Oooh... ThE CoLoRs...

The doctor put me on vicodin today, so my head would stop hurting... you want to talk trippy dreams?

Man, it was intense, it felt real and it was HOT! We were slowly moving together, our faces tilted just so, we were just about to kiss for the very first time, and the me in the dream was excited 'cause it was something I really wanted to do. But at the same time, my real-dreaming brain was getting on the bandwagon, urging the me in the dream to kiss 'em, like I was rooting myself on in some kind'a sports event. >.< My mind started yelling at my dream self so loudly, I woke myself up.

Needless to say, I'm gagging my brain before bed tonight.

A rough plot bunny...

A spur of the moment Cowboy Bebop thing, unbeta'd, quick and dirty... blame Wren.


Dim lights and muted music, nothing harsh or bright to hurt the eyes at four in the morning after a long night of playing sax at the Rester House. Long fingers hang up his jacket, slowly unwind his soft, thick scarf... no matter how long you've lived on a hunk of ice, the time before dawn always seems coldest... the routine of just another night getting home.

Glass clinks in the kitchen, steam rises, and soon a slow spot of warmth travels down the musicians throat, leaving tingled lips and a curled tongue. To bad it wasn't a lover, but he'd gotten used to alcohol's lonely touch.

Well, alcohol's and his own.

Bright silk is untucked before he sits on the couch, the material far to thin for the climate, but under the hot stage lights it glistened and slunk across his chest, a lot like his fingers were now.

Deep blue eyes slowly lid as he took another sip, licking a drop of vodka off his lips. What if it wasn't his tongue for a change, someone with gentle eyes and a wicked grin, someone who'd make him warm, someone who wouldn't mind his...

That thought deserves another drink. Obviously he hasn't yet had enough.

A swallow, a clink as the glass settles on the coffee table, and again his fingers find their way under his shirt. Slowly leaning to the side, unfolding his long frame across his long couch, he imagined the man he'd like above him.

Who's face would he wear tonight?

Certainly no one he actually knew. No one in Blue Crow, no one from the war... they'd never touch him like he likes it, slow at first, slipping fingers down between his legs to rub and tease, then press hard just in that moment before the whispered begging would actually begin. Mmm... just like that....

Maybe he'd smile, looking down to watch his face as the heat in his palm jumped and quivered, maybe he'd lean down and whisper how soft his long blue hair was, or how his lips tasted of wine... maybe he'd want to taste the rest of him as well.

Lids close completely as the fantasy man touched and whispered, but behind blue eyes the shadowed face slowly came into focus. With each pinch to his nipple, each stroke between his legs, his phantom lover took form.

She talked about him enough to fill in the details. His sighs began to echo the memory of hers, her whispered, slightly drunk descriptions giving him the kind of lover he wishes he had.

So good, so close... what did she say his name was? Almost there...

"Spike!"