Cowboy Bebop. Vincent/Electra. R. 500 words.
Titan presses on all sides of her but one.
Dig Down, Dig In
Two feet down the sand runs gunpowder dark, gritty and dusty all at once. It gets everywhere when you dig. Putting up canvas, Electra feels it in her hair and clothes, caking under her nails and staining the creases of her palms. As she preps for the night’s chill some of the loose, softer sand seeps in, spilling as bright as pearls into the tiny halo of light from her carefully propped candle tin. Tomorrow she’ll wake to find more of it inside the hollow of her makeshift bed, and outside it’ll pile high like snowdrifts.
Vincent is a statue outside, his shovel still packed and folded with the rest of his gear. It’s stupid to perch there, silhouetted against the blazing sky as the shadows of evening build on the horizon.
“Come down here,” Electra says. The space she’s built is wide enough to sleep two. On the last night before their unit turns west into the canyons, the tight fit would be worth the extra warmth. Vincent doesn’t move. He stays put, as still as a guard dog deaf to any voice not his master’s.
Electra drops the flap, ties it and blows out her candle. Her eyes grow heavy and then open to darkness, time having skipped past in a blink of precious sleep. Her bones are hollow with exhaustion. Inside the tiny space with her, Vincent’s unmistakable presence radiates, and she makes room for him.
He settles atop her not beside her, his knee gently nudging. Electra doesn’t hesitate to make room for him there, too, her legs parting, throat tightening on a sigh too thin to be heard under the whistling howl of rising wind.
Sand patters against the canvas, leaking in between the seams. It’ll need to be scooped out lest they drown in it during their sleep, but for now it doesn’t matter: Vincent is inside her, and his hands are wide and careful on her body as he cups her breast, lifts it towards the heat of his mouth.
Electra’s hands dig into the wind-tangled mess of his hair and she grinds up against the hard press of his body. Her knees pull back, allow him to sink deeper into her, and thick curls fill the space between her fingers. Her breath shatters into quick gasps and curses.
They move together like this isn’t a novelty, and Electra shakes with the effort to keep at bay the instinctive desperation to race towards the finish. In the slow moments they kiss in time to the roll of their hips, and Electra wonders what holds Vincent back as she works the worst tangles free with her fingers before they can form dreads. He wouldn’t care, she imagines, but Titan has already changed all of them so much….
Sand sprinkles down for her efforts, dusting her face like glitter. Titan presses on all sides of her but one, and she kisses Vincent with the taste of the war gritting her mouth. Gunpowder black, broken-glass sharp.