There’s poetry in death. Grace in destruction. A hint of mystery and wonder in that final, despairing rattle—and it’s always despairing. Even for the ones who want it, need it, crave it, the way Spike craves the dark beauty he makes with his hands. Can’t use words anymore, oh no. Not with his Princess dancing to things he can see only when she lets him, words weaving themselves through her mind like rainbowed tapestries of pigments, shimmering and bright and too perfect for him to try and touch.
The deed has as much art as the word, he finds. Brawling to the stirring symphonies, percussion thundering through broken veins, brass trumpeting out through a severed throat. The oboe sound of breath slowing and stopping, doplaring from pant to wheeze to that delightful, final rattling. Blood like the sweet lilt of a flute sopranoing over top, the thread that holds it all together.
Dru loves the brawl. Her lover proving that whipcord thinness hides strength. That the soft, pink mouth that showers her with kisses can be as cruel as ever she wants, acid dripping forth until finally that mouth takes the bounty they both share. The screams of anguish send her to dancing and when Spike takes her then, oh, how she glories in it. Rutting with claws in his shoulders, teeth in his neck, as deep as the cock that tears her in two. There’s blood aplenty on those nights, thick and sweet—but that’s what Dru loves. And much as he loves giving his black goddess all that she wants, sometimes ...
Sometimes she lays sleeping while Spike goes out into clinging darkness. Dreams of the one Spike unknowingly emulates, the cruelty brawling never quite reaches—there’s an innocence in fists that smash and words that shout. An equality. And Spike loves that, needs it, to know that even when he gives them the sporting chance, he’s still better, superior, the philosopher’s Uberman. But it’s still what Dru wants, her words egging and encouraging.
Tonight is all for Spike.
Dru’s soft and willing and far, far too open in their bed, breathing with the unconscious innocence of the little girl she still is. Calls him Daddy, lately, begging him to punish his baby and make her see the stars up close. And he does, gives her everything, pours until she’s full up and sated and it’s his turn now. It’s a club, or something like one. Dark and dirty, the pounding rhythms don’t do a thing to disguise how bleak it is. Walls sag, the floor’s slack, and the shifting, sluggishly moving people are so opposite to Spike that he can hear their antithesis singing through the air. Their bodies breathe and beat and bleed, but it’s Spike who’s alive amongst them.
It doesn’t matter who it is. Pretty little girl, blonde hair and shining like a Barbie doll she’s only just stopped playing with. A young man, exploring this and that, driven to lengths no one sane went to, all for the muscle between his legs and the squirt that needs to come out. Spike smiles, teeth cutting his lips as he watches one in particular. Him, then. The one that moves like he’s never had a body before, bones and joints and jerking muscle that’s got nothing holding it together but bits of twine and prayer.
It’s easy, so easy to drag him outside. Push him up against the wall and wait as the giggles die down to lust and fear. Tremulous, trebled words of innocence, pleading for slow, for care, for goodness. And Spike shushes him, croons low and long until he’s breathing easy, the first thin sound of a clarinet lamenting into the dark.
No first time conductor is Spike, and he knows that warbling sound. Knows how to strip it down, remove it’s depth and force it up to a piccolo’s fluttering whimpers. The boy struggles, but Spike’s there, calling on drums to soften the sharpness in the winds, smoothing out the struggles with touches on chest and belly and that thick, aching bit of wet between his legs. His voice is the cello, stringing on each of the insecurities that lie underneath such sweet, sweet skin. Whore and slut and wanted it, asked for it, give it to me, you pathetic little fag. And he’s given it, pain and lust simmering into the cocktail Spike never tires of, the drought that’s sweeter than blood and richer than the come Dru gifts him time and again.
Violin bows scrape along their strings, sharp teeth that skim along nerves. Such a tease, Dru would tell him were she hear to create her own harmonies. Frightening the poor boy when Spike should be drinking deep. But this isn’t about the drink, oh no. This is about the pain and the humiliation and how it mesmerizes. The drip of sweat down ashen cheeks. The choked off sobs of helplessness. The body twisted and bent however Spike desires it, covered in blood and sweat and, when Spike wishes it, the sweet release of come. And Spike does desire it, fingering deftly as a first chair, drawing out the pleasure until it melds with the pain into that perfect, perfect note of ecstasy.
Spike leaves, then. Drops the boy, sodden and swollen underneath a song that seeps into his skin, chains that will never come undone. And Spike laughs, knowing if he survives, if the wounds to his body heal, the mind within never will. That muscle between his legs belongs to Spike now, controlled as tightly as the Piper’s crude reeds. And whenever he tries to hear the soft romantic strings of normalcy, of life and love and the viola’s need to share—it will be dissonance that comes to him.
He laughs again to the memory of the piccolo’s cries and goes to find Dru. She’ll want to hear of the music he makes and dance upon his body in thanksgiving, proving once again that the words are only important if someone sings them.