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gorrillagripseason · 12 days ago

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csm 184 is me fighting off my daily demons

#denji making hope core edits in his free time #csm #denji my son

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gorrillagripseason · 15 days ago

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wip snippet

old body, new mind

•

They shouldn’t work.

Spike and Faye, as boyfriend and girlfriend. Alike the way ice cubes were once also water, they look distinct but are chemically structured the same at their cores. Ice floats when placed in water, pulled half in and out, less dense, mutable by nature - and for a while aversion made sense, for them, with him looking over his shoulder, static and yet sure of who he was, a man who bet on himself and lived in his own very Western.

Except, time holds them hand in glove, the way ice eventually melts, continuous, until the water it sits in is colder, molecules slower, and frigidity forgets its definite shape, sunk with new weight.

Together, poured into something like bread and butter, yoked between flighty and fixed, they’re something like congruent. Not intuitively, from roommates who bicker about the taste of lactose free milk and read different Hesse novels at nineteen, but like two different shades of blue in a double denim outfit, complementary in practice instead of theory and its -

Her attraction, fervent, zipping up her spine, raising hairs; his affection slow grown but steady, poised to drill bone deep. A stand off, of sorts, in the dim kitchen of their shared house, where her smaller frame looms over his, crowds him back into countertop. She looks at him like she doesn’t want to stop, reaches for him quicker to the draw for once and there’s a crescendo of trumpets and percussion in his ears, her touch the culmination of too many months and a million other little moments, the kitchen unchanged from the day she moved in.

There’s a cherry cola stain on her mouth, kind of like lipstick, his mouth is watering to taste it and -

Her hands fist in his shirt, yanking him close too hard and fast, flitting up to cup his neck, his slightly slack jaw, then back at his collar searching for a pulse to match the rapid thud of her own, movements frenetic and all over, like how she cares, pinpoint across random facets of his life, how she looks at him like she’s run a marathon to keep pace.

He lets her, brings his forehead to her own smooth and gentle, wears want plain and easy with the slouch of his body, the little smile that plays helpless at his lips the longer she exhales harshly into his chin and fights her own impulses, born sudden and possessive. On the countertop behind him sits the coconut lentil soup recipe he charmed out of the little old Thai lady down the street, a confession he didn’t even mean to write.

It started when Jet took his nasty backyard garden squash to a fall fair competition a few weeks ago, lugging home a pot of creamy aromatic soup from a new friend that Faye lost her mind over. The problem: Mrs Sae-Tang, who lives coincidentally a few houses down, thinks she’s hooker because she wore fishnets to the produce market one time, refusing to give up the recipe no matter what Faye tried, legs hidden by a maxi skirt and all. It was like watching an ugly stray get rejected, funny in a way that made him feel bad, unusual to see Faye so absorbed in something so mundane as collecting recipes for her personal cookbook.

Then, today that is, Jet asked him to go over and check over Mrs. Sae-Tang’s radiator, having forgotten about an appointment to pick up parts for his clunky Chevy. Spike has a thing with older women, a way of endearing himself on the razor thin edge of boyish good manners that works to bring a reluctant smile to even Mrs Sae-Tang’s slim face and so he spent his morning sat popping edamame beans from their pods for her to store and snack on. It’s relaxing, her TV tuned in to some soap opera rerun, and also enough of a good will gesture for her to let him copy the soup recipe on the back of a receipt without only a small amount of begging - her secret is a specific brand of red curry paste and fresh bamboo shoots.

The receipt, a faded list of dollar store wares, sat in his pocket until a few minutes ago - Faye rummaging through the fridge half out of her day clothes while he waited for a pot of quick oats to cool on the stove. He remembers it as her stomach growls, handing it over with one hand after a couple of tries to get her to focus on him. She was quiet for so long he thought her wholly unimpressed but then -

She said his name, soft and solid, “Spike.”

And now he’s pressed against the counter, the little receipt the only other witness to how she swells with one big breath on to her toes and then kisses him, hard, eyes squeezed shut, and his stay open the slightest bit, lips immediately giving way under all her force, focused on the faint freckles bridging her nose, on looking at her the way he knows she’s always ached to be seen.

She kisses him with little finesse, teeth catching on his lips, tongue, the skin at the corner of his mouth, like she could swallow him, hand fit in his hair, guiding him where she wants, pliant and groaning as the tugs get harsher and his neck starts to burn, as she doesn’t let up, pushing closer still, leg insistent between his thighs, flexing with strength he sometimes wishes he could borrow, watching her bully the world at her boot heel.

He’s kissed and kissed and kissed, hands clutching at her hips, forearms, the too big shirt she payed too much for at the thrift, time one bleeding blue amorphous line on the stovetop in his peripheral, lungs fighting for air he couldn’t care any less for, head spinning, the press of her too warm, bergamot scent imprinting in his airways. The novelty of it, mouths magnetized, bodies fitting like puzzle pieces, their perfectly jagged edges aligned, is addicting. He doesn’t know how or if they’ll stop, thoughts slipping away with the impetuous to be anything other than kissing and kissed back, floating somewhere between seconds and hours, the whole of the world just negative space around what is just -

Faye and Spike, making out, like they’ll never see another Sunday evening.

Her touch grows surer as his softens, rhythmic if still on the right side of too hard, and he feels kind of actualized by it, how easily she takes from him, so self-assured, like she knows some part of him was made to give to the way she licks into his mouth and makes him swallow her spit, thumbs massaging his throat, like she could subsist on it, on him, keep him against the counter and replace her usual tomato and spinach fettuccine dinner.

And when she finally shifts from his mouth, trailing heavy wet gasps across his jaw, he thinks it’s a pheromonic thing, a mantra of curses and bites at the skin under his neck, he had to feel and smell her like this to know it, but the two of them like this is just, somehow, incontestably right -

A car honks, the vacuum around his senses burst, Ein barks from somewhere upstairs and Jet starts hollering at him to shut up from the bathroom. Reality sinks in with a sharp prickling sort of clarity, his eyes falling on the pot of quick oats he still has to pack away for breakfast tomorrow, affection settled in like a second heartbeat even as he is Spike the roommate who’s turn it is to clean up the kitchen again.

Faye keeps her teeth on his pulse, nose cold under his ear, the press of their bodies a second space to occupy, a pocket distinct from the ugly floral wallpaper they never got around to replacing and the heavy thunk of Jet’s footsteps above them. It holds things kind of like the echoes of laughter across the dinner table and late night shared smokes lit on the strands inside the toaster, things that’ll move with them upstairs where she’ll realize she forgot to pick up toothpaste and blame him for it, and outside in the grey chill of morning tomorrow when he’ll gather dried up leaves to dump all over her car as she warms it up just to see her roll her eyes and drive off with a smile.

Things he had to feel bruising fingers and heaving lungs, smell bergamot and the lightest hints of sweet seeping into his skin, to realize he wants to have, ham fisted and supine.

To keep maybe, in that chiffony way that means flowers and chocolates, getting used to someone being close enough to see his pores again, and it should scare him, might later when he’s under his covers alone, but she lets him pull her head back enough to lock their gazes, expression like freshly waxed skin, cheeks blotchy, mouth a swollen ruddy pink, leaning into to his hands on her neck like she doesn’t quiet trust her feet to hold her up and he thinks, softly-softly, thumbing slow coaxing circles under her jaw.

Her eyes drop to the crisscross their arms make between them, the mustard rubber wristband he kept from the marathon she tricked him into running for her two month health kick on his forearm. When she looks up into his face again he holds back a quip about a lightbulb above her head, settles for waggling his brows as something close to wonder melts the crease of her chin, let’s it fill the lines of his face too.

“Fuck.” She says, again, voice stripped of any of her usual pretence.

Spike hums, “I can ask about mango sticky rice next time.”

“Fuck.” Faye huffs, like she’s damned, leg easing back from between his, hands still fit around his skull as she tumbles into a laugh, snorting hard, shoulders shaking helplessly with her forehead turned to his collarbone, endeared by him supposedly.

He vows then and there to keep her that way.

•

#spaye #the fact that that’s the ship name sends me so bad #spike x faye #spikefaye #the brain rot is strong #current wip #cowboy bebop fic in 2024??#save me #fanfic #alternate universe #writers on tumblr

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gorrillagripseason · 15 days ago

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yesterday i was insane about that fictional man. today i am insane about that fictional man. tomorrow? take a wild guess brother

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gorrillagripseason · 15 days ago

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spike spiegel has male wife potential that is so real to me it keeps me awake at night

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