This doesn't take place in my Passive story at all, but by all means take a look at that one two. I'm an egoist, what can I say? This two parter is a little more on the darker side and kind of strong in the way of sexual suggestion. So, yeah, take note. Lemme know what you think, even if it's to tell me I'm just abusing the characters.

Disclaimer: Bebop isn't mine. Wasn't mine. Won't be mine.

-Red Bullet

See How We Move: Watch Us Bend

This is four years of release. This is escaping from four years of being awake and being lost and stuck in perpetuated cycles of bad moments that only feed into the sedated delirium I've been dwelling in the entire time. It's a devourering thing, the delirium. It just consumes and feasts and grows along with its appetite and it leaves me too doped up on experiences to do anything meaningful and too strung out to be nice about it.

Except for this.

So when he bites into my collarbone and I yank on his back and shove my crotch against his hand, it isn't just about good sex. It's also about getting away from everything that's gone wrong in the last four years and being greedy about something comparatively decent in front of me. Around me. In me. For me.

This isn't romance. There aren't loving embraces during the afterglow. There aren't any flowery words beyond "now", "more', and "harder. This isn't a love story, at least not in the traditional sense of the concept. He's not my White Knight and I'm not his Sleeping Beauty, no matter how well the cliché might fit. There aren't any "I love yous", even though it might be true. If one of us slipped up and said as much it would probably be the biggest betrayal we could deliver.

So we only let this be about reality, and desire and frustration. Keep it simple. Keep it clean. Keep us sane. It's a meeting of the minds. A non-verbal admission to the fact that we both want the other, but we're both too fucked up and damaged to really make an honest go at it.

This will keep going on until one of us ends up dead. From either our job or our own cowardice. If you really think about it, our entire lives are really just one neon example of an overly complicated suicide.

We're both adrenaline junkies operating in a field of work that has a short shelf life for its followers and we're both on our ways to being considered ripe. Right down to our vices, it's like we're urging our selves 'Just give up, it'll be okay. No harm. No foul.' Our lungs are probably already rotten stains and our livers half destroyed.

One day Jet's going to find Spike's body on the couch, but he'll only check him because the smell is getting so bad. One day Jet's going to find my waterlogged corpse in the tub and I'll be all wrinkled and spoiled and a testament to the fact there wasn't any real point in waking me up from cold sleep in the first place. One day Jet's going to get sick of the both of us and shoot us dead. We can only hope.

But tonight it's all skin and hands and pelvises grinding each other. Same as this morning. Same as last night. Same as it has been since this started. And we'll fall asleep without word and blissful in the reprieve from thought and choice and sometime later I'll wake up with the sensation of his frizzy hair brushing my back as he licks and nips his way around to my breast and it'll begin again and I'll be able to forget all over again the second my legs wrap around his waist.

We're as loyal to the process as we are each other.