Categories > Anime/Manga > Cowboy Bebop
Twisted sheets, the tangle of hair between tense fingertips, the soft desperate gasps. Riding the edge.
The slickness of sweat and the urge to grab, hold, clutch, thrust, wrap, /take/. The gleam of steel, the moment just before the flesh slips apart and the red blood slicks.
So many dangers the mind blurred it all into one Danger, and discounted it. Vicious could not be kept ignorant. It couldn't last. It shouldn't have /started/.
Addiction (the feel of hair under the fingers) need (arms around her chest squeezing hard) want (lips buried against her neck) fear (the shortness of breath, the giddiness of it) hopeless (thrust) helpless (/harder/) desperation (the cry of release).
He sleeps so contentedly, as if in the final orgasm he threw all his pain and fear into her. And she has it, she has it...
She would be in the middle of them. She didn't want to be. The two most dangerous fighters, most capable killers, they fought back to back and the streets ran red...to get between them was to get between the sword and the gun, and there was no hope there.
She couldn't push either of them away. She couldn't choose. It wasn't love, it was simple fear - to choose one was to declare which one she thought would win. Spike approached her with the idea that because she healed she must be 'good'. That because she slept with him she refused Vicious' arms or merely endured them.
The world was not so simple. It was never so simple. She stood no chance against either of them. She could fire a gun, she could fight, but not on their level. The favored sons got whatever they wanted....one way or another.
Spike slid out of her, nestled against her breast as if she were a security blanket. She wanted him back on top of her, if only because she felt marginally safer that way. There would be a body between her and an attack.
Vicious...she knew where she stood with Vicious. He never spoke of love, never pretended they were anything other than the favored son and his chosen whore. He always made her scream, one way or another, cries of pain or of rapture, but she was still /herself/. He only wanted her body, and that was all she gave him. And she gained safety, and protection, and anything else she might want.
Spike spoke of dreams and love and getting out, and sex was secret and silent and riding the edge, pushing the edge of fear until it snapped in shuddering cries kept silent behind closed lips. It was exhilarating, taking terror and turning it into pleasure, but she had no illusions. To refuse Spike would have been to risk his anger. She accepted, and now she must wait for Vicious to find out and act.
Perhaps he would choose to share - a whore had many lovers after all. Perhaps Spike was right and they could get out, get away.
Julia let out a silent breath that might have been a sigh or a suppressed shudder, and Spike's arm in sleep wrapped more tightly around her. Claiming.
There was no sex now, no way to channel the fear.
Julia stared at the ceiling and waited for dawn.
The slickness of sweat and the urge to grab, hold, clutch, thrust, wrap, /take/. The gleam of steel, the moment just before the flesh slips apart and the red blood slicks.
So many dangers the mind blurred it all into one Danger, and discounted it. Vicious could not be kept ignorant. It couldn't last. It shouldn't have /started/.
Addiction (the feel of hair under the fingers) need (arms around her chest squeezing hard) want (lips buried against her neck) fear (the shortness of breath, the giddiness of it) hopeless (thrust) helpless (/harder/) desperation (the cry of release).
He sleeps so contentedly, as if in the final orgasm he threw all his pain and fear into her. And she has it, she has it...
She would be in the middle of them. She didn't want to be. The two most dangerous fighters, most capable killers, they fought back to back and the streets ran red...to get between them was to get between the sword and the gun, and there was no hope there.
She couldn't push either of them away. She couldn't choose. It wasn't love, it was simple fear - to choose one was to declare which one she thought would win. Spike approached her with the idea that because she healed she must be 'good'. That because she slept with him she refused Vicious' arms or merely endured them.
The world was not so simple. It was never so simple. She stood no chance against either of them. She could fire a gun, she could fight, but not on their level. The favored sons got whatever they wanted....one way or another.
Spike slid out of her, nestled against her breast as if she were a security blanket. She wanted him back on top of her, if only because she felt marginally safer that way. There would be a body between her and an attack.
Vicious...she knew where she stood with Vicious. He never spoke of love, never pretended they were anything other than the favored son and his chosen whore. He always made her scream, one way or another, cries of pain or of rapture, but she was still /herself/. He only wanted her body, and that was all she gave him. And she gained safety, and protection, and anything else she might want.
Spike spoke of dreams and love and getting out, and sex was secret and silent and riding the edge, pushing the edge of fear until it snapped in shuddering cries kept silent behind closed lips. It was exhilarating, taking terror and turning it into pleasure, but she had no illusions. To refuse Spike would have been to risk his anger. She accepted, and now she must wait for Vicious to find out and act.
Perhaps he would choose to share - a whore had many lovers after all. Perhaps Spike was right and they could get out, get away.
Julia let out a silent breath that might have been a sigh or a suppressed shudder, and Spike's arm in sleep wrapped more tightly around her. Claiming.
There was no sex now, no way to channel the fear.
Julia stared at the ceiling and waited for dawn.
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