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Spike carefully reached the room, his typical nonchalant attitude accompanying every step just in case there were any unannounced returners on the ship. Jacket on his shoulder and fingers hooked to hold it, he stepped through the ship’s hallway to his destination.
The door was opened, and a quick glance was given inside. The room was tidy and organized, just like Jet liked things to be.
Spike looked around, the mere thought of what he had decided to do was making the blood flow fastly to his face, but to his lower abdomen too. His eyes fell on the bed, the sheets slightly messed. Wonders and ideas of what Jet could possibly do beneath them made his heart thump loudly.
No, no. He's your comrade, your friend!
And yet, Spike couldn't help the occasional desires about his “friend” that hit him every once in a while, desires that were usually passed off as a hormone rush or satisfied in a quick and painless way in some lost corner of the Bebop.
But this time here he was, completely inside Jet’s room and for reasons not so innocent like the other times.
A loud sound coming from another zone in the spaceship made the man flinch and hurriedly close the door. Was someone already back?
The initial idea of just staying there was instantly destroyed by the possibility of being caught by Jet himself inside the room.
Caught by an unusual rush of adrenaline, Spike was quick to find himself inside the wardrobe, hidden by its closed door, jacket slipped under himself in a rush.
That specific cabinet was particularly confining, the shelf dividing the sections positioned pretty low. And the space cowboy found himself pretty much curled up, back curved and pressed against the bottom and one side of the wardrobe, legs folded and feet against the wooden panel of the other side. At least that area lacked clothes, and that left him a lot of space for air.
A few seconds of silence, interrupted only by some occasional mechanical buzzes, and then, just as he had worried, the door of the room opened.
The iconic sound of the other man's footsteps was heard by the unlucky one in the wardrobe, heartbeat double the pace of the metal boots hitting the ground.
Why and how was Jet already back?!
Wasn't he supposed to go after the bounty?
Did he even leave the ship at all?
Spike stilled, his entire body as if petrified for a few instants. He slowed down his breathing to be more silent, body soon feeling the light effects of the lack of oxygen that came from that.
He felt a pulse to his abdomen. Now why the hell was the idea of getting caught making his body react with arousal.
The bed creaked, a small grunt coming from Jet as he laid down on it. Spike could only use sounds to reconstruct whatever was going on on the other side of that thin wardrobe door.
A zip could be heard. What in hell was Jet doing? Oh well, unless he opened that specific cabinet, Spike was going to be fine, right?
Some more clothes rustling came from the bed, and then a heavy pant.
Spike wished he could peek, wished he could take even the quickest glance to either prove or discard his current guess. But no, it couldn't be that. Spike was thinking too dirtily about all those sounds, the man probably just settled on his bed for a rest.
That was what he was trying to convince himself of, until more quiet sounds could be heard. Breathy grunts, soft pants, the occasional small hum. Jet was masturbating, and Spike was so unlucky — or lucky enough — to be there exactly during that intimate moment.
Those barely heard sounds were enough to spark a reaction from his own body too, his pants starting to feel a bit tight on his crotch area. He quickly cupped it with a hand, a futile attempt to keep that response at bay, his thighs reflectively closing up on the hand for an instant before forcefully relaxing again.
Spike grit his teeth, the sounds from the bedroom now slightly louder. It wasn't anything too lewd nor pornographic, just Jet's typical groans, but for someone who has been knowing the man for a while like Spike, the hint of pleasure in them was pretty clear.
What if he’s- NO.
Spike almost berated himself in a way more obvious than just the mental one, his free hand stopping midway to his nosebridge and a hitched breath slipping past his lips before getting the chance of becoming an actual disapproving sigh. No, Jet couldn't be thinking about him, about Spike. He would have given signs by now, and yet not a single name was said.
Spike’s erection was starting to beg for attention the more this arousing situation went on. He pressed harder, seeking the slightest amount of relief. Just until Jet left, then he could take care of that.
With a final bit back gravelly moan, Jet probably reached relief. Spike exhaled.
But after another creak from the bed, the footsteps came towards the wardrobe this time. Spike held his breath, slowly moving to cover his obvious reaction by folding his legs, feet now on the bottom of the enclosed space. He wasn't going to let Jet find him with a hard-on. Hell. No. It was already bad enough to be found in his wardrobe.
To Spike's surprise and relief, the door that was opened was another, and he was apparently safe.
Jet grabbed some clothes before leaving his room and closing it behind him as he stepped out. It was only then that the man in the wardrobe finally dared to move, his body paying the effects of staying curled up for so long. Despite the tension of the situation, the conditions of his lower half hadn't gotten any better. He groped himself a bit, palming the bulge, a low hiss passing his teeth. No, he had to resist, Jet could have come back at any moment.
What felt like an eternity passed, various sounds could be faintly heard from the hiding spot, and Spike forced himself to do nothing more than the occasional squeeze, the light blush never fading from his face.
Finally, the unmistakable sound of the Hammer Head departing from the Bebop echoed through the rooms, reaching the ears of the only crew member left on it.
Just like expected, Spike wasted no time. He was finally alone, and his hand quickly found the way inside his pants, slipping under the waistband of his boxers and finally making direct contact with that needy area. He held in a small sound, substituting it with a shaky exhale instead. Gosh, how could he get so desperate from simple hearing?
He rustled on his place, quickly slipping his clothes down enough to get free access. His dick nestled comfily on his abdomen for a mere instant, just the short timeframe before it was determinedly grabbed by Spike's hand, as eager as the rest to indulge in the act. In the meantime, his other hand lifted the yellow shirt up, just enough to feel the skin of his abdomen, fingers trailing up the little stripe of hair that connected his pubic area to his navel as he moved the fabric.
Right at the first stroke, a shaky, soft sound fell from his lips. What?
Spike instantly stopped, suddenly conscious and ashamed of the little noise made. It wasn't like him to whimper, what the hell just happened?!
Spike took a deep breath, attempting to stabilize his twirling mind. A single touch had been enough to make his resilience crumble, make his head fall into another place.
He started again, slower this time, being careful to not overdo it. Spike felt particularly sensitive, for whatever reason, he couldn't quite catch why, not yet at least.
The thumb spread the already leaking precum on the tip, and Spike exhaled again at that, the movements now smoother.
And just like before, soft pants and quivery exhales were made in the room, but this time they were specifically from a little corner, from a square of space in the wardrobe of the actual room owner.
Spike was slowly letting go, an unmistakable expression on his flushed face. Slightly furrowed eyebrows, mouth open just enough to breathe in faint pants. In his mind the thought of Jet was becoming the main point of it all, the noises heard during the man's self pleasuring act echoing in his skull as if they were the only thing that mattered. Spike whimpered faintly again, his grip on himself growing a bit tighter as he continued. “..Jet…” A single name, a single murmured word, and yet enough to convey everything that was going on in his imagination.
The man spread his legs more, just as much as the cabinet permitted, increasing the intensity and speed of the strokes. He could feel the coil in his abdomen become tighter, could recognise his own sounds getting higher in pitch, and right as he was on the edge enough to whine, he stopped his own hand.
His thighs tensed up at the sudden lack of stimulation, a needy noise coming from his throat.
“Shhhh… Good boy, I know you could handle it, Spike”
Jet's voice resonated in his fictional scenario, the actions imagined chaining automatically based on the man’s deepest, usually ignored sexual desires. He pressed his free hand strongly against his own mouth, muffling some needy whimpers as the imaginary Jet praised him, his eyes squeezed shut and dick throbbing with need on his belly, leaving a small puddle of clear liquid on the sweaty skin.
He looked down at himself, lord he was a mess. Spike was flushed, the lack of air change in the space he was confined in making his body overheat. He passed his clean hand through his disheveled hair and exhaled heavily, snapping out of the daydream for a moment. Just a couple of minutes of touch and he had already reduced himself to a needy and whimpery mess for a man that wasn't even there.
That was ashaming for a man like him, someone who had always tried to be serious and composed, or at least always tried to show himself to others like that. And yet here he was.
But at this point it was too late to stop now, and even just the thought of leaving the closet and fixing the problem in his own room was making the magic go away.
Spike slid a hand down his abdomen, drawing a line on the underside of his length, breath hitching at the lightest touches. He reached his testicles, massaging lightly, eliciting a hoarse moan from his throat. Then, the finger reached even lower, teasing the skin of the perineum.
A tiny press, a flinch from his muscles, and Spike was back into that place once again.
It wasn't his own hand that was caressing so delicately that sensitive skin, it wasn't his own finger that was lingering so close to his ass, barely touching that ring of muscles before pulling away and trailing back up. It wasn't his own, it was Jet’s.
Jet’s hand, Jet's voice, Jet's grip on his thigh, on his arm, on his hips. Jet's presence.
That man had taken over his thoughts, and Spike didn't want him to leave just yet.
Spike mewled over his own actions, begging silently to nobody to not be teased like that anymore. Out of instinct, the hand sneaked lower once and for all, and pressed a single finger inside without second thought.
The man let out a choked cry, the sound seeming so vulnerable compared to the ones he usually did, even when in pain. But in this case, the sound was indeed mostly from pain.
Sticking something in your butt without lube like that definitely hurt, and even if it was just a single finger Spike was absolutely not used to stuff like that. Now he remembered why he always hesitated doing it. Hell no.
Spike took the finger out, hissing quietly at the sensation of the removal. Stupid needy body and impulsive decisions.
Lord, that action turned him off like crazy, great.
Spike returned to the front, slowly coaxing his member back to full sensitivity. Maybe the penetration was going to be tested another day. He grunted in relief, the sensation definitely more pleasurable than the other despite the now lack of fantasies in his head.
He wasn't going to edge himself this time, he wasn't going to let his imagination take over his mind, not again.
He turned his head to the side, chest expanding with each breath as the hand kept on moving. There was a jacket behind his head, and Spike panted softly on it.
The jacket was clean, but a hint of Jet's smell still remained on it, a smell that made Spike spiral again.
But this time, the fall was slower, feathered, with a soft landing. Spike closed his eyes, murmuring that name again, the name of his comrade, of his companion, of the man that had never left his side despite all the stupid decisions he had taken, despite all the mindless things he had done. “Jet…”
His self strokes were precise, determined, and yet gentle, caring, as if a part of him finally wanted to treat himself with love.
Jet filled his mind, but this time it was Jet's warmth, Jet's care, Jet's caress, Jet's love, even if just as friends.
After some undetermined time, Spike orgasmed with a hoarse noise, face contorting in pleasure as that warm sensation hit his body.
He finally reopened his eyes, breathing heavily.
And once again his eyes moved down, his hand and belly painted white and sticky, his cock peacefully softening between his now still fingers.
He couldn't believe he had just done that in Jet’s wardrobe. How idiotic of him.
The man slowly opened the door of the closet, the cold air in the room hit his skin and made him shiver for an instant. He sat up and turned around to face the room, relief hitting him as soon as his legs could extend and stretch again.
Spike remained sitting there for a couple of seconds, just unhurriedly coming back to reality after all that just happened. He then slipped the jacket from under his ass, hip bone and lumbar vertebrae aching slightly from the prolonged uncomfortable position.
With the fabric, he carelessly cleaned up his hands, crotch and stomach before pulling back up his underwear and pants. That jacket needed to be thrown in the laundry like the rest anyways. Then, he got up, closed the wardrobe and walked outside the room, walking nonchalantly towards the bathroom with his hands in his pockets.
It was definitely time to take a shower.