him from fidgeting. He dryly laughs in response, but there's an undercurrent of tension. The steady tap of his fingers against the headboard stirs a steady rhythm.
Unwrapping the old bandages, she tosses them to the side and cleans off the skin with an antiseptic. She unscrews the lid to the antibiotic ointment and slathers it on the tips of her fingers, easing it over his wound, and lays down a thin layer of gauze.
Pulling out a long strand of the new bandage, she carefully wraps it around his waist, eyes dancing from his skin to his eyes to make sure he's comfortable and she hasn't pulled it too tight.
"About your shoul- shit! Would it kill you to take it slow?"
"You keep moving! You're like a broken motor, sputtering all over the place."
He lets out an irritated whine, and sits as still as he can as she finishes sealing off the wound. When she's draped a few layers of it, she seals it and runs her hands over his shoulders reassuringly.
"There you go. That wasn't so bad, now, was it?"
"Aren’t nurses known for being gentle?"
"Consider it payback for every time you’ve gotten on my nerves." She gives him a mischievous grin, feeling the ache in her shoulder diminish for a while.
He doesn't fight the smile creeping onto his lips, affectionate or otherwise. Burying his face in her violet hair, tendrils of her saffron perfume swirl around him. The warmth of his body collides into hers, and she bathes in the mellow vulnerability.
His eyes are soft, half-lidded and adoring – she’s begun to bring out the tender romantic in him. Returning his gaze, she traces her fingers back and forth over his cheekbones, soaking in the sharp contour of his face.
"Through sickness and through health," she sardonically laughs, but it's evident Spike isn't taking kindly to any jokes. As he lifts his head, she caresses his cheeks with her fingers, the tips of her meticulous nails treading along his skin. "Living on the borderline is how we've always done things. It's the only way you and I ever do things. You know that."
"Doesn't make me worry any less." Noting how his face contorts, she notices that he's begun to develop a sense of anxiety around losing any one of them, flashing before his eyes like sirens anytime they endured a serious injury.
Eyes flickering over her, he drapes an arm around her neck, pulling her in.
"I used to live life after life. Never really thought about the next day.” He muses, apprehension strung across his words. “But you can’t live a million lives, will you?" A trace of despair begins to fill his eyes, and she knows he's playing through his memories like a videotape.
In the months after Spike returned to the Bebop, he had first drowned in grief, leaped head-first into his pain with his left eye seething. Faye and Jet did everything in their power to be there for him. Consoling him through his guilt, staying with him through his nightmares, assuring and helping him work through his pain, just as they had done for each other.
But that innate terror of losing those they had grown to love was a permanent fixture in all of them, one that no stretch of time could dissolve. Though he had long forgone his past, coming to terms with the fates he had witnessed, it rooted invasively in him, entwining its branches over the scarred furrows of his mind.
She presses her forehead against his. In a hushed, honey-coated voice, she mumbles, "We've done this day in and day out. You, me, Jet – we're in this grind together. I trust that you’ll back me up. And you know I'll follow you to the ends of the earth, no question.”
The despair dissolves from his eyes. Starlight filters through the curtains and illuminates the tightly pressed curve of his lips. "I trust you. It just…” he trails off.
“Comes over you. I know.” she finishes as she combs her fingers through his hair, easing out the tangles.
“What, you reading my mind or something?” He cocks an eyebrow playfully.
“You’re proving my point here.”
“I’ll handle myself, Spike." She breathes in the scent of diluted sandalwood cologne and nicotine, soaking in the sight of him. “I’m just as agile as any cat," she adds.
A steady flame flickers through his eyes as he leans in, chastely brushing his lips against her forehead. “I can’t stand cats, you know that,” he mumbles.
“You can’t stand me, and look where we ended up.”
He chuckles as he pulls away, grabs her hand and presses it to his cheek.
With his vigorously tousled hair and deepening dark circles, his weariness concerns her about how long he's spent watching over her. It's quickly contrasted by his boyish grin and gleam in his eyes, one that's grown brighter as he's returned to the Bebop.
The sight is like the rapid friction of flint against steel, stirring the softly-burning embers in her heart.
"Spike…" she playfully laments as she lets out a sigh, "what am I gonna do with you?"
"That’s up to you to solve. Think you can keep up?" He grins with an air of amusement – back to his old self, drawling with sarcasm.
"Don't take me for granted, Spiegel."
"I wouldn't dare."
He leans back onto the mattress, cushioning her shoulders as he wraps an arm around her, and fumbles for a cigarette from the worn carton on the bedside table. Unveiling a lighter from his pocket, he lights it and inhales deeply, letting the smoke swirl from the curve of his lips until it dissipates mid-air.
She shifts around and leans over as he motions toward her and breathes in her share, leaving the stain of her lipstick on the edge of the cigarette. Taking a shaky breath, she closes her eyes and sinks into his arms, loosely pulling a blanket over the two of them. A tightness sears through her abdomen as she ponders just how much more she’d get of this.
Spike was right, to a degree. There was no guarantee that they’d always make it out by the skin of their teeth. With reward came a growing risk, one that took root in the pit of her stomach and encroached in her.
For what it was worth, though, she would savor it: every minute spent collapsing onto the worn canary leather of the living room couch, every sizzle of the peppers against the heat of the stove, every mechanical churn of the Bebop’s engine. Every spin of Jet’s jazz records as he’d muse about his youth, every verse of Ed’s nursery rhymes as they’d twirl around the kitchen, every nudge Ein would give her as he’d curl up on the sofa next to her. Every game of chess with Spike as the tension pulled itself taut, quipping at each other with a playful bitterness, was worth savoring.
The air is stirred thick like sugar syrup, melting on their fingertips, fixed and ever-so-slightly bitter with the undercurrent of their fears. She can feel his steady breathing, the almost-click of his mechanical eye. He can hear the pounding of her heart and the gentle clinking of her earrings.
With every exchange of the cigarette they swear a silent loyalty that’s been there all along, to take in the top notes of each day and commit the aftertaste to memory, to sketch the winding path to a future they’ll bet their everything on.
Spike puts out the cigarette, crushing it against the dense headboard. She moves ever-so-close, leaving only a fingertip's width of space between them. Leaning in as his eyes flicker and close, he tilts her chin up and meets her lips, bending carefully to avoid pulling at her wound.
He kisses her over and over, chaste and deep and enigmatic and all too familiar, pouring his soul into hers. She intertwines her fingers with thick strands of curls, beguiled by the way he lights a flame of warmth that brings out a calm in her.
She's bewitched him just the same – he would course after the trail of her snow-toned heels under harsh sunrays and flickering moonlight, drawn in by the blur of evergreen that entrapped itself in him before he could raise a finger to object. She toys with his heartstrings like a cat's cradle – mischievous and two-toned, her bounding charm keeps him alight with devotion.
With her eyes closed she can visualize vivid hues spilling against the canvas of the room – cerise and carmine and the crush of soft velvet against her fingers, the tangy spin of saffron and cinnamon blending between the two of them, an elaborate angled brush sifting between colors and spurring light into the shadowed room. It's a brush he's placed into her hands, steadily guiding her arms to the canvas as she takes in the invigorating blur of life before her.
Thick, aureate strokes paint the image of two lovers and set the atmosphere alight with bliss – the weary fog above them dissipates until there’s nothing but the remnants of woody tobacco and saffron sinking into their sheets.
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"lovers find secret places inside this violent world
where they make transactions with beauty."
– rumi
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thestarlightsymphony · 7 months
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they match :3
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